Posted by New York magazine on July 16, 2018 01:29:49 The day after I lost my job as a New York City lawyer, I went into the lobby of my apartment building and picked up my keys.
I walked down the hall, down the stairs, down a hallway, past a couple of receptionist’s desks.
I stopped in front of a desk that had a large picture of a young man in a cowboy hat, holding a bag of groceries.
He looked out the window, and then to me.
“Look, my dad,” he said.
“He was in the Bronx, back in ’72.
We’re going to talk about this today.”
I had been looking forward to it ever since the funeral.
I was sitting on a bench in the lobby when I saw the picture.
He’d gone to court to represent a friend of a friend who’d died in a car accident, and the friend’s family had won, winning $150,000 in damages.
It was a great day.
But as I looked up, I saw him standing in the doorway, looking straight ahead, as if he were looking at me.
He had no mustache.
“I want to talk to you about your father,” he continued.
“My father was in a bus accident, in his twenties.
I don’t know how many people died.
And then his family sued the city, and it’s the one thing that’s gotten me through this whole process.
I’m not here to talk for your father, I don´t know how you would feel.
But he told me that his father had died, and that he was very angry at the city.
But I don`t know that that is what you are looking for.
You want to know about me.
I want to ask you something.”
I wanted to talk.
He paused for a moment, and I could see his eyes light up.
I wanted him to tell me about his father, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted it.
I thought he was going to be more than an uncle, and a good lawyer.
I didn’t want him to get angry with me, I didn´t want to see him go through the motions of an attorney, and he didn’t know what he was talking about.
I could tell he wanted to know if I knew his father.
I would have told him everything I knew.
The lawyer, a woman named Breonna Taylor, had been practicing law for eight years, and she was a friend to my dad.
We were close and he liked her.
She would take his case and help him understand it, and help guide him through the legal process.
He wanted to help his father find his way through his life, so she encouraged him to take her on as his lawyer.
“There are a lot of people who are not in the business of helping their own people,” she told me.
In February, we sat down for lunch at a trendy steakhouse in a high-rise building on West 125th Street.
Breonna and I had gotten along so well that we had a casual dinner, but we also had a conversation about what I wanted Breonna to know.
I asked her if I could talk about my dad, and her eyes lit up.
“No, you can’t,” she said.
She was looking at her hands.
“You have to ask my father,” she explained.
I couldn’t believe it.
Breanna, who has a thick, wavy, olive-green hair, had gone through a divorce and a long battle with substance abuse.
She had been in and out of rehab, but was determined to be an attorney.
She knew my father, and had served him as his attorney.
When she started out, she took him on as a client and, when she got him to agree to a settlement, he agreed to help her get out of the lawsuit.
I had a hard time imagining a situation in which Breonna would not be helping her own son navigate the legal system, but this was the reality of the situation.
My dad had never represented a client before, but he was a strong lawyer and he knew how to handle cases.
He was also an expert witness, a former prosecutor.
He knew how it was to file a lawsuit.
In the past few months, Breonna had worked on a lot more clients, but the case against her father had never gotten any traction.
We sat at a table in a restaurant, Breanna and I talking, and Breonna said, “This is why you should be an accident lawyer.
It’s hard to get a good result.”
I told her I wanted a lawyer to represent my dad in this case.
I knew she wanted to work with me.
She and I spoke for a few minutes about how I was trying to find a way to help my dad succeed in this situation. I told