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I had a great dinner last night with someone I’ve known off and on for several years and who qualifies as one of the true luminaries of the Los Angeles Bar. Part of what made it a special meal was the food (lemon white wine-poached branzino). But a bigger part was our jovial conversation and his stories about his practice and his travels. It was such an uplifting discussion, in fact, that I spent some time today reflecting on it and I think I’ve put my finger on why I came away feeling so good. It’s this: my dinner companion was first admitted to practice law in January, 1969. Yet, now, after more than 44 years of lawyering, he still enjoys it!

He actually said, “I love what I do.” I don’t know about your friends, colleagues and acquaintances, but I don’t meet too many lawyers who’ve been doing this even just 25 or 30 years who still really seem to enjoy it. Or who enjoy it enough to declare, without the slightest hint of irony, “I love what I do.” Do you love what you do?

Like those researchers who desperately want to unlock the secret to longevity in a culture like Sardinia, Italy or Okinawa, Japan, his words caused me to wonder whether he had stumbled upon some little known formula to continuing to find law enjoyable after over four decades. I haven’t uncovered any secret formula, but after some thought I’ve identified a few factors, habits or traits, if you will, that could help explain how my friend has managed, not only to go the distance, but to do it joyfully. Without further throat-clearing, here’s what I’ve gathered:

Balance

As tempted as you might be to snicker at the notion of “work-life balance,” particularly now when everybody is supposed to feel lucky just to have a job and the new buzz phrase is “lean in,” don’t dismiss this too quickly (that includes you, too, Scott H. Greenfield). When my friend described his notion of balance, it did not mean always leaving work at a “reasonable time” so he can enjoy his life and time with family. His practice is litigation-oriented, specialized and in-demand, so he’s not working what used to be called “banker’s hours.”

But he did stress that he both “works hard and plays hard.” His meaning was that, while there may be some nights that he’s responding to emails in the early morning hours, there are lots of other nights when he’s having dinner with intriguing folks like me. This is the kind of balance I, too, have tried to find in recent years, recognizing that it’s not always going to work to leave the office at 6, or 7 or whenever. But for every time I get stuck working into the night, I make sure there are many more nights when I’m doing something I really enjoy–like spending time with my daughter.

Vacation/Travel

When I first met this man in 1996, he told me he routinely took 5-6 weeks off annually, and spent much of it traveling abroad. When I reminded him of this comment last night he smiled and said, “now it’s more like 11-12 weeks off.” Wow. Just wow.

I fully recognize that most lawyers simply cannot, financially or logistically, afford to take 2 or 3 months off every year. So bear with me, because my point is not that we should all make that a goal, but something a little more fundamental.

For my friend, he loves time off and he loves to travel. So he structured his professional life so that it enables him to maintain a thriving practice while taking a substantial (by anyone’s measure) amount of time off. He is also really good at what he does, so he is in demand and charges a premium.

But, here’s the reason I bring this up: he has found something he loves outside the law and he pursues it and will not let anything, including his practice, prevent him from doing that thing. And we can all learn something from that. We don’t have to disappear for months at a time and visit faraway lands. But I do think having a life, interests and activities outside the law–and making time to enjoy them–may be one of the important keys to a long, enjoyable legal career. One that can last over 40 years! But it won’t happen without some serious effort toward that goal.

A Team

If you’re wondering how my friend can escape a thriving law practice for months at a time, the answer is that he doesn’t do it alone. When I met him in 1996, he had an associate and a fantastic paralegal. Now he has a few “of counsel” lawyers and a paralegal. Again, he didn’t build this practice overnight, but as it grew he early recognized the need for help. We talked briefly about his team last night and he was complementary of their skills, which led me to believe that, when he takes time away, he is confident that his clients’ needs are being protected just as if he were in town.

Here, again, vetting and training a team who could competently manage his practice when he travels must have been a challenge. But, knowing he wanted a life outside the law, he spent the necessary time and energy. I don’t know, perhaps he was also very lucky with the people he found and hired. Perhaps he treats them well. But the upshot is that he’s able to take (a lot of) time away and do so comfortably. I’ll leave it to you to ponder whether this is one of the keys to his longevity.

A Practice He Loves

I do relish a good circular argument. But, the fact is, my friend loves what he does because he does something he loves. If you don’t find an area of the law that you “love” to practice now, you’re probably not going to love it in 25, 30 or 40 years. And I don’t think you have to love it at all, but if you’re going to spend four decades doing an activity many hours a week, it will really help if it’s something you find stimulating. I will readily admit I don’t love my practice, but I do find it stimulating, and I’m hoping it will stimulate me at least until my daughter finishes college.

Have I discovered the career longevity equivalent of Sardinian olives? I don’t know. But I can point to one person whose been practicing for 44 years and is still going strong. I hope I will be able to say as much.

A colleague who recently passed the California Bar Examination hosted a group of us to a round of drinks and the talk turned to bar examination grading. Specifically, how little time the graders spent on each essay (I think it was a matter of seconds). Our group included a lawyer who had worked briefly as a tutor to recent (or not so recent) law school grads on how to pass the bar. I learned for the first time how much emphasis is placed by the graders on headings, or portions of exam answers that are underlined or set apart some other way. She explained that, because the graders spend such a minimal time on each essay, headings or other highlighted matter take on a special importance.

I’ve been told this is not so unlike the limited time and attention some judges and their clerks spend reading legal briefs, underscoring the importance of well-chosen and composed headings. I seem to recall hearing somewhere that some judges and clerks sometimes go no deeper in a brief than a review of the headings.

Obviously, then, headings can be particularly important in legal writing. I consulted legal writing guru Bryan Garner’s The Elements of Legal Style, and found that he offers three issues/rules to keep in mind when crafting headings and subheadings. Here’s what he says:

“1. Do not rely on headings to provide transitions. You still need to prepare the reader–perhaps with a transitional word (therefore) or sentence (That brings us to the final point).

2. Be sure that any headings you use convey a definite message to the reader. A vague or ambiguous heading defeats itself.

3. Shun generic headings, such as ‘Facts’ or ‘Background,’ ‘Analysis,’ and ‘Conclusion.’ These often falsely suggest that the facts are discrete from the analysis, or that the analysis is discrete from the conclusion. Unless you are writing in a medium that requires formulaic headings, such as the ‘Statement of Facts’ in a brief or student memorandum, such headings give the impression that the writing follows a formula. And you may even make it formulaic by failing to analyze what organization best suits your purposes. Make your headings serve your text, not vice versa.” (pp. 77-78)

“In addition,” Garner suggests, “make [headings] . . . uniformly brief.” Id. at 78. My girlfriend in law school worked as a legal secretary (in addition to her full-time law school case load). I recall asking her to show me some professionally written legal briefs from her firm. What struck me was both the brevity and informality of the headings, particularly in contrast to the formal headings we were being taught to write by our legal writing professors (some of whom, I’m thinking, had never actually filed a legal brief with a court). I was stunned by one real world opposition which featured a heading that merely said: “This Motion Is A Complete Waste Of Time.” While I don’t think any reader would find this heading compelling, it does have sense of immediacy–of getting to the point–that the lengthy, formal headings we learned to write in law school sorely lacked, but that most readers appreciate.

Perhaps when we penetrate to the farthest reaches of this era of Twittering Tweet-like communications, where brevity is not only prized, but required, there may come a time when 140 characters is all you get. Better make those headings count!

I’ve previously written here about the Reptile litigation strategy, and here about how to prepare a witness for a Reptile deposition. In this post, I want to explore how to challenge the Reptile strategy using legal principles. Credit for explaining these strategies goes to Columbia, South Carolina lawyer David Marshall, who wrote about the Reptile strategy in the April, 2013 issue of For the Defense.

According to Marshall, “Every jurisdiction recognizes some version of the golden rule, which disallows any argument asking jurors to put themselves in the shoes of a party.” Id. at 68. The prohibition is premised on a view that such arguments are designed to destroy juror impartiality and encourage jurors to decide a case based on personal interest and bias.

Marshall refers to Reptile as a “veiled” golden rule argument “because it seeks to have jurors decide a case not on the actual damages sustained by the plaintiff but rather on the potential harms and losses that could have occurred within the community, which includes each juror and his or her family members.” Id. 

Marshall also points out that an outsized punitive damage verdict that results from jurors punishing a defendant for potential infliction of hypothetical damages, beyond what the plaintiff actually suffered, is vulnerable on due process grounds. The Reptile strategy attempts to appeal to survival instincts and a juror’s innate urge to protect her community. Marshall writes that “the Due Process Clause specifically prohibits punitive damage awards based on potential injuries that could have been inflicted on other members of the community.” Id. (emphasis in original).

Another avenue Marshall discusses involves the prohibition, in most jurisdictions, of “other similar incidents” evidence. Again, the Reptile is concerned, not only with what did occur in the case at hand, but what hypothetically could have occurred based on the defendant’s blameworthy safety practices. There is little difference, in terms of evidentiary value and risk of prejudice, between an “other similar incident” and a hypothetical similar incident that could have occurred (but fortuitously didn’t).

Marshall points also to an argument available in certain jurisdictions barring a lawyer in closing argument from urging the jury to “send a message” to the defendant, or to “act as the conscience of the community.” Id. at 74. Since this is exactly what the Reptile strategy is based on, there may be  a basis for exclusion/preclusion of Reptile tactics on this basis, as well.

Finally, Marshall suggests that, if efforts to exclude or limit Reptilian trial tactics are unsuccessful, it may be possible to dilute the effectiveness of the Reptile strategy by explaining it to the jury. Marshall suggests it may even be appropriate to “compliment the plaintiff’s attorney in . . . closing and praise his or her ability and zeal” (Id.), using this as an opportunity to explain the psychology of the Reptile strategy and why they should not get too carried away by it.

See, there’s more than one way to skin a . . . er . . . lizard.

In all but the rarest instances, I come away from a lawsuit with a clearer memory of my opponent’s lawyer than of the opponent. When I get involved in a new case, I’ll often do some research to see who I’m up against. Is she a solo or a member of a firm? Have my colleagues dealt with her in prior cases, or do I know anything about her by reputation (which, as we know, can be grossly inaccurate). As we wind through the case, I form or refine my impression of her. Generally, by the end of a case, we part ways either as friends or at least as professionals. Even in those instances in which I’ve had to be aggressive, I try not to let it get too personal.

That’s not to say I always finish a case feeling “respect” for my opponent. Let’s face it, some lawyers just don’t deserve it. And, while I don’t like to generalize, I can identify four categories of opposing counsel for whom I don’t usually feel respect at the end of the day. Are you one of these?

The Overt Asshole

This post (the entire blog, for that matter) is built on the assumption that lawyers are not per se assholes. If you hold the opposite view, then I’m not writing for you–go back to playing Farmville on Facebook.

It’s not hard to gain entry into this category, at least in my book. Refuse courtesy extensions, yell at me or my client during a deposition, make threats you know you could never carry out, insult my client, my ethics or my skills, talk down to me . . . You get the picture. What’s surprising is how seldom I’ve finished a case and branded my opponent an Overt Asshole. Perhaps the bigger surprise is that I can think of more lawyers representing co-defendants who qualified for this title than lawyers representing parties who sued my clients.

The Liar

Ah, the truth-challenged. Even nations at war are expected to adhere to a code of ethics. There’s a special circle in hell for those that don’t, and the same is true for lawyers. Telling lies is just dirty pool and should never be rewarded. Even on those instances in which it could be harmless, it degrades our profession. I’m not talking here about Bill Clinton-style fibbing under oath (though that sucks, too, but for different reasons). I’m referring to making blatant misrepresentations to the court orally or in papers. I’ve found there is often an overlap between The Liar and the Overt Asshole.

The BFF

Some lawyers think it’s strategically advantageous to be your Bestie from the get-go. This isn’t to say a genuine friendship can’t grow out of litigating a case together. I can count a handful of former opposing counsel whom I consider true friends. But when there’s an obvious strategic motive behind playing the role of best friend while litigating a case–and it’s usually possible to tell if that’s what’s going on–then the BFF is really little different from The Liar, right?

The Legend-In-His-Own-Mind

This is the guy who needs a 7-series BMW with extra trunk room for his ego. This is the guy who did pretty good in a trial once and will force his opponents to re-live those moments of glory in Technicolor. This is the guy who boasts to his opponents during deposition that he’s “a different breed.” (True story!) You don’t want to see him in action in front of the jury in this case! You know the type, right? If you don’t, you’ll encounter him some day. There are crossover possibilities here with the Overt Asshole, as well.

Do any of these describe you? In the interest of full disclosure, I’ll admit to being a little bit of each–except The Liar–at one point or another during the last 20 years. But I guarantee those weren’t my finest moments.

One of our most important jobs during trial is to object, when necessary, to prevent the improper admission of evidence. But doing this job, even properly, is not without its risks. Chief among these is the risk of alienating jurors or garnering resentment because it is obvious–assuming the objection is sustained–that you have succeeded in hiding some quantum of information from the jury. After all, they’ll wonder, if your client’s case is so obviously a winner–as you said in your opening statement–why this need to hide facts from us?

As always, the wise Professor McElhaney has something to offer on this topic. In his Trial Notebook (3rd. Ed.), he suggests we learn and practice how to make objections understandable to the jury. He even suggests they can be made appealing. He writes:

“It is true that objections are supposed to be made to the bench, not to the jury or opposing counsel. In fact, addressing either your adversary or the jury is an invitation for a reprimand from the judge. On the other hand, there is no rule against making objections so that the jurors understand the basis for your objection and perhaps even sympathize with your position, rather than concluding you are pulling some lawyer’s trick to keep them from hearing the whole truth.

Essentially the idea is to state a legally sufficient objection–one that is specific and accurate–which a layman can understand and appreciate, and do it in five to ten seconds. For example, ‘Objection, leading,’ may win a ‘sustained’ from the judge, but will not really help the jury understand what you have done. ‘Objection, Your Honor, leading. Counsel is putting words in his witness’s mouth,’ lets the jury see that your adversary has been doing the testifying.

The time limitation is very important, since if you take too long, you are inviting attack for making a speech. With some work, even the most difficult concepts can be understandably compressed in a short time. Instead of saying, ‘Objection, hearsay,’ you might say, ‘Objection, Your Honor, the jury can’t tell whether some casual bystander this witness overheard was telling the truth. This is hearsay.'” (p.327)

McElhaney goes on to point out that, while it may seem like fine trial lawyers who make well-phrased objections do so extemporaneously, the truth is that such language is generally developed and practiced in advance.

Could licensed lawyers ever go the way of the Dodo and S & H Green Stamps?

I came across this recent article in the Wall Street Journal about the growing interest by non-traditional law school students in signing up for selected law school courses and seeking non-JD graduate-level law degrees (i.e., a Masters) in discreet areas of the law, such as health care, etc. The article got me wondering whether anything could ever bring about a long-term shift away from a world in which graduate students incur huge debt to obtain JD degrees, sit for an arduous 18 hour bar examination, get their license, only to learn that: (1) there are too few available jobs for newly-minted lawyers; (2) many lawyers will only use a fraction of the information we learned during law school; and (3) although we are “fiduciaries” only about 31-38% of the public trusts their lawyers–anything could cause a glacial shift away from this world into one in which tasks and responsibilities traditionally handled by licensed lawyers are done instead by non-lawyers who may (or may not) have specialized training to enable them to assume that responsibility or perform that task.

While I’m just musing, some wonk has surely crunched the numbers and stands ready with a handy statistic about how much this change has already occurred. After all, NOLO has been around since the 1970s. LegalZoom and similar providers have (apparently successfully) developed products and services specifically designed to omit lawyers from supposedly “simple” transactions such as corporate formation, or the drafting of a trust or will. Sophisticated organizations, including realtor associations, already provide for arbitrations with non-lawyer industry experts serving as the neutrals to resolve a dispute. I also know of potentially expensive and protracted divorce disputes that were resolved with reduced time, expense and pain through the involvement of psychologist-lawyer mediation teams.

Let me be clear about what I am not talking about. Professors, bloggers and writers have discussed ad nauseam the disruptive and earth-shaking changes in the business of law (along with the “business” of teaching lawyers their trade) which have largely occurred over the past half-decade. I neither pretend nor want to contribute to this discussion. This is not about The New Normal, whatever you may think of that label. I don’t care whether or how NOLO or LegalZoom might impact the annual Profits Per Partner at Skadden (it won’t) or the profits of a sole practitioner in Visalia, California (it might), or will cause some random law school to shut its doors.

I’m talking instead about the future of our profession. The future of the idea that we are a civilization that needs expensive intermediaries, people specially trained to do our thinking, drafting and arguing for us. That we are a civilization in which two people who reach an agreement need two (or more) comparatively expensive people to reduce it to writing. Or that we lack the ability to argue effectively on our own behalf, without a mouthpiece, about anything more serious than a small debt or a traffic ticket. Are we still going to be that civilization in the future? Or could we ever evolve into a civilization in which lawyers are those jokers they talk about in history books? “I once saw one!”

What, if anything, does it say about the interest, ability and willingness of the public to commit to become more do-it-ourself with regard to tasks and responsibilities formerly handled exclusively by licensed lawyers? By the same token, what could it say about the interest and willingness of people who once thought they wanted to be a licensed lawyer to elect instead to focus their education on a sub or sub-sub-speciality of law (saving $100,000 + in tuition in the process)?

I’m not suggesting any of this could happen soon. Our systems are not ready for it. For example, while citizens are presently free to represent themselves in civil and criminal courts, I can’t even begin to suggest that it’s a good idea for anybody. I’ve been practicing in courts for 20 years, but it would never (ever) occur to me to represent myself in any criminal matter beyond a speeding ticket (and even then). But, like all things, this could change. If criminal and civil courts ever became pro se-friendly . . . (Don’t laugh. Stop it.)

I’m also not taking the position that a civilization without a legal profession would be better or worse than ours. Just different.

In my last post, I attempted to describe what has come to be known as the Reptile technique of discovery and trial presentation, as advocated in the book, Reptile: the 2009 Manual of the Plaintiff’s Revolution. Again, the goal with this technique is to invoke the reptilian brain of jurors, which thrives on evolution, and therefore maximizes “survival advantages” and minimizes “survival dangers.”

As Reptile becomes more common, it falls to us to ensure that our lay and expert witnesses are adequately prepared to deal with the technique during deposition. To better understand what your witness will be up against, here is an example of a Reptile examination of a medical expert concerning a doctor’s care:

“Q: Physicians are not allowed to needlessly endanger patients?

A: Correct.

Q: That’s the standard of care?

A: Yes.

Q: When diagnosing or treating, do doctors make choices?

A: Yes.

Q: Often, several available choices can achieve the same benefit?

A: Yes.

Q: Sometimes, some of those are more dangerous than others?

A: Yes.

Q: So you have to avoid selecting one of those more dangerous ones?

A: Correct.

Q: Because that’s what a prudent doctor would do?

A: Yes.

Q: Because when the benefit is the same, the extra danger is not allowed?

A: Yes.

Q: The standard of care should not allow extra danger unless it might work better or increase the odds of success?

A: Yes.

Q: So needless extra danger violates the standard of care?

A: Yes.

Q: And there’s no such thing as a standard of care that allows you to needlessly endanger a patient?

A: Yes.”

Imagine your client is a doctor. He/she treats a patient suffering from an ailment for which multiple treatment options are available. At least when I was in law school, we learned that a doctor is held to the standard of care that a similarly qualified practitioner would have performed under the same or similar circumstances. Yet, it is difficult to take issue with the “umbrella rule” that “A doctor is not allowed to needlessly endanger patients.” No one should be allowed to “needlessly endanger” anyone, right?

The rub here is the word “needlessly.” Sure, if there is a 100% fail-safe, side-effect-and-risk-free treatment option, then the choice for the doctor should be simple. In the real world, however, nothing is “risk-free.” Every treatment has risks and benefits which must be weighed and evaluated. And the jury must understand this. Practicing medicine is not a game of darts. The problem with the above set of questions, however, is that they (purposely) leave no room for the crucial weighing of risks and benefits. The Reptile strategy works best when jurors sense at a primitive level that the defendant doctor is out there, on the loose, preying upon unsuspecting patients, and the only way to stop him is by returning a monster jury verdict.†

The challenge for your witness, then, will be to ensure that she does not get boxed in by questions that leave out the weighing of risks and benefits. Remember I generally take an “activist” role in defending depositions, which means I will do everything within my (albeit limited) power to prevent my witness from being bullied into answering an unfair question. Thus, to a question like, “Physicians are not allowed to needlessly endanger patients?” I would object that this question is vague, ambiguous, unintelligible, overly broad and presents a hopelessly incomplete hypothetical. I would challenge the examiner to be more specific about what he/she means by “needlessly” and “endanger.” I would hope that, even if the examiner ignores my invitation to re-frame the question (as I expect she will), the judge will later agree that, in the real world of ailments and treatment options–and assuming the doctor did not perform surgery drunk–the phrase “needlessly endanger” is functionally meaningless.

Let’s assume, however, that the examiner ignores my objections and the court overrules them. The witness needs to be prepared to deal with this kind of question. And I believe she can learn, with practice, not to get boxed-in by questions that are frankly absurd. First, as I noted in my objection, the question is vague, ambiguous and unintelligible. The deponent should refuse to answer any question until she feels the meaning is crystal clear. I submit that “needlessly endanger” is far from crystal clear. If the examiner steadfastly refuses to break down or define what she means by “needlessly,” then the deponent should re-frame the question in her answer in a way that makes it reasonable. I’m no doctor–I don’t even play one on TV–but I believe the following answer beats “correct” any day:

“Q: Physicians are not allowed to needlessly endanger patients?

A: Correct. If you mean in prescribing treatment or medication, must a doctor consider and balance the risks and benefits of all treatment options available and known to him, I would agree with that. Otherwise, I don’t understand your question.”

Your witness must refuse to be drawn into empty over-generalizations. She needs to be prepared to endlessly reframe unfair questions, lest she will commit herself to enormous, sweeping “rules” or standards which have no real relevance or application to the concrete facts of the case. This actually holds true in any kind of deposition. The only difference with Reptile is that the questions will be cunningly tailored to prey upon jurors’ unconscious fears that doctors like your client are out there “needlessly endangering” patients like the juror and his/her family, and must be stopped. If your client did not “needlessly endanger” the plaintiff, but simply prescribed one among many accepted treatments, then the jury must–absolutely must–understand the balancing of risks and benefits that physicians undertake every time they prescribe a treatment. They can still conclude the doctor breached the applicable standard of care, but they should only do so based on an informed application of the appropriate standard to the specific facts.

†Let me say here that, while my practice does not include suing doctors for alleged malpractice, I do not have a built-in bias against plaintiffs or their lawyers.

For many, the words “lawyer” and “reptile” are probably synonymous. Since 2009, however, some lawyers have sought to transform the courtroom into a reptilian battleground.

That year, attorney Don Keenan and jury consultant David Ball published a book on trial strategy called Reptile: The 2009 Manual of the Plaintiff’s Revolution. I’m not sure how “revolutionary” it has really been, but the theory and the book have indeed received some attention, if only because the practice clarifies something clever (and successful) plaintiff lawyers have implicitly understood for decades.

What is the “reptile” theory? It is built upon research performed in the 1960s by neurologist Paul MacLean, who posited a theory that the brain is comprised of three parts: the reptilian complex, the paleomammalian complex and the neomammalian complex. The reptilian complex includes the brain stem and the cerebellum, the oldest part of the brain, which thrives on survival. The reptilian brain maximizes “survival advantages” and attempts to minimize “survival danger.” Id. at 17.

As applied to trial strategy, the theory attempts to capitalize on the need of the reptilian brain to avoid “survival dangers.” As Keenan and Ball write, “When the Reptile sees a survival danger, even a small one, she protects her genes by impelling the juror to protect himself and the community.” Id. 

How does the theory work? The goal, through witness examination and closing argument, is to capitalize on jurors’ innate need to minimize survival dangers. In other words, the evidence and argument must convince a juror, not only that the defendant acted negligently, but also that, such conduct threatens the juror’s community (beyond the single plaintiff), which could include the juror and his/her family. Further, jurors must be made to feel empowered, by virtue of their verdict, to prevent this conduct, thereby protecting the community.

The goal in getting jurors to think with the reptilian part of their brains appears to be (1) to obtain a winning verdict even when logic or emotion might cause jurors to find against the plaintiff’; and (2) to maximize the size of the verdict, by encouraging jurors to think beyond the risk or the harm suffered by the individual plaintiff, to the safety of the broader community.

Coupled with the principles from the book Rules of the Road (about which I previously wrote here and here), lawyers can go reptile by invoking or establishing broad “safety rules” which the defendant violated, but which would have avoided the harm if they had been followed. Keenan and Ball offer six characteristics that each safety rule must possess in order to trigger jurors’ reptilian brains:

• The rule must prevent danger;
• The rule must protect people in a wide variety of situations, not just the plaintiff;
• The rule must be in clear English;
• The rule must explicitly state what a person must or must not do;
• The rule must be practical and easy for someone in the defendant’s position to have followed; and
• The rule must be one that the defendant will either agree with or seem stupid, careless or dishonest. Id. at 52-53.

Some examples? Keenan and Ball begin with the broadest possible “umbrella rule.” Id. at 55. Think: “A [_____________] is not allowed to needlessly endanger the public.” Fill in the blank: doctor, car maker, construction scaffolding supplier, etc. You get the idea.

Next, the authors advocate eliciting admissions, from the defendant and/or its experts, to gradually narrower, more case-specific, safety rules. From the undeniable umbrella rule that “A doctor is not allowed to needlessly endanger the public,” for example, the case-specific rule is “If a cardiologist has a choice between two treatment alternatives, he/she is negligent unless he/she elects the absolute safest choice.” After all, if a doctor picks any alternative that is not the absolute safest, he/she is needlessly endangering the public, right?

As I say, I don’t think the Reptile approach is all that revolutionary. I remember encountering lawyers long before 2009 using a very similar approach and it made a lot of sense to me, even without any tie to neuroscience. In my next post, I will discuss how to prepare a witness for a reptile deposition.

One of the first things a business development coach will tell you is to identify people whom you believe can help you in your quest to build a practice. If you’re like me, this might cause you to look around and compile a list of people you think might hire you directly. If you’re an employment lawyer, for example, you might try to identify business owners and human resources directors you know who could have an immediate need for your services and finding a way to market to them.

This is probably not the worst approach. After all, you’re doing something in a calculated effort to build business, which is certainly better than nothing, right?

But better than nothing is not necessarily the best. I’ve lately come to think there is indeed an even better way. Based largely on my own experiences, as well as what I’ve seen with friends and colleagues who truly qualify as “rainmakers,” I believe now that the highest return on effort (ROE), at least when you’re first building your practice, is to leverage those who you are close to and who probably care about you most. Sure the two approaches might overlap; if a close relative happens also to own a business that, as all businesses do, needs employment counsel, then there’s no difference. But what I’m describing here does not involve asking a friend or relative to send you work directly, but allowing that person to act as a conduit to boost your chances of getting business through an introduction or referral.

Let me right away clarify two things. First, what you’re after isn’t a free lunch. You’re not looking for someone to hand you an envelope full of cash; you’re seeking the opportunity to perform quality legal services for a person or business who genuinely needs that legal service. Second, I do not mean leverage in the sense of use. Do not use those closest to you to get ahead. You will feel like a user and your friends and family will feel used. Don’t be a user.

On the other hand, if your relationship and trust are such that you would not hesitate to do something–take a chance, even–to give your friend or relative a boost, then why not give them the same opportunity? I would argue (based on experience I’ve had acting as a conduit to build my friends’ businesses) that the friend or relative who goes out on a limb to help grow his/her friend’s business is the one getting the biggest emotional reward. Have you ever enjoyed giving gifts more than receiving them? Plus, the one getting the business opportunity still has to do the work, while the one who did nothing more than make an introduction or referral gets to sit back and feel good.

What I’m talking about involves a two-step process. First, it requires letting that person close to you know that she can help you and that you’d appreciate that help. This is necessary because it does not immediately occur to everyone that they can help you or that the help is wanted. Some might even hesitate to make an introduction or referral–particularly if they are not familiar with the practice of law–because they are worried it will be viewed as meddling in your business.

The second step requires explanation. You must help those around you understand exactly what you do and who your clients typically are. An easy way to do this is to explain a recent case you handled. If you were successful on behalf of your client (hopefully you were in this particular story), explain how good it made you feel to help that person or business through a tough situation. You want to sell yourself without sounding like your selling yourself. The point is to make that person who knows you, who trusts you, and who would probably like to do whatever he/she can to make your life better understand both that you would appreciate their help and how they can help.

This can be a lot easier if you’re in a position to assist the close friend or relative toward reaching his or her goals first. I’m a big believer in “paying forward,” looking for opportunities to do a good turn for another without any expectation of payback. I know now, in a way I never understood before, that there really is karma when it comes to relationships and good deeds in the business world. Unless they are direct competitors, people generally want to feel like they’ve played an important role in a close friend or relative’s success.

The ABA Journal reported on Friday that a Pennsylvania judge held a lawyer in contempt and increased the bond for his client when they were late for a jury trial. “We were all here at 9 a.m. for a jury trial and the defense table was empty,” said the judge, who had dismissed the prospects not long before the two arrived. “We wasted a jury panel.” The lawyer later claimed that personal problems kept him up late and the hotel failed to give him a wake-up call.

Readers can receive this in many ways. Some will say, good for the judge, he did the right thing. Others will think it’s over the top and the judge was out of line. After all, everyone has been late at one time or another. Is contempt and a $1,000 fine (which the judge ordered later) really appropriate?

I don’t know. I suspect if I was the judge the outcome would have depended on whether I was particularly irritable that morning. Not very even-handed, I know. But whether a lawyer is held in contempt for being late, or simply slapped on the wrist, the lesson we should learn from this particular Pennsylvania judge is the same: don’t be late for a jury trial. Ever. Period.

I’ll confess I’m sometimes challenged when it comes to getting somewhere on time. I make this confession so you won’t mistake me for someone who is self-righteous about his meticulous habits. But there are two events for which I take great pains to be on time. One is to catch an airplane and the other is for trial.

It’s been my experience that most judges presiding over a jury trial tend to put the interests and needs of those serving jury duty at or above his/her own. If you are before one of these judges, the quickest way to earn the judge’s scorn is to keep an impaneled jury waiting. (It doesn’t help that, when you keep the jury waiting, you’re also keeping His/Her Honor waiting as well.) In case it’s not obvious: the judge’s scorn often translates to the jury’s scorn, which you don’t want.

My mentor has always had a rule that the hotel where he stays and sets up his war room during trial must be the very closest possible hotel to the courthouse. It doesn’t matter if this is a den of filth, replete with vermin and cockroaches. He knows when he’s in trial he’s at war. There’s no time to be tied up in one of those unpredictable traffic jams. If you know you can walk to the courthouse in a reasonable amount of time, rain or shine, it’s one less thing to worry about. Worry = wasted mental energy, and mental energy is precious during trial.

If you don’t believe me, just ask Berks County, Pennsylvania Judge Stephen B. Lieberman. But leave my name out of it.