QUITTING THE BAR, TWICE : What the law taught me about faith

Unfortunately, nothing could have impressed Frank less, and I never quite recovered from the shock of discovering that he found my best, most sacrificial efforts barely worthy of notice. Instead, he viewed me as a pitiful crackpot and I got stuck doing not only my own work, but Eric's as well. To make matters worse, it became immediately apparent that I was not cut out for the confrontational world of trial law: even agreeing with people made me nervous. My heart sank just approaching the courthouse. Although I neurotically overprepared for even the simplest status conference, in my mind it was always a crapshoot as to whether I'd make it to the counsel table or, halfway there, descend into catatonia and have to be led gently away to the county mental health center. Those hours in court, waiting to argue motions, were the times when I felt most keenly the absurdity of my position. I was often overcome by a loneliness so acute I had to restrain myself from turning to touch the face of the person beside me.

Eric had some complicated system of lists and little index cards bordered in blue that he was constantly rearranging in various slits on the inside cover of a leatherette portfolio he carried around at all times, but his true "specialty" was taking referral calls from potential clients. Simpering, he came into my office one morning, held his arm extended straight out for a moment, and let a fax drop into my box.

"It's from your good friend, Betsy Gould," he said archly. "Looks like they aren't going to cough up those documents, after all. Still playing games. I told Frank not to take that case."

In fact, Betsy was my bitterest enemy, and the case--a medical malpractice, my least favorite kind--was hopeless. Eric was vocal in his opinion that "we'd" never make any money on it, so Frank had simply excused him from participating and, as usual, was making me do all the work. I glanced at the fax and saw that it meant drafting a motion to compel the production of evidence, a time-consuming, tediously grinding exercise in futility.

"Number one," Eric was saying, rapping his knuckles against the wall like some self-important professor, "even downtown you're not going to get a jury that will find against a hospital in favor of a fat, black, convicted felon with cocaine on his tox report. Number two..."

"Eric, we've only been over this about a million times," I interrupted, in a voice that could have cut through steel. "Have you got those expert-witness subpoenas for Robinson yet?"

He ignored this completely. "I've told him I don't know how many times, this case is a big"--he hung his hands limply like paws--"bow-wow!"

I closed my eyes, counted to ten, and said evenly, "Eric. Where are the Robinson subpoenas?"

"I mean I've been telling him since Day One," he continued, clamping his nostrils together with thumb and forefinger--"this case stinks."

"The SUBPOENAS!" I hissed, springing to my feet like a rottweiler ready to jump across the desk. "Did you get them or not?"