40

To avoid the halls of justice they once haunted, the defendants used a service elevator connected to a rear entrance that few lawyers knew about. But Phil did, and he led his boys through a maze of short hallways lined with offices for judges, secretaries, and law clerks. Mark and Todd wore coats and ties, certain that they would get themselves photographed for a newspaper or two, and they spoke to no one and tried to avoid eye contact with the few familiar faces.

At 9:50, they emerged from the back and entered the courtroom of the Honorable Abraham Abbott, Division 6, General Sessions Court. Eager to see who the curious were, both defendants quickly scanned the audience. There were about thirty spectators, a bit more than normal for a first appearance calendar. They took their seats at the defense table with their backs to the crowd as their lawyer stepped over to chat with the prosecutor. Judge Abbott was on the bench, going through some paperwork. From nowhere cute Hadley Caviness popped over and leaned down between them.

“Just here for a little immoral support, boys,” she whispered.

“Thanks,” Mark said.

“We thought about calling you last night,” Todd said.

“I was busy,” she said.

“What about tonight?”

“Sorry, already got a date.”

“What’s the rap on Ms. Reedy?” Mark asked, nodding at the other table.

“Totally incompetent,” Hadley said with a smile. “And too stupid to know it. A real bitch, though.”

“Any newspapers here?” Todd asked.

“The Post is left side, fourth row, guy in a tan jacket. Don’t know about anybody else. Gotta run. Don’t lose my phone number and call me when you get out.” She disappeared as quickly as she had materialized.

“Get out? As in jail?” Mark whispered.

“I love that little slut,” Todd mumbled.

A door opened on the far right side and three inmates in orange jumpsuits were led in chained together. Three young black men, fresh from the mean streets of D.C., and likely headed to prison for years. If not already gang members, they would join one soon enough and band together for protection. During their brief careers as criminal defense lawyers, Mark and Todd had heard enough stories about the horrors of prison.

A clerk called the names of Frazier and Lucero. They stood, walked to the bench with Phil, and looked up and into the unsmiling face of Judge Abbott. His first words were “Can’t say that I recognize either of you, though I’m told you’ve been here before.”

Indeed they had been, but they gave no thought to uttering a word.

He continued, “Mr. Mark Frazier, you are charged with violating Section 54B of the D.C. criminal code, the unauthorized practice of law. How do you wish to plead?”

“Not guilty, Your Honor.”

“And, Mr. Lucero, for the same charges?”

“Not guilty, Your Honor.”

“And there is a third defendant, a Ms. Zola Maal, also known as Zola Parker, which I assume is her professional name. Where is Ms. Maal?” He was staring at Mark, who shrugged as if he had no clue. Sarrano said, “Well, Your Honor, it seems as though she has left the country. Her family has been deported back to Africa; I’m told she might have gone there to assist them. I don’t represent her.”

Judge Abbott said, “Very well, a strange case gets even stranger. Your cases will be referred to the grand jury for consideration. If indicted, you will be notified of the date for your arraignment. But I’m sure you know the drill. Any questions, Mr. Sarrano?”

“No, Your Honor.”

Mills Reedy had wedged herself into the picture. She said, “Your Honor, I would request that bail be set for these two defendants.”

Phil grunted in frustration, and Judge Abbott looked surprised. “Why?” he asked.

She said, “Well, evidently these defendants use different identities, and that could mean they are a flight risk. Posting a bond will ensure their return to court when directed.”

Abbott said, “Mr. Sarrano?”

“Not necessary, Your Honor. My clients were arrested last Friday and told to show up this morning at 10:00. They hired me and we arrived fifteen minutes early. Tell them when to be here and I’ll have them here.”

Like hell you will, Todd thought. Take a good look, Abe buddy, because you’ll never see me again.

A flight risk, Mark thought. How about a phantomlike disappearance from the face of the earth? If you think I’ll voluntarily subject myself to a life in prison, then you’re crazy.

Ms. Reedy said, “Their co-defendant has already skipped the country, Your Honor. They have assumed false identities.”

The judge said, “I really see no need for bail at this point. Mr. Sarrano, can your clients agree to remain in the District until their cases are presented to the grand jury?”

Phil looked at Mark, who shrugged and said, “Sure, but I need to go see my mother in Dover. I guess she can wait, though.”

Todd added, “And my grandmother is quite ill up in Baltimore, but I guess she can wait. Whatever the court wants.” The lying was so easy.

Sarrano said, “These guys are not going anywhere, Your Honor. Bail for them is a needless expense.”

Old Abe looked frustrated and said, “Agreed. I don’t see the need for it.”

Ms. Reedy pressed on: “Well, Your Honor, could we at least make them surrender their passports?”

Mark laughed and said, “We don’t have passports, Your Honor. We’re just a couple of broke former law students.” His real passport was in a hip pocket, just itching to be used. In an hour, he would purchase a fake passport just in case.

His Honor raised a hand to silence him. “No bail. I’ll see you two in a month or so.”

“Thanks, Judge,” Sarrano said.

As they backed away from the bench, Darrell Cromley walked through the bar holding some paperwork. Loudly, he said, “Sorry to interrupt things, Judge, but I need to serve process on these two. This is a copy of the lawsuit I’ve filed on behalf of my client Ramon Taper.”

Sarrano said, “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m suing your clients,” Cromley said, enjoying the attention. Mark and Todd took copies of the summons and lawsuit as they retreated to the defense table. Judge Abbott seemed to be amused. From the front row, another gentleman stood and announced, “Say, Judge, I need to serve papers on them too. I represent Kerrbow Properties and these two skipped out on their leases back in January.” He was waving more paperwork. Sarrano stepped over and accepted it. Four rows behind the guy from Kerrbow, a man stood and said, “And, say, Judge, I hired that guy, Mark Upshaw, to handle a DUI for my son, paid him a thousand bucks in cash, and he skipped out. There’s a warrant out for my son and I want my money back.”

Mark looked at the guy, who was suddenly familiar. In the center aisle, Ramon Taper staggered forth and said, at full volume, “These guys took my case and screwed it up, Judge. I think they should go to jail.”

A uniformed bailiff stepped to the bar to block Ramon. Judge Abbott rapped his gavel and said, “Order, order.”

Phil Sarrano looked at his clients and said, “Let’s get out of here.” They scooted around the bench and disappeared through a side door.

FOUR MONTHS AFTER buying fake driver’s licenses and launching their ill-fated adventure into the practice of street law, Mark and Todd returned to the Bethesda workshop of their favorite forger to obtain fake passports. Another crime, no doubt, but the guy actually advertised fake passports online, along with dozens of others in the “documents trade.” He verbally guaranteed that his passports could fool any customs and immigration officer in the world. Todd almost asked him how he would make good on this promise. Were they expected to believe he would dash off to the airport and haggle with the guards? No. Mark and Todd knew that if they got caught, the guy would not answer the phone.

After posing for photographs, and signing the names Mark Upshaw and Todd Lane on the signature pages, they watched for an hour as he meticulously cut and pieced together the data and endorsement pages, then stamped them with an amazing collection of entries, clear proof that they had traveled extensively. He selected two well-used covers for regular passports, and even added security stickers to the backs of both. They paid him $1,000 in cash, and as they left he said, “Safe travels, boys.”

THE GRADUATION PARTY was an impromptu celebration that materialized in a sports bar in Georgetown. Wilson Featherstone sent a text message invitation to Mark, and because he and Todd had nothing better to do on Friday night, they arrived late and joined half a dozen old law school pals for some serious drinking. Tomorrow, Foggy Bottom would go through the formality of a proper commencement service, though, as always, it would be sparsely attended. Only two of the gang planned to actually attend and receive their near-worthless degrees, and they were doing so only because their mothers insisted.

So they drank. They were fascinated by the adventures of Mark and Todd over the past four months, and the two regaled them with the escapades of Upshaw, Parker & Lane. The table roared with laughter as Mark and Todd tag teamed through stories involving Freddy Garcia, and Ramon Taper and his beautiful lawsuit that went sour on their watch, and their visits to the offices of Trusty Rusty, Jeffrey Corbett, and Edwin Mossberg, and poor Zola hanging around hospital cafeterias, and ducking process servers at The Rooster Bar, and being hounded by their loan counselors. There were no secrets any longer. They had become legends at Foggy Bottom, and the fact that they were now facing jail time, and laughing about it, only enriched their stories.

When quizzed about their plans, Mark and Todd said they were considering opening a branch of UPL in Baltimore and hustling the criminal courts there. Who needs a real license to practice? At no time, though, did they reveal their grand scheme.

Of the eight, six would sit for the bar exam in two months. Three had jobs, though two involved nonprofit work. Only one would be employed by a law firm, and that was contingent upon passing the bar. Every one of them had a mountain of debt, thanks to the great law school scam orchestrated by Hinds Rackley.

Though his presence was felt, Gordy was never mentioned.