By S. Sponte, Esq.
One of the things I like best about my first floor office is the picture window. It is a lovely picture window, encompassing one whole wall, and it looks out onto a fine and bustling street.
From my desk I am able to watch a lovely share of my world pass by, the noise and chagrin filtered out by double panes of glass, a sanitized and serene display of the pastoral life in this small Pennsylvania town. It is ever so becalming to watch the folks glide by, dancing to life’s merry little tune, oblivious to my presence. I regard it all with profound affection. Its kind of like having an aquarium that doesn’t smell bad.
Now a couple of weeks ago I was conducting the initial interview with a new divorce client and I had just asked her to briefly describe for me the events leading up to her decision to pursue a divorce. Like a greyhound loosed at the starting gate, she uncoiled in her chair and removed a large, overstuffed three ring binder from her large, overstuffed purse and turning to Page One and saying “December, 1973,” she launched into a litany. After fifteen minutes or so, she turned the page, said “January, 1974,” and I turned instinctively to my window.
For the next several hours, as she regaled me with the sins of her man, I was adrift with the outside world, my reverie punctured only by an occasional sob. Oh, I know, it is part of my professional obligation to offer solace, succor, to such a client, to east the pain, or at least pay attention, and I did just that. Every six minutes or so I would chime in “Oh My God, he didn’t!,” just to help her perpetuate the illusion that somehow her bad marriage was ever so much worse than anybody else’s. Then, my professional obligations fulfilled for the moment, I was left entirely to my window and its sanitized delights.
March, 1974 – A colleague passes by carrying four large cardboard file folders, two under each arm. I recognize the case, as he has drawn a skull and cross bones in yellow magic marker on the outside of each folder. He took this case ten years ago and he has rued every day since then. That’s a lot of ruing in anybody’s book. For the last seven of those years he has been unsuccessfully trying to refer it out, but inasmuch as just about every local lawyer knows the case, he’s had no success. I suspect he is on his way to have lunch with that new young lawyer who just moved to town.
I empathize with his predicament. He took the case when he was a young and inexperienced practitioner and he just didn’t appreciate the ramifications of taking a bankruptcy collection case on a contingency fee.
July, 1974 – a former divorce client walks by, arm in arm with her ex-husband, and they wave. Actually he is her ex-ex-husband. About six months ago, three weeks after she got her decree, he inherited a huge sum of money from a distant uncle. About that same time she began missing him terribly and she moved back in. They effectuated a common law marriage and together they invested his money heavily in jointly owned real estate. She has an appointment to see me next week.
April, 1975 – another colleague goes by, a close friend who primarily does defense work for insurance companies. He stops at the corner and watches as the crossing signal changes from “Wait” to “Walk” and back to “Wait” again. Damn, I thought he’d mastered that. I hope it doesn’t rain.
In December, 1977, my attention was diverted by an unusually high-pitched wail from my client. I had completely lost tract of time and at least twelve minutes had passed since my last interjection.
“Oh My God, he didn’t!” I exclaimed instinctively. That seemed to reassure her and, as she soared into a new year with increased resolve, I once again turned to the business at hand.
June, 1981 – A Federal Express truck pulls up onto the curb in front of a colleague’s office across the street. A uniformed driver jumps out of the truck before it comes to a complete stop and he runs at full speed into the office. Twenty seconds or so later, carrying a large, flat, brown envelope, he sprints out, leaps into the truck and takes off at breakneck speed down the street. I see my colleague in his own window, tie loosened at the collar, wiping sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. He sees me but he doesn’t wave.
I’ve seen this play before. He’s about to miss another statute of limitations. If he hadn’t been under so much stress, if it had been a contract or some such thing, he would have waved.
September, 1983 – My colleague with the four large folders walks on by, heading back to his office. He is still carrying those four large folders and it isn’t quite noon yet. Usually he gets at least through the entrée. The new kid has set a record.
February, 1985 – It’s lunch time and I’m getting very hungry. I haven’t had a bite since before 1973. Silently, so as not to interrupt my client, I get up from my chair and put on my suit jacket. I open the top right drawer of my desk and switch on the tape player. “Oh My God, he didn’t!” it recites, as it will every six minutes while I’m gone.
My client is so wrapped up in her soliloquy she won’t know I’m gone, and I figure just because a client has had a few bad years, why should I go hungry? Oh now, I am not entirely without feeling for clients in these matters. I have also recorded “There, there” on my tape machine at three minute intervals. They like that.
Copyright 1990, S. Sponte, Esq.