The Street Lawyer Read Online Free PDF Page B

.44 automatic, stolen.
    Because it was the
Post
, the story dealt more with DeVon Hardy than with his victims, though, in all fairness, and much to my satisfaction, not a single word had been uttered by anyone at Drake & Sweeney.
    According to one Mordecai Green, Director of the 14th Street Legal Clinic, DeVon Hardy had worked for many years as a janitor at the National Arboretum. He’d lost his job as a result of budget cutting. He had served a few months in jail for burglary, then landed in the streets. He’d struggled with alcohol and drugs, and was routinely picked up for shoplifting. Green’s clinic had represented him several times. If there was family, his lawyer knew nothing about it.
    As to motive, Green had little to offer. He did say that DeVon Hardy had been evicted recently from an old warehouse in which he had been squatting.
    An eviction is a legal procedure, carried out by lawyers. I had a pretty good idea which one of the thousands of D.C. firms had tossed Mister into the streets.
    The 14th Street Legal Clinic was funded by a charity and worked only with the homeless, according toGreen. “Back when we got federal money, we had seven lawyers. Now we’re down to two,” he said.
    Not surprisingly, the
Journal
didn’t mention the story. Had any of the nine corporate lawyers in the nation’s fifth-largest silk-stocking firm been killed or even slightly wounded, it would’ve been on the front page.
    Thank God it wasn’t a bigger story. I was at my desk, reading my papers, in one piece with lots of work to do. I could’ve been at the morgue alongside Mister.
    POLLY ARRIVED a few minutes before eight with a big smile and a plate of homemade cookies. She was not surprised to see me at work.
    In fact, all nine of the hostages punched in, most ahead of schedule. It would’ve been a glaring sign of weakness to stay home with the wife and get pampered.
    “Arthur’s on the phone,” Polly announced. Our firm had at least ten Arthurs, but only one prowled the halls without the need of a last name. Arthur Jacobs was the senior partner, the CEO, the driving force, a man we admired and respected greatly. If the firm had a heart and soul, it was Arthur. In seven years, I had spoken to him three times.
    I told him I was fine. He complimented me on my courage and grace under pressure, and I almost felt like a hero. I wondered how he knew. He had probably talked to Malamud first, and was working his way down the ladder. So the stories would begin, then the jokes.Umstead and his porcelain vase would no doubt cause much hilarity.
    Arthur wanted to meet with the ex-hostages at ten, in the conference room, to record our statements on video.
    “Why?” I asked.
    “The boys in litigation think it’s a good idea,” he said, his voice razor-sharp in spite of his eighty years. “His family will probably sue the cops.”
    “Of course,” I said.
    “And they’ll probably name us as defendants. People will sue for anything, you know.”
    Thank goodness, I almost said. Where would we be without lawsuits?
    I thanked him for his concern, and he was gone, off to call the next hostage.
    The parade started before nine, a steady stream of well-wishers and gossipers lingering by my office, deeply concerned about me but also desperate for the details. I had a pile of work to do, but I couldn’t get to it. In the quiet moments between guests, I sat and stared at the row of files awaiting my attention, and I was numb. My hands wouldn’t reach.
    It was not the same. The work was not important. My desk was not life and death. I had seen death, almost felt it, and I was naive to think I could simply shrug it off and bounce back as if nothing had happened.
    I thought about DeVon Hardy and his red sticks with the multicolored wires running in all directions. He’dspent hours building his toys and planning his assault. He’d stolen a gun, found our firm, made a crucial mistake that cost him his life, and no one, not one single person