latest demand, there was no inflection in my voice. I was feeling tired of the back-and-forth and of being the guy everyone dumped on. If she wanted to scuttle the settlement, well, that was her choice.
“I’m not paying them money to file this case,” she exclaimed. “No way!”
“I know it’s upsetting, but try not to take it personally. That’s all I can say.”
“Don’t take it personally?” she responded incredulously.
“Just try to look at it this way— it’s one hundred eighty dollars and it saves your apartment. You pay two hundred a month in rent, and if you had a private apartment you’d be paying like eight hundred a month. That’s all I can say, Maria. Again, it’s your decision.” I took a few steps away from her, again communicating that the ball was in her court. In a few moments, she came over to me and said, “Fine.” Then she walked away.
After Judge McCarthy signed off on the agreement, I handed a copy to her.
“Thanks,” she said in a cold and clipped manner. Then she brusquely turned her back to me and walked out of the lobby without saying a word.
Jose quickly shook my hand and said, “Thanks, man.” Then he hurried after her. Well, I thought, at least it was nice that he did that.
5
Ou tside a cold wind was blowing, and it felt like the temperature was below freezing. I buttoned my coat, shoved my hands into my pockets, and began walking the five blocks back to my office. The winter weather in Worcester was absolutely brutal. The temperature was always a few degrees colder than in Boston, and Worcester received more snowfall because it was located inland and at a higher elevation. A number of times on my drive home from work, I navigated through six inches or so of snow and when I reached Boston there was only wet roads with no accumulation.
I walked along in a sort of tired haze, drained from the morning’s events, intermittently thinking about Kendra’s case, and not very aware of my surroundings. An image stuck in my mind of her with tears in her eyes, and I cringed at how helpless and scared she and her kids must be feeling. I wondered if they would be able to get into a shelter, and if so, what life would be like there. I had never visited one, even though I had a number of clients who went in and out of them. The actual physical environments of shelters had nothing to do with the legal work I performed, so I didn’t feel a need to actually see one for myself. And I avoided seeing them out of the fear that it would be really depressing. I didn’t want to have that in my mind when I represented clients in evictions.
I also wondered how Kendra’s ten-year-old would turn out in the future, given that he had such a palpable anger. Certainly an event like today could only make things worse.
I stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts to get a cup of coffee (there was no Starbucks in downtown Worcester) to help pick me up. I looked forward to slumping into the chair behind my desk, loosening my tie, and putting my brain on cruise control while working on the administrative tasks that had piled up during the week. I had about forty or fifty cases at any given time, so there was always a long list of things that I had to do.
I took the elevator, a rickety contraption that had broken down several times in the past, up to the third floor. The entrance area had posters on the wall advertising the WIC and food stamps programs for the poor. Set off to the left was the waiting room, a cramped rectangular-shaped area filled with old plastic and metal chairs like those in a public school classroom. The receptionist, Lucelia , an attractive young Latina with long dark hair, was on the phone at the front desk speaking in Spanish. Generally, she acted coolly toward me for no reason that I could discern, and she did so on this day by giving me only the slightest sign of acknowledgement when I walked past her to my mailbox. All I really knew about her was that she had a couple of kids
“I’m not paying them money to file this case,” she exclaimed. “No way!”
“I know it’s upsetting, but try not to take it personally. That’s all I can say.”
“Don’t take it personally?” she responded incredulously.
“Just try to look at it this way— it’s one hundred eighty dollars and it saves your apartment. You pay two hundred a month in rent, and if you had a private apartment you’d be paying like eight hundred a month. That’s all I can say, Maria. Again, it’s your decision.” I took a few steps away from her, again communicating that the ball was in her court. In a few moments, she came over to me and said, “Fine.” Then she walked away.
After Judge McCarthy signed off on the agreement, I handed a copy to her.
“Thanks,” she said in a cold and clipped manner. Then she brusquely turned her back to me and walked out of the lobby without saying a word.
Jose quickly shook my hand and said, “Thanks, man.” Then he hurried after her. Well, I thought, at least it was nice that he did that.
5
Ou tside a cold wind was blowing, and it felt like the temperature was below freezing. I buttoned my coat, shoved my hands into my pockets, and began walking the five blocks back to my office. The winter weather in Worcester was absolutely brutal. The temperature was always a few degrees colder than in Boston, and Worcester received more snowfall because it was located inland and at a higher elevation. A number of times on my drive home from work, I navigated through six inches or so of snow and when I reached Boston there was only wet roads with no accumulation.
I walked along in a sort of tired haze, drained from the morning’s events, intermittently thinking about Kendra’s case, and not very aware of my surroundings. An image stuck in my mind of her with tears in her eyes, and I cringed at how helpless and scared she and her kids must be feeling. I wondered if they would be able to get into a shelter, and if so, what life would be like there. I had never visited one, even though I had a number of clients who went in and out of them. The actual physical environments of shelters had nothing to do with the legal work I performed, so I didn’t feel a need to actually see one for myself. And I avoided seeing them out of the fear that it would be really depressing. I didn’t want to have that in my mind when I represented clients in evictions.
I also wondered how Kendra’s ten-year-old would turn out in the future, given that he had such a palpable anger. Certainly an event like today could only make things worse.
I stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts to get a cup of coffee (there was no Starbucks in downtown Worcester) to help pick me up. I looked forward to slumping into the chair behind my desk, loosening my tie, and putting my brain on cruise control while working on the administrative tasks that had piled up during the week. I had about forty or fifty cases at any given time, so there was always a long list of things that I had to do.
I took the elevator, a rickety contraption that had broken down several times in the past, up to the third floor. The entrance area had posters on the wall advertising the WIC and food stamps programs for the poor. Set off to the left was the waiting room, a cramped rectangular-shaped area filled with old plastic and metal chairs like those in a public school classroom. The receptionist, Lucelia , an attractive young Latina with long dark hair, was on the phone at the front desk speaking in Spanish. Generally, she acted coolly toward me for no reason that I could discern, and she did so on this day by giving me only the slightest sign of acknowledgement when I walked past her to my mailbox. All I really knew about her was that she had a couple of kids
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