It was a decision no one would want to face, and Purshelle Taylor had only seconds to make it. Either way, she'd never be the same.

Yes or no?

The gun lies on the desk. Your hands are free. The intruder has left the room. You have only a few seconds, perhaps a minute.

Do you pick it up?

Yes or no?

The office secretary is nearly out of her mind with fright. A colleague is lying motionless on the floor, wrists cuffed behind him, ankles bound by rope. Is he dead?

What you know is all that you will know, and it is not nearly enough. Whatever you glean about this man's intentions must come from the objects he has pulled from his knapsack. A pillow. Duct tape. Gloves. What do they mean?

He has already taken your money. He has taken everything there is to take. Why is he still here? What does he want? What will he do?

You must decide. The gun lies on the desk. Your hands are free. The intruder has left the room. You have only a few seconds, perhaps a minute.

You have never touched a gun before.

Do you pick it up?

Yes or no?

Her day was ordinary until it wasn't any longer. A call to a friend confirming dinner plans. A stop at the bank. Some intersections you don't spot until you're upon them.

Purshelle Taylor was running late to her office last Dec. 1, but such was her practice on Fridays. She was her own boss, a lawyer out on her own at the tender age of 27. She rented downtown office space from another sole practitioner whose secretary took messages for her. Other than that, though, "Purshelle A. Taylor, P.A." was an enterprise of one. If checks had to be deposited or stationery ordered, there was no one else to do it. So Friday mornings she reserved for "administration."

Shelley had been in solo practice only a few months, but was slowly building a clientele. After graduating from the University of Maryland Law School in 1993, she had joined Weinberg & Green in Baltimore. Even then, though, she was resolved to go it alone as soon as she could. She hated feeling that other people had even a little say over her professional life, particularly when it meant spending all her time in the law library rather than the courthouse. Although Shelley was sweet-natured with a musical giggle, her family and friends recognized her laser-like determination. She trusted her own instincts more than any of their advice.

Still, Shelley would not have ventured off on her own quite so soon had it not been for Weinberg & Green's severe downturn, which in January 1995 caused the departure of 20 lawyers, including Shelley. She chose to regard the firm's misfortunes as nudging her career closer to where she wanted to go anyway. She declined offers from large firms, instead opting to join a small practice where she could handle all manner of civil actions -- divorces, estate cases, contract matters and personal injury lawsuits.

She resisted pressure from the head of the firm to take a share of his criminal practice. Shelley wanted nothing to do with those matters. She had to like her clients, and she didn't think she could feel that way toward criminals. Criminals made her nervous.

She had developed strong attachments to her clients and often found herself providing them nurturance as much as legal representation. That morning in her sunny Columbia apartment, she was on the phone informing one of her clients about a court date. It was only over a traffic ticket, but the woman was quite agitated about it. Shelley tried to reassure her. Then she grabbed her briefcase and headed for her car. She made a few stops near home -- the bank, the post office, an office-supply store -- and finally pulled onto Interstate 95 for the 20-minute drive to her office in downtown Baltimore.

She had opened her practice there seven months ago, when a friend told her Barry Norwitz, a solo practitioner, was looking to rent one of the offices in his suite to another lawyer. Shelley had seen the chance to make the final jump to independence. The suite, at 201 E. Baltimore St., was on the 12th floor of one of the grand, largely empty old buildings that fill downtown Baltimore. It was only two blocks from the courthouse and just down the street from police headquarters. For $500 a month, she got a modest-sized office, the use of copying and fax machines and some secretarial help. It was perfect.

Now, on an unusually warm day for early December, Shelley pulled into a parking garage a couple of blocks from the office.

She is a tall, big-boned woman, with smiling eyes, a heart-shaped mouth and hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. It was close to 1: 30 p.m., but since she hadn't eaten lunch, she ducked into a Chinese restaurant for some takeout. She would eat at her desk.

As she entered her building, she saw that the guard at the security desk was on the phone. She waved to him and hit the elevator button.

On the 12th floor, she turned to the left, toward the double doors of Suite 1200 and the gold embossed plaques announcing the names of Norwitz's firm and her own.