The man with the rubber boots stepped into the elevator behind me, but I didn’t see him at first. I smelled him though—the pungent odor of smoke and cheap wine and life on the street without soap.
Michael was in a hurry. He was scrambling up the ladder at Drake & Sweeney, a giant D.C. law firm with eight hundred lawyers. The money was good and getting better; a partnership was three years away. He was a rising star with no time to waste, no time to stop, no time to toss a few coins into the cups of panhandlers. No time for a conscience.
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