The Street Lawyer by John Grisham

couldn’t help but offer a silent curse or two at the fools who wasted billions each month while people were homeless. How could four innocent children die in the streets, practically in the shadow of the Capitol, because they had no place to live?
    They shouldn’t have been born, some people from my side of town would say.
    The bodies had been taken to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, which also housed the morgue. It was a two-story brown aggregate building at D.C. General Hospital. They would be held there until claimed. If no one came forward within forty-eight hours, they would receive a mandatory embalming, be placed in wooden caskets, and quickly buried in the cemetery near RFK.
    Mordecai parked in a handicapped space, paused for a second, and said, “Are you sure you want to go in?”
    “I think so.”
    He’d been there before, and he had called ahead. A security guard in an ill-fitting uniform dared to stop us, and Mordecai snapped so loud it scared me. My stomach was in knots anyway.
    The guard retreated, happy to get away from us. A set of plate-glass doors had the word MORGUE painted in black. Mordecai entered as if he owned the place.
    “I’m Mordecai Green, attorney for the Burton family,”he growled at the young man behind the desk. It was more of a challenge than an announcement.
    The young man checked a clipboard, then fumbled with some more papers.
    “What the hell are you doing?” Mordecai snapped again.
    The young man looked up with an attitude, and then realized how large his adversary really was. “Just a minute,” he said, and went to his computer.
    Mordecai turned to me and said loudly, “You’d think they have a thousand dead bodies in there.”
    I realized that he had no patience whatsoever with bureaucrats and government workers, and I remembered his story about the apology from the Social Security secretary. For Mordecai, half of the practice of law was bullying and barking.
    A pale gentleman with badly dyed black hair and a clammy handshake appeared and introduced himself as Bill. He wore a blue lab jacket and shoes with thick rubber soles. Where do they find people to work in a morgue?
    We followed him through a door, down a sterile hallway where the temperature began dropping, and, finally, to the main holding room.
    “How many you got today?” Mordecai asked, as if he stopped by all the time to count bodies.
    Bill turned the doorknob and said, “Twelve.”
    “You okay?” Mordecai asked me.
    “I don’t know.”
    Bill pushed the metal door, and we stepped in. Theair was frigid, the smell antiseptic. The floor was white tile, the lighting blue fluorescent. I followed Mordecai, my head down, trying not to look around, but it was impossible. The bodies were covered from head to ankle with white sheets, just like you see on television. We passed a set of white feet, a tag around a toe. Then some brown ones.
    We turned and stopped in a corner, a gurney to the left, a table to the right.
    Bill said, “Lontae Burton,” and dramatically pulled the sheet down to her waist. It was Ontario’s mother all right, in a plain white gown. Death had left no marks on her face. She could’ve been sleeping. I couldn’t stop staring at her.
    “That’s her,” Mordecai said, as if he’d known her for years. He looked at me for verification, and I managed a nod. Bill wheeled around, and I held my breath. Only one sheet covered the children.
    They were lying in a perfect row, tucked closely together, hands folded over their matching gowns, cherubs sleeping, little street soldiers finally at peace.
    I wanted to touch Ontario, to pat him on the arm and tell him I was sorry. I wanted to wake him up, take him home, feed him, and give him everything he could ever want.
    I took a step forward for a closer look. “Don’t touch,” Bill said.
    When I nodded, Mordecai said, “That’s them.”
    As Bill covered them, I closed my eyes and said ashort prayer, one of mercy and forgiveness.