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.”