As noon approached, the doors grew busier and the lines longer. More volunteers appeared from nowhere, and the kitchen hummed with the pleasant clutter and bang of happy people busy with their work. I kept looking for Ontario. Santa Claus was waiting, and the little fella didn't have a clue.
* * *
We waited until the lines were gone, then filled a bowl each. The tables were packed, so we ate in the kitchen, leaning against the sink.
'You remember that diaper you changed last night?' I asked between bites.
'As if I could forget.'
'I haven't seen them today.'
He chewed and thought about it for a second. 'They were here when I left this morning.'
'What time was that?'
'Six. They were in the corner over there, sound asleep.'
'Where would they go?'
'You never know.'
'The little boy told me they stayed in a car.'
'You talked to him?'
'Yeah.'
'And now you want to find him, don't you?'
'Yeah.'
'Don't count on it.'
* * *
After lunch, the sun popped through and the movement began. One by one they walked by the serving table, took an apple or an orange, and left the basement.
'The homeless are also restless,' Mordecai explained as we watched. 'They like to roam around. They have rituals and routines, favorite places, friends on the streets, things to do. They'll go back to their parks and alleys and dig out from the snow.'
'It's twenty degrees outside. Near zero tonight,' I said.
'They'll be back. Wait till dark, and this place will be hopping again. Let's take a ride.'
We checked in with Miss Dolly, who excused us for a while. Mordecai's well-used Ford Taurus was parked next to my Lexus. 'That won't last long around here,' he said, pointing at my car. 'If you plan to spend time in this part of town, I'd suggest you trade down.'
I hadn't dreamed of parting with my fabulous car. I was almost offended.
We got into his Taurus and slid out of the parking lot. Within seconds I realized Mordecai Green was a horrible driver, and I attempted to fasten my seat belt. It was broken. He seemed not to notice.
We drove the well-plowed streets of Northwest Washington, blocks and sections of boarded-up rowhouses, past projects so tough ambulance drivers refused to enter, past schools with razor wire glistening on top of the chain link, into neighborhoods permanently scarred by riots. He was an amazing tour guide. Every inch was his turf, every corner had a story, every street had a history. We passed other shelters and kitchens. He knew the cooks and the Reverends. Churches were good or bad, with no blurring of the lines. They either opened their doors to the homeless or kept them locked. He pointed out the law school at Howard, a place of immense pride for him. His legal education had taken five years, at night, while he worked a full-time job and a part-time one. He showed me a burned-out rowhouse where crack dealers once operated. His third son, Cassius, had died on the sidewalk in front of it.
When we were near his office, he asked if it would be all right to stop in for a minute. He wanted to check his mail. I certainly didn't mind. I was just along for the ride.
It was dim, cold, and empty. He flipped on light switches and began talking. 'There are three of us. Me, Sofia Mendoza, and Abraham Lebow. Sofia's a social worker, but she knows more street law than me and Abraham combined.' I followed him around the cluttered desks. 'Used to have seven lawyers crammed in here, can you believe it? That was when we got federal money for legal services. Now we don't get a dime, thanks to the Republicans. There are three offices over there, three here on my side.' He was pointing in all directions. 'Lots of empty space.'
Maybe empty from a lack of personnel, but it was hard to walk without tripping over a basket of old files or a stack of dusty law books.
'Who owns the building?' I asked.
'The Cohen Trust. Leonard Cohen was the founder of a big New York law firm. He died in eighty-six; must've been a hundred years old. He made a ton of money, and late in life he decided he didn't want to die with any of it. So he spread it around, and one of his many creations was a trust to help poverty lawyers assist the homeless. That's how this place came to be. The trust operates three clinics--here, New York, and Newark. I was hired in eighty-three, became the director in eighty-four.'
'All your funding comes from one source?'
'Practically all. Last year the trust gave us a hundred and ten thousand dollars. Year before, it was a hundred fifty, so we lost a lawyer. It gets smaller every year. The trust has not been well managed, and it's now eating the principal. I doubt if we'll be here in five years. Maybe three.'
'Can't you raise money?'
'Oh, sure. Last year we raised nine thousand bucks. But it takes time. We can practice law, or we can raise funds. Sofia is not good with people. Abraham is an abrasive ass from New York. That leaves just me and my magnetic personality.'
'What's the overhead?' I asked, prying but not too worried. Almost every nonprofit group published an annual report with all the figures.
'Two thousand a month. After expenses and a small reserve, the three of us split eighty-nine thousand dollars. Equally. Sofia considers herself a full partner. Frankly, we're afraid to argue with her. I took home almost thirty, which, from what I hear, is about average for a poverty lawyer. Welcome to the street.'
We finally made it to his office, and I sat across from him.
'Did you forget to pay your heating bill?' I asked, almost shivering.
'Probably. We don't work much on weekends. Saves money. This place is impossible to heat or cool.'
That thought had never occurred to anyone at Drake and Sweeney. Close on weekends, save money. And marriages.
'And if we keep it too comfortable, our clients won't leave. So it's cold in the winter, hot in the summer, cuts down on the street traffic. You want coffee?'
'No thanks.'
'I'm joking, you know. We wouldn't do anything to discourage the homeless from being here. The climate doesn't bother us. We figure our clients are cold and hungry, so why should we worry about those matters. Did you feel guilty when you ate breakfast this morning?'
'Yes.'
He gave me the smile of a wise old man who'd seen it all. 'That's very common. We used to work with a lot of young lawyers from the big firms, pro bono rookies I call them, and they would tell me all the time that they lost interest in food at first.' He patted his ample midsection. 'But you'll get over it.'
'What did the pro bono rookies do?' I asked. I knew I was moving toward the bait, and Mordecai knew I knew.
'We sent them into the shelters. They met the clients, and we supervised file cases for them. Most of the work is easy, it just takes a lawyer on the phone barking at some bureaucrat who won't move. Food stamps, veterans' pensions, housing subsidies, Medicaid, aid to children--about twenty-five percent of our work deals with benefits.'
I listened intently, and he could read my mind. Mordecai began to reel me in.
'You see, Michael, the homeless have no voice. No one listens, no one cares, and they expect no one to help them. So when they try to use the phone to get benefits due them, they get nowhere. They are put on hold, permanently. Their calls are never returned. They have no addresses. The bureaucrats don't care, and so they screw the very people they're supposed to help. A seasoned social worker can at least get the bureaucrats to listen, and maybe look at the file and maybe return a phone call. But you get a lawyer on the phone, barking and
