The Street Lawyer by John Grisham Page A

Don’t let it happen again, the Lord said to me.
    In a room down the hall, Bill pulled out two large wire baskets containing the personal effects of the family. He dumped them on a table, and we helped him inventory the contents. The clothing they wore was dirty and threadbare. My denim jacket was the nicest item they owned. There were three blankets, a purse, some cheap toys, baby formula, a towel, more dirty clothes, a box of vanilla wafers, an unopened can of beer, some cigarettes, two condoms, and about twenty dollars in bills and change.
    “The car is at the city lot,” Bill said. “They say it’s full of junk.”
    “We’ll take care of it,” Mordecai said.
    We signed the inventory sheets, and left with the personal assets of the Lontae Burton family. “What do we do with this stuff?” I asked.
    “Take it to the grandmother. Do you want your coat back?”
    “No.”
    THE FUNERAL parlor was owned by a minister Mordecai knew. He didn’t like him because the Reverend’s church was not friendly enough to the homeless, but he could deal with him.
    We parked in front of the church, on Georgia Avenue near Howard University, a cleaner part of town without as many boards over windows.
    “It’s best if you stay here,” he said. “I can talk to him a lot plainer if we’re alone.”
    I didn’t want to sit in the car by myself, but by then I trusted him with my life anyway. “Sure,” I said, sinking a few inches and glancing around.
    “You’ll be all right.”
    He left, and I locked the doors. After a few minutes, I relaxed, and began to think. Mordecai wanted to be alone with the minister for business reasons. My presence would’ve complicated matters. Who was I and what was my interest in the family? The price would rise immediately.
    The sidewalk was busy. I watched the people scurry by, the wind cutting them sharply. A mother with two children passed me, bundled in nice clothing, all holding hands. Where were they last night when Ontario and family were huddled in the frigid car, breathing the odorless carbon monoxide until they floated away? Where were the rest of us?
    The world was shutting down. Nothing made sense. In less than a week, I had seen six dead street people, and I was ill-equipped to handle the shock. I was an educated white lawyer, well fed and affluent, on the fast track to serious wealth and all the wonderful things it would buy. Sure the marriage was over, but I would bounce back. There were plenty of fine women out there. I had no serious worries.
    I cursed Mister for derailing my life. I cursed Mordecai for making me feel guilty. And Ontario for breaking my heart.
    A knock on the window jolted me. My nerves were shot to hell anyway. It was Mordecai, standing in the snow next to the curb. I cracked the window.
    “He says he’ll do it for two thousand bucks, all five.”
    “Whatever,” I said, and he disappeared.
    Moments later he was back, behind the wheel and speeding away. “The funeral will be Tuesday, here at the church. Wooden caskets, but nice ones. He’ll get some flowers, you know, make it look nice. He wanted three thousand, but I convinced him that there would be some press, so he might get himself on television. He liked that. Two thousand isn’t bad.”
    “Thanks, Mordecai.”
    “Are you okay?”
    “No.”
    We said little as we drove back to my office.

    CLAIRE’S YOUNGER brother James had been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease—thus the family summit in Providence. It had nothing to do with me. I listened to her talk about the weekend, the shock of the news, the tears and prayers as they leaned on each other and comforted James and his wife. Hers is a family of huggers and criers, and I was thrilled she had not called me to come up. The treatment would start immediately; the prognosis was good.
    She was happy to be home, and relieved to have someone to unload on. We sipped wine in the den, by the fire, a quilt over our feet. It was almost romantic,though I was