The Street Lawyer

The man with the rubber boots stepped into the elevator behind me, but I didn't see him at

first. I smelled him though--the pungent odor of smoke and cheap wine and life on the

street without soap. We were alone as we moved upward, and when I finally glanced over

I saw the boots, black and dirty and much too large. A frayed and tattered trench coat fell

to his knees. Under it, layers of foul clothing bunched around his midsection, so that he

appeared stocky, almost fat. But it wasn't from being well fed; in the wintertime in D.C.,

the street people wear everything they own, or so it seems.

He was black and aging--his beard and hair were half-gray and hadn't been washed or cut

in years. He looked straight ahead through thick sunglasses, thoroughly ignoring me, and

making me wonder for a second why, exacdy, I was inspecting him.

He didn't belong. It was not his building, not his elevator, not a place he could afford. The

lawyers on all eight floors worked for my firm at hourly rates that still seemed obscene to

me, even after seven years.

Just another street bum in from the cold. Happened all the time in downtown Washington.

But we had security guards to deal with the riffraff.

We stopped at six, and I noticed for the first time that he had not pushed a button, had not

selected a floor. He was following me. I made a quick exit, and as I stepped into the

splendid marble foyer of Drake & Sweeney. I glanced over my shoulder just long enough

to see him standing in the elevator, looking at nothing, still ignoring me.

Madam Devier, one of our very resilient receptionists, greeted me with her typical look of

disdain. "Watch the elevator," I said.

"Why?"

"Street bum. You may want to call security."

"Those people," she said in her affected French accent.

"Get some disinfectant too."

I walked away, wrestling my overcoat off my shoulders, forgetting the man with the

rubber boots. I had nonstop meetings throughout the afternoon, important conferences

with important people. I turned the corner and was about to say something to Polly, my

secretary, when I heard the first shot.

Madam Devier was standing behind her desk, petrifled, staring into the barrel of an

awfully long handgun held by our pal the street bum. Since I was the first one to come to

her aid, he politely aimed it at me, and I too became rigid.

"Don't shoot," I said, hands in the air. I'd seen enough movies to know precisely what to

do.

"Shut up," he mumbled, with a great deal of composure.

There were voices in the hallway behind me. Someone yelled, "He's got a gun!" And then

the voices disappeared into the background, growing fainter and fainter as my colleagues

hit the back door. I could almost see them jumping out the windows.

To my immediate left was a heavy wooden door that led to a large conference room,

which at that moment happened to be filled with eight lawyers from our litigation section.

Eight hard-nosed and fearless litigators who spent their hours chewing up people. The

toughest was a scrappy little torpedo named Rafter, and as he yanked open the door

saying "What the hell?" the barrel swung from me to him, and the man with the rubber

boots had exactly what he wanted.

"Put that gun down," Rafter ordered from the doorway, and a split second later another

shot rang through the reception area, a shot that went into the ceiling somewhere well

above Rafter's head and reduced him to a mere mortal. Turning the gun back to me, he

nodded, and I complied, entering the conference room behind Rafter. The last thing I saw

on the outside was Madam Devier shaking at her desk, terror-stricken, headset around her

neck, high heels parked neatly next to her wastebasket.

The man with the rubber boots slammed the door behind me, and slowly waved the gun

through the air so that all eight litigators could admire it. It seemed to be working fine;

the smell of its discharge was more noticeable than the odor of its owner.

The room was dominated by a long table, covered with documents and papers that only

seconds ago seenled terribly important. A row of windows overlooked a parking lot. Two

doors led to the hallway.

"Up against the wall," he said, using the gun as a very effective prop. Then he placed it

very near my head, and said, "Lock the doors." Which I did.

Not a word from the eight litigators as they scrambled backward. Not a word from me as

I quickly locked the doors, then looked at him for approval.

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