dollars. Our firm had an account with the restaurant, so it would be billed to Drake and Sweeney, and somewhere along the way our bean counters in the basement would find a way to bill the client for the cost of the food as well.
The afternoon was nonstop calls and conferences. Through sheer willpower, I kept my game face and got through it, billing heavily as I went. Antitrust law had never seemed so hopelessly dense and boring.
It was almost five before I found a few minutes alone. I said good-bye to Polly, and locked the door again. I opened the mysterious file and began making random notes on a legal pad, scribblings and flowcharts with arrows striking RiverOaks and Drake and Sweeney from all directions. Braden Chance, the real estate partner I'd confronted about the file, took most of the shots for the firm.
My principal suspect was his paralegal, the young man who had heard our sharp words, and who, seconds later, had referred to Chance as an 'ass' when I was leaving their suite. He would know the details of the eviction, and he would have access to the file.
With a pocket phone to avoid any DandS records, I called a paralegal in antitrust. His office was around the corner from mine. He referred me to another, and with little effort I learned that the guy I wanted was Hector Palma. He'd been with the firm about three years, all in real estate. I planned to track him down, but outside the office.
Mordecai called. He inquired about my dinner plans for the evening. 'I'll treat,' he said.
'Soup?'
He laughed. 'Of course not. I know an excellent place.'
We agreed to meet at seven. Claire was back in her surgeon's mode, oblivious to time, meals, or husband. She had checked in mid-afternoon, just a quick word on the run. Had no idea when she might be home, but very late. For dinner, every man for himself. I didn't hold it against her. She had learned the fast-track lifestyle from me.
* * *
We met at a restaurant near Dupont Circle. The bar at the front was packed with well-paid government types having a drink before fleeing the city. We had a drink in the back, in a tight booth.
'The Burton story is big and getting bigger,' he said, sipping a draft beer.
'I'm sorry, I've been in a cave for the past twelve hours. What's happened?'
'Lots of press. Four dead kids and their momma, living in a car. They find them a mile from Capitol Hill, where they're in the process of reforming welfare to send more mothers into the streets. It's beautiful.'
'So the funeral should be quite a show.'
'No doubt. I've talked to a dozen homeless activists today. They'll be there, and they're planning to bring their people with them. The place will be packed with street people. Again, lots of press. Four little coffins next to their mother's, cameras catching it all for the six o'clock news. We're having a rally before and a march afterward.'
'Maybe something good will come from their deaths.'
'Maybe.'
As a seasoned big-city lawyer, I knew there was a purpose behind every lunch and dinner invitation. Mordecai had something on his mind. I could tell by the way his eyes followed nfine.
'Any idea why they were homeless?' I asked, fishing.
'No. Probably the usual. I haven't had time to ask questions.'
Driving over, I had decided that I could not tell him about the mysterious file and its contents. It was confidential, known to me only because of my position at Drake and Sweeney. To reveal what I had learned about the activities of a client would be an egregious breach of professional responsibility. The thought of divulging it scared me. Plus, I had not verified anything.
The waiter brought salads, and we began eating. 'We had a firm meeting this afternoon,' Mordecai said between bites. 'Me, Abraham, Sofia. We need some help.'
I was not surprised to hear that. 'What kind of help?'
'Another lawyer.'
'I thought you were broke.'
'We keep a little reserve. And we've adopted a new marketing strategy.'
The idea of the 14th Street Legal Clinic worried about a marketing strategy was humorous, and that was what he intended. We both smiled.
'If we could get the new lawyer to spend ten hours a week raising money, then he could afford himself.'
Another series of smiles.
He continued. 'As much as we hate to admit it, our survival will depend on our ability to raise money. The Cohen Trust is declining. We've had the luxury of not begging, but now it's gotta change.'
'What's the rest of the job?'
'Street law. You've had a good dose of it. You've seen our place. It's a dump. Sofia's a shrew. Abraham's an ass. The clients smell bad, and the money is a joke.'
'How much money?'
'We can offer you thirty thousand a year, but we can only promise you half of it for the first six months.'
'Why?'
'The trust closes its books June thirtieth, at which time they'll tell us how much we get for the next fiscal year, beginning July first. We have enough in reserve to pay you for the next six months. After that, the four of us will split what's left after expenses.'
'Abraham and Sofia agreed to this?'
'Yep, after a little speech by me. We figure you have good contacts within the established bar, and since you're well educated, nice-looking, bright, and all that crap, you should be a natural at raising money.'
'What if I don't want to raise money?'
'Then the four of us could lower our salaries even more, perhaps go to twenty thousand a year. Then to fifteen. And when the trust dries up, we could hit the streets, just like our clients. Homeless lawyers.'
'So I'm the future of the 14th Street Legal Clinic?'
'That's what we decided. We'll take you in as a full partner. Let's see Drake and Sweeney top that.'
'I'm touched,' I said. I was also a bit frightened. The job offer was not unexpected, but its arrival opened a door I was hesitant to walk through.
Black bean soup arrived, and we ordered more beer.
'What's Abraham's story?' I asked.
'Jewish kid from Brooklyn. Came to Washington to work on Senator Moynihan's staff. Spent a few years on the Hill, landed on the street. Extremely bright. He spends most of his time coordinating litigation with pro bono lawyers from big firms. Right now he's suing the Census Bureau to be certain the homeless get counted. And he's suing the D.C. school system to make sure homeless kids get an education. His people skills leave a lot to be desired, but he's great in the back room plotting litigation.'
'And Sofia?'
'A career social worker who's been taking night classes in law school for eleven years. She acts and thinks like a lawyer, especially when she's abusing government workers. You'll hear her say, 'This is Sofia Mendoza, Attorney-at-Law,' ten times a day.'
'She's also the secretary?'
'Nope. We don't have secretaries. You do your own typing, filing, coffee making.' He leaned forward a few inches, and lowered his voice. 'The three of us have been together for a long time, Michael, and we've carved out little niches. To be honest, we need a fresh face with some new ideas.'
'The money is certainly appealing,' I said, a weak effort at humor.
He grinned anyway. 'You don't do it for the money. You do it for your soul.'
* * *
My soul kept me awake most of the night. Did I have the guts to walk away? Was I seriously considering taking a job which paid so little? I was literally saying good-bye to millions.
The things and possessions I longed for would become fading memories.
The timing wasn't bad. With the marriage over, it somehow seemed fitting that I make drastic changes on all fronts.
