often have the urge.
Leroy Stanhope Williams was an exception.
The first hint I got that Leroy Stanhope Williams was something special, aside from the three names, was that his address in Queens was listed as a private house. Of course, that could have meant nothing. Many clients listed their address as a private house, but when I got there it turned out they had an apartment in the basement they illegally rented from the owner, whom they wanted to sue for not fixing the cellar stars. Or, it turned out they actually did live in a private house, but the front door was a sheet of plywood, if you leaned against the walls the ceiling would come down, and the only reason the place hadn’t been condemned was that no one in his right mind would have wanted the property.
Leroy’s house was different. It was a three-story frame house, newly painted white with blue trim, on a small but immaculately kept lawn with actual grass and a flower garden. A smooth, clean concrete walk led up to a small front porch, framed by windows with ornate, decorative blue grillwork.
As I went up the steps to the front porch, the first thing I noticed was that there were three locks on the front door, the regular lock and two deadbolts. Then I noticed that the grillwork on the windows, though ornate, was also functional. It was, in effect, bars, and all the windows had them, even those on the upper floors. Great. Some doddering 80-year-old man, hiding from the world. The door would undoubtedly open two inches on a safety chain, and I’d have to slide my I.D. through before I got in.
I rang the doorbell. As I did so, I noticed the eye of an infra-red beam set into the doorjamb. That caught me up short. I looked at the windows again, and discovered a thin wire embedded in the glass running around the perimeter of the panes. This was something else. I could understand some paranoid old fart investing in a couple of deadbolts, but an electronic burglar alarm system?
I was still thinking about that when the front door swung open, not on a safety chain, to reveal a black man on crutches, standing in the shadows of the front hallway.
I inquired, “Leroy Stanhope Williams?” and he nodded. “Stanley Hastings from the lawyer’s office.” He nodded again and ushered me in with a gesture, momentarily holding that crutch with only his armpit. I walked by him through the dimly-lit foyer and into the living room, where I stood and gawked.
I must admit, I don’t know anything about art; in fact, I’m not even sure what I like, but I must say I was impressed. I think that even without having seen the security system, I would have known that the paintings on the walls were originals, the statues genuine, the antique pottery authentic, the gold pieces solid not plate, and the jewelry real.
While I looked around, Leroy lowered himself into a wheelchair, and raised his broken right leg up onto the support in front of him. When he was settled, he turned to me, raised his hand in one flowing gesture to the couch, and said, “Please be seated.”
A character study in three words and a gesture. The gesture was theatrical or regal, take your pick, but it was certainly grand. The voice was resonant, cultured, and refined. It had an almost British hint to it, which could have merely meant he was a foreigner from some British province, but somehow. I didn’t think so. Something about him said New York.
I murmured, “Thank you, Mr. Williams,” and sat. Usually, I identify my clients by name as I come in the door to make sure I’m talking to the right person, and after that just call them “you,” but I just naturally called him Mr. Williams. In fact, it took an effort not to call him “Sir.”
And he was not old, that is to say he was younger than me, perhaps somewhere around thirty-five. It’s hard to guess a man’s height and weight when he’s sitting in a wheelchair, but I guessed he was about my build, not too tall, not too short, not too fat, not
Leroy Stanhope Williams was an exception.
The first hint I got that Leroy Stanhope Williams was something special, aside from the three names, was that his address in Queens was listed as a private house. Of course, that could have meant nothing. Many clients listed their address as a private house, but when I got there it turned out they had an apartment in the basement they illegally rented from the owner, whom they wanted to sue for not fixing the cellar stars. Or, it turned out they actually did live in a private house, but the front door was a sheet of plywood, if you leaned against the walls the ceiling would come down, and the only reason the place hadn’t been condemned was that no one in his right mind would have wanted the property.
Leroy’s house was different. It was a three-story frame house, newly painted white with blue trim, on a small but immaculately kept lawn with actual grass and a flower garden. A smooth, clean concrete walk led up to a small front porch, framed by windows with ornate, decorative blue grillwork.
As I went up the steps to the front porch, the first thing I noticed was that there were three locks on the front door, the regular lock and two deadbolts. Then I noticed that the grillwork on the windows, though ornate, was also functional. It was, in effect, bars, and all the windows had them, even those on the upper floors. Great. Some doddering 80-year-old man, hiding from the world. The door would undoubtedly open two inches on a safety chain, and I’d have to slide my I.D. through before I got in.
I rang the doorbell. As I did so, I noticed the eye of an infra-red beam set into the doorjamb. That caught me up short. I looked at the windows again, and discovered a thin wire embedded in the glass running around the perimeter of the panes. This was something else. I could understand some paranoid old fart investing in a couple of deadbolts, but an electronic burglar alarm system?
I was still thinking about that when the front door swung open, not on a safety chain, to reveal a black man on crutches, standing in the shadows of the front hallway.
I inquired, “Leroy Stanhope Williams?” and he nodded. “Stanley Hastings from the lawyer’s office.” He nodded again and ushered me in with a gesture, momentarily holding that crutch with only his armpit. I walked by him through the dimly-lit foyer and into the living room, where I stood and gawked.
I must admit, I don’t know anything about art; in fact, I’m not even sure what I like, but I must say I was impressed. I think that even without having seen the security system, I would have known that the paintings on the walls were originals, the statues genuine, the antique pottery authentic, the gold pieces solid not plate, and the jewelry real.
While I looked around, Leroy lowered himself into a wheelchair, and raised his broken right leg up onto the support in front of him. When he was settled, he turned to me, raised his hand in one flowing gesture to the couch, and said, “Please be seated.”
A character study in three words and a gesture. The gesture was theatrical or regal, take your pick, but it was certainly grand. The voice was resonant, cultured, and refined. It had an almost British hint to it, which could have merely meant he was a foreigner from some British province, but somehow. I didn’t think so. Something about him said New York.
I murmured, “Thank you, Mr. Williams,” and sat. Usually, I identify my clients by name as I come in the door to make sure I’m talking to the right person, and after that just call them “you,” but I just naturally called him Mr. Williams. In fact, it took an effort not to call him “Sir.”
And he was not old, that is to say he was younger than me, perhaps somewhere around thirty-five. It’s hard to guess a man’s height and weight when he’s sitting in a wheelchair, but I guessed he was about my build, not too tall, not too short, not too fat, not
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