Read Online The Street Lawyer by John Grisham - Free Book Online

that I was no longer fresh from college. Those pretty girls in there would never look twice at me now.
    I was frozen, and it was snowing again. I bought a sandwich, stuffed it into a pocket, and slogged my way back to the apartment. I fixed a strong drink, and a small fire, and I ate in the semidarkness, very much alone.
    In the old days, Claire’s absence for the weekend would have given me guilt-free grounds to live at the office. Sitting by the fire, I was repulsed by that thought. Drake & Sweeney would be standing proudly long after I was gone, and the clients and their problems, which had seemed so crucial, would be tended to by other squads of young lawyers. My departure would be a slight bump in the road for the firm, scarcely noticeable. My office would be taken minutes after I walked out.
    At some time after nine, the phone rang, jolting me from a long, somber daydream. It was Mordecai Green, speaking loudly into a cell phone. “Are you busy?” he asked.
    “Uh, not exactly. What’s going on?”
    “It’s cold as hell, snowing again, and we’re short on manpower. Do you have a few hours to spare?”
    “To do what?”
    “To work. We really need able bodies down here. The shelters and soup kitchens are packed, and we don’t have enough volunteers.”
    “I’m not sure I’m qualified.”
    “Can you spread peanut butter on bread?”
    “I think so.”
    “Then you’re qualified.”
    “Okay, where do I go?”
    “We’re ten blocks or so from the office. At the intersection of Thirteenth and Euclid, you’ll see a yellow church on your right. Ebenezer Christian Fellowship. We’re in the basement.”
    I scribbled this down, each word getting shakier because Mordecai was calling me into a combat zone. I wanted to ask if I should pack a gun. I wondered if he carried one. But he was black, and I wasn’t. What about my car, my prized Lexus?
    “Got that?” he growled after a pause.
    “Yeah. Be there in twenty minutes,” I said bravely, my heart already pounding.
    I changed into jeans, a sweatshirt, and designer hiking boots. I took the credit cards and most of the cash out of my wallet. In the top of a closet, I found an old wool-lined denim jacket, stained with coffee and paint, a relic from law school, and as I modeled it in the mirror I hoped it made me look non-affluent. It did not. If a young actor wore it on the cover of
Vanity Fair,
a trend would start immediately.
    I desperately wanted a bulletproof vest. I was scared, but as I locked the door and stepped into the snow, I was also strangely excited.
    THE DRIVE-BY shootings and gang attacks I had expected did not materialize. The weather kept the streets empty and safe, for the moment. I found the church and parked in a lot across the street. It looked like a small cathedral, at least a hundred years old and no doubt abandoned by its original congregation.
    Around a corner I saw some men huddled together, waiting by a door. I brushed past them as if I knew exactly where I was going, and I entered the world of the homeless.
    As badly as I wanted to barge ahead, to pretend I had seen this before and had work to do, I couldn’t move. I gawked in amazement at the sheer number of poor people stuffed into the basement. Some were lying on the floor, trying to sleep. Some were sitting in groups, talking in low tones. Some were eating at long tables and others in their folding chairs. Every square inch along the walls was covered with people sitting with their backs to the cinder blocks. Small children cried and played as their mothers tried to keep them close. Winos lay rigid, snoring through it all. Volunteers passed out blankets and walked among the throng, handing out apples.
    The kitchen was at one end, bustling with action as food was prepared and served. I could see Mordecai in the background, pouring fruit juice into paper cups, talking incessantly. A line waited patiently at the serving tables.
    The room was warm, and the odors and aromas and the gas