Editor’s note: The following is a first-hand account by a former NH Bar member now practicing in New York City of her efforts in helping to deal with the aftermath of the recent terrorist attacks.

AS A NATIVE of Portsmouth and an attorney who formerly practiced in New Hampshire and now lives and practices in Manhattan, I was as unprepared as anyone for the events of Tuesday, September 11. I learned of the attack after a committee meeting at the Association of the Bar of the City of New York and watched on the giant TV screen in Times Square as the second World Trade Center tower fell, smoke billowing into the sky two miles down Seventh Avenue. My city was being attacked. My country would be at war. My emotions alternated between grief for the lost and anger at those who were responsible.

What could I do to help? I was not trained in rescue work. The next day I gave blood to the Red Cross along with 700 other people at Martin Luther King High School near Lincoln Center; it was a nine-hour process. Thursday I called the City Bar to volunteer. The Association was taking names and looking at what its members could do to help. Given the nature of the deaths, thousands of families would likely have no bodies to claim, no death certificates from medical examiners. The judges and elected officials here considered how they, too, could help. Normally a request for a death certificate for a missing person in New York cannot be filed in court until three years after. A special accommodation was made because of the World Trade Center disaster.

Several hundred lawyers responded to a meeting called at the great room in which we hold our annual meetings. More lawyers appeared than could fit into the room, which holds at least 500. My question was the first asked. I directed my worst fear to the psychiatrist on the panel: "What do we do if we start to cry? I can still work if I cry. But for the family I’m helping, what is best?" The psychiatrist, who was male, said we should get up and remove ourselves from the family if that happened. I was skeptical of this advice. I do not think silent tears of empathy would harm a family. But at least it gave us a procedure, a choice of stepping out to take a break before continuing on. We were also cautioned against trying to persuade clients to begin or continue the process if they weren’t ready.

We were given samples of affidavits that we would help the next of kin complete and applications if we wished to become notaries on an expedited basis, to assist in the process. The city’s Office of Corporation Counsel would be taking over the files for completion after our initial intake interview and document preparation. Having worked a long contract job recently at the New York City Law Department and knowing how understaffed they are, I wondered at the effort this would take on the part of their attorneys: potentially 5,000 to 6,000 cases would have to be reviewed, additional employer affidavits and perhaps other documents collected, and then be brought before a court for approval — not to mention that the department’s office at 100 Church Street, where I had worked until April with some 400 other lawyers, was only two blocks from the twin towers and would be closed for some time. I had heard that all of their employees were evacuated safely. Their lawyers have been displaced to Jay Street offices in Brooklyn, for which they could give only a street ad dress as they do not yet have telephones.

I was assigned to go to Pier 94 on the Hudson River, at the end of 54th Street, on Thursday, September 27. It was the second day that volunteer attorneys were meeting with the bereaved to assist them in beginning the process of applying for death certificates. The usual three-year waiting period regarding missing persons was being waived, as were court filing fees. Upon the court’s eventual approval and issuance of the death certificate, 10 certified copies would be express-mailed to the next of kin free of charge.

I was assigned to a 2:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. shift. I had already learned that many of the attorneys had been crying on the first day, and some had said that several of their clients had "lost it" at some point during their interviews. I decided to wear a dress sweater rather than a suit jacket, which I rejected as impersonal. I wore a large jade necklace and earrings of little angels to soften the look, and subdued lipstick. The night and morning before I ate lots of food to help stabilize me physically and therefore emotionally, so I could give support to my clients.

I arrived early, passing between state troopers guarding the pier’s access, flashing my state lawyer ID, and was waived through several checkpoints. Everyone’s bags were searched.

The building at Pier 94 is huge, the inside all plush, with deep blue carpet. Inside, booths were set up as a convention, but with a much more somber atmosphere. In one area there were 60 stations set up for attorneys. All had curtains and were equipped with telephones and computers that even had Internet access. There were sizable, clean bathrooms, and waiting rooms for the families. There were booths for many social agencies and organizations.

We were informed of a place for staff to eat, and as I had arrived early, I went to see it. The hot food was catered in large metal trays: macaroni and cheese, breaded chicken, scalloped potatoes and broccoli – lots of high-carbohydrate foods. The staff dining area was full of police officers, tired and quiet, some dozing, sitting up on couches in front of TVs. Cops in the city have been pulling double shifts for a long time now, given the heightened security.

In this response center there were FEMA employees; state troopers; National Guardsmen; pastoral counselors; grief counselors; medical personnel, including psychiatrists; CARE workers running day care for children; fire department personnel; and many members of the Red Cross – people from all over the country. There was a large station for massage nearby to ease the body’s reaction to stress. Families of the missing had their own separate dining area. I collected some packages of snacks and drinks to put in my booth for my clients.

Family members wore nametags with "Family" boldly written on the tag, which immediately cautioned you. And to those "Family" nametags you matched the saddest eyes, deep with grief.

Along part of the wall near the legal services partitions was a line of teddy bears, of every style, size and color: pink ones, green ones, even New Year’s party bears. These bears carrying messages had been sent as a special collection from the people in Oklahoma City. Above the bears were many flyers of those missing from the towers, and letters and drawings, including a large heart-shaped crayoned American flag created and sent by schoolchildren with their many little messages and names scribbled upon it. Children are part of this tragedy. In our fire department alone, 1,000 children have lost a parent. Some have lost both a parent and an uncle.

The lawyers for my shift gathered for an orientation prior to meeting with clients. It seemed three quarters were women. When I looked at the fax list from the court of names of lawyers who had been made notaries, almost all were women. I remarked on this as I read the list to one of the women lawyers for Corporation Counsel.

"Does that surprise you?" she asked.

"No."

I abandoned the first booth I was offered, which had bright lighting and an awkward desk layout, and found one with a better setup. I removed a big vase of dead roses in its corner, and found a place to hide them off to one side of the mile of teddy bears. I set up bottles of water on one side of my desk, packages of snacks and drinks on the other with small packets of paperwork and a big box of tissues, just in case.

As I met each client I first introduced myself by name, as a member of the New York Bar, named both my city and county bar association memberships, and mentioned that I’d been an attorney for 20 years. I let them know our meeting was a voluntary process: they could get up for any reason and take a walk at any time, that I might have to just get up and leave, too. I stressed that it was no big deal if that happened and we would not think anything of it. I referred to the affidavit requesting a death certificate as "the paperwork" we’d be starting that day, referred to their lost spouses by their first names or as "your husband," never mentioned words referring to death, choosing instead "the missing."

I kept the idea of "the paperwork" as being something distant and separate from us, part of a process to help out in "the situation," which is how I referred to the disaster and to the fact that the bodies would probably not be recovered.

All of my clients took some sort of snack or drink, which was at their elbows during the interview. One young, well-educated suburban Caucasian mother was internalizing her grief, holding it together to be strong. She was tense, refusing any food. I had some big wrapped chocolate chip cookies and asked her if she’d have one with me. She said no, but didn’t mind if I did. I started eating mine. Then I had to print off a document and when I came back, she finally had started to nibble on a pack of tiny animal crackers. That was all she was able to stomach. I was glad to see her eat, and to see that she felt relaxed enough to eat in my presence.

One of my clients, an African-American woman from the city, gently keened at times during our meeting, rocking ever so slightly forward and back, humming softly. I waited until all the paperwork was concluded to express my sorrow to each client for her loss, cautious that it might elicit an emotional response. All of my clients that day were widows with small children at home; a family member had accompanied each of them. Those wearing "Family" name tags that day at Pier 94 included many races and ethnicities, including a notable presence of Muslims, who were also among those murdered in the attacks, and among those named in documents that I handled for their next of kin.

When I left, I got on a bus that would take us to Penn Station, where I could catch a subway home to the Upper West Side. The last client I had helped, a lady from the West Indies, got on the bus, carrying three large teddy bears that she had been given and was taking home to her children. When it came time to get off the bus and I was waiting as the people passed by, she stopped. She insisted that I get off the bus before her. She wished me a safe trip home.

I am grateful to have legal skill that I could offer to those who were suffering. I cannot adequately express the feeling of success I had at the end of the evening when I realized that none of us – not the widows, not myself – had cried during the interviews. We had gently moved through the process. All I want to do now is to get scheduled to go back to help more.

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