A MYSTERIOUS VOICE

A MYSTERIOUS VOICE

     “The Amazon River? The Amazon River?  Of all the places on this glorious planet, why would you want to go there?”

     “I guess you must have a longing to tempt the flesh-eating fish that live in the Amazon, or perhaps the poison darts of the natives who dwell along its banks.”

     “You, of all people!  I just can’t see you wanting in the least to go there.”

     “I know you sometimes have a swelled head, but do you really want to take it in the opposite direction?”

     Such comments came at me right and left when I announced my plan to travel along the Amazon River in Brazil. I had always loved travel, but great cities of the world had always been my goal. I was an urban traveler. My closest extended encounter with nature had been a hike in Yosemite when I was a teenager.

     So, why did I choose the Amazon River for my next venture? The answer is not easy to explain. All I can say is that as I contemplated my latest trip, a mysterious voice deep inside me beckoned me and encouraged -- no, insisted is a better word-- me to go to the Amazon.  Further yet, this would be no posh “eco-tour” for well-heeled adventurers who demand four-star treatment. This trip would be with an anthropological study group. We would be as far removed from the refinements of life as possible. Even the preparation for this trip would be arduous. Given my background in law, as opposed to anthropology, I felt fortunate to have been considered for this trip. It was that mysterious deep voice that kept pushing me on. Of course, I told no one about the voice. If I had, I certainly would have been sent some place other than the Amazon!

     After all the training, paperwork, and study, I felt like a minor authority on the river and its inhabitants.This didn’t increase my enthusiasm, but it did make the trip seem more interesting.Then, only a week before our departure, the mysterious deep voice insisted that I cancel my trip.I had never been so embarrassed. So many people had pulled so many strings to get me on board. I'd invested thousands of dollars, money that would, of course, not be refunded. It made no sense. Why did this voice insist that I go, and now insist that I not go? I might have feigned illness or some personal emergency, but, no, I couldn’t do that. I had to be straight up. The organizers of the trip were understandably quite chagrined at my decision. However, I also sensed a slight bit or relief on their part. These trained anthropologists would not have some amateur looking over their shoulders and asking inane questions all the time. 

     Now, all the friends and acquaintances who knew of the trip also breathed a sigh of relief and congratulated me for coming to my senses. The week passed. I looked up at the sky, imagining me aboard the plane that was taking me and the others to Brazil. I turned on the news and heard of a plane crash in the jungles of Brazil. It was the plane that I would have been aboard. There were no survivors.

     And yet again, all those around me expressed their most profound joy that I was spared, while at the same time expressing grief over the loss of life. 

     What was this mysterious voice? Why did it push and pull at me? This had never happened to me before. I thought that perhaps I should see a doctor. However, the voice went away and life returned to normal.

     A year or so later, the voice returned. This time, the insistent pull was not to travel to some wild place. Instead, it was to resign my position as an attorney with one of the city’s most prestigious law firms in favor of doing pro bono work in a rural area of the state. I’m a city person, born and bred. The idea of living in the country had no appealed for me. 

     When I announced my decision to resign, everyone was flabbergasted. I was in the pipeline for a full partnership in a few years. My practice was soaring. I was living the life I'd  always dreamed of living. As with the Amazon episode, the decision made no sense. And yet, I did it. I signed on with a not-for-profit law firm that did largely pro bono work and that was subsidized largely by charitable contributions. Ironically, the firm that I had worked for was a major contributor to this type of practice.

     I moved to the country and tried my best to adjust to rural life.I had kept hoping right up until the moment my resignation was reluctantly accepted that the mysterious voice would change course, as it had done before. This time, however, the voice kept pushing me forward.

     About six months into my new practice, one by the way that I found hugely gratifying, word got out that my old law firm was breaking apart. There had been some financial malfeasance in a sector of the firm and the toxin had spread throughout the firm. Suddenly, all the attorneys in the firm were trying to salvage their reputations and find new positions. I was spared this ordeal.

     I visited my city friends from time to time. They also came out to see me. It was quite interesting to see how the more superficial relationships sort of peeled away over time.  What remained was a core of true friends.

     My stint at pro bono work might have continued for some time, as the case loads were staggering. Once again, the mysterious voice deep within me began pushing me in yet another direction.  I felt compelled to return to the city. But I was not going to return to my home city. I was to move to one of the most blighted cities on the East Coast. That was not all. The mysterious voice insisted that I move into the most scarred and crime-infested areas of that city. I resisted with all my might. The move to a rural area had not appealed to me, yet I did find rewards. I could think of no such rewards that would come from moving into a hopeless, desolate, and dangerous community. The more I resisted, the more insistent the voice became.

     As before, I submitted my resignation. The few solid friends I still had were once again dumbfounded. Remember, I never revealed to them anything about this inner voice.

     I contacted a legal agency in the area I was to move to. The people at the agency were as perplexed as my friends had been. hey were also thrilled. They told me in no uncertain terms that this would be the most challenging and frustrating endeavors of my career. 

     I moved into what was considered one of the nicer apartment buildings in the section of town I was to call home. I could hardly believe I was in in the United States. I was told that I would be picked up from my apartment and returned. There would always be a call when the car had arrived. I was not to leave my building, and not even my studio apartment, until the car pulled up. I was to call the agency when I was safely back in my apartment.  Even my apartment felt vulnerable. What was I doing here?

     

     The work was hardly satisfying. I was not serving simple, honest country folk. Most of the clients were scammers. Those in true need of legal assistance had to be sought out.  Morale at the agency was low, and tempers were often short. Why would the mysterious voice have sent me here?

     One morning, the agency called and told me that my driver wouldn’t be picking me up that day. I was to hold tight until the next day. From my apartment window, I observed street activity during the day. It seemed that most  people were out during the morning. During the afternoon, the numbers of people gradually declined. Around six o’clock or so, the streets were empty except for what seemed to be drug dealers, prostitutes, and some homeless people.At night, gangs roaming the streets seemed the norm. No police were in sight. 

     The next morning, I received another call that once again my driver would not be picking me up. When I asked why, the response was that there was a cutback on funding. I watched from my window and saw the same sorts of activity I had seen the previous day.

     Around 5:00 in the afternoon, there was a knock on my door. I knew no one in the building and no one outside the agency. I went to the door and asked who was there. The person at the door said she was a neighbor. She was concerned because I had not left my apartment for two days. Apparently, residents of the building kept a watch out for their neighbors, whether they knew them or not. I told the nice sounding lady that I was fine and that I appreciated her concern. She then surprised me by inviting me over for supper. I didn’t know what to do. All at once, the mysterious voice deep inside me said that I should go. 

     I opened the door.  Before me stood an older lady. She looked like a stereotypical grandmother of days gone by. I closed my apartment door behind me and followed her to her apartment. When I entered, I was welcomed by several family members. The apartment completely belied the bleak surroundings of the area. It was nicely furnished and projected a warmth  I had missed. It would not have been out of place in the more middle-class sections of the city.

     The older lady, obviously the family matriarch ; a couple, her son and daughter-in-law; and two children, her grandchildren, sat around the table. A place was made for me. I enjoyed a wonderful meal and even more wonderful conversation. They each told me stories of the community. The grandmother had seen the area go from middle-class, to the lowest of the low, and finally to its present situation. I found it hard to believe that the things could be much worse, but she assured me that it had been. Her son and daughter-in-law agreed. I wanted to ask them why they stayed. They anticipated my question by explaining that they were one family of many who were more or less trapped by circumstances. I excused myself after a wonderful dessert.

     The next day, the driver showed up and whisked me to the agency. I let out that I had had dinner with one of the families in the building and was roundly chastised. I really couldn’t understand why. The people seemed very down to earth and wholesome.

     One evening the following week, as I made my way up the stairs to my studio apartment, I was met by the matriarch. She commented that she missed seeing me, but that she hoped I was doing well. She also invited me to a birthday party they were throwing for one of the grandchildren the next day. The mysterious voice deep within me insisted I say yes to the invitation. I told no one at work about the party and found some way of hiding the present I was able to purchase at lunch.

     I was all ready to go down the hall to the party when the mysterious voice told me to go back into my apartment. I was not to go to the party. A few minutes later, I heard some screaming. I opened the door a hair to look out. The screaming seemed to be coming from the apartment where the party was being held. The cries were not thoseof joy or pleasure.  They were ones of terror. I went back into my apartment and called 911. 

     It took the police hours to get to the building. By then, a number of people had gathered in the hallway. They were all speculating as to what was going on. One lady seemed to know. She said that one of the relatives of the family was resentful that he had not been invited to the party. He crashed it anyway and was creating all the bedlam. However, the screaming had stopped for some time. In fact, the apartment was quiet. 

     The police gathered some information from tenants. I told them I was the one who had called and that I had known the family in the apartment briefly.  he lady who made the comment about the resentful relative let them know about that as well.

     The police knocked on the door and announced themselves. A man’s voice on the other side of the door told the police to go away. He said that if they didn't go away there was going to be trouble. The police called in for a hostage negotiator and tried themselves to determine what was going on behind the door. Except for the man’s occasional angry comments, there was no sound. 

     The negotiator arrived. The atmosphere in the hall was intense. You could see everyone peeking out their doors, even though they had been asked to keep them shut. What was happening in that apartment?

     All of a sudden, there were  more shrieks. The faint sound of a body dropping to the floor could be heard. The police broke the door in and found a man lying on the floor, presumably dead. There was a large knife in his back. Another man, the husband, was standing over the body. The children had been shooed away. It was a scene of profound sadness.

     The police took statements from everyone. The man who had been stabbed was not a relative. He was another tenant in the building and was known to be unstable. He had apparently watched the family members come in bearing gifts and food for the party. For some reason, he apparently felt he had been snubbed. He barged into the party with a gun.  That was when the initial screaming took place. He demanded silence.

     It seemed to be a case where the husband was perfectly within his rights in protecting his family and friends from a deranged man. However, because the man was stabbed in the back, there needed to be an investigation.

     Many of the tenants in the building knew the man. Some of them were outraged at his death and felt the husband should be charged with something. They were willing to testify that in their opinion, even though the man was armed with a gun, he was harmless. He had acted this way before. He wouldn't have hurt anyone.

     The poor husband was charged with involuntary manslaughter. The family asked me if I would defend him at trial. The mysterious voice insisted that I do so. 

     As usual, the time between the incident and the trial was protracted. The family was distraught, not only by the charges brought against this upstanding man, but also by the looks of disgust in the eyes of some of the other tenants. Their lives in this building, though always tense, became even more so. It soon became known that I was to be the husband’s attorney. Vicious notes were left under my door. I received threats on my life.  I contemplated moving, but the mysterious voice kept insisting I stay.

     The trial taught me much about justice in this part of the city, and perhaps in this city as a whole. The cards seemed stacked against the husband. I defended him as ably as I could.  I felt that I had mounted a strong defense. When the jury returned, they found the husband “not guilty.”

     The joy of the verdict on the part of the family was tempered by the fact that they knew they would face extreme hostility in the apartment building. They couldn’t go back there.  Neither could I for that matter. Arrangements were made for the family to relocate into another, and much safer, neighborhood across town. The belongings were quickly removed from their old apartment. I, too, was moved.

     Even though my colleagues at the agency were very angry that I had gotten involved in this case, they also understood. They had been there. 

     One day, as I was enjoying lunch by myself in a little diner near the agency, a man approached my table and told me how impressed he had been with my work on the trial.  The man was none other than the presiding judge. He was so impressed that he checked into my background. He asked me if I might be interested in joining a law firm in the city that he regarded highly. I took the name of the firm and thanked him for his confidence in me.

     I didn’t know what to do. Should I stay with an agency that seemed to be fighting losing battles all the time, and with colleagues who were bitter and disgruntled? Should I look into this firm the judge had mentioned? The mysterious voice, which always came from out of the blue, was nowhere to be heard. I had been left to decide this one on my own.

     I looked into the firm the judge had recommended me for.  It seemed solid and well-established.  The firm I had previously been with also seemed that way.  The surface can deceive. What was different about this firm was that it both focused on individual, as opposed to corporate, clients. It was not one of those personal injury firms that cover the airways with advertisements.  The firm also did lots of pro bono work. My salary would definitely not be even close to what I had made previously. But then, I had not been making that kind of salary for some time and didn’t even miss it. 

     I decided to interview for a position.  As the day for the interview grew closer, I fully expected the mysterious voice to either insist that I pursue the position or back away.  However, no voice presented itself.  

     I went ahead with the interview and thought it went well. I was quite impressed with the attorneys I would be working with and with the way the firm was organized.  What sealed the deal for me was the fact that at the interview, one of the attorneys mentioned that he had had a brother who was from my home city.  His brother was an anthropologist and had been killed on a flight down to South America. This was the very flight and mission I had backed away from. Although I knew the brother, I said nothing. It was almost as if I had come full circle.

     Since accepting the position, the mysterious voice has never come back. I won’t be surprised if it does. I did get a surprise one day when the matriarch of the family I had gotten to know and admire in the apartment building dropped by my office. She told me that she had found out where I worked through the agency that had previously employed me. She merely wanted to thank me once again for helping her family and that it was as if I had been sent to that apartment building to help them.  Perhaps I was.