Free Dead Peasants by Larry D. Thompson Page A

When he looked at the form, it was ten pages. He filled in his name, address, bar number and prior employment in Beaumont before returning to the desk.
    “Here. This ought to be plenty. Your director can read about me on the state bar web site. As you can see, I’m not a baby lawyer and don’t need to give you my life history.”
    “Well, Mr. Bryant,” the receptionist huffed. “These questions are important and necessary.”
    Jack bent over her desk, his face about six inches from hers, “Why don’t you give this to your director and see what he says?”
    The receptionist took the clipboard and motioned him to return to his seat as she went through the door behind her desk. Thirty minutes later a small man, wearing a bow tie, opened the door. “Mr. Jackson Bryant, please come in.”
    The director didn’t offer his hand as Jack approached and passed through the door. They rode the elevator in silence to the second floor and walked to a corner office with Graham Hill, J.D. on the door. Jack thought back through his career and could not recall any lawyer who put his academic degree after his name.
    Hill went around his desk to his swivel chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Bryant. I’ve looked over the very brief information you provided about your career.”
    Jack leaned forward. “Look, Mr. Hill, I don’t need to prove that I’ve earned my spurs. Did you check me out on the bar’s web site or on Google?”
    “I certainly did, sir,” Graham said as he tented his hands under his chin. “We can certainly use you. Since you obviously know your way around the courtroom, we can use you handling divorces. You’ll have to commit to certain hours. We want the same six hours every day. And, your outfit will have to be modified. We want our attorneys to be dressed for success even in the office. That means wearing a suit and tie at all times. We need to be respected by our clients, don’t you agree?”
    “No, sir, I don’t agree. I don’t need a goddamn tie to get respect. Forget it. I’m out of here.” Jack stormed out of Hill’s office, slamming the door behind him.

23
    That night Jack thought about the wasted meeting with Hill. To hell with him. He still had too much free time and could do some good for people that couldn’t afford lawyers. He’d start his own clinic without the red tape. The next morning he left the house and started driving, this time east on Camp Bowie,. past the museum district until it became Seventh Street. After he passed Monkey Wards, he got to the bridge over the Trinity River. He found it interesting how memories of growing up in Fort Worth popped to the front of his brain. Now he remembered “the tamale man,” a little Hispanic immigrant who had a tamale cart that he parked on the grass on the side of the road just before the bridge. His wife made tamales and he stood there beside his cart every day, rain or shine, selling those tamales. Somehow he and his wife managed to eek out a living, at least enough to feed themselves and two kids. Jack did a double-take when he saw the tamale man still at his post. Jack changed lanes and came to a stop. The man’s face was now wrinkled, but he still smiled as Jack lowered his window.
    “Good morning, sir. How many today?”
    Jack didn’t really want the tamales, but ordered a dozen and tipped the man well before he drove away. Approaching downtown, he marveled at how much it had changed. The so-called skyscrapers of his youth were twelve story brick buildings. Now those old buildings were dwarfed by forty story glass towers, mainly built by the Bass brothers, multi-billionaires who inherited a few hundred million dollars from their bachelor uncle, Sid Richardson, and then made enough shrewd investments that each of them became billionaires. Jack slowly circled around downtown as an idea formed and took shape.
    When he turned onto Main, he saw the old red courthouse, now surrounded by other buildings in the courthouse complex, but still