too thin, just about average. His skin was chocolate brown. Bemused eyes, and a high, sloping forehead gave him an intellectual look which, coupled with his pattern of speech, made him remind me of a young Roscoe Lee Brown.
I pulled myself together, took out my papers, and got down to the task. Leroy had been hit by a car. It turned out he had all the necessary information and more, including the name and address of the driver, license and license-plate numbers, driver’s insurance carrier, names and precinct number of the officers on the scene, and even the names and addresses of two witnesses. How he managed to get all that while lying in the street with a broken leg is beyond me, but he had it and, as I would have expected, he supplied it all succinctly and precisely.
Things were going so well I was quite surprised when we bogged down on one of the simpler parts of the form. When I asked Leroy what his occupation was there was a long pause. I would not have been surprised to hear “Classics professor from Columbia University” or “New York Supreme Court judge,” but what Leroy actually said was “electrician.”
I believe I gave him a look before writing “electrician” in the proper blank. Then I moved on to the question that I always hate to ask people, but which is a necessary part of the form.
“And how much do you make as an electrician?” I asked him.
This time Leroy gave me a look. “Why do you have to know that?”
“For the suit,” I told him. “We want to show an earnings loss. You’re losing a lot of work with that broken leg. We can get the money back for you.”
“I see,” he said. He didn’t look happy about it.
There was another long pause, during which Leroy looked as if he were wrestling with something and trying to make up his mind.
At length he sighed. “All right. Look. You’re a lawyer,” he said, making the usual assumption which, as usual, I did not jump in to correct. “I have to be honest with you, right?”
“It’s not a bad idea,” I told him.
“All right, then. I am not really an electrician.”
“Oh? What are you?”
“I’m a thief.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m a thief.”
“A thief?”
“Yes.” Leroy leaned back in his wheelchair and cocked his head in my direction. “And you see I have a terrible earnings loss because, now, if I were to steal something, I would not be able to get away.”
I looked at him closely. He was smiling, and there was a twinkle in his eye, and for a moment I thought I knew what it meant. He was putting me on. His eyes were twinkling because he was not a thief, because everything he was telling me was a complete fabrication. I immediately realized this assumption was wrong. He was not putting me on. His eyes were twinkling because he was a thief, because everything he was telling me was absolutely true. And suddenly I realized I was talking to a person one usually meets only in works of fiction, a gentleman jewel thief, a modern day Arsène Lupin, operating out of Flushing, Queens.
I pursed my lips, nodded my head thoughtfully, and dead-panned, “That must be a considerable inconvenience,” and he had the good grace to smile.
After that we had a grand old time. I countered his I’m-not-really-an-electrician-I’m-a-thief confession with my I’m-not-really-a-lawyer-I’m-a-detective confession, and we spent the afternoon talking shop.
I found out how Leroy had come to call Richard, which was interesting, since Richard’s clientele were not often in his class. It happened that Leroy’s criminal attorney was the lawyer to whom Richard, who did no criminal work of his own, often referred clients. So when Leroy had broken his leg, the attorney, who handled no litigation, had reciprocated by sending him to us.
Leroy told me something about his background. He was born and raised in Harlem, and grew up on the streets. He had been arrested several times as a teenager, and had eventually been sent to a reform
I pulled myself together, took out my papers, and got down to the task. Leroy had been hit by a car. It turned out he had all the necessary information and more, including the name and address of the driver, license and license-plate numbers, driver’s insurance carrier, names and precinct number of the officers on the scene, and even the names and addresses of two witnesses. How he managed to get all that while lying in the street with a broken leg is beyond me, but he had it and, as I would have expected, he supplied it all succinctly and precisely.
Things were going so well I was quite surprised when we bogged down on one of the simpler parts of the form. When I asked Leroy what his occupation was there was a long pause. I would not have been surprised to hear “Classics professor from Columbia University” or “New York Supreme Court judge,” but what Leroy actually said was “electrician.”
I believe I gave him a look before writing “electrician” in the proper blank. Then I moved on to the question that I always hate to ask people, but which is a necessary part of the form.
“And how much do you make as an electrician?” I asked him.
This time Leroy gave me a look. “Why do you have to know that?”
“For the suit,” I told him. “We want to show an earnings loss. You’re losing a lot of work with that broken leg. We can get the money back for you.”
“I see,” he said. He didn’t look happy about it.
There was another long pause, during which Leroy looked as if he were wrestling with something and trying to make up his mind.
At length he sighed. “All right. Look. You’re a lawyer,” he said, making the usual assumption which, as usual, I did not jump in to correct. “I have to be honest with you, right?”
“It’s not a bad idea,” I told him.
“All right, then. I am not really an electrician.”
“Oh? What are you?”
“I’m a thief.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m a thief.”
“A thief?”
“Yes.” Leroy leaned back in his wheelchair and cocked his head in my direction. “And you see I have a terrible earnings loss because, now, if I were to steal something, I would not be able to get away.”
I looked at him closely. He was smiling, and there was a twinkle in his eye, and for a moment I thought I knew what it meant. He was putting me on. His eyes were twinkling because he was not a thief, because everything he was telling me was a complete fabrication. I immediately realized this assumption was wrong. He was not putting me on. His eyes were twinkling because he was a thief, because everything he was telling me was absolutely true. And suddenly I realized I was talking to a person one usually meets only in works of fiction, a gentleman jewel thief, a modern day Arsène Lupin, operating out of Flushing, Queens.
I pursed my lips, nodded my head thoughtfully, and dead-panned, “That must be a considerable inconvenience,” and he had the good grace to smile.
After that we had a grand old time. I countered his I’m-not-really-an-electrician-I’m-a-thief confession with my I’m-not-really-a-lawyer-I’m-a-detective confession, and we spent the afternoon talking shop.
I found out how Leroy had come to call Richard, which was interesting, since Richard’s clientele were not often in his class. It happened that Leroy’s criminal attorney was the lawyer to whom Richard, who did no criminal work of his own, often referred clients. So when Leroy had broken his leg, the attorney, who handled no litigation, had reciprocated by sending him to us.
Leroy told me something about his background. He was born and raised in Harlem, and grew up on the streets. He had been arrested several times as a teenager, and had eventually been sent to a reform
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