The Street Lawyer

The  old  black  man  got  into  the  elevator  behind  me.  He  smelled  of  smoke  and  cheap  wine  and  life  on  the  streets  without  soap.  His  beard  and  hair  were  half  gray  and  very  dirty.  He  was  wearing  sunglasses  and  a  long  dirty  coat  hung  down  to  his  knees.  He  looked  fat,  probably  because  he  had  all  his  clothes  on  in  the  winter  in  Washington,  the  street  people  wear  all  their  clothes  all  the  rhyme.

They  can't  leave  any  of  their  clothes  at  home  because  they  don't  have  a  home.  The  old  man  didn't  belong  here.  Everything  here  was  expensive.  The  400  lawyers  in  the  building  who  all  worked  for  Drake  Sweeney  were  paid  an  unbelievable  amount  of  money.  I  knew  that  because  I  was  a  Drake  Sweeney  lawyer  myself.

The  elevator  stopped  at  six.  The  man  hadn't  pushed  an  elevator  button.  When  I  stepped  out  and  turned  right,  he  followed  me.  I  pushed  the  heavy  wooden  door  of  a  big  meeting  room.  There  were  eight  lawyers  at  the  table  inside  and  they  all  looked  surprised.

They  were  looking  behind  me,  so  I  turned.  My  friend  from  the  elevator  was  standing  there.  He  was  pointing  a  gun  at  me.  Could  put  chat  gun  down,  said  one  of  the  lawyers  at  the  table.  His  name  was  Rafter.

He  was  a  hard  man  in  a  courtroom,  maybe  the  hardest  lawyer  that  Drake  Sweeney  had.  Suddenly  a  shoe  hit  the  ceiling.  Had  suddenly  a  shoe  hit  the  ceiling.  Rafter's  eyes  opened  wide  and  his  mouth  shut.  Lock  the  door,  the  man  said  to  me.

I  locked  the  door  of  the  meeting  room.  Stand  against  the  wall.  The  man  took  against  the  wall.  The  male  stood  against  the  wall.  The  man  took  off  his  dirty  coat  and  put  it  carefully  on  the  large  expensive  table  in  the  center  of  the  room.

He  had  five  or  six  red  sticks  around  his  waist,  tied  there  with  string.  I  had  never  seen  dynamite  before,  but  they  looked  like  dynamite  to  me.  I  wanted  to  run  and  hope  for  a  bad  shoe  when  he  fired  at  me,  but  my  legs  were  like  water.  Some  of  the  lawyers  were  shaking  with  fear  and  making  noises  like  scared  animals.  So  please  be  quiet,  said  the  man  calmly.

Then  he  took  a  long  yellow  rope  and  a  knife  from  the  pocket  of  his  pants.  Cute  use,  he  said  to  me.  Tie  them  up.  Rafter  stepped  forward.  Listen,  friend,  he  said.

What  do  you  want?  He  said.  What  do  you  want?  IDAS  of  the  second  shot  went  into  the  wall  behind  Rafter's  ear.  The  second  shot  went  into  the  wall  behind  Rafter's  ear,  said  the  man.

What  what  would  you  like  us  to  call  you?  I  asked  him  quietly.  Call  me  Mr.  I  tied  the  eight  lawyers  with  the  yellow  rope.  One  of  them,  Barry  NewsO,  was  my  friend.

We  were  the  same  age,  32  and  we  had  started  at  Drake  Sweeney  on  the  same  day.  Only  our  marriages  were  different.  His  was  successful  and  mine  wasn't.  He  had  three  kids,  Claire  and  I  didn't  have  any.  I  looked  at  Barry  and  he  looked  at  me.

I  knew  we  were  both  thinking  about  Barry's  kids.  We  could  hear  police  cars  outside  and  noises  as  the  police  entered  the  building.  Mr  pointed  at  the  dynamite  around  his  waist.  I  pull  this,  he  said,  and  we  die.  As  for  a  second  we  all  looked  at  each  other.

Nine  white  boys  and  each  other.  Nine  white  boys  and  eye  boys.  And  Eva  wismster.  I  thought  of  all  those  terrible  shootings  you  read  about  in  the  newspapers.  A  crazy  worker  returns  to  work  after  lunch  with  a  gun  and  kills  everybody  in  his  office.

There  had  been  killings  at  fast  food  restaurants  and  playgrounds  coup.  And  those  dead  people  were  children  or  honest  workers  who  would  care  about  us.  We  were  lawyers.  Time  passed.  What  did  you  eat  for  lunch  today?

Mr  asked  me,  breaking  a  long  silence.  He  spoke  clearly  and  from  the  sound  of  his  voice.  He  had  had  a  good  education.  He  hadn't  always  been  on  the  streets.  Had  chicken  and  salad,  I  said,  surprised.

Alone?  Alone.  I  met  a  friend.  How  much  do  I  met  a  friend.  How  much  did  it  cost  for  both  of  you?

$30,  he  repeated.  For  two  people.  You  know  what  I  had  for  lunch?  No.  No,  it's  no.

I  had  soup.  Free  soup  from  a  shelter.  And  I  was  glad  to  get  it.  You  could  feed  a  hundred  of  my  friends  for  $30.  You  know  that  tax  my  s,  mister.

Call  your  boss.  There  was  a  phone  on  the  table.  I  called  Arthur  Jacobs.  800  lawyers  worked  for  Drake  Sweeney  around  the  world.  But  at  79,  Jacobs  was  the  oldest  of  the  partners  here  in  Washington.

He  answered  at  the  first  ring  of  the  phone.  Meister  Jacobs  feist  up  some.  Michael,  are  you  okay?  Are  you  okay?  Wonderful,  I  said.

What  does  he  want  from  us?  Said  well,  what  does  he  want  from  us?  So  they  spoke  to  the  man.  What?  What  do  you  want,  Mr.

Pudda?  From  the  shelter  at  L  Street  in  17.  They  put  a  lot  of  vegetables  in  the  soup  there.  One  soup  with  bread.  One  soup  with  bread,  I  said  into  the  phone.

No,  no,  said  the  man.  Soup  and  bread  for  all  of  us,  said  the  man.  We'll  get  soup  and  bread  for  all  of  us.  Tyster  Jacobs,  I  said.  I  heard.

I  can  hear  him.  A  shelter  for  street  people  does  carry  outs,  plea  outs.  Eat  staps.  Please,  just  do  it.  He  has  a  gun  and  dynamite.

Hi.  I  put  the  phone  down.  US,  said  the  met.  He  was  talking  to  me.  What's  your  name?

Michael  Brock.  How  much  money  did  you  earn  last  year?  Don't  lie.  Yes,  I  thought  quickly.  I  didn't  lie.

I  thought  quickly.  I  didn't  like  that.  120,000.  How  much  did  you  give  to  poor  people?  I  don't  remember.

My  wife  does  that.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Brock.  Mr.  Brock.

Mr  pointed  the  gun  at  the  other  lawyers.  He  asked  all  of  them  the  same  question  nate  Malimood  the  only  partner  in  the  room  earned  more  than  a  million  dollars.  More  than  a  million  dollars.  He's  more  than  a  million,  mr  said  to  him.  I  know  you.

You  walk  past  me  when  I  sit  on  the  sidewalk  every  morning.  You  never  give  me  any  money.  Why  can't  you  help  poor  people,  homeless  people?  Nate  was  a  big  man  with  white  hair.  He  had  been  with  Drake  Sweeney  for  30  years.

He  was  red  in  the  face  with  embarrassment  now.  Tom  sorry,  he  said.  Who  did  the  eviction?  Said  Mr.  Suddenly  and  again.

Who  did  the  eviction?  Nobody  spoke.  None  of  us  understood  him.  But  Mr  wasn't  looking  for  an  answer.  He  looked  out  the  window.

Maybe  he  was  thinking.  Maybe  he  was  dreaming.  Maybe  he  was  dreaming.  Maybe  he  was  watching  the  police  out  there.  Our  soup  and  bread  arrived  half  an  hour  later.

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door,  and  somebody  outside  shouted  through  the  door.  Your  food.  Mr  shouted  back.  If  I  see  a  policeman  out  there,  I'll  kill  these  men.  Out  there,  I'll  kill  these  men.

Then  he  pointed  Regun  at  my  head.  The  two  of  us  walked  slowly  to  the  door.  Unlock  the  door  and