long enough to blame the mayor, the council, and the entire city.
The idea of pinning the whole thing on a bunch of rich white lawyers made for an astonishing story. Claussen--callous, caustic, jaded by years in journalism --couldn't suppress his enthusiasm.
* * *
The ambush of Drake and Sweeney by the press did not bother me in the least. The firm had established the rules the prior week when it tipped a reporter that I had been arrested. I could see Rafter and his little band of litigators happily agreeing around the conference table that, yes! it made perfect sense to alert the media about my arrest; and not only that but to slip them a nice photo of the criminal. It would embarrass me, humiliate me, make me sorry, force me to cough up the file and do whatever they wanted.
I knew the mentality, knew how the game was played.
! had no problem helping the reporter.
Thirty
Intake at CCNV, alone, and two hours late. The clients were sitting patiently on the dirty floor of the lobby, some nodding off, some reading newspapers. Ernie with the keys was not pleased with my tardiness; he had a schedule of his own. He opened the intake room and handed me a clipboard with the names of thirteen prospective clients. I called the first one.
I was amazed at how far I'd come in a week. I had walked into the building a few minutes earlier without the fear of being shot. I had waited for Ernie in the lobby without thinking of being white. I listened to my clients patiently, but efficiently, because I knew what to do. I even looked the part; my beard was more than a week old; my hair was slightly over the ears and showing the first signs of unkemptness; my khakis were wrinkled; my navy blazer was rumpled; my tie was loosened just so. The Nikes were still stylish but well worn. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and I would have been the perfect public interest lawyer.
Not that the clients cared. They wanted someone to listen to them, and that was my job. The list grew to seventeen, and I spent four hours counseling. I forgot about the coming battle with Drake and Sweeney. I forgot about Claire, though, sadly, I was finding that easier to do. I even forgot about Hector Palma and my trip to Chicago.
But I couldn't forget about Ruby Simon. I somehow managed to connect each new client to her. I wasn't worried about her safety; she had survived on the streets far longer than I could have. But why would she leave a clean motel room with a television and a shower, and strike out through the city to find her abandoned car?
She was an addict, and that was the plain and unavoidable answer. Crack was a magnet, pulling her back to the streets.
If I couldn't keep her locked away in suburban motels for three nights, then how was I supposed to help her get clean?
The decision was not mine to make.
* * *
The routine of the late afternoon was shattered by a phone call from my older brother Warner. He was in town, on business, unexpectedly, would've called sooner but couldn't find my new number, and where could we meet for dinner? He was paying, he said before I could answer, and he'd heard about a great new place called Danny O's where a friend had eaten just a week earlier--fantastic food! I hadn't thought about an expensive meal in a long time.
Danny O's was fine with me. It was trendy, loud, overpriced, sadly typical.
I stared at the phone long after our conversation was over. I did not want to see Warner, because I did not want to listen to Warner. He was not in town on business, though that happened about once a year. I was pretty sure my parents had sent him. They were grieving down in Memphis, heartbroken over another divorce, saddened by my sudden fall from the ladder. Someone had to check on me. It was always Warner.
We met in the crowded bar at Danny O's. Before we could shake hands or embrace, he took a step backward to inspect the new image. Beard, hair, khakis, everything.
'A real radical,' he said, with an equal mixture of humor and sarcasm.
'It's good to see you,' I said, trying to ignore his theatrics.
'You look thin,' he said.
'You don't.'
He patted his stomach as if a few extra pounds had sneaked on board during the day. 'I'll lose it.' He was thirty-eight, nice-looking, still very vain about his appearance. The mere fact that I had commented on the extra weight would drive him to lose it within a month.
Warner had been single for three years. Women were very important to him. There had been allegations of adultery during his divorce, but from both sides.
'You look great,' I said. And he did. Tailored suit and shirt. Expensive tie. I had a closet full of the stuff.
'You too. Is this the way you dress for work now?'
'For the most part. Sometimes I ditch the tie.'
We ordered Heinekens and sipped them in the crowd.
'How's Claire?' he asked. The preliminaries were out of the way.
'I suppose she's fine. We filed for divorce, uncontested. I've moved out.'
'Is she happy?'
'I think she was relieved to get rid of me. I'd say Claire is happier today than she was a month ago.'
'Has she found someone else?'
'I don't think so,' I said. I had to be careful because most, if not all, of our conversation would be repeated to my parents, especially any scandalous reason for the divorce. They would like to blame Claire, and if they believed she'd been caught screwing around, then the divorce would seem logical. 'Have you?' he asked.
'Nope. I've kept my pants on.'
'So why the divorce?'
'Lots of reasons. I'd rather not rehash them.' That was not what he wanted. His had been a nasty split, with both parties fighting for custody of the kids. He had shared the details with me, often to the point of being boring. Now he wanted the same in return.
'You woke up one day, and decided to get a divorce?'
'You've been through it, Warner. It's not that simple.'
The maitre d' led us deep into the restaurant. We passed a table where Wayne Urnstead was sitting with two men I did not recognize. Urnstead had been a fellow hostage, the one Mister had sent to the door to fetch the food, the one who'd barely missed the sniper's bullet. He didn't see me.
A copy of the lawsuit had been served on Arthur Jacobs, chairman of the executive committee, at 11 A.M., while I was at the CCNV. Urnstead was not a partner, so I wondered if he even knew about the lawsuit.
Of course he did. In hurried meetings throughout the afternoon, the news had been dropped like a bomb. Defenses had to be prepared; marching orders given; wagons circled. Not a word to anyone outside the firm. On the surface, the lawsuit would be ignored.
Fortunately, our table could not be seen from Umstead's. I glanced around to make sure no other bad guys were in the restaurant. Warner ordered a martini for both of us, but I quickly begged off. Just water for me.
with Warner, everything was at full throttle. Work, play, food, drink, women, even books and old movies. He had almost frozen to death in a blizzard on a Peruvian mountain, and he'd been bitten by a deadly water snake while scuba diving in Australia. His post-divorce adjustment phase had been remarkably easy, primarily because Warner loved to travel and hang-glide and climb mountains and wrestle sharks and chase women on a global scale.
As a partner in a large Atlanta firm, he made plenty of money. And he spent a lot of it. The dinner was about money.
'Water?' he said in disgust. 'Come on. Have a drink.'
