unbillable hours

the endgame script

I was in the Superior Court today, down in Monmouth County. That's where the Criminal Division is retrying the State's case against Rabbi Neulander. I only know that because the talking heads from Court TV parked in the Attorney/Jury Parking Lot, rather than that general public lot. They had taped down the power lines for their cameras and transmission vans across the parking lot, which the lawyers, myself included, gleefully ripped up as we drove in for trial call. It's a small bit of passive aggressive revenge for the irritation caused by the court reporters during the Impeachment and 2000 Election cases, back when I was on the Hill.

I was in on a Case Management Conference, where the Judge sets the discovery schedule and addresses any outstanding issues. A Case Management Conference normally is a lot like ordering from a Chinese Take-out Menu. "I'll take the Standard, 90-Day Discovery Track... um... 30 days to propound answers to interrogatories and depositions, and Trial Call in 120 days." Thus begins the countdown to the end of a marriage, spoken with the conviction of an order for General Tso's Chicken and Wonton Soup. Today, though, I knew it was going to be different because there was no attorney on the other side. It was a pro se litigant, a man representing himself. In other words, I had a fruitcake on my hands.

In matrimonial law, you learn to hate pro se litigants rather quickly. They argue from the perspective of emotion, of hatred for their former spouse, or just of plumb madness, asserting that there was no way the Court could ever make them toe the line. They learn that they're incorrect usually after only two contempt of court convictions.

I made my way through the reporters, the chain smoking jurors and dead eyed Sheriff's Officers, to the Attorney's Entrance, avoiding the long line for the metal detectors by the Family Part Entrance to the Courthouse. Across the yellow, institutional linoleum I walked, up to the first floor, where Judge Lincoln's chambers were. Judge Lincoln was new to me. I had never argued before him, and only knew that he was experienced in the matrimonial field. Lincoln's docketing clerk, on the other hand, was a face I recognized. He had been the clerk for Judge Kilo, who had heard my first four cases - all pro bono defense cases - back in early Spring 2002.

The docketing clerk waived me over with a smirk on his face. "I understand you're up against a pro se today. Think you can handle it?"

"Piss off, wise guy, I don't even know if the plaintiff is going to show up."

"How about your girl?" the clerk asked.

"Defendant is definitely not in the mood to be in the same room with the guy. I'm off the leash on this one."

"Wonderful. I'll have Judge Kilo's special cell readied for you." Judge Kilo, who used to do domestic violence actions, used to have a special cell in the basement of the courthouse set aside for lawyers he held in contempt.

"Remember," I replied, "I want the fancy mints on the pillow."

I walked back to the gallery of the courtroom, past the mahogany jury box never used in the Family Part, and slouched down in my back row seat. Just as in church, I mused, I find myself compelled to hide out in the back row.. I flipped open my copy of In Ruins, a new book on architecture and archaeology, and began the waiting game.

In the front, Judge Lincoln began the archaic, formal process of terminating a marriage. The parties and their respective attorneys took their seats, the man at the plaintiff's table, the woman at the defendant's.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We are here today for the matter of Smith v. Smith, Docket number FM-11-21119-01F.[1], Counsel, please make your appearances," the Judge announced.

"Good morning, Judge, Mr. Doe of Doe & Doe, LLC, on behalf of the plaintiff," the man's attorney announced. I studied his gray hair and pale facial stubble. He addressed the Judge as "Judge" in open court. Bad form, I thought. Manners, in law, are as important as being right.

"Good morning your honor," the much younger, female attorney for the defendant began, "Ms. Roe of Roe & Casey, P.A., on behalf of the defendant." Yeah, you caught that too, didn't you? I thought, noting the defense attorney's emphasis of "Your Honor" instead of "Judge."

"Thank you," the Judge responded. "Let's begin. Mr. Doe, sir, you may present the Cause of Action."

"Thanks, Judge," the plaintiff's attorney began. He then turned to his client.

"Mr. Smith, you are here today to put through your settlement of your cause of action for divorce, correct?"

"Yes," the client answered, meekly. He shuffled his feet nervously beneath the table.

Mr. Plaintiff sports a pair of Ferragamo's, I see. Pricey shoes for a man with a two-bit lawyer.

"And you recall the complaint filed on June 1, 2001?" Plaintiff's attorney asked.

"Yes."

"Do you recall the allegations of extreme cruelty as you filed them on June 1, 2001?"

The plaintiff paused, a bug-eyed look of fear crossing his face. He couldn't remember what was in the Complaint.

Bad form, sport. You should have introduced the Complaint first, I thought.

The Plaintiff's attorney realized his mistake. "Allow me to introduce the Complaint filed June 1, 2001 as Document P-1. Do you recognize this document?"

"Yes."

"Is this your signature on page 5?"

"Yes."

"And these are the allegations of extreme cruelty you made in the complaint?"

"Yes," the Plaintiff answered.

"And these allegations were true at the time of signing, as well as today?"

"Yes."

"Thank you." The Plaintiff's Attorney turned to the Judge, pausing only to breathe. "Judge, can I address the agreement?"

"You may, Counsel," the Judge Answered.

I checked my watch as the Plaintiff's Attorney asked his client whether he had seen the document before. 10:00. I had been in court for two hours, and my adversary still had not arrived. I motioned to the docketing clerk, pointing at him, then pointing to my eyes with two fingers, and then to the door with my thumb. He slipped from his chair beside the Judge and walked out of the back of the courtroom, to the chamber passageway. Behind each courtroom in New Jersey is a secured passage that leads directly to a Judge's Chambers, his or her offices. Attorneys and law clerks are the chosen few that get to see what are usually the overwhelmingly antique-laden offices down the silent, dark chamber passageway. I stepped out the front of the courtroom, meeting the clerk as he rounded the bend from the passageway.

"No adversary still?" He asked.

"None."

The clerk turned to the bailiff standing guard outside Judge L's courtroom. "Did a Mr. Marbury check in with you?"

"What?" The bailiff asked.

The clerk tried again. "Did a Mr. Marbury check in with you?"

The bailiff shook his head and cupped his hand to his ear. I noticed a full bouquet of white hair streaming from the old man's ears. Irritated, I tried.

"Did... A... Mr.... Marbury.... Check In... With... You....? I asked, nearly shouting.

"No. I'm going to get a danish," the bailiff responded, and then doddered off down the hallway.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, could you get someone that isn't deaf for these jobs?" I remarked to the clerk.

"Hear? The senile old bird doesn't even know who I am and I've been here for six years."

"Christ... all right. He hasn't shown up.... so, no plaintiff. The little shit's been stringing us on with discovery for months. He hasn't even filed his CIS."

The CIS, or Case Information Statement, is a mandatory filing that addresses a party's financial state, including income, taxes, assets, expenses, lifestyle (i.e., from how many Eames Chairs owned to how many packs of cigarettes smoked), and child care expenses. Without this, a case lacks direction.

"So what do you want to do?" the clerk asked, looking at me from behind glassy, over-tired eyes.

"Dismiss the little shit. With prejudice. I don't want him back here with his tail between his legs."

The clerk smiled, "And then what, your client and his go back to being married?"

"No, we just submit a new complaint and get a later vesting date on the asset distribution."

"And with your office, that will take all of a week," he said, reflecting the common perception that my firm churns files.

"Yeah, well, more like this afternoon. Still, dismiss him," I answered.

The clerk took in a deep breath. "You sure?"

"Ah... fuck 'em if he can't take a joke."

We laughed, enjoying the bilious game that lawyers play with language. The same false spite that causes me to allege that I want proof of the death of an adversary's mother before granting adjournments, usually by the phrase "Hey, produce the body," causes others to comment on domestic violence law's reluctance to punish first time offenders with the phrase, "that's just the 'one free smack' rule," paraphrasing the tort law rule concerning dangerous pets.

We went back into the courtroom, where the uncontested judgment continued. The defense attorney had begun her examination of her client.

"Ms. Smith, you read the document marked by Plaintiff's Counsel as P-2, the Property Settlement Agreement?"

"Yes," the client answered. She was more certain, more assertive with her answers.

Mr. Smith must have been a real bastard, eh, Ms. Smith? I thought.

"And you understand the terms of this agreement?" Defense Counsel asked.

"Yes."

"Do you understand that you are waiving your right to alimony under this agreement?"

"Yes."

"And you are satisfied with the terms of this agreement?"

"Yes."

"Are you satisfied with the representation provided to you by my firm?"

"Yes."

"Are you under the influence of any drugs or alcohol that may impair your judgment?"

"No."

The process had come to a close. The defense attorney turned to the Judge.

"No further questions, Your Honor."

"Very well then," the Judge responded, "Ms. Smith, is there an issue of you changing your name?"

"Yes, Your Honor, I wish to go back to my maiden name," the Defendant answered.

"Spell that for the Court."

"J-O-N-E-S"

"And, Ms. Smith," the Judge continued, now addressing his section of the well-rehearsed, timeworn script, "Are you changing your name for the purposes of fraud, avoiding creditors, bankruptcy, or any other reason not allowed by law?"

"No..." The defendant answered, confused by the notion of a crime being committed just by returning to her maiden name.

"Very well, then," the Judge answered, having heard the magic word, "I will make my disposition on the record. Smith v. Smith, Docket Number FM-11-21119-01F, before the Superior Court of New Jersey, Chancery Division, Family Part, Monmouth Vicinage, on this day, November 19, 2002, I hereby make my ruling. The plaintiff has stated his case for divorce on the grounds of extreme cruelty. Judgment will be granted on that part. Defendant has made her case for divorce on the grounds of extreme cruelty. Judgment will be granted on that part. The parties have submitted a Property Settlement Agreement, and I am satisfied that it is fair, just, and not the product of coercion or distress. The Agreement will be incorporated under cover of this order and filed with the Clerk. Case Closed. Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen." The preceding being a seamless burst of decision, not halted by breath or thought as it rattled across the courtroom.

I gathered my papers. It was my turn. The parties and their counsel made their way past the swinging doors and into the gallery. Mr. Smith and the very-soon-to-be Miss Jones looked at each other awkwardly. It had been an amicable divorce. Now they were nothing to each other, at least until the installment payments on equitable distribution kicked in.

I let them pass, then grabbed my briefcase and exhibit box, and walked to the defendant's table. The docketing clerk slipped up to the Judge's bench and began whispering. The Judge nodded, and then the Clerk disappeared into the chambers passageway.

"Good Morning, Mr. B," the Judge began. I understand we will be dismissing your case today?"

"That is correct, Your Honor. Plaintiff's complaint should be dismissed and sanctions should be imposed for failure to prosecute," I answered.

"Very well, Mr. B. The order will be prepared by my clerk. Thank you very much... and," at this the Judge checked his watch, "this will be all. Court is adjourned."

The Judge, without the pomp of requiring the Sheriff's Officer who guarded the interior of his courtroom to enforce the "all rise" rule, hopped off the bench.

"When is your firm going to come through with another golf outing?" He asked.

"Next June, like clockwork, I assume," I answered.

"Good. Judge Kilo owes me a rematch."

I chuckled, and then sat back down, waiting for the clerk to bring in the order. He walked in, smirking as he carried the three sheets of carbon paper that constituted the Order for Dismissal.

"You owe me, you little bitch." The clerk was in a good mood, having escaped a full day of trial.

"As always. Gin or Scotch?"

"Your firstborn. Sign the order."

I signed off, grabbed the pink and yellow copies - one for me, one for the client - and packed my bags. I had just succeeded in setting back the termination date of marriage against an absent adverse client. By the time he realized that my doing so had cost him whatever stock and income he had received since the first date of divorce, the adverse client (soon to be a defendant, once we served him with our complaint) would be at least $200,000 in the hole.

Hell. Fuck 'em if he can't take a joke.

1. Names and distinguishing features bear no resemblance to any actual case or attorneys. However, an actual uncontested was heard in the Monmouth Vicinage today.

updated 7/31/03: Initials replaced with pseudonyms. Formatting changes.

all a lot of oysters, but no pearls

I met my old lover on the street last night She seemed so glad to see me, I just smiled And we talked about some old times and we drank ourselves some beer Still crazy after all these years...

Still Crazy After All These Years, Paul Simon, from Still Crazy After All These Years (1975).

I met someone from college that I had not seen since graduation. Nearly five years have passed since I've met anyone from college. I liked it that way. No ties. No history. So, when I received the email a few weeks back from Laura, perhaps my closest friend from college, I hesitated before answering.

I finally replied to her email, and, after a few more exchanged messages, we agreed to meet up when Laura was visiting New York for a seminar. My office is only 40 minutes south of Midtown Manhattan by train. Her seminar was just north of Grand Central Station. It was perfect timing. I left early from work last Friday, claiming I had an "appointment", and sped through town to catch the 5:25 to Penn Station (just west of Grand Central Station). Sitting on the train, I reviewed a case addressing the discovery of draft reports by experts while imagining what it would be like to see Laura again for the first time in nearly five years.

Laura and I had been close all throughout college. We were both psychology majors, although I started distancing myself from the field in senior year, when I grew dissatisfied with the reception of my thesis by the faculty. Laura used me as a sounding board for her relationships. I rarely dated in college, far too timid to deal with the sense of exposure I felt when I asked women out. I went the other route, and threw myself into my work. I used Laura to listen to myself identify my anxieties. It calmed me, somewhat. I drank less when we talked often. Towards the end of college, she took to a fellow in a serious way. We saw each other less often. I took up the task of getting into law school. Things fall apart. It happens. There was no falling out. We were still warm to each other, me, to some extent, admiring and smitten by her wholesome, kind nature. She, for reasons I never understood. I still don't. Purity is a paradox when you assume ulterior motives as a practice.

We ate dinner at Cafe Centro, near where her seminar took place. Crowded with what seemed to be a hoard of lawyers, many of whom I suspect work at Davis Polk, Cafe Centro was not quite the atmosphere I was looking for. I wanted quiet. A place to chat. A part of me, calculating and idealistic, wanted an environment where I could control external distractions. I got a crowded bistro with an open kitchen. It had a good wine list, so I was able to accept the outcome. I needed control, I thought. I was unwilling to reveal much of myself around others.

I was a bit uncomfortable with meeting Laura. It wasn't because of Laura or our past friendship. It was because of my sense of what others see what I do and what I've become. I was a much more warm, jovial person in college. Now the bags under the eyes are a little darker. Now family members ask what happened to the off-kilter, wildly funny and morbidly emotional "artist" that used to talk of becoming a novelist. I don't answer. I never explain. Something happened, wherein I traded a certain element of myself normally reserved for the emotional and the beautiful, the sublimely funny and tragic, for the wry, the rational, the bemused objectivity that allows me to will myself through the day. It is zen. I tell myself that all the time. I am now zen and nothing shall affect me.

The point is, I was scared of meeting Laura. Would she think I was a bad person? Until thinking about meeting Laura last week, I had not given much thought to what normal people - those who do not practice family law - think about family law. Friends ask that I not bring up cases, particularly when I do a lot of domestic violence motions. Parents remark, in their prim Catholic fashion, that "people" should not be so comfortable about dealing with sex as a profession. Still, my colleagues and I eye each other with toothy smiles. We like this. This... this is drama. It's Lear and Othello, Luigi Pirandello, Judith Guest, and, of course, as it's law, The Verdict.

Six Characters in Search of an Author

But what would Laura think? An old friend who last saw me as destined to do therapeutic programs for kids or neurochem lab work now sees me as the dissolute lawyer? I stamped out a partially smoked cigarette and walked into the restaurant. Laura sat at the bar. I saw her at once, recognizing her as though she had never aged. This is going to be good. You're not going to fuck this up. I checked my jacket and my briefcase with the coat check and sucked in a deep breath. Just act like a boy scout, and you'll be fine. Even though she can probably smell that last cigarette lingering on your breath, dipshit. I walked over to the bar. She had the same porcelain Irish face. The same freckles. The same wavy brown hair. Damn, she still even wears the same crucifix.

Twenty minutes after we sat down, I began to breath again. I sipped at the wine, a nice merlot. It had been four years, nearly five, and Laura and I traded "war stories." We had our issues. We had our moments of failure. We moved on in our respective histories, just as my ribeye arrived. Dinner was jokes in between bites of steak, old stories of foolishness.

"You nearly were arrested for rappelling off the side of the dorm."

"I tried to surprise you on Halloween, only to be kneed in the crotch."

"Your roommates were insane."

"All roommates were insane."

The plates were being cleared. I started a little rant. "I want one of those little metal things these yahoos use to clear crumbs off the table. Who the hell makes something like that? I mean honestly--"

She reached across the now cleaned table, and grabbed my hand, holding onto my fingers. I shifted my hand around, enveloping her hand in mine. Her hand was soft. I had forgotten how soft women's hands could be. She smiled, but her eyes had a sheen that the light caught. There was another story, I could tell, but it wouldn't be told that night.

"It's good to see you again," Laura said.

"You too." I rubbed her fingers softly with my thumb. "It's been too long," I murmured.

Perfectly bitter espresso came next, along with a bit of mousse. She asked if I came into the city often. I did, I explained. Did she come down from Connecticut much? She wasn't that far north of the city, she said. I paid the check, and went to pick up our coats. The walk down to Grand Central Station, for her train, should give me a few more minutes to enjoy this. A nice brisk city walk, I thought. I helped her put her coat on, and started heading for the front door.

"Where are you going?" She asked.

"I... I thought you needed to catch a train?"

"Yeah," She smiled. "You can go out the back and you'll be directly above the Grand Central Terminal."

"Oh," I answered. "Oh. I guess we go out the back, then."

I walked her to her train terminal. We bid each other farewell. A brief hug, and she turned for the tracks. I turned for the exit, walking across the central atrium of Grand Central Station, under a fresco of stars on a brilliant blue background.

updated 7/31/03: Replaced initials with pseudonyms, revised quotation.