Chapter Three

The Lawyer Game

Whatever dreams and plans and movement toward recovery Tisa had seemed to vanquish upon John’s leaving, and while she still focused her warmth on little Domini, whatever recusant energy she had left was visited on making John pay for what he had done to her by leaving. Her fantasies about their life together may have been as likely as a flying pig, but John had been Tisa’s ticket to success, and subsequently, her excuse for failure. With him out of the picture, she had only herself to rely on, at best an unpredictable prospect for achievement.

In fact, Tisa never heard from John again. In the months that followed, she did her best to dig up his whereabouts. Multiple attempts to locate him in an effort to get some form of child support, were unsuccessful. Even if she had managed to find John, receiving any financial support was a dubious prospect. In all likelihood, he had vanished into the fissure of socio-economic sub-terraneae that is part of American society; where, unless one’s crimes are great enough to warrant a man-hunt, a person can disappear with only those most closely bonded to them wondering what happened.

In one of her more desperate attempts, Tisa had feigned a job interview so she could leave the baby with the Christian Hand staff members, who had volunteered to watch Domini for certain excursions. It had taken two buses to get to John’s mother’s place, but she had remembered the address and went knocking. Finding no one home, she left a note at the door with the phone number of the Center, and a few sentences telling the woman she had a grand daughter. She also found time to slip around the side to the garden shed and look for John’s kit. Like him, it had disappeared. Fuck! She could have made some good cash with it. Tisa never received a call.

Larry was the kitchen manager at the Center, and had been in recovery for about 16 years. His years of cocaine abuse followed by a steady diet of cigarettes had taken their toll on him and he looked every bit of the 62 years he’d lived on the earth. Over the years, he’d mellowed and had become one of the more valuable employees at the Center, making his way from prep cook and dishwasher to manager over the span of 5 years. He was even a pretty good chef, having spent a good deal of his life in the hotel industry. Equally important, his good nature and steady manner made him a valuable sounding board for the current guests, and his white beard and self-effacing manner gave him that grandfatherly comfort that made people open up to him. From time to time Dr. Love would ask Larry to contribute a story from his past life in ‘group’ Every once in awhile, he would impose upon Larry to befriend a guest who was having a rough go of it and needed some extra care. Tisa became his next project.

The Loves had been trying to dissuade Tisa from spending so much energy on locating and persecuting John, especially since they knew he would never be found if he chose not to, would never pay a dime, and would only make matters worse if he came back on the scene. In any case, he would not be a stabilizing element in her life if he were ever located. They hoped that Larry’s glamorous past would give him the credibility needed to appeal to Tisa, and get her to focus on what she needed to do to get on with her young life. It was unclear if the Loves’ advice had gotten through to Tisa, who, though clean and sober for 10 months, remained as salty and self-centered as she had ever been. Perhaps Larry could crack the façade.

Meanwhile, there was a baby growing up underfoot. Tisa’s issues were adult problems, that did not seem to affect Domini’s timetable. Domini was learning to crawl and walk, and, despite her mother’s crabbiness, had worked her way into the hearts of the guests at the Christian Hand Recovery Center. Where Tisa’s presence in a room was merely condoned, Domini was the bright light in the corner. She was a healthy baby, full of giggles and laughter, who offered up unconditional love to anyone who was in her crawling path.

Domini’s health was due in large part to the Loves and not her mother, who though bright enough and clearly loving to Domini, never managed to apply herself to anything that wasn’t self-gratifying in the short run. Fortunately for the child, prior to Domini’s birth, the Loves contacted WIC to see if Tisa might be able to qualify for subsidies for the child. The meals served at the Center were healthful, for the most part, but the Center relied on the charity of private citizens, restaurants, and regular donators to serve meals. They did their best in the kitchen, but some weeks the meals might be heavily starchy, while other weeks, if the Center got in a donation of meat, dinners would be more protein-rich; it was hard to say. The Loves were willing to set aside some money to make sure the baby had diapers, but they simply didn’t have the resources to create entire meals around the child. Once the baby started eating solid food, they were concerned that, without subsidies, the child might not get the nutrients she needed.

Although technically Tisa’s participation in the rehab program was already state supported and that put her at the bottom of the WIC list, the evaluator determined that under the circumstances, Domini was a nutrition risk, which gave Tisa priority over others who were in line to get subsidies. Despite her mother’s setback, Domini started off with all the comforts of a middle class life and a spirit as full of joy as was her mother’s full of nager.

With the exception of locating John, Tisa’s motivation was non-existent. If the weather was good (and it mostly was), she mustered just enough energy to carry a folding dinner chair out to Washington Street where she would sit with Domini for the better part of the day. Larry would join her during his breaks. Often they sat silent. His appearance did not attract Tisa who tended to look at the most surface of details in her assessment of people. To her, at least at the beginning, he was just another loser cook at the Center. Larry, who had been in the recovery business for a long time, knew that his job was to gain trust, which for people like Tisa, could take awhile.

For the first couple of months, their conversations were limited to administrative small talk: what was on the menu for dinner, whether the television was going to get fixed, and so on. If the baby got fussy, Larry would offer to take a turn, which Tisa welcomed. Occasionally, he’d comment on the people who went about their business each day. Most passers-by were either the relatives of recent arrestees, who were in the neighborhood to pay whatever dues they could cobble together from the family to the bondsmen next door; or they Chinese immigrants who had wondered one too many blocks away and were looking for that proper left or right turn to get them back on track. In both cases, they tucked their heads and passed Larry and Tisa, and whomever else was lingering quickly. They had the soft-edged, color-bled looks of those who dance around the poverty line, and in Tisa’s mind, there was nothing to be gained from them. She was just as happy not to have them admire her or her beautiful daughter.

Every so often, men (and some women) in crisp dark-colored suits would walk by. Their nails were clean and manicured, their gaits were crisp and deliberate, and their wardrobe had clearly only belonged to them. They had briefcases. They looked like men from Tisa’s upbringing: smart, articulate, clean. Like her father, an engineer at Bechtel. They looked like the men that she and her parents had expected her to marry.

“Who are those guys who walk by sometimes in the suits?” she asked Larry one day.

“Lawyers,” said Larry. He pointed west toward Jack London Square, toward a large non-descript building some blocks away. “See that? That’s the criminal court house. They come down here to do their hearings. You can tell, though if they’re public defenders or private attorneys if you know the signs,” he said. “You can even tell sometimes if they’re not even criminal attorneys. Like if they do real estate or something.”

Tisa wanted to know the signs.

“OK, see, most public defenders get a parking space over in that lot, “ he said, pointing in the far direction, “so they don’t come up this way no how. Except sometimes PDs come from a different office, like in Berkeley or Hayward or Alameda or something, so they walk past this way which could make them private attorneys. See, private attorneys got offices in a better part of town so they drive down here and ain’t go no place to park, just like the PDs from outta town. Then you got to look at their shoes and their suits to tell who is and who ain’t. If they wear shoes with rubber souls, like Rockports or like if their shoes are all jacked up, then they’re probably public defenders. If they got good shoes and all, but their suits are kinda shiny-like, like they been to the dry cleaners too much, that’s also a sign they’re PDs. Also, mostly the PDs will say hello, too. Like if you ever get a nod, that’s probably a PD. Private attorney ain’t got shit to say to people like us.

“Now, them with the real tight threads are usually the private criminal attorneys. If they brothers, then they might have some jewelry, too, or some Stacy Adams shoes.” As they were talking, they could see a man in the distance coming their way. Larry broke it down.

“Now, this here one is easy and I can’t even see his suit yet. See this white boy? He’s like what, maybe 30 if that? Now what some white boy doin’ down here with a suit on? All the crazy rich white-boy lawyers in San Francisco.” The man moved closer and Larry continued.

“OK, look at his hair. It’s sort of curly like. He’s one of them Jewish lawyers. That shit is way too long for him to be some kinda stuff shirt. And check out the suit. He got that from his old taller brother or something.” Larry laughed, but as the man was getting close enough to hear their conversation, he trailed off.

“Now, here the final test. See Ratto’s up there? Well, if they go straight past Ratto’s and turn right at the end of the block, that’s the pay lot. If they turn left before Ratto’s, that’s street parking. The PDs always turn left because it’s free.”

Thus began the lawyer game, wherein each would try to guess who was passing by simply by the cues Larry provided. It was all about nuance. A double breasted suit was probably a private criminal attorney. Silk tie with a school moniker on someone under 30? A public defender. Same time on a man over 50? Private practice. Elevator shoes? Private practice. Worn heels? Public defender. A man in a light-colored suit was unlikely to be a criminal attorney at all and might not be a lawyer. In fact, Larry explained, you had to be mindful of the time of day you saw these people because they might be in a different industry altogether.

Oakland had a working waterfront and was home to one of the largest ports on the western seaboard, second to Long Beach. The same nice suit on a man walking by at the wrong time, say 5am, was unlikely to be an attorney, since public buildings were closed then, and any attorney who worked in an office nearby would have a parking space. In all likelihood, he was probably an expediter in from San Francisco for a particularly tricky shipment (usually, they could do their work from the office). It was the little things, Larry said, that made the difference.

It worked for women, too. If the woman had sensible shoes, she was a public defender. If she was wearing Reebok sneakers and carrying a large briefcase, she was a private attorney. If she had extremely high heels, a form-fitted suit, and teased hair, she was a hooker headed over to the Marriot. In another life, Larry explained, he used to be a runner for a concierge in New York. The cheap hookers who wore hot pants and fishnets were like cop-beacons. Besides, they did not give an aura of class. A woman in a grey business suit, albeit perhaps a little too tight to sit down in, could blend into the crowd easier. Although most hotel concierges had a Rolodex of women they preferred to use, in a pinch, these girls came in handy.

“The way you know people,” said Tisa, “you should be a concierge again, you know, now that you’re clean and all.”

“That’s what got me here in the first place, Tisa. No, I’m working the program just fine from the kitchen. One of the things you’ll learn over time is that if you think putting yourself in the same situation is going to make things come out differently just because you want it to, you’re crazy. No, I do just fine. I don’t have no fancy house or nothin’ but I can wake up every morning and feel good about my life. Praise Jesus.”

Sometimes, the two of them would play the Lawyer game. Sometimes, Larry would try to slip in some pearls of wisdom about Tisa’s life and her ability to make something of it, still. Other times Larry would just predict the situations of passers-by. Though he always meant it in earnest, Tisa took some churlish pleasure in knowing something about these strangers that they probably wouldn’t have wanted her to know, like she had something on them for future exploitation. She was learning a new skill.

“What about her?” she’d ask, gesturing to some woman a ½ block away. Larry would work his magic:

“Hmm, well, she’s coming out of Housewives Market, which makes me think she’s probably foreign, because no American white lady is gonna come down here to shop. But you know, they got all kinda crazy-ass stuff in that store that foreign people eat. Chicken necks and honeycomb tripe and horse and shit. No, wait a minute. She’s from here. Check out those bags. She brought her own grocery bags and, OK, now I see she’s kinda young – that short hair threw me. OK, scratch what I said. She’s probably from UC Berkeley coming down this way to stretch her food dollar. Shit is cheap up in that mug.”

Larry fancied himself a student of human nature these days, but he told Tisa when he was in the concierge business, to understand people was a survival skill. You had a short amount of time to size up a client. Time was money in his business, so you needed to figure out quickly who was going to make it worth your while to accommodate them, and who was just yanking your chain. If you could really get under their skin, you could convince them they needed things they never even considered asking for. Though he was only ever a runner he understood the business. In some ways, he said, clients were like marks in the con game, only you could never ever let on that you were taking them for a ride, or your business failed. A good concierge could get his clientele to change to a new hotel, skip a restaurant despite rave reviews, anything. After a time, Larry said, it was almost like the clients – or at least their money – was working for the concierge.


“In Vegas, it was easy to spot ‘em. These vody-oh-dorks would come in from bumfuck Iowa or some shit-ass place where and you could practically smell the polyester on them. Find them a mediocre restaurant in a strip mall and a third rate show at the Flamingo and they’d be fine.

“New York was tougher. You could spot the money easy, but the real question was whether they were good for the real money-making extras, the shit we got tipped out on big by the concierges.”

“Like what? Didn’t you get tipped out for prime show tickets and restaurants?”

“Well, that shit they didn’t need us runners for. You know, these white boys had connections for shit like that all over town. We never even saw that action. They called us when they didn’t want to get their hands dirty, you know, like for some blow or crank, or hookers, or uppers, or shit like that. The key is not only finding the ones who can afford it, but spending time on the ones who will afford it.

“You have to be smart about it, too,’ said Larry, leaning back in his chair and taking a long drag on the cigarette he and Tisa were sharing. “Even though you’re getting these folks what they want, you have to make them trust you, you know? Like, they don’t want to give their money to just anyway, especially if what they’re getting could ruin them, you know?”

“I could do it,” said Tisa.

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Larry. “You’re young. You got to have connections. You got to be friendly to everyone, and most importantly, you got to get people to do for you, you know, like whenever you say.”

“ Please. Is that all? If it’s a man, I’ve never had any trouble,” said Tisa. “If I wanted, I could have any of these boys in those suits,” she said, gesturing toward the court house.

“Okay.”

“You think I’m lyin’?” she asked.

“I just think it’s not that easy.”

“Watch me. When it’s the right one, just watch me.”

They played The Lawyer Game off an on. From time to time, she’d test Larry’s theory and stop a passer-by. Larry predicted a young man in a dark blue suit with a flat front pant was probably a public defender wearing his dad’s suit (“pleated pants been in for like 10 years”).

“Excuse me!” Tisa called out, giggling. “Me and my friend have a bet. Are you a lawyer?” she asked. The man stopped and smiled.

“Uh, yes I am.”

“Are you a public defender?”

“Yes.”

“I win,” said Larry triumphantly. But like a good recovering addict, he made sure not to insult the man, who was smiling, but perplexed. “I’m sorry, it’s just a game we play to pass the time. You just looked like a hard worker is all.” The man smiled and went on his way.

“Have I got them all to stop?” Tisa said triumphantly.

“Yeah, girl, you sure have,” Larry said, laughing. “But that’s a far cry from getting them to take you out for dinner.”

“Well, most of them either got a wedding ring on or they’re public defenders. I’m not gonna give up the panties for no man who ain’t got money.”

“You’re missing the point, Tisa. It’s not how much money they have, it’s whether they’ll spend it on you. More importantly for someone recovering, you’re looking for goodness. That’s in the eyes and not in the wallet.”

“Whatever,” said Tisa. “I can charm any man I want.”

“I don’t doubt it, but ask me, I think you are relying a little too heavily on that pretty little face of yours. Not for nothin’, but you do remember where you’re sitting, right? A little make-up and a nice dress ain’t gonna change that. I gotta get back to work.” He kissed her forehead and left her alone in the afternoon sun.

In the distance, Tisa could see a man walking toward her. 10:45am. He must have had a preliminary hearing. He was black, good looking, well-dressed. She thought she’d test the waters.

“How’d court go today,” she said, smiling. The man smiled back, and stopped.

“You’re good,” he said. “Court went fine, thank you.”

“Did he do it?” she asked coyly. The man laughed.

“I don’t think that came up in this hearing. I’ll look at my notes over lunch and let you know.”

“You need a lunch companion?” she smiled. He smiled back and sucked in his lips.

“You poor thing. Of course you haven’t had a good meal in awhile. I bet you deserve it, too. I think that the Center does great things. I’ve even gotten a few clients in here.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. The smile left her face; he hadn’t been flirting at all. To her, she was a nothing, a drug addict unwed mother.

“Here, darlin’, you deserve this.” He handed her a twenty. “Stick with the program. It works. Good luck to you, sweetheart.”