The Rooster Bar (12 page)

T
hey waited until late Monday morning, when the building was empty and the neighbors were in class, and they moved Zola's boxes to her new third-floor suite above The Rooster Bar. If she was unimpressed with her new digs, she kept it to herself. In fact, she unpacked her clothes and belongings with a smile and seemed pleased with her new hiding place. It was only temporary. As a child in Newark she had lived in far tighter quarters with almost no privacy. Mark and Todd had no idea how poor her family had been in those days.

The contractor, with his crew of hardworking and undoubtedly illegal Slovakians, was busy transforming the utility closet into a bathroom, so the partners walked down the street for a late lunch. Over salads and iced tea, Todd covered some of the basic rules of engagement. They would live in a world of cash, no credit. Credit cards leave trails. They had convinced Maynard to swap labor for rent. Todd and Mark would each work twenty-five hours a week tending bar and no records would be kept. Maynard would accept this for rent and also cover the utility bills, Internet, and cable, and allow them to use the address for what little mail they anticipated. He seemed to like the idea of having three budding lawyers practically hiding in his building and appeared to miss the distinction between a legal clinic and a law firm. Maynard asked few questions.

It was ironic that their zeal to avoid credit was predicated on the fact that they collectively owed more than $600,000, but the irony was lost at the moment.

They would revisit their shady security contact and buy a fake driver's license for Zola as her only form of ID. Once she became Zola Parker, they would get her a cell phone, but they would keep their old ones to monitor the people who might be looking for them. They all would be sued by their landlords but the lawsuits would be worthless because Mark Frazier, Todd Lucero, and Zola Maal no longer existed and evidently had left town. Eventually, they would be placed in default by their student loan servicers, but that was several months down the road. You can't effectively sue someone if you can't find the person. They would try to avoid all of their old friends but continue to update their Facebook pages, though with less activity. They would have no contact with Foggy Bottom and felt sure their absence would not be noticed by anyone in administration.

At times, Zola seemed overwhelmed by the plot. It was insane and destined for a bad ending, but she felt safer, and safety was her primary concern. And, her partners were either overly confident or putting up a good front. Deep down, she knew they had no idea what they were doing, but their enthusiasm was hard to ignore. As reluctant as she was, she was comforted by their loyalty.

Mark grew serious and talked about their personal lives. It was important that they avoid new friendships and serious dating. No one else could know about their scheme. The partnership needed a wall around it that could not be penetrated.

She interrupted with “Are you kidding me? We just buried my boyfriend and you think I want to start dating again?”

“Of course not,” Mark said. “Todd and I are unattached at the moment, and it's best if we all stay that way.”

Todd said, “Right, and if you want sex Mark and I are always available, just to keep things in the firm, you know?”

“That's not going to happen,” she said with a laugh. “Our lives are complicated enough right now.”

“Sure, but just file it away,” Todd said.

“Is that your best pickup line: ‘Let's keep it in the firm'?”

“I don't know. I've never used it before.”

“Well, don't use it again. It's not working.”

“I'm kidding, Zola.”

“No, you're not. What happened to that Sharon babe you were seeing last semester?”

“She's history.”

Mark said, “Let's agree that all hookups will be off premises, okay?”

“Whatever,” she said. “What's next on the list?”

“We don't have a list,” Mark said. “You got questions?”

“More doubts than questions.”

“We're listening,” Todd said. “This is our big moment, our finest hour. Let's put it all on the table.”

“Okay, I seriously doubt I'll be able to hustle injury cases in hospital emergency rooms. And I doubt if either of you knows how to do it either.”

Todd said, “You're right, but we can learn. We have to learn. It's a matter of survival.”

Mark said, “Oh, I think you'll be a natural, Zola. A beautiful young black woman in a killer dress, short skirt maybe, with stylish heels. I'd hire you in a heartbeat if my wife got banged up in a car wreck.”

“My only nice dress is the one I wore to the funeral.”

“We're upgrading your wardrobe, Zola,” Todd said. “We're no longer law students but real professionals. New clothes for all of us. It's in the firm's budget.”

“That's the only promising thing I've heard yet,” she said. “And let's say we get some clients and we need to meet them at the office. What then?”

It was obvious they had thought of everything. Without hesitating, Mark said, “We tell them our offices are being renovated and we meet them downstairs in the bar.”

“The Rooster Bar?”

“Sure. The drinks are on the firm as we go through the paperwork,” Todd said. “They'll love it.”

Mark said, “Keep in mind, Zola, most of our clients will be small-time criminals who pay in cash. We'll meet them in court or in jail, and the last place they'll want to go is a law office.”

Todd said, “And we will not be having conferences with other lawyers. Nothing like that.”

“Of course not.”

Mark said, “If we get backed into a corner, we can always rent a room at a business center for a few hours. There's one around the corner.”

“I guess you guys have thought of everything.”

“No, we don't have a clue, Zola,” Todd said. “But we'll figure it out, make it work, and have some fun along the way.”

“What else is bugging you?” Mark said.

“Okay, I doubt I can keep this from Ronda. She's a close friend and she's worried about me.”

“She also has the biggest mouth in our class,” Todd said. “You have to keep her in the dark.”

“That won't be easy. I doubt if I can drop out of law school without her knowing it.”

“Does she know about you and Gordy?” Mark asked.

“Of course she does. He hit on her during our first year.”

“What have you told her?” Todd asked.

“She wanted to talk so I met her for a sandwich last night. I said I was really struggling and skipping classes for the time being, that I might take off a semester and pull things together. She didn't pry too much, just wanted to talk about Gordy and his final days. I didn't say much. She thinks I might need to see a therapist, someone for grief counseling. I said I'd think about it. She was really sweet, and I needed that.”

“You gotta cut the cord, Zola,” Mark said. “Stiff-arm her, but do it gently. We have to pull away from the law school gang. If word gets out that the three of us are skipping our last semester, the school might start asking questions. That's no big deal, unless of course it decides to notify DOE.”

“I thought we weren't worried about the loans.”

“True, but we need to delay default as long as possible. If the loan servicers find out that we've withdrawn, they'll start barking about repayment. When they can't find us, they'll turn the files over to lawyers who'll hire investigators to sniff around. I'd rather deal with that down the road.”

“I'd like to avoid it altogether,” Todd said.

“Oh, I think we will.”

“But you have no idea, do you?” she asked.

Mark and Todd exchanged looks and nothing was said for a moment. Todd's cell phone vibrated and he pulled it out of a pocket. “Wrong one,” he said, and pulled another phone out of another pocket. Two phones, the old and the new. One for the past, one for the present. He read a message and said, “It's Wilson, says, ‘Hey, man, you skipping classes again today. What's up?' ”

“This might be harder than we thought,” Mark said.

B
y 8:45, they were gathering in nervous little groups in the wide hallway outside courtroom 142 in the District Courthouse. A sign by the door said it was the domain of the Honorable Fiona Dalrymple, Criminal Division 19, General Sessions Court, District of Columbia. Those summoned to the day and hour were, generally speaking, a rough-looking bunch from the tougher neighborhoods, most with black or brown skin, almost all either holding the piece of paper that had commanded them to be there or standing close to a loved one with such paperwork. No one was alone. Those accused brought with them spouses or parents or teenage children, and everyone wore some version of the same frightened, hopeless look. At the moment, there were no lawyers preying on the victims.

Zola and Todd arrived first, both dressed casually, and began watching everyone else. They leaned against a wall and waited for Lawyer Upshaw, who soon appeared with a nice suit and an old briefcase. He joined them and they clustered like the others, whispering, waiting as if someone might be chosen at random for an execution.

“I like that guy over there,” Todd said, nodding in the direction of a little round Hispanic man of about forty with a piece of paper and a fidgety wife.

“I like him too,” Zola added with amusement. “He could be our first client.”

“There are so many to choose from,” Mark said, almost under his breath.

Zola said, “Okay, Mr. Big Shot, show us how it's done.”

Mark swallowed hard, offered them a fake smile, said, “Nothing to it,” and walked over to the couple. As he drew close, the wife lowered her eyes in fear while the husband's eyes grew larger.

“Excuse me,” Mark said in a low voice. “Are you Mr. Garcia? Looking for Freddy Garcia.”

The man shook his head no, but said nothing. Mark's eyes seized upon the citation clutched in the guy's right hand and asked, “Are you going to court?”

Stupid question. Why else would the guy be missing work and waiting outside a courtroom? He nodded quickly, yes, while managing to maintain silence.

“What's the charge?” Mark asked.

Still not speaking, the man offered the citation, which Mark took and managed to scan with a frown. “Simple assault,” he mumbled. “This could be bad. You been to court before, Mr. Lopez?”

Fierce shaking of the head. No. His wife broke her gaze from her shoes and looked at Mark as if she wanted to cry. Other people were moving about as the crowd grew.

“Look, you need a lawyer. Judge Dalrymple can be tough. You understand?” With his free hand, Mark whipped out a brand-new business card and forced it on the guy. “Simple assault can carry some jail time, but I can take care of that. Nothing to worry about. You want some help?”

Nodding yes, yes.

“Okay, look, my fee is a thousand bucks. Can you pay it?”

Mr. Lopez's mouth dropped open at the mention of money. From behind Mark, a sharp, crisp voice rifled his way and was no doubt meant for him. “Hey, what's going on here?”

Mark turned to see the puzzled and concerned face of a genuine street lawyer, a taller guy of forty with a worn suit and pointed nose. He assessed the situation perfectly as he joined them. “What's going on, pal?” he asked Mark in a slightly lower voice. “Are you hustling my client?”

Mark, unable to speak, took a step back just as the lawyer snatched the citation from his right hand. He looked at Mr. Lopez and said, “Juan, is this guy bothering you?”

Mr. Lopez handed the business card to the lawyer, who glanced at it and said, “Look, Upshaw, this is my client. What are you trying to do?”

Mark had to say something so he managed, “Nothing. I was looking for Freddy Garcia.” Mark glanced around and noticed another guy in a suit gawking at him.

The lawyer said, “Bullshit. You're trying to hustle my client. I heard you say your fee is a thousand dollars. Right, Juan?”

Lopez, suddenly fluent and chatty, said, “Right. He say a thousand dollars, say I go to jail.”

The lawyer took a step closer to Mark, their noses a foot apart. Mark thought about punching him but quickly decided that a fistfight between two lawyers in the hallway outside the courtroom would not help the situation. “Beat it, Upshaw,” the lawyer hissed.

Mark tried to smile as he said, “Hey, relax, pal. I'm looking for my client, Freddy Garcia. So I got the wrong guy, okay?”

The lawyer sneered and said, “Well, if you could read, you would notice that the citation is addressed to Mr. Juan Lopez, my client here. I'll bet Freddy Garcia is not even on the docket, and I'll bet even more that you're just hustling business.”

“You should know,” Mark replied. “Just relax.”

“I'm relaxed, now beat it.”

Mark wanted to bolt, but managed to ease back a step. “You got it, asshole.”

“Go bother somebody else.”

Mark turned around, dreading the looks from Todd and Zola.

But they were gone.

HE FOUND THEM
around the corner and they hurried to a coffee shop on the first floor. As they pulled chairs around a small table, Mark realized Todd and Zola were laughing so hard they couldn't speak. This pissed him off but after a few seconds he started laughing too. Todd finally caught his breath and said, “Nice work, Darrell.”

Zola wiped her cheeks with the back of a hand. “Freddy Garcia,” she managed to say. Todd erupted again.

“Okay, okay,” Mark said, still laughing.

“I'm sorry,” Todd said, holding his sides.

They laughed for a long time. Mark finally got it together and asked, “Who wants coffee?” He walked to the counter, bought three cups, and brought them back to the table, where the other members of his firm had regained their composure, somewhat.

Todd said, “We saw the guy coming, and when he realized what you were doing he went on the attack.”

Zola said, “I thought he was going to hit you.”

“So did I,” Mark said. They sipped their coffees, each on the verge of more laughter.

Mark finally said, “Okay, here's the good part. It was a bad scene all right, but no one even thought about whether or not I was a lawyer. This is going to be easy.”

“Easy!” Todd exploded. “You almost got in a fight over our very first client.”

Zola said, “Did you see the look on Juan's face when the two of you were going at it? He must think all lawyers are crazy.” She was laughing again too.

“Chalk it up to experience,” Mark said, playing along. “We can't quit now.”

“Darrell Cromley you're not,” Todd said.

“Shut up. Let's go.”

THEY DECIDED TO
change strategy for their second foray into the abyss. A motley crowd was waiting outside the courtroom of the Honorable Leon Handleford, Criminal Division 10. Todd appeared first and tried to look as nervous as possible. He studied the group and focused on a young black man waiting with an older woman, probably his mother. Todd drifted over, smiled at them, and struck up a conversation. “A helluva way to spend the day, right?”

“You got that right,” the young man said. His mother rolled her eyes in frustration.

“This is DUI court, right?” Todd asked.

“Traffic,” the young man said.

His mother added, “Got him doing eighty-five in a forty-mile zone. Second ticket this year. Insurance is going through the roof. I swear.”

“Eighty-five,” Todd repeated. “That's booking it.”

“So I was in a hurry.”

“Cop said he's going to jail,” the mother said, thoroughly frustrated.

“You got a lawyer?” Todd asked.

“Not yet,” the young man said. “I can't lose my license, man. If I lose my license I lose my job.”

Mark appeared with a purpose and with a phone stuck to his head. He made eye contact with Todd, hurried over, and put the phone away. Ignoring the black guy and his mother, he said to Todd, “Just talked to the prosecutor, a dude I know pretty well. I got the jail time knocked off and they'll cut the fine in half. We're still haggling over the suspension but we're making progress. You got the other half of my fee?”

“Sure,” Todd said quickly as he reached into his pocket and pulled out some cash. In plain view, he peeled off five $100 bills and handed them over. As Mark grabbed the money, Todd pointed to his new friend and said, “Say, this guy got caught doing eighty-five in a forty-mile zone. What's he looking at?”

Mark had no idea, but he was Darrell Cromley now, a veteran street lawyer, and no question went unanswered. “Eighty-five,” he repeated as if in awe. “You get a DUI?”

“No,” he answered.

“Cold sober,” his mother said. “It might make more sense if he was drunk, but he knew exactly what he was doing.”

“Come on, Mom.”

Mark said, “Anything over eighty means time in the slammer.”

The mother asked, “You take speeding cases?”

Mark gave her a sappy smile as if he could handle anything. “This is my beat, ma'am, traffic court. I know all the judges and all the wrinkles.”

“I gotta keep my license,” the young man said.

“What kind of work do you do?” Mark asked, glancing at his watch.

“Package delivery. A good job and I can't lose it.”

A good job. Pay dirt! For a DUI the fee was $1,000. Mark was thinking of something less for speeding, but the notion of gainful employment raised the stakes. All business, Mark said, “Look, my fee is a thousand bucks, and for that I'll get it reduced to plain old speeding and keep you out of jail.” He looked at his watch again as if important matters were pressing.

The young man looked hopefully at his mother, who shook her head to say, “This is your mess, not mine.” He looked at Mark and said, “I only got three hundred on me now. Can I pay the rest later?”

“Yes, but it's due before your next court date. Let me see the citation.”

He pulled it out of his pocket and handed it over. Mark scanned it quickly. Benson Taper, age twenty-three, single, address on Emerson Street in Northeast D.C.

Mark said, “Okay, Benson, let's go see the judge.”

HUSTLING CLIENTS IN
the hallway was nerve-racking enough, especially for a rookie pretending to be a lawyer, but walking into a courtroom and staring at the wheels of justice head-on was terrifying. Mark's knees were weak as they moved down the center aisle. The knot in his stomach grew with each step.

Brace yourself, you idiot, he said to himself. Show no fear. It's all a game. If Darrell can do it, so can you. He pointed to a spot in a middle row and, directing traffic as if it was
his
courtroom, whispered to the mother, “Take a seat here.” She did, and they moved on to the front row and sat down. Benson handed over $300 and Mark produced a contract for legal services, identical to the one he'd signed on behalf of Gordy for the attorney Preston Kline. When the paperwork was finished, he and Benson sat and watched the parade.

A few feet in front of them, the bar, a knee-high railing, separated the spectators from the action. Beyond it were two long tables. The one on their right was covered with piles of paper and several young prosecutors milled about, whispering, joking, placing even more papers here and there. The table to their left was almost bare. A couple of bored defense lawyers leaned on it, chatting quietly. Clerks walked back and forth, handing papers to the lawyers and Judge Handleford. Though court was in session, the bench area buzzed with assembly-line activity and no one seemed too worried about making noise. A large sign read, “No Cell Phones. $100 Fine.”

Judge Handleford was a large, bearded white man pushing sixty and thoroughly bored with his daily routine. He rarely looked up and seemed occupied signing his name on orders.

A clerk looked at the crowd and called a name. A tall woman in her fifties walked down the aisle, nervously stepped through the gate, and presented herself to His Honor. She was there for a DUI and had somehow managed to make it this far without some hungry lawyer stuck by her side. Mark made a note of her name: Valerie Blann. He would get her name from the docket and call her later. She pleaded not guilty and was given a return date for late in February. Judge Handleford barely looked up. A clerk called the next name.

Mark swallowed hard again, kicked himself for fortitude, and walked through the gate. With his best lawyerly frown, he walked to the prosecution's table, picked up a copy of the docket, and took a seat at the defense table. Two more lawyers arrived. One left. They came and went and no one noticed. A prosecutor told a joke and got a few laughs. The judge appeared to be napping now. Mark glanced at the courtroom and saw Zola seated behind Benson's mother, wide-eyed, watching every move. Todd had made his way to the front row for a closer look. Mark got up, walked over to a clerk seated beside the bench, handed her a card, and informed her that he was representing Mr. Benson Taper. She gave him a look. Who cares?

When Benson's name was called, Mark stood and motioned for his client. Side by side, they stood in front of Judge Handleford, who was barely showing a pulse. A prosecutor drifted over and Mark introduced himself. Her name was Hadley Caviness and she was extremely cute; great figure, short skirt. Mark took her card; she took his. The judge said, “Mr. Taper, it looks as though you have counsel, so I assume you're pleading not guilty.”

“That's correct, Your Honor,” Mark said, his first words in court. And with them, Mark, along with his two partners, was in violation of Section 54B, D.C. Code of Criminal Procedure: unauthorized practice of law; punishable by a fine of up to $1,000, restitution, and no more than two years in jail. And it was no big deal. Because of their thorough research, they knew that in the past forty years only one impostor had served time for the unauthorized practice of law in the District. He had been sentenced to six months with four suspended, and his behavior had been particularly bad.