Beyond the Underground

Advice to Lawyers With Weblogs #1

Dear Evan:

There are many ways to begin a letter. There are first-namers and last-namers. I’m a first-namer. There are cursive-writers and those who type. I’m a typer. There are right-to-the-pointers and meander-ers. I’m a meander-er. As long as I’m here on your weblog, I’d like to meander for a bit. You don’t care, do you? Good. Did I tell you it’s nice to be here on your weblog? It’s nothing like the way they made me feel at the Evil Defense Firm where I used to do bankruptcy work. Back there it was, like, totally evil. Here it’s much better. Athough I would like a nice piece of cheese. Also, where are all the doggies, sailboats, and pretty girls? I see none of those here. In fact, now that I think about it, your weblog is starting to remind me of Family Circus. Frankly, I’m starting to get bored.

Before I overstay my welcome, I think it’s time for me to get to the point. This is an e-mail about my weblog. There was a time long ago when I loved my weblog. In the morning, it brought me joy. At night, it brought me joy. At all times, it brought me joy. It gave me a chance to rant and rage and settle old scores and think more than any lawyer should about doggies, sailboats, and pretty girls. Especially pretty girls.

But you know what? Those days are gone. I just don’t know what happened, but the magic has left. Poof, and it was gone. Just like that, never to return. All I’m left with is this voice, which follows me around everywhere I go. I know I’m like totally screwed for writing this, but I want out. Right now. I’ve become a danger to myself and to others. I need your help. Otherwise, it might be the end of my weblog. Or of me. I’m just sayin’.

Signed, Name Withheld Out of, Like, Embarrassment or Something

Advice to Clients of Lawyers #2

Dear Mr. Schaeffer:

I am MR THEODORE MOMOH, one of the permanent secretaries to former Liberian President CHARLES TAYLOR of the Federal Republic of Liberia. When we arrived in Nigeria, it was not what we expected from those people, and they disarmed us. We received terrible treatment in their hands. I am contacting you IN CONFIDENCE to help us in collecting a trunk box deposited by my boss in Europe. The box contains US $28,500,000 (TWENTY EIGHT MILLION FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND U.S. DOLLARS). It is a big box which, for security reasons, is made out of metal.

I am now personally appealing to you, Mr. Schaeffer, for your URGENT ASSISTANCE to move the box with its money into your country, where my lawyer assures me it will be safe. Until tragedy struck, my lawyer was making every effort to meet with you FACE-TO-FACE for the completion of this transaction.

About what tragedy do I write? My tragedy is this. I have sent by e-mail to thousands and thousands of people my urgent pleas for help, but the response has not been what I expected. In fact, I have been accused of FRAUD. Men in dark suits have been chasing me all over Paris, France. Yesterday, I was informed that my lawyer is in PRISON. The men in the dark suits who are chasing me around Paris have mouths that look like sphincters and say they have come from Interzone. They carry devices that look like a bug exterminator’s container of pressurized poison.

What do YOU think I should do? How can I find help to get the large metal box out of Nigeria? As you think about it, I would appreciate it if you would also send me a simple consignment fee of $250 by Paypal to keep me in bread and jam until I figure all of this out. Will you, please?

Thank you.

Sincerely, Theodore Momoh

Advice to Families of Lawyers #7

Editor's Note: Julie Bogarty last wrote to the Legal Underground on January 21. According to Julie, her best friend’s father, Judge McIntyre, had disappeared just before the start of a big class action trial. Julie was worried not only about Judge McIntyre, but also about her father, one of the lawyers representing the plaintiffs. Although he wasn’t missing, he was acting very odd. This week Julie’s back with an update on her situation.

Dear Mr. Schaeffer:

It seems I’ve traded one set of problems for another. First of all, you were right that Judge McIntyre would probably turn up. Apparently, the lawyers on the class action reached a settlement at the last minute and the judge took a quick vacation to Canada. Or so he says. Actually, it was all on the spur of the moment and he didn’t tell anyone, not even his family. Believe me, I’m suspicious about what really happened, and someday I’m going to get to the bottom of it. But right now my bigger problem is Heather.

I’m sure you remember Heather. She’s the stripper at the Blue Light. Only we’re not allowed to call her a stripper. In fact, we can’t even call her an exotic dancer. We’re supposed to call her an entertainer—between you and me, if you call her anything else, she bursts into tears. Anyway, it seems that while this class action was getting ready for trial during the past two months, a lot of businessmen in fancy suits were hanging around town. I thought they looked suspicious, so I asked my dad about them. He said they were “tort reformers.” He told me he didn’t have time to explain what they did—just that he wanted them to “get the hell out of town.” He also warned me to stay away from them.

For the record, my dad didn’t really need to tell me that—those guys looked creepy. As it happened, though, some of the “tort reformers” were spending a lot of time at the Blue Light, and one of them got to know Heather very well. I mean, very well. According to Heather, they’re engaged to be married.

I find it all very baffling—she’s only 19, for God’s sake. And she’s a stripper. But I’ll keep an open mind, at least until you answer two questions: What exactly is a tort reformer? And do you think it’s okay if Heather gets married to one?

Sincerely, Julie Bogarty

Advice to Law Professors #3

Dear Mr. Schaeffer:

I've lost faith in our country’s system of legal education. What's to blame? I blame the “non-traditional” law student, and specifically, a certain 1L in my contracts class who goes by the name of “Wheels.”

Wheels must be pushing sixty. But once you get past the long hair, dark sunglasses, and body piercings, Wheels is one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. According to the stories Wheels loves to tell the rest of the class during my lectures, he was once friends with many of the motorcyclists featured in Hunter S. Thompson's book Hell’s Angels. Personally, I’ve never read the Thompson book, and that’s part of my problem. After getting to know Wheels last semester, I’m starting to realize there are lots of things I haven’t yet experienced.

Here’s the rest of my problem. For the past few months, Wheels has been bringing in tins of homemade chocolate-chip cookies that he passes out during my lectures. Although the snacking really makes it hard for me to control the class—recently, a group of students has even taken to bringing in coolers of milk—I must admit that all of my students are much more relaxed, happy, and open-minded when eating the cookies, which Wheels says are made from a recipe he learned from a “dope-peddling bike wench” back in the 1960s. 

None of this would matter very much, except that as soon as we started the second semester, Wheels announced to the class that he’s had enough of law school and is quitting to become a ski lift operator. Much to my surprise, he asked me to go with him. Would I be insane if I said yes? The more I think about it, I just don’t think contracts is where it’s at. Why not tell my students—non-traditional and otherwise—that all they really need to know about contracts is that they should learn to share? After that, I’ll head off to the mountains with Wheels and his chocolate-chip cookies. Although my wife might miss me, I think I’ll finally be fulfilled. What do you think?

Signed, Finally Digging It in Delaware

Advice to Law Firm Partners #7

Dear Mr. Schaeffer:

I recently suffered a humiliating embarrassment, but with your help, it just might turn out to have a silver lining. I’m one of the older lawyers at my law firm—72, to be exact—but I’m still sharp as a tack. Even so, I emerged last week from the men’s room on the 57th floor with a “toilet paper streamer” hanging from the waist of my slacks. At my age, you’ve got to laugh at life's little challenges, but I must admit, it wasn’t easy in this case. As I learned later, the streamer went all the way to the floor, and it stayed there most of the afternoon, much to the amusement of the firm’s junior associates. I had no idea they were laughing at me, thinking their amusement had more to do with the old jokes I love to share with them, which I learned as a boy when I’d go to vaudeville shows with my father.

Anyway, to get on with my story, my father passed away long ago, as did my wife, God rest her soul. Whenever I think about slowing down, I realize how lonely I’d be cooped up at home each day all by myself. I don’t want that. But I’m digressing and I apologize. I’ll move on to the silver lining. At about three in the afternoon on the day of my embarrassing incident, one of our cute young secretaries, whom I’ll call “Susan,” tapped me on the shoulder and discretely informed me of my predicament, i.e., she whispered to me about the toilet paper. I realize that by all things right and proper, I should have been incredibly embarrassed by what had happened, but I was so taken by Susan’s blue eyes, long eyelashes, and blonde hair, not to mention how good she smelled so close to my face, that I retrieved the streamer, balled it up, and disposed of it in the trash receptacle without even blushing.

Much to my amusement, however, Susan was blushing—she must have realized that I’ve long had my eye on her! To learn that my infatuation for Susan was being returned was quite a pleasant development in my life, let me tell you, even if it did come at the expense of one hell of an embarrassing situation. But it’s caused another small problem. As a token of my appreciation for what Susan did for me, I want to present her with a gift—something containing some gold, I think, as well as some small diamonds. Having had lots of experience buying jewelry for my wife, God rest her soul, I can handle this part of my task, but about the rest of it, I’m a little uncertain. Here’s my conundrum. When I present the gift to Susan, I also want to ask her out to dinner. But I’m not sure what to say.

I’ve heard, Mr. Schaeffer, that you know a thing or two about connecting with the younger generation. Even though Susan’s only 26, I’d really like her to be my new companion. Just thinking of the surprise the members of my Tuesday lunch club will display when I introduce her to them is making me tremble with anticipation. Do you think you can help?

Signed, Love-Struck in Lower Manhattan

Advice to Families of Lawyers #6

Editor's Note: Julie Bogarty wrote to the Legal Underground last week. This week she's back with an update on her situation.

Dear Mr. Schaeffer:

Judge McKintyre is missing! Even worse, I can’t help but feel like I had something to do with it. Do you think I did? I know you’re very busy with your weblog and all, but do you remember what I wrote last week? I was at my best friend's Ann’s house and her dad, Judge McKintyre, started asking me all sorts of weird questions about my dad, who’s a lawyer, and a “case” my dad has with Judge McKintyre. When I wrote you about it, you said that you thought something fishy was going on and that I should I find out what kind of a “case” it was by asking the court clerk.

So far, all I know is that it’s a “class action,” whatever that is. Ann found that out simply by calling the courthouse. Since she’s the judge’s daughter, the people down there were very nice to her. But when Ann and I were getting ready to head over to the courthouse to look at the file (we had to get Ann’s sister Heather first, whose car broke down at a bar over by the river), Ann’s Mom called with the awful news: she couldn’t find Judge McKintyre.

Three days later, he still hasn’t turned up. Ann’s about to go out of her mind worrying about it. For some reason, her mom doesn’t want to go to the police. My biggest fear is that my dad is mixed up in it. As it turns out, the trial of that “class action” was supposed to start on Monday. Pretty suspicious, huh? My dad doesn't seem to be getting ready for it, and whenever I ask him about it, he tells me to leave him alone because he’s “doing his taxes.” But taxes don’t happen until April! When I pointed this out to him, he said he’s “getting them ready early” and to “leave him alone before he starts to scream.”

It feels like I’ve landed smack in the middle of a mystery. Meanwhile, Ann and I have had no time to do the intervention on Heather so that she’ll quit stripping at the Blue Light. To tell you the truth, that just doesn’t seem so important anymore. Do you have any idea what might explain the disappearance of Judge McKintyre?

Sincerely, Julie Bogarty

Advice to Families of Lawyers #5

Dear Mr. Schaeffer:

I'm a 17-year old lawyer's daughter who has no idea what my dad does. Once I asked him, and he answered, "I'm just an ordinary lawyer." I responded, "I know you’re an ordinary lawyer. Okay? But what do you do?" He stood there for so long with his hands in his pockets that I finally said, "Forget about it." That was about a year ago, and I haven't mentioned his job to him again since.

Now, though, my dad's job has become important for another reason, which is why my friend Ann and I are writing to ask you for advice. It has just come to my attention that I know someone in common with my dad, and he's a judge. I’ll explain. My best friend is Ann McKintyre. We've been friends for fourteen years. In the back of my mind I think I always knew that Ann's dad was a judge, but I don't see him around very much and when I do he usually seems so friendly that I just think of him as Ann’s dad. But yesterday when I was at Ann's for dinner, her dad came inside after cooking hamburgers and started talking to Ann's mother about the "judge's conference." Then I remembered. Even though I call him Mr. McKintyre, other people call him Judge.

That's what I was thinking when he suddenly looked at me and asked, "So how's your father doing?" I about choked on my Sun Chips. A real-life judge knew my dad? It did make sense, though. We live only about a half a mile away from the McKintyres and my dad's a lawyer and how many lawyers and judges can there be in a city as small as ours?

But this wasn't the end of the conversation. Even before I could answer, Ann’s dad the judge started fishing around for all sorts of information about my dad. "Who's he working with these days?" "What kind of work is he doing?" "Does he ever hang out at Spencer's Bar?"

Whoa! Spencer's Bar? Spencer's Bar is a place down by the river where there are major drug busts going on all the time. Why would the judge be asking about my dad and Spencer's Bar? To make matters even more complicated, Ann’s dad went on to say that my dad has a big case in front of him. Exactly which “case” it is, I have no idea. I didn't even know my dad worked on cases. You understand why I think I need to find out more. Or maybe you don’t, so let me explain some more. As it so happens, that very night Ann and I were going to tell the judge that his oldest daughter Heather, who's 19, has been working as a stripper at The Blue Light, a bar that's just across the railroad tracks in East Johnson's Point. Ann and I are determined to stop Heather for a reason I want to tell you about but can’t. In fact, we had everything set up so that we could lure Heather over to the house that very evening to do an intervention on her with Ann’s dad, Ann's mom, Ann, and me. But how could I go through with the plan after I found out that Ann’s dad and my dad work together? What if the judge got mad at me for interfering in his family's life and took it out on my dad and his “case”? Aren't judges very powerful? That's what I was thinking anyway when I finished my hamburger as quick as I could then left the McKintyre’s, taking Ann with me.

Ann and I went over to my house and came across your weblog and here's what we need to know: (1) How can we find out what case my dad has with the judge? (2) How can we find out whether it has anything to do with Spencer's Bar? (3) If we find out that there's something fishy going on, who should we tell about it? 

Sincerely, Julie Bogarty

Advice to Young Lawyers #24

Dear Mr. Schaeffer:

I’m in a terrible bind. There’s a partner in our 1,127-attorney firm named Mr. B who everyone is scared of, including me. Unfortunately, I got assigned to his practice group yesterday. Even though I’m a fourth-year associate, Mr. B apparently wanted to break me in easy. He called me on the phone, said his secretary had a document for me to copy, and told me to come to his office. When I did, he was on the phone again. He held up his right hand with all his fingers extended and mouthed, “This many.” So far, so good. I made five copies. But later in the day, he called me into his office again. He wasn’t on the phone anymore. He held up his right hand and extended his fingers again. Then he started screaming. “Look!” he yelled. “Tell me what you see!” A chill ran down my spine when I counted only four fingers.

As it turns out, Mr. B is missing the pinky on his right hand. As a result, I really screwed up. The document I copied an extra time was 10,780 pages long. Now Mr. B is telling all the other partners that anyone who “can’t count to four” is “too stupid to work at the firm.” To set things right, I’m going to offer to pay for the extra copy myself. My dilemma is that I can’t figure out how much to pay. Although the guys in the copy room tell me that copies cost the firm about two cents per page, we charge our clients fifty cents. So do I owe $215.60 or $5,390? Believe me, I don’t want to make another stupid mistake.

By the way, I found out that Mr. B is missing his pinky because he was mauled by a pit bull as a child. I guess that explains all those scars on his face and the way he hunches over when he walks. He’s a scary man, Mr. Schaeffer, and he frightens me.

Signed, Wishing-It-Was-All-A-Dream in Washington D.C.

Advice to Young Lawyers #23

Dear Mr. Schaeffer:

Many months ago, I was assigned to write an important appellate brief by a partner in our 760-lawyer firm who should have known better than to trust me to write it. I hate to sell myself short, but appellate briefs just aren’t my thing. Even though the deadline kept getting nearer, I couldn’t bring myself to work on it. Still, I had to look at the trial transcript each day, which was taking up space on my desk. I simply didn’t know what to do. Finally, I said good-bye to my secretary, took the elevator to the basement of my building, and revved up the engine of my car. I had decided to head west. I was going to Aspen where I planned to become a ski lift operator.

Unfortunately, just before reaching the open road, I made the mistake of turning into Borders. I told myself I was just going to run inside to get a cup of coffee and browse through the men's magazines. In fact, I never left. I can’t explain why. Or maybe I can. Borders just didn’t seem as far away as Aspen and the furniture was really comfortable. As for the rest of my plan, I followed it to the letter. Even though I’m only ten minutes from the office, I never went back. Instead, I’ve been returning to Borders each day where I sit in a cozy leather chair and read the graphic novels. It’s not like I’m completely AWOL. As I said, I’m conscientious. I’ve been checking my Blackberry pretty much every thirty minutes. The strange thing is that even though the appellate brief was due a week ago, I’ve had no word from the law firm. Which brings me to my questions. Do you think I might have been wrong about the due date? Or is it more likely that my Blackberry is broken? And how long do you think I have before the firm quits direct-depositing $2,400 a week into my bank account?

Signed, Living-at-Borders in Baltimore

Advice to Young Lawyers #22

Dear Mr. Schaeffer:

I’m pretty sure I’m about to fail as a lawyer. My problem is not brainpower. Actually, I’m very smart. Nor is my problem a will to succeed. I want to succeed. My problem is something entirely different. My problem is women.

To be honest, I’m not even good-looking. But it doesn’t matter. Whenever an available young woman hears I’m a big-firm lawyer (vital statistics: 1,110 attorneys in 27 cities), they just can’t keep their hands off me. And I can’t keep my hands off them, either. There’s Bonnie, Susan, Julie, Sammi Jo . . . to be honest, I’m getting dizzy just thinking about them all.

The challenge of juggling so many relationships at once has really caused my work to suffer. Yesterday, one of the partners slammed his fist on my desk and told me to “Shape up!” And I don’t blame him: he had caught me “napping” in my office at 2 p.m. In truth, it was the third time he’d caught me “napping” this week, and in each case, one of my current girlfriends was “napping” with me. I’m self-aware enough to know that this sort of thing just can’t continue. That’s why yesterday at about 2 p.m., right after I said goodbye to Sarah, I decided to become celibate.

It’s now been 24 hours since my fateful decision. I know that’s not very long, but so far, the results have been encouraging. For one thing, I’m thinking more clearly. For another, I’m more pleasant to be around. For a third, I’ve polished off not one, but two, important legal briefs. Giving up my “naps” makes me feel like I’ve discovered a new drug. How long do you think I can keep this up?

Signed, Saving-It-For-My-Work in San Francisco