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Tequila’s name written on it.”
    “You can’t do that.”
    Clay turned to the cop holding the papers and said, “Would you please read the subpoena?”
    The cop held it high for all to see, and read: “All files pertaining to the admission, medical evaluation, medical treatment, substance abatement, substance abuse counseling, rehabilitation, and discharge of TequilaWatson. As ordered by the Honorable F. Floyd Sackman, D.C. Superior Court Criminal Division.”
    “When did he sign it?” Samuel asked.
    “’Bout three hours ago.”
    “We showed you everything,” Noland said to Clay.
    “I doubt that. I can tell when a file has been rearranged.”
    “Much too neat,” Jermaine added helpfully, finally.
    “We ain’t fighting,” said the larger of the two cops, leaving little doubt that a good fight would be welcome. “Where do we start?”
    “His medical evaluations are confidential,” Samuel said. “The doctor-patient privilege, I believe.”
    It was an excellent point, but slightly off the mark. “The doctor’s files are confidential,” Clay explained. “But not the patient’s. I have a release and waiver signed by Tequila Watson allowing me to see all of his files, including the medicals.”
    They began in a windowless room with mismatched filing cabinets lining the walls. After a few minutes, Talmadge X and Samuel disappeared and the tension began to ease. The cops pulled up chairs and accepted the coffee offered by the receptionist. She did not offer any to the gentlemen from the Office of the Public Defender.
    After an hour of digging, nothing useful had been found. Clay and Jermaine left Rodney to continue the search. They had more cops to meet.
    The raid on Clean Streets was very similar. The two lawyers marched into the front office with two policemen behind them. The Director was dragged out of ameeting. As she read the subpoena she mumbled something about knowing Judge Sackman and dealing with him later. She was very irritated, but the document spoke for itself. The same language—all files and papers relating to Washad Porter.
    “This was not necessary,” she said to Clay. “We always cooperate with attorneys.”
    “That’s not what I hear,” Jermaine said. Indeed, Clean Streets had a reputation for contesting even the most benign requests from OPD.
    When she finished reading the subpoena for the second time, one of the cops said, “We’re not going to wait all day.”
    She led them to a large office and fetched an assistant who began hauling in files. “When do we get these back?” she asked.
    “When we’re finished with them,” Jermaine said.
    “And who keeps them?”
    “The Office of the Public Defender, under lock and key.”
    __________
    T HE ROMANCE had begun at Abe’s Place. Rebecca had been in a booth with two girlfriends when Clay walked by en route to the men’s room. Their eyes met, and he actually paused for a second, unsure of exactly what to do next. The girlfriends soon got lost. Clay ditched his drinking pals. They sat together at the bar for two hours and talked nonstop. The first date was the next night. Sex within a week. She kept him away from her parents for two months.
    Now, four years later, things were stale and she was under pressure to move on. It seemed fitting that they would end things at Abe’s Place.
    Clay arrived first and stood at the bar in a crowd of Hill Rats draining their glasses, talking loud and fast and all at once about the crucial issues they had just spent long hours dealing with. He loved D.C., and he hated D.C. He loved its history and energy and importance. And he despised the countless minions who chased themselves in a frenetic game of who was more important. The nearest discussion was a passionate argument about wastewater treatment laws in the Central Plains.
    Abe’s Place was nothing but a watering hole, strategically placed near Capitol Hill to catch the thirsty crowd headed for the suburbs. Great-looking women. Well