Thursday, November 03, 2005
Back Page Obsession
My obsession was, by definition, unhealthy. I knew it wasn’t good for me; it was miring me in a bygone era of bad habits and festering frustrations. I suppose it was like one of those situations where, years ago, you happened to notice the hot neighbor cavorting nude behind an inadvertently unshaded window, and ever since you’ve cast a hopeful glance to that same window every time you pass it, remembering your unexpected titillation, and hoping with ever-decreasing expectations for a second bite at that succulent apple. Except this time, it wasn’t some prurient thrill I was seeking – it was vindication, of the basest variety. And it wasn’t an open window I kept peeking through – it was the State Bar Journal’s discipline roster. I’m not proud of it, but I think it’s behind me now. Maybe I can just get it out of my system here and move on with my life.
So: let’s journey back to those heady days of the mid-‘90s. You may remember a favorite piece of popular music from that era, or a television program that you enjoyed. I don’t remember much of that stuff. I was working. I was gigging as an attorney and putting in a lot of hours. I didn’t enjoy it much but I thought that was what it was to fulfill one’s destiny. The harder it grew to find value in the path I’d chosen, the harder I strove to force it to be right. I poured myself into my work, believing that my lack of satisfaction would effervesce into bubbles of pure bliss once I achieved professional mastery. All that I needed to do was to establish myself. Once I was happy with my work, everything else would fall magically into place. And, since I believed that happiness is wrested solely by dint of painful exertion, that was how I proceeded. Each case I litigated, now matter how petty; each client I endured, not matter how ungrateful; all my obstacles were but cobblestones on the bumpy road to personal fulfillment.
The M~ case, however, was a turning point. Our client was an obstreperous old bookkeeper, whose deal to sell her business to some lowlife had gone awry. He was suing her and she was suing back. Paradise on earth – for lawyers, anyway.
The other guy was represented by an unctuous fellow who was as close as science has come to a boar-shark hybrid. Everything about him screamed, “don’t trust this guy.” I didn’t, but it wound up not making much of a difference. It did not, on the other hand, surprise me to find myself sliced down at the tendons.
To wit: it came to pass, in the course of litigation, that opposing counsel filed a motion to strike my pleadings – that is to say, to have my client’s answer and cross-complaint removed from the court’s file, and for a ruling on the whole case based only on the scurrilous misrepresentations of his client’s unrebutted complaint. I prepared a thorough response and filed it with the court – but I’d failed to take a holiday into account, and filed one day too late. The other attorney gleefully told me he refused to consent to my going forward with the late-filed papers, so I filed for ex parte relief – that is, a request that the court give me a break. In response, the other attorney took his motion off the court’s calendar. He’d given up. I’d won.
Except: He immediately re-filed the same motion. Funny thing, though – I never got a copy of it. His paperwork included a sworn statement under penalty of perjury that he’d sent me a copy, but the first I ever head of it was when I got his notice of an adverse judgment by the court. His motion had gone forward unopposed and the court had given him what he’d asked for by default – essentially, my client’s head on a platter. If I didn’t move quickly, the case would be utterly, irredeemably over.
I immediately filed a motion for reconsideration, on the grounds that he’d pulled a fast one without word one to me. I’d already written a full and effective argument against his motion – he’d seen it on the first go-around. Knowing I was just waiting for the chance to use it against him, he had tried an illegal end-run. The dignity of the courts and the impartial administration of justice, to say nothing of the Code of Civil Procedure, demanded that the court rescind its judgment. And thus, we finally got before a judge.
The other lawyer and the judge seemed well-acquainted and greeted each other on a first-name basis. I, on the other hand, had never appeared before this judge before. I introduced myself, told the truth, made my best argument, and stood my ground.
The judge ruled from the bench: I’d screwed up the first filing, and therefore I’d screwed up the second one too. The other lawyer’s statement that he’d sent me the paperwork the second time around outweighed my sworn statement that I’d never received it. Result: reinstate the case, but fine me two grand for incompetence. It galls me even now to remember it. I insisted on appealing. We lost again. We paid $2000 to the court, and costs to opposing counsel.
What’s more, my belief that hard work would bring me professional satisfaction was significantly undermined. Time passed and I left that job. Then I left a couple of other jobs. Then I left the practice of law altogether, the sour taint of that motion to strike having blended with other disappointments and frustrations till I couldn’t stand it any longer. If that’s what being an attorney was about, I’d had enough of it. I moved on.
All that remained to link me to my erstwhile profession was my actual license, issued yearly and clearly marked “inactive,” and my monthly newsletter from the State Bar. And as for the newsletter, there was only one thing in it I really cared about: the last few pages, dedicated each month to a rundown of State Bar Court activities – the actions taken against malfeasant attorneys. Once, during the M~ litigation so many years before, I’d seen the jerk lawyer on the other side written up for reproval – a pansy little slap on the wrist for misuse of his client trust fund account. But he was there. Even as he was tormenting me, so was he tormented. It was so little, and so petty, but it was glorious to me. It felt so good. And so, every month thereafter, I checked the attorney discipline logs. I wanted to see him listed down for something more substantial. I wasn’t proud of my fascination with him, my desire to see his name in the rolls of infamy, but I didn’t do much to wean myself of it either. It felt dirty but I just couldn’t help myself. Every month, I turned to the back pages and looked for him. Every month. For about a decade. Religiously. Shamefully. But I did it anyway.
Well, to whom do good things come? To my patient ass, that’s to whom. I’m three lifetimes removed from those days of being lied to and called a liar and paying for the privilege in money and faith lost in myself and in the system. Time enough, it seems, for the wheels to come full circle. My old friend has finally returned to the printed page. He’s been suspended from the practice of law for something more than 17 incidents of professional misconduct, including misrepresentations as to having filed documents that never got to the courthouse. He cheated and lied to me ten years ago, and now it’s been made a matter of public record that cheating and lying was his basic M.O. A decade of frustration and rancor have been justified. A dirty burden is lifted from my heart. Now I can finally ignore the California Bar Journal altogether, if I want to. The choice, finally, is mine to make. I’m closing the books on the back pages.
I now work at the State Bar, in a multi-story building in which we occupy floors 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, and 10. Other companies occupy floors 1, 2 and 3; the State Bar Court (which hands down attorney discipline decisions) is on floor 6. The elevators have a listing of the floors, showing, for example, “5: State Bar of California.” That listing appears six times, with “6: State Bar Court” showing up in the middle, once. For months now I’ve wanted to deface that directory, adding the word “Food” between “Bar” and “Court.” It would be nice to have a Sbarro’s upstairs for a little quick prefab calzone.