He gave up the money.  He gave up the power.  Now all he has left is the law. Michael Brock is billing the hours, making the money, rushing relentlessly to the top of Drake & Sweeney, a giant D.C. law firm.  One step away from partnership, Michael has it all.  Then, in an instant, it all comes undone. A homeless man takes nine lawyers hostage in the firm's plush offices.  When it is all over, the man's blood is splattered on Michael's face--and suddenly Michael is willing to do the unthinkable.  Rediscovering a conscience he lost long ago, Michael is leaving the big time for the streets where his attacker once lived--and where society's powerless need an advocate for justice. But there's one break Michael can't make: from a secret that has floated up from the depths of Drake & Sweeney, from a confidential file that is now in Michael's hands, and from a conspiracy that has already taken lives.  Now Michael's former partners are about to become his bitter enemies.  Because to them, Michael Brock is the most dangerous man on the streets.... "Compelling...if there's any justice, The Street Lawyer will be his biggest hit yet." —Entertainment Weekly "An entertaining read with an important theme."— Chicago Sun-Times "The plot surges forward, pulling us along as we turn those pages a mile a minute." – San Francisco Chronicle A Main Selection of the Literary Guild and the Doubleday Book Club He gave up the money. He gave up the power. Now all he has left is the law. Michael Brock is billing the hours, making the money, rushing relentlessly to the top of Drake & Sweeney, a giant D.C. law firm. One step away from partnership, Michael has it all. Then, in an instant, it all comes undone. A homeless man takes nine lawyers hostage in the firm's plush offices. When it is all over, the man's blood is splattered on Michael's face--and suddenly Michael is willing to do the unthinkable. Rediscovering a conscience he lost long ago, Michael is leaving the big time for the streets where his attacker once lived--and where society's powerless need an advocate for justice. But there's one break Michael can't make: from a secret that has floated up from the depths of Drake & Sweeney, from a confidential file that is now in Michael's hands, and from a conspiracy that has already taken lives. Now Michael's former partners are about to become his bitter enemies. Because to them, Michael Brock is the most dangerous man on the streets.... #1 New York Times Bestseller "Compelling...if there's any justice, The Street Lawyer will be his biggest hit yet." -- Entertainment Weekly "An entertaining read with an important theme." -- Chicago Sun-Times "The plot surges forward, pulling us along as we turn those pages a mile a minute." -- San Francisco Chronicle A Main Selection of the Literary Guild and the Doubleday Book Club John Grisham lives with his family in Virginia and Mississippi.  His previous novels are A Time to Kill, The Firm, The Pelican Brief, The Client, The Chamber, The Rainmaker, The Runaway Jury , and The Partner . One 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. We were alone as we moved upward, and when I finally glanced over I saw the boots, black and dirty and much too large. A frayed and tattered trench coat fell to his knees. Under it, layers of foul clothing bunched around his midsection, so that he appeared stocky, almost fat. But it wasn't from being well fed; in the wintertime in D.C., the street people wear everything they own, or so it seems. He was black and aging--his beard and hair were half-gray and hadn't been washed or cut in years. He looked straight ahead through thick sunglasses, thoroughly ignoring me, and making me wonder for a second why, exactly, I was inspecting him. He didn't belong. It was not his building, not his elevator, not a place he could afford. The lawyers on all eight floors worked for my firm at hourly rates that still seemed obscene to me, even after seven years. Just another street bum in from the cold. Happened all the time in downtown Washington. But we had security guards to deal with the riffraff. We stopped at six, and I noticed for the first time that he had not pushed a button, had not selected a floor. He was following me. I made a quick exit, and as I stepped into the splendid marble foyer of Drake & Sweeney I glanced over my shoulder just long enough to see him standing in the elevator, looking at nothing, still ignoring me. Madam Devier, one of our very resilient receptionists, greeted me with her typical look of disdain. "Watch the elevator," I said. "Why?" "Street bum. You may want to call security." "Those people," she said in her affected French accent. "Get some disinfectant too." I walked away, wrestling my overcoat off my shoulders, forgetting the man with the rubber boots. I had nonstop