Evidently it was the excess of alcohol in Henry Alexander's life that led to our meeting as I walked from where I parked on 20th Street next the the Free Library of Philadelphia to the chapel of the Cathedral of SS Peter and Paul where the earthly remains of Judge Lisa Richette lay unviewed inside a dignified white and closed coffin. There were maybe 30 people inside the vaulted-ceiling-ed chamber when Henry and I arrived to pay our respects.. We walked down the center aisle together. And in some weird way I knew that Lisa Richette, a lady I liked, would forgive me.

Once during the final weeks of her life I had betrayed Lisa Richette by telling the truth. I didn't realize that she had felt I had betrayed her until I found out that she had called the editor of The Inquirer to deny that something I said had happened had indeed happened. I was quoted in an Inquirer story about Judge Richette in the aftermath of the incident where she was beaten by her son, Larry. I told reporter Gail Shister about an incident I witnessed maybe 15 years ago at Dirty Franks bar when Judge Richette walked into the bar seeking to use the pay phone. Her car was stuck in the middle of 13th Street because during an argument her son, Larry had broken off the key in the ignition and left his mother stranded. Judge Richette told me what had happened as I pushed her car to the side of the street with some other patrons. When I heard that Judge Richette had called the editor and claimed that the incident never happened, I felt bad; not because she was calling me a liar, but because right down to the end she was in denial about her son.

Henry Alexander was standing with a group of homeless men in the park on the north side of the Parkway across from the Swann Fountain where two women were serving food from the open door of a parked van. . When I walked up to Henrry he was eating rice from a styrofoam bowl with a plastic spoon. He was wearing combat fatigues. "How you doin'?" I asked. "OK," he nodded, between spoonfuls. "Do you know who's being buried over there?" I asked. He said no and so I told him. He knew who Lisa Richette was and her committment to assisting the homeless. "She was a good lady," Henry said. "You want to walk over with me?" I asked, and he replied, "Yeah."

On our way he told me his story. He's a veteran of the first Gulf War. He served in Kuwait. He grew up in Kensington and attended Frankford High School. He's been drifting through life since leaving the service, but he's only been living on the streets for the last six months when he was asked to leave his daughter's home. "Where do you sleep?" I asked. He pointed, "Over there between those two trees." We stood together in front of her casket and he seemed to have a great dignity about him. He said he was 45 years old but he looked 30.

"How did you get here?" I asked as we walked out of the chapel and back toward the trees. "Drugs?" He replied, "No. It was liquor." I wished him well as he prepared to spend his first winter on the streets. "Good luck," I said, shaking his hand. For the first time he stammered for something to say. "You want some money?" I said. And he smiled in relief. "All I've got are some ones," I said, handing him six. "Thanks," he said. "I'm going to keep my eye out for you," I said, walking away and thinking of Lisa Richette.