THE CHEMICALS worked until four the next morning, when I awoke to the harsh smell of Thomas's sticky brain fluid weaving through my nostrils. I was frantic for a moment in the darkness. I rubbed my nose and eyes, and thrashed around the sofa until I heard someone move. Claire sleeping in a chair next to me.
"It's okay," she said softly, touching my shoulder. "Just a bad dream."
"Would you get me some water?" I said, and she went to the kitchen. We talked for an hour. I told her everything I could remember about the event. She sat close to me, rubbing my knee, holding the glass of water, listening carefully. We had talked so little in the past few years.
She had to make her rounds at seven, so we cooked breakfast together, waffles and bacon. We ate at the kitchen counter with a small television in front of us.
The six o'clock news began with the hostage drama. There were shots of the building during the crisis, the mob outside, some of my fellow captives hurriedly leaving when it was over. At least one of the helicopters we had heard belonged to the news station, and its camera had zoomed down for a tight shot of the window. Through it, Thomas could be seen for a few seconds as he peeked out.
His name was Thomas Bukowsky, age forty-five, a Vietnam vet with a short criminal record. A mug shot from an arrest for burglary was put on the screen behind the early morning newsperson. It looked nothing like Thomas-no beard, no glasses, much younger. He was described as homeless with a history of drug use. No motive was known. No family had come forward.
There were No comments from our side, and the story fizzled.
The weather was next. Heavy snow was expected to hit by late afternoon. It was the twelfth day of February, and already a record had been set for snowfall.
Claire drove me to the office, where at six-forty I was not surprised to see my Lexus parked among several other imports. The lot was never empty. We had people who slept at the office.
I promised to call her later in the morning, and we would try to have lunch at the hospital. She wanted me to take it easy, at least for a day or two.
What was I supposed to do? Lie on the sofa and take pills? The consensus seemed to be that I needed a day off, after which ! guessed I would be expected to return to my duties at full throttle.
I said good morning to the two very alert security guards in the lobby. Three of the four elevators were open, waiting, and I had a choice. ! stepped onto the one Thomas and I had taken, and things slowed to a crawl.
A hundred questions at once: Why had he picked our building? Our firm?
Where had he been in the moments before he entered the lobby? Thom here were the security guards who usually loitered near the front? Why me? Hundreds of lawyers came and went all day long. Why the sixth floor?
And what was he after? I did not believe Thomas Bukowsky went to the trouble of wrapping himself with explosives and risking his life, humble as it was, to chastise a bunch of wealthy lawyers over their lack of generosity. He could've found richer people. And perhaps greedier ones.
His question, "Who are the evictors?" was never answered. But it wouldn't take long.
The elevator stopped, and I stepped off, this time without anyone behind me. Madam Julia was still asleep at that hour, somewhere, and the sixth floor was quiet. In front of her desk ! paused and stared at the two doors to the conference room. I slowly opened the nearest one, the one where Umstead stood when the bullet shot over his head and into Thomas's. I took a long breath and flipped a light switch.
Nothing had happened. The conference table and chairs were in perfect order. The Oriental rug upon which Thomas died had been replaced with an even prettier one. A fresh coat of paint covered the walls. Even the bullet hole in the ceiling above Rafter's spot was gone.
The powers that be at Will & Trust had spent some dough the previous night to make sure the incident never occurred. The room might attract a few of the curious throughout the day, and there certainly could be nothing to gawk at. It might make folks neglect their work for a minute or two. There simply couldn't be any trace of street trash in our pristine offices.
It was a cold-blooded cover-up, and, sadly, I understood the rationale behind it. I was one of the rich white guys. What did I expect, a memorial? A pile of flowers brought in by Thomas's fellow street people?
I didn't know what I expected. But the smell of fresh paint made me nauseous.
On my desk every morning, in precisely the same spot, were The Wall Street Journal and The Washington Post. I used to know the name of the person who put them there, but it was long forgotten. On the front page of the Post's Metro section, below the fold, was the same mug shot of Thomas Bukowsky, and a large story about yesterday's little crisis.
I read it quickly because I figured I knew more details than any reporter. But I learned a few things. The red sticks were not dynamite. Thomas had taken a couple of broom handles, sawed them into little pieces, wrapped the ominous silver tape around them, and scared the living hell out of us. The gun was a 44 automatic, stolen.
Because it was the Post, the story dealt more with Thomas Bukowsky than with his victims, though, in all fairness, and much to my satisfaction, not a single word had been uttered by anyone at Will & Trust.
According to one Luis Kattsoff, Director of the 14th Street Legal Clinic, Thomas Bukowsky had worked for many years as a janitor at the National Arboretum. He'd lost his job as a result of budget cutting. He had served a few months in jail for burglary, then landed in the streets. He'd struggled with alcohol and drugs, and was routinely picked up for shoplifting. Kattsoff's clinic had represented him several times. If there was family, his lawyer knew nothing about it.
As to motive, Kattsoff had little to offer. He did say that Thomas Bukowsky had been evicted recently from an old warehouse in which he had been squatting.
An eviction is a legal procedure, carried out by lawyers. I had a pretty good idea which one of the thousands of D.C. firms had tossed Thomas into the streets.
The 14th Street Legal Clinic was funded by a charity and worked only with the homeless, according to Kattsoff. "Back when we got federal money, we had seven lawyers. Now we're down to two," he said.
Not surprisingly, the Journal didn't mention the story. Had any of the nine corporate lawyers in the nation's fifth-largest silk-stocking firm been killed or even slightly wounded, it would've been on the front page.
Thank God it wasn't a bigger story. I was at my desk, reading my papers, in one piece with lots of work to do. I could've been at the morgue alongside Thomas.
***
POLLY ARRIVED a few minutes before eight with a big smile and a plate of homemade cookies. She was not surprised to see me at work.
In fact, all nine of the hostages punched in, most ahead of schedule. It would've been a glaring sign of weakness to stay home with the wife and get pampered.
"Alex's on the phone," Grace announced. Our firm had at least ten Alexs, but only one prowled the halls without the need of a last name. Alex Baldwin was the senior partner, the CEO, the driving force, a man we admired and respected greatly. If the firm had a heart and soul, it was Alex. In seven years, I had spoken to him three times.
I told him I was fine. He complimented me on my courage and grace under pressure, and I almost felt like a hero. I wondered how he knew. He had probably talked to Malamud first, and was working his way down the ladder. So the stories would begin, then the jokes.
Umstead and his porcelain vase would no doubt cause much hilarity.
Alex wanted to meet with the ex-hostages at ten, in the conference room, to record our statements on video.
"Why?" I asked.
"The boys in litigation think it's a good idea," he said, his voice razor-sharp in spite of his eighty years. "His family will probably sue the cops."
"Of course," I said.
"And they'll probably name us as defendants. People will sue for anything, you know."
Thank goodness, I almost said. Where would we be without lawsuits?
I thanked him for his concern, and he was gone, off to call the next hostage.
The parade started before nine, a steady stream of well-wishers and gossipers lingering by my office, deeply concerned about me but also desperate for the details. I had a pile of work to do, but I couldn't get to it. In the quiet moments between guests, I sat and stared at the row of files awaiting my attention, and I was numb. My hands wouldn't reach.
It was not the same. The work was not important, My desk was not life and death. I had seen death, almost felt it, and I was naive to think I could simply shrug it off and bounce back as if nothing had happened.
I thought about Thomas Bukowsky and his red sticks with the multicolored wires running in all directions. He'd spent hours building his toys and planning his assault. He'd stolen a gun, found our firm, made a crucial mistake that cost him his life, and no one, not one single person I worked with, gave a damn about him.
I finally left. The traffic was getting worse, and I was getting chatted up by people I couldn't stand. Two reporters called. I told Grace I had some errands to run, and she reminded me of the meeting with Alex. I went to my car, started it and turned on the heater, and sat for a long time debating whether to participate in the reenactment. If I missed it, Alex would be upset. No one misses a meeting with Alex.
I drove away. It was a rare opportunity to do something stupid. I'd been traumatized. I had to leave. Alex and the rest of the firm would just have to give me a break.