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.