might have planted a bug on my body without my knowledge.
Suade obviously lives in a world of her own invention.
"The fibbies would love to bust me," she says. "They park out front.
Watch me with field glasses. Try to read my lips." I'm wondering if she has a rich fantasy life, or if the feds really are onto her.
"I'm not working for the FBI. My sole concern is a little girl.
At the present time I think she's in danger. I think you can help and I think once you hear all the facts you will want to." She looks at me as if this is nine-to-five work. Another hour, another child to save. It's a story that puts me squarely in the fold of followers.
"You have a client?"
"I do."
"Tell me about her." The first problem.
I'm saved by the tap of metal on the glass door behind her. I see some guy standing there, a file of paper under his arm. He's looking intently at Suade, tapping on the glass with his keys.
"What do you want?" She doesn't turn but shouts at him through the closed door. Hers is a voice with multiple personalities.
This one is a candidate for exorcism.
"I need some copies." Muted voice from outside.
"Try Kinko's."
"Just take a minute," he says.
"How do you know how long it'll take? Machine's not warmed up.
Read the sign. We're closed." He looks at the closed sign, and the hours posted next to it on the door. "It's after nine," he says.
"Excuse me." She turns around, brim of her hat like a cutting edge.
"What is this? Nobody can read." She's still holding the letter opener with its tip like a stiletto. "Maybe if I stick this up your ass, you'll get the point," she says.
By the time she gets to the door, the guy's already backing up, staring at her wide-eyed, wondering if somehow he's wandered through the portal to hell.
She turns the lock on the door. In less than an hour, she's run one man down on the street and now she's threatening to stab another.
Discretion tells me I should end my conversation while I'm ahead.
"No need to get abusive, lady. All I wanted was some papers copied."
"You think this is abuse?" she says. "You want abuse? I'll show you abuse." The guy's staring at the needle-sharp point. By the time the door is open, he's out in the middle of the sidewalk, pedaling in reverse like some back judge in a football game.
Suade picks up a newspaper that's in front of the door and throws it at him, classifieds flying in the breeze.
He turns and starts to run.
"Like I said, try Kinko's," she says.
"Well, the hell with you." He tries to reclaim a little pride as he scurries down the street.
"Yeah, right. Another hero," she says and steps back through the door.
Almost in the same breath: "You say your client's child is in danger."
"Yes. I think that's safe to say."
"This child. Boy? Girl? How old?"
"A girl. Eight. My biggest problem is I've got to find her."
"What are you talking about, find her? Where is she?"
"I don't know."
"Who's the mother?"
"The mother's got some problems."
"Who doesn't," she says.
"She has a serious criminal record."
"Is that how you came to represent her?"
"Not exactly."
"Listen. I don't have time for twenty questions," says Suade.
"Why don't you just tell me your story so we can cut to the chase."
"I don't represent the mother," I tell her.
This stops her in her tracks. "Don't tell me. You represent the father?"
"No." An instant of relief.
"The grandfather," I say.
She looks at me and laughs. I can't tell if I'm about to get the point.
"I knew it. Have you got a subpoena? If so, hand it here and get out,"
she says.
"I don't serve subpoenas. I have a process server who does that."
"Fine, then just get out. Or would you like me to call the cops?"
"No need for that. What are you afraid of?"
"Not you," she says. She's reaching for her purse, pulling it closer.
"Fine. I just want to talk. Easier here than in a courtroom."
"For who? Not for me," she says. She's giving me a look I've seen in barrooms from guys with broken bottles in their hands,
Suade obviously lives in a world of her own invention.
"The fibbies would love to bust me," she says. "They park out front.
Watch me with field glasses. Try to read my lips." I'm wondering if she has a rich fantasy life, or if the feds really are onto her.
"I'm not working for the FBI. My sole concern is a little girl.
At the present time I think she's in danger. I think you can help and I think once you hear all the facts you will want to." She looks at me as if this is nine-to-five work. Another hour, another child to save. It's a story that puts me squarely in the fold of followers.
"You have a client?"
"I do."
"Tell me about her." The first problem.
I'm saved by the tap of metal on the glass door behind her. I see some guy standing there, a file of paper under his arm. He's looking intently at Suade, tapping on the glass with his keys.
"What do you want?" She doesn't turn but shouts at him through the closed door. Hers is a voice with multiple personalities.
This one is a candidate for exorcism.
"I need some copies." Muted voice from outside.
"Try Kinko's."
"Just take a minute," he says.
"How do you know how long it'll take? Machine's not warmed up.
Read the sign. We're closed." He looks at the closed sign, and the hours posted next to it on the door. "It's after nine," he says.
"Excuse me." She turns around, brim of her hat like a cutting edge.
"What is this? Nobody can read." She's still holding the letter opener with its tip like a stiletto. "Maybe if I stick this up your ass, you'll get the point," she says.
By the time she gets to the door, the guy's already backing up, staring at her wide-eyed, wondering if somehow he's wandered through the portal to hell.
She turns the lock on the door. In less than an hour, she's run one man down on the street and now she's threatening to stab another.
Discretion tells me I should end my conversation while I'm ahead.
"No need to get abusive, lady. All I wanted was some papers copied."
"You think this is abuse?" she says. "You want abuse? I'll show you abuse." The guy's staring at the needle-sharp point. By the time the door is open, he's out in the middle of the sidewalk, pedaling in reverse like some back judge in a football game.
Suade picks up a newspaper that's in front of the door and throws it at him, classifieds flying in the breeze.
He turns and starts to run.
"Like I said, try Kinko's," she says.
"Well, the hell with you." He tries to reclaim a little pride as he scurries down the street.
"Yeah, right. Another hero," she says and steps back through the door.
Almost in the same breath: "You say your client's child is in danger."
"Yes. I think that's safe to say."
"This child. Boy? Girl? How old?"
"A girl. Eight. My biggest problem is I've got to find her."
"What are you talking about, find her? Where is she?"
"I don't know."
"Who's the mother?"
"The mother's got some problems."
"Who doesn't," she says.
"She has a serious criminal record."
"Is that how you came to represent her?"
"Not exactly."
"Listen. I don't have time for twenty questions," says Suade.
"Why don't you just tell me your story so we can cut to the chase."
"I don't represent the mother," I tell her.
This stops her in her tracks. "Don't tell me. You represent the father?"
"No." An instant of relief.
"The grandfather," I say.
She looks at me and laughs. I can't tell if I'm about to get the point.
"I knew it. Have you got a subpoena? If so, hand it here and get out,"
she says.
"I don't serve subpoenas. I have a process server who does that."
"Fine, then just get out. Or would you like me to call the cops?"
"No need for that. What are you afraid of?"
"Not you," she says. She's reaching for her purse, pulling it closer.
"Fine. I just want to talk. Easier here than in a courtroom."
"For who? Not for me," she says. She's giving me a look I've seen in barrooms from guys with broken bottles in their hands,
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