—
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.
In the context of criminal conduct, UPL was such a minor offense. No one really got hurt. And if the three of them were diligent, their clients’ interests would be served. Justice would be protected. And on and on. They could rationalize their scheme for hours.
Todd practically held his breath while his partner stood before the judge. Could it be this easy? Mark certainly fit the role, and his suit was nicer than those of the other lawyers on both sides of the courtroom. And the other lawyers? How many of them were trying to survive under a mountain of debt?
Zola was on the edge of her seat, waiting for someone to scream, “This guy’s a fake!” But no one looked twice at Lawyer Upshaw. He seamlessly joined the treadmill, just another one of dozens. After watching the proceedings for half an hour, she had noticed that some of the defense lawyers knew each other and knew a prosecutor or two and seemed right at home. Others kept to themselves and spoke to no one but the judge. It didn’t matter. This was traffic court, and everyone was going through the motions that never changed.
Benson’s next court appearance was a month away. Judge Handleford scribbled his name; Mark said, “Thanks, Your Honor,” and led his client out of the courtroom.
The city’s newest law firm had a few weeks to figure out what to do. Benson’s cash paid for an early lunch at a nearby deli. Halfway through his sandwich, Todd remembered Freddy Garcia and they had another good laugh.
For the afternoon rigors, Mark changed suits—he now owned three—and Todd got dressed up. They hit the courthouse at 1:00 p.m. and trolled for clients. Evidently, there was an endless supply. At first they worked together, learning little tricks as they went along. No one noticed them and they relaxed as they blended in with the other lawyers buzzing around the sprawling courthouse.
Outside Division 6, Todd stuck his phone to his ear and had an important conversation with no one. Loud enough for all to hear, he said, “Look, I’ve handled a hundred DUI cases with you on the other side so don’t feed me that crap. This kid blew 0.09, barely over the limit, and he has a perfect driving record. Stop beating around the bush. Reduce it to reckless driving or I’ll have a chat with the judge. If you force me to, I’ll take it to trial and you know what happened the last time. I embarrassed the cops and the judge tossed the charges.” A pause as he listened to his dead phone, then, “That’s more like it. I’ll stop by in an hour to sign the deal.”
When he stuck his phone in his pocket, a man walked over and asked, “Say, are you a lawyer?”
—