18

By 8:45, they were gathering in nervous little groups in the wide hallway outside courtroom 142 in the District Courthouse. A sign by the door said it was the domain of the Honorable Fiona Dalrymple, Criminal Division 19, General Sessions Court, District of Columbia. Those summoned to the day and hour were, generally speaking, a rough-looking bunch from the tougher neighborhoods, most with black or brown skin, almost all either holding the piece of paper that had commanded them to be there or standing close to a loved one with such paperwork. No one was alone. Those accused brought with them spouses or parents or teenage children, and everyone wore some version of the same frightened, hopeless look. At the moment, there were no lawyers preying on the victims.

Zola and Todd arrived first, both dressed casually, and began watching everyone else. They leaned against a wall and waited for Lawyer Upshaw, who soon appeared with a nice suit and an old briefcase. He joined them and they clustered like the others, whispering, waiting as if someone might be chosen at random for an execution.

“I like that guy over there,” Todd said, nodding in the direction of a little round Hispanic man of about forty with a piece of paper and a fidgety wife.

“I like him too,” Zola added with amusement. “He could be our first client.”

“There are so many to choose from,” Mark said, almost under his breath.

Zola said, “Okay, Mr. Big Shot, show us how it’s done.”

Mark swallowed hard, offered them a fake smile, said, “Nothing to it,” and walked over to the couple. As he drew close, the wife lowered her eyes in fear while the husband’s eyes grew larger.

“Excuse me,” Mark said in a low voice. “Are you Mr. Garcia? Looking for Freddy Garcia.”

The man shook his head no, but said nothing. Mark’s eyes seized upon the citation clutched in the guy’s right hand and asked, “Are you going to court?”

Stupid question. Why else would the guy be missing work and waiting outside a courtroom? He nodded quickly, yes, while managing to maintain silence.

“What’s the charge?” Mark asked.

Still not speaking, the man offered the citation, which Mark took and managed to scan with a frown. “Simple assault,” he mumbled. “This could be bad. You been to court before, Mr. Lopez?”

Fierce shaking of the head. No. His wife broke her gaze from her shoes and looked at Mark as if she wanted to cry. Other people were moving about as the crowd grew.

“Look, you need a lawyer. Judge Dalrymple can be tough. You understand?” With his free hand, Mark whipped out a brand-new business card and forced it on the guy. “Simple assault can carry some jail time, but I can take care of that. Nothing to worry about. You want some help?”

Nodding yes, yes.

“Okay, look, my fee is a thousand bucks. Can you pay it?”

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.”

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?”

ZOLA, STILL DRESSED casually, moved from one courtroom to the other, sizing up defendants who appeared without lawyers. The judges often asked them where they worked, were they married, and so on. Most had jobs that were not that impressive. She took notes on some of the better prospects. Using the names and addresses from the dockets for reference, she made a list of names for her partners to call. After a couple of hours, she became bored with the grinding monotony of small-time criminal justice.

It might have been boring, but it was more fun than sitting in class and worrying about the bar exam.

AT FIVE, THEY entered The Rooster Bar and found a corner table. Mark fetched two beers and a soda from the bar and ordered sandwiches. He would work the six-to-midnight shift, so the drinks and food were on the house.

They were pleased with their first day on the job. Todd had snagged one DUI client and appeared before Judge Cantu. The prosecutor had mentioned that he had never seen Todd before, and he replied that he had been around for a year. Mark had hustled a simple assault in Division 9 and appeared before a judge who looked him over but said nothing. Within a few days their faces would be familiar.

Their haul was $1,600 cash, with promissory notes for another $1,400. Add the fact that their earnings were non-reportable and tax-free, and they were almost giddy with the prospects of striking gold. The beauty of their scheme was its brazenness. No one in his right mind would stand in front of a judge and pass himself off as a lawyer.