Eric Dinnocenzo - The Tenant Lawyer (7 page)

The Legal Services Corporation was first established by Congress during the Nixon Administration to provide civil legal aid to the poor in areas of law that affect basic rights such as housing, welfare, disability, child custody, and domestic violence. There were three different practice groups in my office that covered all of these areas: Housing, Public Benefits, and Family/Domestic Violence. At one time there were two lawyers in the Housing Unit, but six months earlier the other attorney left to go into private practice, and so I was the only one left. Although my boss, James, the litigation director in the office, had posted a couple of job advertisements, no replacement had yet been hired. I suspected that he was waiting around to see if I could handle the workload by myself, which irritated me since it was substantial.

Back when I entered Boston College Law School, I had my sights set on getting a public interest job after graduation. Only a small percentage with similar intentions end up staying true to this cause, taking jobs as public defenders and legal services lawyers. Out of that group, only
a small percentage remain
in the public interest field for more than a few years. For most a change of goals occurs somewhere along the line, and they opt to take higher-paying positions in private practice. Who can blame them? The combination of law school debt and the high cost of living in metropolitan areas that appeal to young people like New York, Boston, Chicago, San Francisco, Washington D.C., and Los Angeles make it difficult to survive on the salary of a public interest lawyer.

During my second year of law school, I took part in the interviewing process for large law firms, even though I really wanted to be a public defender. My mother kept telling me, “Go see what they have to offer. It doesn’t hurt to
go on interviews. The practice of interviewing will be good for you.” I knew what she really wanted was for me to land a high-paying job with a big firm. She was subtly trying to steer me in that direction, hoping that I’d get a job offer and she’d be able to brag about me to friends and relatives. All of my life she had pressured me to succeed: in high school it was with respect to academics, sports, and social status. When I entered law school, and ever since, her focus was on the salary and prestige of my job. It was fair to say that she was let down when I began working as a legal services attorney.

The hiring for public defender jobs was erratic, and not knowing if any positions would even be available when I graduated—or for that matter, if one would be offered to me—it seemed foolish to put all of my eggs in that basket. I ended up following my mother’s advice, rationalizing that I could always work at a big firm for a couple of years in order to pay off my loans, then become a public defender later on.

Because I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of working for a large firm, I didn’t get nervous before the interviews as some of my classmates did. That attitude was probably what enabled me to perform well at my interview with Morgan & Reilly and ultimately receive a job offer. In the final analysis, how could I say no to Morgan & Reilly? They were among the best trial lawyers in the city, and working for them would be a good apprenticeship, not to mention a financially beneficial one, since in 2001 they paid a starting salary of $125,000 plus bonus. The fact that the firm defended corporations did not register that strongly with me at the time, because I was only focusing on the long view. I figured that I could live with the job for a couple of years and then move on. But once I started working there, I found the adjustment more difficult than I had anticipated. Eventually I got fired. I never told my parents about what really happened, as I didn’t want my mother to find out the truth. I was afraid that she’d criticize me for what I had done—and worse, think that I hadn’t been able to cut it at the firm. I pretended that I had never been fired and was still at the firm. When I got the legal services job, I told my parents that the reason for the job change was my desire to work in the public interest and make a difference. Better for my mother to believe that, I figured, than to know I had been fired.

I sat in my office, my tie loosened and my sleeves rolled up, drinking my coffee and reviewing the administrative matters that had piled up. Once again, I began to think about what had happened to Kendra. I was still bothered by it and I couldn’t shake the image of her tear-filled eyes and her son’s sullen look. I analyzed the argument I had made to Judge McCarthy and wondered if I could have presented it in a better way, a way that might have changed the outcome. Deep down I knew there was nothing that any lawyer could have done to prevent her from being evicted, but I couldn’t help but scrutinize my performance.

A little while later, I went over to my colleague Alec’s office a few doors over. I had gotten over my earlier tiredness and was a little revved up inside from court and felt like hanging out and talking to someone.

“Ah, back from the battlefield,” he said as I walked through his door. “How was court?”

“Not so good.”

“Oh yeah?”

I gave him the rundown of what had happened in both Maria’s and Kendra’s cases.

“These things happen and there’s nothing you can do about it,” he said. “As Frank Green once told me, you can’t turn hamburger into filet mignon. But hey, you got a good result in the unauthorized occupant case.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

Alec was a few years older than I and had worked in the housing unit for a few years before I joined legal services. After getting married and having a child, he transferred to the benefits unit because it was a less demanding position that didn’t require him to go to court as often. Alec’s birth name was Alejandro. His family had emigrated from Argentina to Massachusetts when he was six years old, and he had grown up about twenty minutes away from Worcester in Framingham. Soon after I was hired at legal services, we struck up a friendship. We had a similar sense of humor and were both huge fans of Howard Stern and
The Godfather.
Since we were in the politically correct
environment of legal services, we kept our Howard Stern interest quiet. Physically we looked nothing alike. I had the look of a clean-cut young guy who hailed from an upper middle-class suburb, while Alec looked more rough-and-tumble. He stood about five-feet nine inches tall, weighed about two hundred pounds, and had short-cropped dark hair and light brown skin. He also had one of the keenest minds and sharpest wits of anyone I knew.

“Every time I go to housing court I’m struck by how many people are just hanging on by a thread,” I reflected. “Most people are just one paycheck away from eviction or some other catastrophe.”

“Our country doesn’t have much of a safety net.”

“And sometimes justice is in short supply.”

“There’s no such thing as justice, my idealistic young colleague.”

Alec leaned back in his chair. He absolutely loved getting into philosophical and political debates and was setting the stage for one now.

“Do you really believe that?” I asked, playing along with him.

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, why do you work here if you don’t believe in justice?” I asked, suddenly feeling that a good bullshit debate about higher principles might get me out of my funk from Kendra’s case. It felt like the right thing at the right time. “The idea of legal services is to obtain justice, to help those on the bottom rungs of the ladder get a fair deal.” I still believed this after two years in the trenches, but with the passage of time it seemed more and more like a difficult enterprise—the result of suffering numerous defeats at the hands of Judge McCarthy, and handling too many cases that were unsalvageable and out of my power to influence or control.

“I’m here because I have job security, reasonable hours, and I get decent benefits,” Alec responded. “Besides, our mission is simply to provide poor people with representation in civil cases. That’s not necessarily justice.”

“I think that constitutes justice in a way.”

“Setting up a level playing field isn’t justice because bad results can still follow from it. For instance, if the Axis powers had had the same military strength as the Allied Forces that would be a level playing field, but would you call it justice?”

“I don’t think that’s an accurate analogy. In one instance you’re talking about how a legal system is supposed to function and how it affects society as a whole, and in the other, you’re talking about the brute force of world domination.”

“The common denominator is that in either situation power is what is at issue.”

I could tell from the glint in his eye that he was thoroughly enjoying himself. Frazzled from my morning at court, my brain not firing sharply enough to keep up with him, I relented. “You win,” I said, ostensibly giving up, but my tone indicated that I hadn’t really changed my position. “The world is just a Hobbesian power grab.”

He chuckled. “See, I knew you’d come around.” He put his hands behind his head. “So does the colonel still have you doing that CDBG stuff?” The colonel was the nickname we had bestowed on our boss, James, since he was not only our boss, but also a serious fellow. CDBG was an acronym for Community Development Block Grant, a federal program that funded local community development activities such as affordable housing, anti-poverty programs, and infrastructure development.

“Unfortunately, yes. Next Monday I have to go to a meeting with the community leaders.” I leaned forward in my chair and rested my chin on my hands. “It takes up so much time. You don’t know how many hours we all put in before even sending that simple letter. And I don’t think it’s a good case, if we were to file a lawsuit, that is. I mean, courts don’t want to get involved with how local governments spend money.”

“I agree.”

Silence fell between us. I was always hyper-conscious of the moment when conversations were about to or did reach their end. This seemed like one of those times, so I tapped both of my hands on the armrests of my chair and stood up.

“Leaving?”

“I don’t want to interrupt you any more than I already have. I know you’re a busy man,” I said in an exaggeratedly deferential manner.

Alec extended his hand, palm facing upward, in the direction of my chair. “Please, stay. It’s no interruption at all. An esteemed colleague like you is welcome in my office any time.”

“You are the esteemed colleague, and the pleasure has been mine, really. In any event, my tasks beckon, so I’ll return to my office. But perhaps we can converse with one another at some point in the future?”

“Of course,” Alec responded. “It would be my pleasure.”

6

Dr
iving home that evening on the Mass Pike, I welcomed the sight of the Prudential and Hancock buildings in the distance, and further beyond them the tall office buildings in the financial district. It felt good to return to Boston. It was eight o’clock when I arrived in the Back Bay section where Sara and I lived, and I got a parking spot at a meter on Commonwealth Avenue across the street from my apartment. Resident spots were nearly impossible to get after about 4 p.m., but metered spots were usually available in the evenings because the meters shut off at 6 p.m. and reactivated at 8 a.m. That wasn’t a problem for me since I had to leave for work by that time.

We lived in a one-bedroom apartment in a brownstone with hardwood floors, white walls, old steam radiators in the corner of each room, and a bay window that overlooked the street. It was a classic Back Bay apartment. I put the key in the front door lock, wondering if Sara would be home, and if so, whether or not there would still be tension between us from last night. I just wanted to relax after a long day, maybe watch a little TV and later on read in bed, and I wanted things to be okay between us. I had already experienced plenty of combat that morning in court and didn’t want any more of it. Instead I was seeking softness, a soft and warm place to fall.

While I wasn’t the type of person to hold a grudge for very long, Sara was. I knew that I’d be able to tell how she was feeling by the look in her eyes when I first saw her. She had such wonderfully expressive bluish-gray eyes. They were her most striking physical feature, like cat’s eyes, rounded in the middle and slanting towards the corners.

I entered the foyer, closing the door behind me, and could hear the sound of the TV from the living room. My first thought was, she’s here, followed by, she’s watching TV
again
. I walked in the direction of the kitchen and Sara almost collided into me as she exited it. Her eyes opened wide and she put her hand to her chest. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.” I paused while she composed herself. “Hi,” I said softly.

“Hi,” she said in a kind of amused way because of our near collision. She walked past me and sat down on the couch. I could tell that she wasn’t angry, and that made me feel relieved. She might still feel a little resentful about last night, but she wasn’t angry.

“You look nice,” I told her. Her dark brown hair, usually parted in the middle and falling down past her shoulders, was tied back in a ponytail. She had a toned, athletic figure that she kept in shape with aerobics classes. She had a small bust and was curvy in the hips, but at the same time was trim, wearing a size two.

“I look terrible today,” she replied, looking at me as if I had two heads.

I could tell right then that things were at least somewhat okay between us.