The Rooster Bar

34

Over at the Bar Council, Margaret Sanchez had become obsessed with the case of Upshaw, Parker & Lane. As Chap Gronski slowly pieced together its scheme and scam, and the extent of its brazenness became clear, Ms. Sanchez was determined to nail the three. But first she had to find them. With a nod from her boss, she contacted the District police and, with some difficulty, convinced a detective to take a look. In the scope of the District’s criminal activity, the police department had little interest in some law students who were gaming the system and not physically harming anyone.

Detective Stu Hobart got the nod and reviewed the case with Ms. Sanchez. Chap had tracked down the owner of The Rooster Bar, and he and Hobart made the visit together. They found Maynard in his office, one floor above the Old Red Cat in Foggy Bottom.

Maynard was fed up with Mark and Todd and their shenanigans, and he had no patience with anything that might provoke the cops to come sniffing around. Since he knew little of what was actually going on upstairs at 1504 Florida Avenue, he didn’t say much about it. He did, however, possess the critical information.

He said, “Their real names are Todd Lucero and Mark Frazier. Don’t know about the black girl. Lucero worked for me here for about three years, great bartender, everybody’s favorite. Last January, he and Frazier moved to the other building and set up shop. They worked off the rent by tending bar.”

“For cash, of course,” Hobart said.

“Cash is still legal,” Maynard said. He was dealing with a city cop, not the IRS, and he knew Hobart really didn’t care how he paid his employees.

“Are they still living there?” Hobart asked.

“As far as I know. They’re on the fourth floor, the girl is on the third, at least that’s what I’ve been told. I fired Mark and Todd last week, but they’re renting the place through June 1.”

“Why’d you fire them?”

“That, sir, is none of your business. But I fired them because they were attracting too much attention. I can hire and fire at will, as you know.”

“Of course. We checked the door to the upstairs and it appears to stay locked. I guess we could get a warrant and kick it in.”

“I suppose you could,” Maynard said. He opened a drawer, pulled out a ring of keys, found the one he wanted, unhooked it, and tossed it across the table. “That’ll do it, but please don’t involve the bar. It’s one of my better ones.”

Hobart picked up the key and said, “You got it. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

After dark, Zola’s cab left the hotel and weaved through the thinning traffic of central Dakar. Twenty minutes later, it stopped at a busy intersection and she got out. She walked to a tall modern building where two security guards blocked the front door. They spoke no English but were impressed with her looks. She handed them a scrap of paper with the name of Idina Sanga, Avocat, and they quickly opened the door and led her through the lobby to an elevator.

According to her profile, Madame Sanga was a partner in a firm of ten lawyers, half of them women, and she spoke not only French and English but Arabic as well. She specialized in immigration matters, and, at least on the phone, seemed confident that she could handle the situation. She met Zola at the elevator on the fifth floor and they walked to a small conference room with no windows. Zola thanked her for staying after hours.

Judging from her photo on the firm’s website, Madame Sanga was about forty years old, but in person she seemed much younger. She had been educated in Lyon and Manchester and spoke perfect English with a lovely British accent. She smiled a lot, was easy to talk to, and Zola spilled her guts.

For a modest retainer, Madame Sanga would take charge. The case was not unusual. No laws had been broken, and the initial harassment was typical. She had the right contacts with the police and immigration, and she was confident that in short order Abdou Maal would be released. Fanta and Bo would not be arrested. The family would be free to move about, and Madame Sanga would go about the task of obtaining proper documentation.

Mark and Todd were sleeping soundly on their cheap twin beds on the fourth floor of 1504 Florida Avenue when someone knocked on the door. Mark stepped into their cramped den, flipped on a light, and said, “Who is it?”

“The police. Open up.”

“You got a warrant?”

“Got two of them. For Frazier and Lucero.”

“Shit!”

Detective Stu Hobart entered with two uniformed officers. He handed a sheet of paper to Mark and said, “You’re under arrest.” Todd stumbled out of the bedroom, wearing nothing but a pair of red boxers. Hobart handed him a warrant of his own.

“What the hell for?” Mark asked.

“Unauthorized practice of law,” Hobart said proudly, and Mark laughed in his face. “Are you kidding me? Don’t you have better things to do?”

“Shut up,” Hobart said. “Get dressed and let’s go.”

“Go where?” Todd asked, rubbing his eyes.

“To jail, ass face. Let’s go.”

“What a crock,” Todd said. They retreated to the bedroom, threw on some clothes, and returned to the den. A cop whipped out a pair of handcuffs and said, “Turn around.”

“You gotta be kidding,” Mark said. “We don’t need handcuffs.”

“Shut up and turn around,” the cop snarled, eager for a confrontation. Mark turned around and the cop yanked his hands in place and slapped on the handcuffs. The other cop secured Todd, and the two were shoved out the door. Another uniformed cop was waiting at the curb, smoking a cigarette and guarding two D.C. patrol cars, engines running. Mark was pushed into the rear seat of one, Todd the other. Hobart assumed the passenger’s seat, and as they drove away Mark said, “Right now in this city you’ve got gang wars, drug deals, rapes, and murders, and you guys are busy arresting two law students who wouldn’t harm anyone.”

“Just shut up, okay?” Hobart snarled over his shoulder.

“I don’t have to shut up. There’s not a law on the books that says I have to shut up, especially when I’m being arrested for some lousy misdemeanor like this.”

“It’s not a misdemeanor. If you knew anything about the law you’d know it’s a felony.”

“Well, it should be a misdemeanor, and you should be sued for wrongful arrest.”

“That’s terrifying, coming from you. Now shut up.”

In the rear seat of the car behind them, Todd casually asked, “Does this give you guys a real thrill, knocking on doors in the middle of the night and slapping on handcuffs?”

“Just shut up, okay?” snarled the cop behind the wheel.

“Sorry, pal, but I don’t have to shut up. I can talk all I want. The District has the highest murder rate in the country and you’re wasting your time harassing us.”

“Just doing our job,” the driver said.

“Your job sucks, you know that? I guess we’re lucky you didn’t send in a SWAT team to kick in the door and spray bullets everywhere. That’s your biggest thrill, right? Get all dressed up like Navy SEALs and pounce on people.”

“I’m going to stop this car and kick your ass,” the driver said.

“You do that and I’ll sue your own fat ass at nine o’clock Monday morning. Big lawsuit, federal court.”

“You gonna do it yourself or hire a real lawyer?” the driver said, and the other cop howled with laughter.

Ahead, Mark was saying, “How’d you find us, Hobart? Somebody at the Bar Council picked up our trail and called the cops? Figures. You must be real low on the pole to get stuck with a petty crime like this.”

“I wouldn’t call two years in jail petty,” Hobart said.

“Jail? I’m not going to jail, Hobart. I’ll just hire me another street lawyer, probably one without a license, and he’ll be ten steps ahead of you. There’s no way we’re going to jail. We’ll pay a small fine, get the old slap on the wrist, promise to never do it again, and walk out of court. Hell, we’ll be back in business while you’re still chasing jaywalkers.”

“Just shut up.”

“Not going to happen, Hobart.”

At Central Jail, Mark and Todd were pulled out of the rear seats and jostled roughly into a basement entry. Once they were inside, the handcuffs were removed and they were separated. Over the next hour, each filled out two intake forms, got fingerprinted, and then was set in front of a camera for the standard mug shot. They were reunited in a holding cell where they waited for another hour, certain that they were about to be thrown in a cell with some real criminals. At 5:30, though, they were released on their own recognizance and informed that they could not leave the District of Columbia. Their citations directed them to appear in Division 6 in a week for their first appearances. They knew the place well.

Throughout the morning, they monitored the Post online and saw nothing about their arrests. Certainly, they could not be that newsworthy. They decided to wait before telling Zola that there was an arrest warrant with her name on it. She had enough on her mind anyway, and she was safely out of reach.

In their apartment, they spent two hours writing checks from the firm account. Refunds, to current clients who’d paid them in cash and were now getting stiffed because their lawyers were out of business. As bad as they needed the money, they simply could not walk away from their clients. The total was almost $11,000 and it was painful to part with, but they felt better when they mailed the envelopes. Mark managed to sell his Bronco for $600 at a used-car lot. He took the money in cash, signed over the title, and resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at the old wreck he’d driven for the past nine years. After dark, they loaded the firm’s new desktop computer, color printer, and three boxes of files into the back of Todd’s car. They threw some of their clothes into the rear seat, had one last beer at The Rooster Bar, and drove to Baltimore.

While Mark killed time in a hotel sports bar, Todd finally told his parents that he would not be graduating in a week. He admitted he had not been truthful, had in fact not gone to class at all that spring, did not have a job of any sort, was $200,000 in debt, and was now drifting and trying to figure out life. His mother cried while his father yelled, and the episode was even uglier than he had anticipated. On his way out, he said he was taking a long trip and needed to leave his car in the garage. His father yelled no, but he left it anyway and walked half a mile to the hotel.

The following morning, Mark and Todd caught a train to New York City. As it was leaving Penn Station, Todd handed over the Washington Post. At the bottom of the front page of the Metro section, a small headline read, “Two Arrested for Unauthorized Practice of Law.” They were described as law school dropouts, former students at Foggy Bottom, where no one in administration had anything to say. Nor did Margaret Sanchez with the D.C. Bar Council. The two had apparently been roaming the city’s courtrooms soliciting clients under assumed names and routinely appearing before judges. An unnamed source described them as “pretty good lawyers.” A former client said Mr. Upshaw worked very hard on her case. A current client said he just wanted his money back. There was no mention of Zola Maal, though the story said “a third suspect is involved.” If found guilty, they could face up to two years in prison and a fine of $1,000.

Their phones were crazy with calls from old friends at Foggy Bottom.

Todd said, “My dad will love this. Me, a felon.”

Mark said, “My poor mother. Both of her sons headed to the slammer.”