The Rooster Bar (14 page)

“Sorry. Wrong guy.”

Evidently, McFall wasn't much of a talker. She said, “Must've been a good car wreck.”

“No car wreck. I stepped on some ice and fell off the patio. Broke both ankles.”

What a klutz, she thought, as another lawsuit evaporated. She said, “Well, hang in there.”

“Thanks.”

She returned to her table and her coffee and buried her face in paperwork. Todd returned after a few minutes and whispered, “Did you sign him up?”

“No. He fell on some ice.”

“Ice, ice, ice. Where's global warming when you need it?”

“Look, Todd, I'm just not cut out for this. I feel like a vulture.”

“That's exactly what we are.”

W
ilson Featherstone was another third-year student at Foggy Bottom and had been a member of the gang in the early days. During their second year, he and Todd got sideways over a girl, and they had partied with him less and less. But he was still a good friend, of Mark's anyway, and his calls had been persistent. He was not going away, and Mark finally agreed to meet for a drink. Avoiding the old neighborhood, Mark chose a dive near Capitol Hill. Late on a Thursday night, with Todd serving drinks at The Rooster Bar and Zola reluctantly trolling at GW Hospital, Mark walked in late and saw Wilson at the bar, half a beer already down.

“You're late,” Wilson said with a smile and a warm handshake.

“Good to see you, man,” Mark said as he slid onto the stool next to him.

“What's with the beard?”

“Can't find a razor. How you doing?”

“I'm fine. The question is, how are you doing?”

“I'm okay.”

“No, you're not. You've skipped the first three weeks of classes and we're all talking about you. Same for Todd. What's going on?”

The bartender stopped by and Mark ordered a draft. He shrugged and said, “I'm taking a break, that's all. Reasonably severe motivational problems. Gordy kind of messed me up, you know?”

“You've moved out of your apartment. Todd too. No one's seen Zola. You guys cracking up or something?”

“I don't know what they're doing. We were with Gordy at the end and we're struggling, I guess.”

Wilson took a drink as the bartender sat a mug in front of Mark. Wilson asked, “What happened with Gordy?”

Mark studied his beer and thought about an answer. After a few seconds, he said, “He was bipolar, off his meds, really messed up. He got a DUI; we bailed him out, took him to his apartment, and stayed with him. We didn't know what to do. We wanted to call his family, maybe his fiancée, but that freaked him out even more. He threatened me when I mentioned calling home. Somehow he got away that night and drove to the bridge. We were driving around in a panic, trying to find him, but we were too late.”

Wilson absorbed this and took another drink. He said, “Wow, that's pretty awful. There's some gossip that you guys were with him at the end. Didn't know it was that bad.”

“We kept an eye on him. He was locked in his bedroom. Zola was sleeping on the sofa, Todd across the hall. I had his keys in my pocket. We were trying to get him to a doctor. I don't know what else we could've done. So, yeah, Wilson, it's safe to say that we're not doing too well these days.”

“Bummer, man. I didn't see you at the funeral.”

“We were there, hiding in the balcony. Todd and I met with the family after he jumped, and there was a lot of finger-pointing. At us, of course. Gotta blame somebody, right? So we wanted to avoid them at the funeral.”

“It wasn't your fault.”

“Well, they sure think so, and, I gotta tell you, Wilson, there's a lot of guilt right now. We should've called Brenda or his parents.”

This sank in and Wilson ordered another beer. “I don't see it. You can't take the fall for his suicide.”

“Thanks, but I can't let it go.”

“So, what are you doing, dropping out of law school with one semester to go? That's pretty stupid, Mark. Hell, you got a job lined up for the fall, right?”

“Wrong. I got fired before I even started. The firm merged with another one, things got realigned, I got squeezed. Happens all the time in this wonderful profession.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't know.”

“It's okay. The firm was a dead end anyway. And you, any luck on the job front?”

“Sort of. I found a place with a nonprofit, so I'll do the public service gig and duck out on most of the loans.”

“For ten years?”

“That's what they think. My plan is to grind it out for three or four years, keep the sharks at bay, and hustle on the side for a real job. Sooner or later, the market has got to get better.”

“You really believe that?”

“I don't know what to believe, but I gotta go somewhere.”

“After you pass the bar exam, of course.”

“Here's the way I look at the bar exam, Mark. Last year, half the Foggy Bottom students passed it, half failed. I figure I'm in the top half, and if I bust my ass I can pass it. I look around the school and there are a lot of morons, but I'm not one of them. Neither are you, Mark. You're bright as hell and you don't mind the work.”

“As I said, there are motivational problems.”

“Then what's your plan?”

“I don't have one. I'm drifting. I suppose I'll show up at school eventually, though the idea of walking into that place makes me ill. Maybe I'll take off a semester, catch up later. I don't know.”

“You can't do that, Mark. If you drop out the sharks will put you in default.”

“I think I'm already in default. I look at my loan statement and see that I owe a quarter of a million dollars with no viable means of employment. To me, that sure feels like a default. And what the hell? They can sue me but they can't kill me. Last year a million students went into default, and as far as I know, they're still walking around, living and breathing.”

“I know, I know. I read the blogs.” Both took a drink and looked at themselves in the mirror above the rows of liquor bottles.

Wilson said, “Where are you living now?”

“You stalking me?”

“No, but I stopped by your apartment. A neighbor said you were gone. So is Todd. Have you seen him? He's not at the bar anymore.”

“Not lately. I think he's back in Baltimore.”

“He quit?”

“I don't know, Wilson. He mentioned taking some time off. I think he's messed up more than me. He and Gordy were especially close.”

“He won't answer the phone.”

“Well, you guys are not exactly best of friends.”

“We got over it. Hell, Mark, I'm concerned, okay? You guys are my friends and you've just disappeared.”

“Thanks, Wilson, it means a lot. But I'll be okay, eventually. Not sure about Todd.”

“What about Zola?”

“What about her?”

“Well, she's missing in action too. No one has seen her. She moved out.”

“I'm talking to Zola and she's a mess. She was the last one to see Gordy alive and she's taking it very hard. On top of that, her parents are about to be deported back to Senegal. She's in bad shape.”

“Poor girl. Gordy was stupid to get tangled up with her.”

“Maybe, I don't know. Nothing makes sense right now.”

They drank for a long time without speaking. In the mirror, Mark saw a familiar face at a table across the room. A pretty face, one he'd seen in a courtroom. Hadley Caviness, an assistant prosecutor, the one handling Benson Taper's speeding case. Their eyes met briefly and she looked away.

Wilson glanced at his watch and said, “Look, this is too depressing. I gotta run. Please keep in touch, Mark, and if I can help, let me know. Okay?” He drained his beer and laid a $10 bill on the bar.

“You got it, Wilson. Thanks.”

Wilson stood, patted him on the shoulder, and left. Mark looked in the mirror and noticed that Hadley was sitting with three other young ladies, all enjoying drinks and chatting away. Their eyes met again and she held his gaze for a few seconds.

HALF AN HOUR
later, the girls were finished and paying their bill. As they left, Hadley circled back and walked to the bar. “Waiting for someone?” she asked.

“Yes, you. Have a seat.”

She offered a hand and said, “Hadley Caviness, Division 10.”

He shook it and said, “I know. Mark Upshaw. Can I buy you a drink?”

She assumed her stool and said, “Of course.” Mark waved the bartender over and said, “What will it be?”

“Chardonnay.”

“And I'll have another beer.” The bartender left and they turned to face each other. “Haven't seen you around lately,” she said.

“Well, I'm there every day, hustling the system.”

“You're new in town.”

“Couple of years. I was with a firm and got tired of the grind. Now I'm on my own and having some fun. You?”

“First year in the prosecutor's office so I'm stuck in traffic court. Bored. Not exactly having a ball but paying the bills. Where was law school?”

“Delaware. Came to the big city to change the world. You?” He was hoping she would not say she went to law school at Foggy Bottom.

“Kentucky, undergrad and law. I came here for a job on Capitol Hill but it didn't work out. I got lucky and found a place with the prosecutor's office. I hope it's only temporary.” The drinks arrived. They touched glasses, said, “Cheers,” and took a drink.

“So what's next?” Mark asked.

“Who knows in this town? I'm watching the market, looking for openings, same as thousands of others. The job situation is not that strong right now.”

No kidding, Mark thought. You should hang around Foggy Bottom. “So I hear.”

“What about you? Don't tell me you plan to make a career out of defending drunk drivers.”

Mark laughed as if this was humorous. “Not really. I have a partner and we would like to get into personal injury.”

“You'd look cute on a billboard.”

“That's my dream. That and TV ads.” She'd had several drinks and was sitting close, almost touching. Her legs were crossed and her skirt was high on the thighs. Lovely legs. She took a drink, sat the glass on the bar, and asked, “You got plans for later tonight?”

“None whatsoever. You?”

“I'm free. I have a roommate who works for the Census Bureau and she's gone all the time. I really hate being alone.”

“You move pretty fast.”

“Why waste time? I'm just like you and right now we're thinking about the same thing.”

Mark paid the tab and called a car. As they drove away, she took his left hand and placed it on an exposed thigh. He chuckled and whispered, “I love this city. Lots of aggressive women.”

“Whatever you say.”

The car stopped in front of a tall apartment building on Fifteenth Street. Mark paid the driver and they strolled inside, hand in hand as if they had known each other for months. They kissed in the elevator, kissed again in the tidy little den, and agreed that neither wanted to watch television. As she was undressing in the bathroom, Mark managed to fire off a quick text to Todd:
Got lucky. Won't be in tonight. Sweet dreams.

Todd replied,
Who's the girl?

Mark:
You'll probably meet her real soon.

HE FOUND TODD
outside Division 6 at 9:30. The hallway was swarming with the usual ragtag collection of the accused, along with several lawyers working the crowd. Todd was hustling a young woman who appeared to be in tears. When she finally shook her head no, he backed off and noticed his partner watching from a distance. Todd walked over and said, “Strike three. A slow morning. You look like hell. Up all night?”

“It was amazing. I'll tell you about it later. Where's Zola?”

“I haven't talked to her this morning. She's been sleeping in, a lot of late nights at the hospitals.”

“You think she's really hustling folks or just reading a book? I mean, she hasn't hooked a client yet.”

“I don't know. Let's save it for later. I'm moving down to Division 8.” Todd walked away, briefcase in hand, and after a few steps whipped out his cell phone as if he had important business. Mark drifted down to Division 10 and walked inside. Judge Handleford was presiding and talking to a defendant. As always, lawyers and clerks milled about the bench, shuffling paperwork. Hadley was there, chatting with another prosecutor. When she saw Mark, she smiled and walked over. They sat at the defense table as if they had important business.

Just hours earlier, they had collapsed from exhaustion and slept wonderfully entangled and naked. Now she was fresh, clear-eyed, very professional. Mark was a bit fatigued.

In a low voice, she said, “I know what you're thinking but the answer is no. I have a date tonight.”

“Hadn't crossed my mind,” he said with a smile. “But you have my number.”

“I have lots of numbers.”

“Right. Could we discuss my client Benson Taper?”

“Sure. I don't remember him. Let me get the file.” She stood and walked to a clerk's table where she riffled through a large drawer of files. She found Benson's and returned to the defense table. Scanning it, she said, “Dude was flying, wasn't he? Eight-five in a forty-mile zone. That's reckless and it could carry some jail time.”

“I know. Here's the deal. Benson is a young black guy with a good job. He delivers packages, and if he gets busted for reckless, he loses his job. Can you knock it down to a lesser charge?”

“For you, anything. How about simple speeding? Pay a little fine and tell the boy to slow down.”

“Just like that?” Mark asked with a smile.

She leaned closer and said, “Sure. Satisfy the prosecutor and you get good deals, at least from me.”

“Does your boss have to approve this?”

“Mark, this is traffic court, okay? We're not talking about a murder charge. I'll slide this in front of old Handleford over there and he won't say a word.”

“I love you, baby.”

“That's what they all say.” She stood with the file and extended a hand, to seal the agreement. They shook, professionally.