Free The Street Lawyer by John Grisham Page A

shut up, cried all the time, nobody could sleep. I fed it some Drano.” He told the story while stirring his soup. It was well rehearsed, well delivered, and I didn’t believe a word of it. But others were listening, and Drano was enjoying himself.
    “What happened to the baby?” Mordecai asked, playing the straight guy.
    “Died.”
    “That would be your brother,” Mordecai said.
    “Nope. Sister.”
    “I see. So you killed your sister.”
    “Yeah, but we got plenty of sleep after that.”
    Mordecai winked at me, as if he’d heard similar tales.
    “Where do you live, Drano?” I asked.
    “Here, in D.C.”
    “Where do you stay?” Mordecai asked, correcting my vernacular.
    “Stay here and there. I got a lot of rich women who pay me to keep them company.”
    Two men on the other side of Drano found this amusing. One snickered, the other laughed.
    “Where do you get your mail?” Mordecai asked.
    “Post office,” he replied. Drano would have a quick answer for every question, so we left him alone.
    Miss Dolly made coffee for the volunteers after she had turned off her stove. The homeless were bedding down for the night.
    Mordecai and I sat on the edge of a table in the darkened kitchen, sipping coffee and looking through the large serving window at the huddled masses. “How late will you stay?” I asked.
    He shrugged. “Depends. You get a coupla hundred people like this in one room, something usually happens. The Reverend would feel better if I stay.”
    “All night?”
    “I’ve done it many times.”
    I hadn’t planned on sleeping with these people. Nor had I planned on leaving the building without Mordecai to guard me.
    “Feel free to leave whenever you want,” he said. Leaving was the worst of my limited options. Midnight, Friday night, on the streets of D.C. White boy, beautiful car. Snow or not, I didn’t like my odds out there.
    “You have a family?” I asked.
    “Yes. My wife is a secretary in the Department of Labor. Three sons. One’s in college, one’s in the Army.” His voice trailed away before he got to son number three. I wasn’t about to ask.
    “And one we lost on the streets ten years ago. Gangs.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “What about you?”
    “Married, no kids.”
    I thought about Claire for the first time in several hours. How would she react if she knew where I was? Neither of us had found time for anything remotely related to charity work.
    She would mumble to herself, “He’s really cracking up,” or something to that effect.
    I didn’t care.
    “What does your wife do?” he asked, making light conversation.
    “She’s a surgical resident at Georgetown.”
    “You guys’ll have it made, won’t you? You’ll be a partner in a big firm, she’ll be a surgeon. Another American dream.”
    “I guess.”
    The Reverend appeared from nowhere and pulled Mordecai deep into the kitchen for a hushed conversation. I took four cookies from a bowl and walked to the corner where the young mother sat sleeping with her head propped on a pillow and the baby tucked underher arm. The toddlers were motionless under the blankets. But the oldest child was awake.
    I squatted close to him, and held out a cookie. His eyes glowed and he grabbed it. I watched him eat every bite, then he wanted another. He was small and bony, no more than four years old.
    The mother’s head fell forward, jolting her. She looked at me with sad, tired eyes, then realized I was playing cookie man. She offered a faint smile, then rearranged the pillow.
    “What’s your name?” I whispered to the little boy. After two cookies, he was my friend for life.
    “Ontario,” he said slowly and plainly.
    “How old are you?”
    He held up four fingers, then folded one down, then raised it again.
    “Four?” I asked.
    He nodded, and extended his hand for another cookie, which I gladly gave him. I would have given him anything.
    “Where do you stay?” I whispered.
    “In a car,” he whispered back.
    It took a second