to Todd’s badgering and agreed to transfer his services. He had also agreed to hire Mark, who claimed to have vast experience mixing drinks. They would tend bar at night and on weekends, and, with new day jobs, their financial future looked much brighter. Of course, their massive debts were still on the books, though they had no intention of addressing them.
The Rooster Bar had the look and feel of an old neighborhood watering hole. Most of its regulars were government workers who lived in the area or stopped by each afternoon for a few stiff ones before heading home after the traffic thinned out. For some, the thinning out took several hours. The bar’s wide, half-moon counter was polished mahogany and brass, and by five each afternoon it was packed two and three deep with important mid-level bureaucrats slugging happy hour booze and watching Fox News. Its kitchen cranked out decent bar food at decent prices.
In a corner booth, over chicken wings and draft beer, Mark and Todd spent hours plotting their next moves.
They skipped classes on Tuesday and searched the Internet for a respectable forger who could sell them new identities. They found one in Bethesda, in a garage shop where the “security consultant” printed two sets of perfect driver’s licenses for each. D.C. and Delaware for Mark Upshaw and Mark Finley, formerly Mark Frazier; and D.C. and Maryland for Todd Lane and Todd McCain, formerly Todd Lucero. The cost was $200 cash for each set, and the forger offered perfect passports for another $500 each. They declined, for the moment anyway. Their current passports were valid and they had no plans to leave the country.
With new names, they purchased new cell phones and numbers. They kept their old ones to monitor who might be looking for them. They left the phone store and drove to a quick-print shop where they ordered stationery and business cards for their new venture, Upshaw, Parker & Lane, Attorneys-at-Law. Mark Upshaw and Todd Lane. New names, new phone numbers, a new future. The address was 1504 Florida Avenue, same as The Rooster Bar.
They skipped school on Wednesday, and while the Coop’s other renters were in class and no one was watching they loaded up their clothes, a few books, even fewer pots and pans and dishes, and fled the building without a word to anyone. Their January rents were already past due and they expected to be sued by their slumlord, who would have an extremely difficult time finding them. They moved into a grungy three-room apartment on the top floor above The Rooster Bar, a real dump that apparently had been used for storage since the days of FDR. They had not come to terms with Maynard on the lease payments, and had floated the idea of swapping labor for rent, with, of course, everything off the books. Maynard liked it that way.
The idea of living there was not in any way pleasant, but then neither was the option of paying more or being stalked by the loan sharks. If living for a few months in a rathole kept the loan collectors at bay, then Mark and Todd could grind it out. They bought two beds, a sofa, some chairs, a cheap dinette set, and some other odds and ends from a salvage store next to a homeless shelter.
They decided to stop shaving and grow beards. As proper law students, they rarely shaved anyway. The scruffy look was expected. Now the whiskers might provide additional cover.
Wednesday afternoon they ventured for the first time into the Judiciary Square neighborhood, home to the various courthouses that handled the District’s legal matters. The hub was the District Courthouse, a massive, 1970s-style concrete edifice where those accused of all manner of criminal activity were dealt with. Its jungle of courtrooms sprawled over six levels. Its hallways were crowded with lawyers ducking in and out of hearings and defendants free on bail loitering nervously with their loved ones. Court was open to the public; admission was free and easy, after the obligatory security with metal detectors and body scans. They watched jury trials in progress. They watched first appearances where inmates in jumpsuits were hauled before judges for quick paperwork, then sent back to jail. They watched motion hearings in which prosecutors and public defenders argued back and forth. They studied the dockets and collected as much paperwork as possible. They roamed the hallways, watching carefully as lawyers huddled with frightened families. Not once did they hear anyone ask a lawyer if he or she actually had a license to practice. Not once did they see anyone they recognized.
That night, they worked until ten serving drinks and food at The Rooster Bar, then retired to their grungy apartment upstairs, where they spent hours online navigating the maze of the D.C. court system. Criminal law was their future, primarily because the fees could be paid in cash and the clients would have no interest in stopping by their office for consultation. Such meetings would take place either at jail or in court, just like Darrell Cromley’s.
They skipped classes again on Thursday and opened new checking accounts. There were six Swift Bank branches in the D.C. metropolitan area. Mark went to one near Union Station and deposited $500 in the name of Mark Upshaw. Todd Lane did the same at a branch on Rhode Island Avenue. Together, they visited another Swift Bank branch on Pennsylvania Avenue and opened a law firm checking account with a bogus taxpayer ID number. Thursday afternoon, they were back in court, absorbing the circus.
They skipped classes on Friday and stopped thinking about Foggy Bottom. If possible, they would never see the place again, and that in itself was exhilarating.
Gordy’s DUI citation required him to appear in courtroom 117 in the District Courthouse on Friday afternoon at 1:00. At 12:45, Mark and Todd arrived outside the courtroom and tried to appear as nervous as possible. A crowd was gathering. Mark held the citation and looked as though he needed help. Both wore jeans and hiking boots and were sufficiently scruffy. Mark also wore a John Deere cap. A guy with a briefcase arrived and spotted them. He walked over and said to Mark, “You here for a DUI?”
“Yes, sir,” Mark replied. “Are you a lawyer?”
“Yep. You got one?”
“No, sir.”
“Can I see your citation?”
Mark handed it over and the lawyer frowned as he read it. He then pulled out a business card and gave it to Mark. Preston Kline, Attorney-at-Law. “You need a lawyer for this,” Kline said. “My fee is a thousand bucks, cash.”
“Really, that much?” Mark asked, shocked. Todd stepped beside him and said, “I’m his friend.”
Kline said, “It’s a bargain, son. I can save you a lot of money. If you’re found guilty, you’ll lose your license for a year but before that you’ll spend some time in the slammer. I can probably get that suspended, though.”
Kline wasn’t nearly as smooth as Darrell Cromley, but at the moment that didn’t matter. Mark said, “I got four hundred cash. I can get the rest later.”
Kline said, “Okay, but it’s due before your court date.”
“What court date?”
“Okay, we’ll walk in and see the judge, name’s Cantu, a real hard-ass. I’ll do the talking and you don’t speak unless I say so. Cantu will go through the motions, all routine stuff, and you’ll plead not guilty. He’ll set the case for a hearing in a month or so and that’ll give me time to do my work. I’m assuming you actually blew 0.11?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You got the cash?”
Mark reached into a pocket and removed some money. He handed over four $100 bills and Kline snatched them. “Let’s go inside and do the paperwork.”
Todd asked, “Can I go too?”
“Sure. The zoo is open to the public.”
Inside, lawyers milled about beyond the bar as a dozen or so spectators watched them. Kline directed Mark to a spot in the front row and removed some papers from his old briefcase. “This is a contract for legal services between you and me,” he said, pointing. He scribbled in the sum of $1,000. “It’s also a promissory note to pay the balance. Look it over, fill in your name and address, sign at the bottom.”
Mark took his pen and wrote Gordon Tanner’s name and his old address. He and Todd were banking heavily on the chance that no one would recognize Gordy’s name from the news covering the suicide. And, they seriously
doubted that anyone in the vast court system had removed Gordy’s name from the DUI docket. If so, and if Mark was questioned, they planned to simply walk away. Or run.
Mark read the contract and tried to memorize as much as possible. He handed it back and asked, “You do a lot of these?”
“All the time,” Kline said smugly, as if he were a high-powered litigator.
Todd said, “Say, my brother got in a fight at a Caps game and is charged with assault. Do you handle those?”
“Sure. Simple or aggravated?”
“Simple, I think. How much do you charge?”
“A thousand bucks if there’s a plea. If he goes to trial then it’s far more expensive.”
“Can you keep him out of jail?”
“Sure, no problem. If he’ll plead to a disturbance, he’ll walk. Later, I can get it expunged, for another thousand. That is, if there’s nothing else on his record.”
“Thanks, I’ll tell him.”
At 1:00, Judge Cantu assumed the bench and everyone stood. The assembly line began as one DUI defendant after another walked through the gate when his or her name was called by a clerk. Only about half had lawyers. Each was asked to plead either guilty or not guilty. Those admitting guilt were handed papers by a prosecutor and asked to sit in a corner and fill in the blanks. Those pleading not guilty were assigned return dates in February.
Mark and Todd watched every move and heard every word. They’d be in the business soon enough.
When Gordon Tanner was called, Kline said, “Take off your cap.” He led Mark to the bench and they looked up at the judge. “Hello, Mr. Kline,” Judge Cantu said. They had watched him work for twenty minutes and the guy was Santa Claus, with a smile and kind word for everyone who appeared before him. Though traffic court was the lowest rung on the ladder, he seemed to enjoy it.
“First offense?” Judge Cantu asked.
“Yes, sir,” Kline responded.
“I’m sorry,” he said to Mark with a pleasant look. Mark had a knot in his stomach that felt like a bowling ball, and he half expected someone, perhaps one of the assistant prosecutors, to blurt out, “Hey, I recognize that name. Thought Tanner jumped off the bridge.” But there were no surprises.
Judge Cantu said, “May I see your driver’s license, Mr. Tanner?”
Mark frowned and said, “Well, Judge, I lost my wallet. Credit cards, everything.”
“Well, you won’t be needing your license. I’m assuming you’re pleading not guilty.”
Kline quickly said, “That’s correct, Your Honor.”
The judge scribbled here and there and said, “Okay, your court date is February 14. Should make for a nice Valentine’s Day.” He smiled as though he’d said something humorous.
Kline took some papers from a clerk and said, “Thanks, Judge. See you then.”
They backed away from the bench, and as they started to leave the courtroom Mark whispered to his lawyer, “Say, is it okay if we hang around and watch things?”
“If you’re that bored, sure.”
They sat in the back row as Kline disappeared. Todd whispered, “So that’s how you handle a DUI. Nothing to it.” Other lawyers came and went as more defendants arrived. Ten minutes later Kline was back with another client, undoubtedly one he’d just hustled in the hallway.
They absorbed the show for the next hour and left. According to Kline’s business card, his office was on E Street, not far from the District Courthouse. They walked three blocks and found the address. It was a four-story building that was evidently brimming with lawyers. A directory by the front door listed the names of a dozen small firms and several solo practitioners. Evidently, Kline practiced alone. As Mark waited outside, Todd stepped into a cramped reception area where a frazzled lady labored behind a large desk. She greeted him without a smile. “May I help you?”
“Uh, sure, I’m looking for a lawyer named Preston Kline,” Todd said, glancing around. At the edge of her desk was a row of dividers with the names of a bunch of lawyers. Phone messages and letters were stacked neatly by each name.
“Are you a client?” she asked.
“Maybe. Someone referred me to him, said he was a good criminal lawyer.”
“Well, he’s in court. I can take your name and phone number and he’ll call you back.”
“And his office is here?”
“Yes, second floor. Why?”
“Well, could I see his partner or his paralegal? I need to talk to someone.”
“He works alone. I’m his secretary.”
Todd hesitated, looked around, and said, “Okay, I have his number and I’ll give him a call. Thanks.” He left before she could respond.
As they walked away, Todd said, “Just as we figured. The guy works out of his pocket. Got a cubbyhole on the second floor with no staff. The girl at the front desk answers the phone for a whole pack of them. A real low-end operation.”
“I love it,” Mark said. “Now all we need is a girl.”
14
Zola attended one class on Monday but found it so depressing she blew off the others. The class, Rights of the Elderly, was one of those useless electives so popular with third-year students coasting to the finish line. She and Gordy had signed up for it and planned to take turns suffering through the lectures, then compare notes at the end and get rewarded with either As or Bs. It was a small class, about twenty students, and when the seat to her right remained empty she couldn’t help but think of Gordy. He should have been sitting there.
When they had started dating the previous September, they had been cautious. Gordy was a popular student with an outsized personality and commanded a lot of attention. Zola was not the first girl he’d chased, but certainly the first black one he’d fallen for. Their friends knew he had a serious sweetheart back home, one who was jealous and came to D.C. often to check on him. Zola and Gordy had been careful, but with time they had been noticed. Word had spread.
The professor had started his lecture with some sad comments about Mr. Tanner’s tragedy, and Zola got a few looks. She heard little else and couldn’t wait to leave the building, but not before picking up her check for $10,000. She deposited it in her bank, bundled up, and drifted through the city. When the sky turned gray, she ducked into the National Portrait Gallery and killed some time.
During law school, she had managed to find part-time jobs for a few hours here and there. She lived more frugally than the rest of her impoverished friends, and since she didn’t drink, partied little, and used public transportation, she had saved money. The $20,000 the government lent her each year to live on had been more than enough, and with one semester left Zola had $16,000 in a savings account no one else knew about. Chump change in D.C., but serious money in Senegal. If her parents and brother were finally deported, the money could become crucial to their survival. Bribery was common, and though she shuddered at the thought of traveling to Senegal, and of being either detained or denied reentry, she knew that she might one day be forced to rush to the aid of her family with as much cash as possible. So she saved and tried not to think about her loans.
She had not heard from her parents. Telephone use was limited at the detention center. Her father had been confident that he would be allowed to notify her before they were finally removed and flown back to Senegal, but with deportation the rules seemed to change daily. She convinced herself they were still in the country, and that provided some comfort. Why, she wasn’t sure. What was worse—living like prisoners in a federal camp or being turned loose on the streets of Dakar? Neither scenario held the slightest hope. They would never be allowed to return to their neighborhood in Newark. The menial jobs they had scrambled to get for the past twenty-six years would be taken by other undocumented workers. The cycle would continue because the work had to be done and real Americans preferred not to do it.
When she wasn’t longing for Gordy and blaming herself, she was worrying about her family and their frightening predicament. And if she somehow managed to put those
two tragedies aside, she was confronted with the uncertainties of her own future. As the cold, bleak days of January crept by, Zola fell into a deep and understandable funk.
After ten days of virtually living with Todd and Mark, she needed some distance. They were skipping classes and were adamant that they would not return to school. They texted her occasionally to check on things, but seemed occupied with more important matters.
Late Tuesday morning, she heard noises from across the hall and realized the Tanners were removing boxes of Gordy’s belongings. She thought about saying hello and offering condolences, but let it pass. Mr. Tanner and Gordy’s brother spent an hour going back and forth to a rental van parked on the street. Grim work, and she listened to their efforts through a cracked door. When they were gone, she took an extra key and walked through Gordy’s apartment. The old furniture that came with the place was still there, and she sat on the sofa, in the dark, and had a good cry.
On two occasions and at very inopportune times, she had fallen asleep on that sofa, and allowed him to venture into the night. Her guilt was overwhelming.
On Wednesday, she dressed for class and was about to leave when her father called. They were still at the detention facility without a word about their final removal. Nothing had changed since her visit. He tried to sound upbeat, a real challenge given his circumstances. Zola had been trying to locate relatives in Senegal to alert them and ask for help, but so far had not been successful. After twenty-six years of virtually no contact, a pleasant homecoming seemed unlikely. And, since her parents had no idea when they might be returned, making arrangements seemed impossible. According to her father, most of the family had fled the country years earlier. Those still there had their own problems and would not be sympathetic.
They talked for twenty minutes, and when the call ended she broke down again. Going to class seemed like such an insignificant thing to do. She was there because of a misguided dream of becoming