I hadn't dreamed of parting with my fabulous car. I was almost offended.

We got into his Taurus and slid out of the parking lot. Within seconds I realized

Mordecai Green was a horrible driver, and I attempted to fasten my seat belt. It was

broken. He seemed not to notice.

We drove the well-plowed streets of Northwest Washington, blocks and sections of

boarded-up rowhouses, past projects so tough ambulance drivers refused to enter, past

schools with razor wire glistening on top of the chain link, into neighborhoods

permanently scarred by riots. He was an amazing tour guide. Every inch was his turf,

every corner had a story, every street had a history. We passed other shelters and kitchens.

He knew the cooks and the Reverends. Churches were good or bad, with no blurring of

the lines. They either opened their doors to the homeless or kept them locked. He pointed out the law school at Howard, a place of immense pride for him. His legal education had

taken five years, at night, while he worked a full-time job and a part-time one. He showed

me a burned-out rowhouse where crack dealers once operated. His third son, Cassius, had

died on the sidewalk in front of it.

When we were near his office, he asked if it would be all right to stop in for a minute. He

wanted to check his mail. I certainly didn't mind. I was just along for the ride.

It was dim, cold, and empty. He flipped on light switches and began talking. "There are

three of us. Me, Sofia Mendoza, and Abraham Lebow. Sofia's a social worker, but she

knows more street law than me and Abraham combined." I followed him around the

cluttered desks. "Used to have seven lawyers crammed in here, can you believe it? That

was when we got federal money for legal services. Now we don't get a dime, thanks to

the Republicans. There are three offices over there, three here on my side." He was

pointing in all directions. "Lots of empty space."

Maybe empty from a lack of personnel, but it was hard to walk without tripping over a

basket of old files or a stack of dusty law books.

"Who owns the building?" I asked.

"The Cohen Trust. Leonard Cohen was the founder of a big New York law firm. He died

In eighty-six; must've been a hundred years old. He made a ton of money, and late in life

he decided he didn't want to die with any of it. So he spread it around, and one of his

many creations was a trust to help poverty lawyers assist the homeless. That's how this

place came to be. The trust operates three clinics--here, New York, and Newark. I was

hired in eighty-three, became the director in eighty-four."

"All your funding comes from one source?"

"Practically all. Last year the trust gave us a hundred and ten thousand dollars. Year

before, it was a hundred fifty, so we lost a lawyer. It gets smaller every year. The trust

has not been well managed, and it's now eating the principal. I doubt if we'll be here in

five years. Maybe three."

"Can't you raise money?"

"Oh, sure. Last year we raised nine thousand bucks. But it takes time. We can practice

law, or we can raise funds. Sofia is not good with people. Abraham is an abrasive ass

from New York. That leaves just me and my magnetic personality."

"What's the overhead?" I asked, prying but not too worried. Almost every nonprofit

group published an annual report with all the figures.

"Two thousand a month. After expenses and a small reserve, the three of us split eighty-

nine thousand dollars. Equally. Sofia considers herself a full partner. Frankly, we're afraid to argue with her. I took home almost thirty, which, from what I hear, is about

average for a poverty lawyer. Welcome to the street."

We finally made it to his office, and I sat across from him.

"Did you forget to pay your heating bill?" I asked, almost shivering.

"Probably. We don't work much on weekends. Saves money. This place is impossible to

heat or cool."

That thought had never occurred to anyone at Drake & Sweeney. Close on weekends,

save money. And marriages.

"And if we keep it too comfortable, our clients won't leave. So it's cold in the winter, hot