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I peeked through the blinds from my window on the eighth floor, watching the sea of yellow taxies mixed with other brave souls, willing to risk their car paint and plastic bumpers - sometimes even their lives, in the daily destruction derby of New York City streets. I suddenly notice a countenance reflected in the window, a visage of worry, accented by tight lips, sweat rolling down the skin, the edge of fear in the eyes; even the graying hair seems to enhance the aura of a troubled life. I have seen that face in the mirror every morning these past few months - or has it been years? A fatalistic line from a movie I had seen once comes unbidden to my mind - "It's a good day to die." I wipe the sweat away, then turn from the window and bitterly curse the actor who delivered those lines. Who dreamed up drivel such as that? Damn them all to hell!
Often now, I think back to the time my troubles started. Ten years ago, when I was in law school, I'd had dreamed of corner offices, Brooks Brother's suits and Porches. I'd had visions of winning case after case for my clients, like Perry Mason, getting the dramatic confession at the climax of a brilliant cross-examination.
After I passed the bar, my resume garnered rejections from law firms like a pigeon-toed girl at a prom dance. I soon discovered that a good position depended on "who you know". That's "Who", with a capital "W". To eek out a living, I turned to ambulance chasing,

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And don't mix past and present tense like that...particularly when you're going to dump a bunch of past perfect on top of things in your flashback.

And what is this post pefection tense you seem to have invented here? Somebody help me out here, I didn't think there was anything more past than past perfect

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I'd had dreamed . . .

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