It was a Saturday afternoon in early April at D.C. Superior Court, and Alfred Postell, a diagnosed schizophrenic, stood before Judge Thomas Motley.
Postell’s hair was medium length and graying. His belly spilled over his pants. A tangled beard hung from his jowls.
“You have the right to remain silent,” a deputy clerk told Postell, according to a transcript of the arraignment. “Anything you say, other than to your attorney, can be used against you.”
“I’m a lawyer,” Postell replied.
Motley ignored the seemingly bizarre assertion, mulling over whether Postell, charged with unlawful entry, posed a flight risk.
“I have to return,” Postell protested, offering a convoluted explanation: “I passed the Bar at Catholic University, was admitted to Constitution Hall. I swore the Oath of Office as an attorney at Constitution Hall in 1979; graduated from Harvard Law School in 1979.”
That got Motley’s attention. He’d also graduated from Harvard Law School in 1979.
“Mr. Postell, so did I,” Motley said. “I remember you.”
I’ve worked with the homeless, and they have moments, real shining through moments, but nothing that would add up and produce an hour, 4 hours of work, and never 8 hours of work a day.
Others that are near homeless will come in for the supplies give away, not just food and personal items, but kitchen ware, blankets, appliances. If we don’t tell them you can only have one of each, they will take it all. And you wonder if it’s hoarding and what their living environments look like.
I have served meals to homeless for years, and they are very patient, kind, eager, but never thankful. They will come early, and eat quickly, and then come back for more, until all the food is gone, which I guess for us is a good thing. I never saw any of them smoking, drinking or doing drugs.
