“How can I reach him?” Clay asked.

“He’s on the job.”

“Yes, I figured that. How can I reach him?”

“Leave a number and I’ll put it with the rest of his messages,” she said.

“Oh thank you,” Clay said, and left his office number.

Thirty minutes later Bennett returned the call. He sounded indoors, perhaps in the Men’s Lounge at the Potomac Country Club, double Scotch in hand, big cigar, a game of gin rummy in progress with the boys. “Clay, how in the world are you?” he asked, as if they hadn’t seen each other in months.

“Fine, Mr. Van Horn, and you?”

“Great. Enjoyed dinner last night.” Clay heard no roaring diesel engines in the background, no blasting.

“Oh yes, it was really nice. Always a pleasure,” Clay lied.

“What can I do for you, son?”

“Well, I want you to understand that I really appreciate your efforts to get me that job down in Richmond. I didn’t expect it, and you were very kind to intervene like that.” A pause as Clay swallowed hard. “But truthfully, Mr. Van Horn, I don’t see a move to Richmond in the near future. I’ve always lived in D.C. and this is home.”

Clay had many reasons to reject the offer. Staying in D.C. was mid-list. The overwhelming motive was toavoid having his life planned by Bennett Van Horn and getting locked into his debt.

“You can’t be serious,” Van Horn said.

“Yes, I’m very serious. Thanks, but no thanks.” The last thing Clay planned to do was to take any crap off this jerk. He loved the telephone at these moments; such a wonderful equalizer.

“A big mistake, son,” Van Horn said. “You just don’t see the big picture, do you?”

“Maybe I don’t. But I’m not so sure you do either.”

“You have a lot of pride, Clay, I like that. But you’re also very wet behind the ears. You gotta learn that life is a game of favors, and when someone tries to help you, then you take the favor. One day maybe you’ll get the chance to repay it. You’re making a mistake, here, Clay, one that I’m afraid could have serious consequences.”

“What kinds of consequences?”

“This could really affect your future.”

“Well, it’s my future, not yours. I’ll pick the next job, and the one after that. Right now I’m happy where I am.” “How can you be happy defending criminals all day long? I just don’t get it.” This was not a new conversation, and, if it followed the usual course, things would deteriorate quickly. “I believe you’ve asked that question before. Let’s not go there.”

“We’re talking about a huge increase in salary, Clay. More money, better work, you’ll be spending your time with solid folks, not a bunch of street punks. Wake up, boy!” There were voices in the background. Wherever Bennett was, he was playing for an audience.

Clay gritted his teeth and let the “boy” pass. “I’m not going to argue, Mr. Van Horn. I called to say no.”

“You’d better reconsider.”

“I’ve already reconsidered. No thanks.”

“You’re a loser, Clay, you know that. I’ve known it for some time. This just reaffirms it. You’re turning down a promising job so you can stay in a rut and work for minimum wage. You have no ambition, no guts, no vision.”

“Last night I was a hard worker—had broad shoulders, lots of talent, and I was as sharp as a tack.”

“I take it back. You’re a loser.”

“And I was well educated and even handsome.”

“I was lying. You’re a loser.”

Clay hung up first. He slammed the phone down with a smile, quite proud that he had so irritated the great Bennett Van Horn. He’d held his ground and sent a clear message that he would not be shoved around by those people.

He would deal with Rebecca later, and it would not be pleasant.

Clay’s third and final visit to D Camp was more dramatic than the first two. With Jermaine in the front seat and Rodney in the back, Clay followed a D.C. police car and parked again directly in front of the building. Two cops, both young and black and bored with subpoena work, negotiated their entrance. Within minutes they were in the midst of a tense confrontation with Talmadge X, Noland, and another counselor, a hothead named Samuel.

Partially because he had the only white face in the crowd, but primarily because he was the lawyer who’d obtained the subpoena, the three counselors focused their wrath on Clay. He could not have cared less. He would never see these people again.

“You saw the file, man!” Noland yelled at Clay.

“I saw the file that you wanted me to see,” Clay shot back. “Now I get the rest of it.”

“What’re you talking about?” Talmadge X asked.

“I want everything here with Tequila’s name written on it.”

“You can’t do that.”

Clay turned to the cop holding the papers and said, “Would you please read the subpoena?”

The cop held it high for all to see, and read: “All files pertaining to the admission, medical evaluation, medical treatment, substance abatement, substance abuse counseling, rehabilitation, and discharge of Tequila Watson. As ordered by the Honorable F. Floyd Sackman, D.C. Superior Court Criminal Division.”

“When did he sign it?” Samuel asked.

“‘Bout three hours ago.”

“We showed you everything,” Noland said to Clay.

“I doubt that. I can tell when a file has been rearranged.”

“Much too neat,” Jermaine added helpfully, finally.

“We ain’t fighting,” said the larger of the two cops, leaving little doubt that a good fight would be welcome. “Where do we start?”

“His medical evaluations are confidential,” Samuel said. “The doctor-patient privilege, I believe.”

It was an excellent point, but slightly off the mark. “The doctor’s files are confidential,” Clay explained. “But not the patient’s. I have a release and waiver signed by Tequila Watson allowing me to see all of his files, including the medicals.”

They began in a windowless room with mismatched filing cabinets lining the walls. After a few minutes, Talmadge X and Samuel disappeared and the tension began to ease. The cops pulled up chairs and accepted the coffee offered by the receptionist. She did not offer any to the gentlemen from the Office of the Public Defender.

After an hour of digging, nothing useful had been found. Clay and Jermaine left Rodney to continue the search. They had more cops to meet.

The raid on Clean Streets was very similar. The two lawyers marched into the front office with two policemen behind them. The Director was dragged out of a meeting. As she read the subpoena she mumbled something about knowing Judge Sackman and dealing with him later. She was very irritated, but the document spoke for itself. The same language—all files and papers relating to Washad Porter.

“This was not necessary,” she said to Clay. “We always cooperate with attorneys.”

“That’s not what I hear,” Jermaine said. Indeed, Clean Streets had a reputation for contesting even the most benign requests from OPD.

When she finished reading the subpoena for the second time, one of the cops said, “We’re not going to wait all day.”

She led them to a large office and fetched an assistant who began hauling in files. “When do we get these back?” she asked.

“When we’re finished with them,” Jermaine said.

“And who keeps them?”

“The Office of the Public Defender, under lock and key.”

The romance had begun at Abe’s Place. Rebecca had been in a booth with two girlfriends when Clay walked by en route to the men’s room. Their eyes met, and he actually paused for a second, unsure of exactly what to do next. The girlfriends soon got lost. Clay ditched his drinking pals. They sat together at the bar for two hours and talked nonstop. The first date was the next night. Sex within a week. She kept him away from her parents for two months.

Now, four years later, things were stale and she was under pressure to move on. It seemed fitting that they would end things at Abe’s Place.