Clarissas notes in the file suggested that, at least initially, Melvin
had earned her sympathy. One entry during the second week she'd had
the case noted:
Called Cathy Wexler @ HAP: zero tolerance policy won budge. Called SCF
info line: No knowledge can discuss and'l case, but 'very possible'
take kids if lose housing.
She had even run some computerized searches on Westlaw looking for
authority to support the argument that HAP was prohibited from adopting
a zero-tolerance policy on eviction.
Unfortunately for Melvin, however, he chose a course of conduct that
had probably obliterated that sympathy before
Clarissa had found any law to back up the creative argument she was
trying to craft on his behalf. By the fifth letter, his tone had
changed. All caps and exclamation points don't go over well with
judges. More recently, Melvin s letters became aggressive:
Do you have children of your OWN, Judge Easterbrook? What kind of
person would allow this to happen? Maybe someday you will know just
how UNFAIR life can be. Are you trying to BREAK me?
I could see why Clarissa wrote them off as the desperate words of a
desperate man. But the benefit of hindsight made me wonder if Clarissa
might still be alive if someone had been able to help Melvin Jackson or
at least deflect his anger from a judge who was on his side but
powerless to do anything about it.
As I was starting in on the Ns, Dennis Coakley walked in with another
box of files. If I was counting right, that made me a hell of a lot
faster than he was.
'Not very exciting, is it?' he said.
'Not particularly.'
'So was it worth that little scene you scripted this morning?'
'Won't know until I finish the files,' I said. If I had boy parts, he
never would have called my power move a little scene. It would be a
fast ball, a line drive, an outside shot, or some other ridiculous
sports analogy that I don't understand.
'Just like I couldn't know if I had something important to deal with
until I took a look,' he said, stomping off.
By the time noon came around, I had finished reviewing the very last
file. Nothing. Two hours of work and all I had to show for it was my
monotone summary of Clarissa Easterbrook's pending caseload. The drone
of my own voice, combined with the steady hum of the water cooler, had
been enough to make me nod off a few times.
My legal pad was hardly used, but to keep myself from sleeping I had
made three lists. One was a list of cases where Clarissa said
something at the hearing to indicate she'd be ruling for the city, but
where she hadn't yet issued a formal ruling. Maybe someone decided to
ensure a rehearing with a different judge. Possible, but not
probable.
The second list was even shorter. I jotted down a few names to run in
PPDS when I got back to the office, but each seemed an unlikely
suspect. Sheldon Smithers found a lock on his front tire, courtesy of
the city, after one too many unpaid parking tickets. He made my list
for sending a rant about the hypocrisy of reserving parking spaces for
the administrative law judges in the city lot. That, and the
serial-killerish name.
Then there was Ronald Nathan Wilson. A month ago, Ronald punched the
glass out on the hearing room door after Clarissa denied his challenge
to the city's seizure of his car. It's a long way from vandalism to
murder, I know, but the seizure was for picking up a decoy in a
prostitution sting, sinking Ronald deeper into the creep pile. And,
again, the name didn't help. Six letters each: first, middle, and
last. Everyone knows 6-6-6 is the sign of the devil.
I wasn't sure what to do with my third list. These were cases from
which Clarissa had recused herself. A restaurant manager whose
application for a sidewalk cafe license had been rejected. A homeowner
whose third-floor addition was enjoined under the nuisance code. A
contractor complaining that his requests to rehabilitate buildings in
the Pearl District had been declined unfairly.
Maybe one of them had complained that Clarissa had a grudge against him
but hadn't gotten word yet that she was recusing herself. I knew it
was a stretch, but I had to leave that room with something.
I used my cell phone to check my work voice mail. As long as there
were no new fires to put out, I was actually going to make my lunch
date with Grace. Only three new messages: one from Dad reminding me
about dinner, one from Frist about a grand jury hearing at the end of
the week that I had already calendared, and one from Jessica Walters
asking me to try her later. Still nothing from Johnson.
I considered returning Dad's call but wasn't up for another
conversation like we'd had the night before. Instead, I flipped my
phone shut and considered myself on a well-deserved lunch break.
