An Angel with a Cool Name

Hardly a month passes that some friend, acquaintance or busi- ness associate fails to ask me why I left my job as a Washing-
ton Post reporter to practice law. The question is a natural one. After all, hadn’t I spent virtually every day since my sophomore year at the University of Kentucky obsessing about working at The Post? That was almost 30 years ago, back when I had few other serious thoughts or ambitions, back when my friends and I thought it would be cool if we all went by the same nickname — Maurice.
So, when I told my editor a couple of weeks before Christmas 1993 that I was leaving, he looked at me as if I were nuts. “Do you want 24 hours to think this over?” he asked.

Although I told him no without a moment of hesitation, I knew the question made sense. I was uneasy, anxious and more than a little scared. And for good reason. Although I had a very supportive — and employed — wife, I had no clients, very little savings, not to mention three children of whom the oldest was just 18 months away from entering college. Still, after a good bit of soul searching, talking with my family and friends and lots of prayers, I knew I had to do something different.

Funny, though, I thought. Some people are called to the ministry, some to counseling, others to health professions. Having covered the courts as a reporter, I knew many lawyers. And although lawyers were technically supposed to be in the business of helping and serving others, that didn’t always seem to be the case.

So, there I was, working out my notice, fidgeting in my office at the federal courthouse in Washington. I didn’t really see him at first; I just felt his presence. I looked up and saw a thin, balding, well-dressed man, probably early 60s, standing in the doorway.

“Can I help you? Are you looking for someone?” I asked.

“No, I just wanted to stop in and see how the place looked,” the stranger said. “I used to work here. In fact, I was the first reporter to have this office back when they built the courthouse in 1959.”

He kept talking and pointing to the various cubbyholes of offices that made up the warren known as the press room. “This was the Post’s office, and this over here was the Times-Herald. The Star was over there, and the Associated Press was here. The bathroom at the end of the office was supposed to have a shower, but the chief judge nixed that because he knew he’d have reporters trying to live in here.”

I explained to him that only The Post now maintained a full-time office, and I asked him why he left. He told me he quit to start a law practice. He, too, had made the decision without clients or money, and he, too, had lots of misgivings.

“But it’s worked out fine,” he said. “And I’ve been blessed with the chance to help a lot of people who were in some real trouble.”

As he said that, he turned to leave. I almost forgot to ask him his name, and he said it was Maury. He handed me his business card, and I went straight to his real name — Maurice.

—Michael York