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When we write to a court or to opposing counsel our goal is typically to persuade. When we write to a client, an expert or to a colleague, our aim is primarily to convey information. Is there any room here for style? Is style something we should even bother with, considering many of us are on the clock and a client is paying for our time? After all, do we hire the cab that will take the most scenic route? Who’s going to hire a lawyer because they speak on paper with the eloquence of Shakespeare?

Thankfully for many of us who came to the profession with some interest or background in literature or writing, the answer is yes, style does matter in legal writing. In The Elements of Legal Style, writing guru Bryan Garner reminds us why. He says,

“Legal writers must recognize what other inhabitants of the literary world already know: A good style powerfully improves substance. Good legal style consists mostly in figuring out the substance precisely and accurately, then stating it clearly. Too many of us equate artful writing, or ‘style,’ with the warrior’s cumbersome headdress, pleasing to the eye but irrelevant (perhaps even a hindrance) to the conquest. Music provides the better analogy: Does anyone fail to recognize that a Beethoven symphony becomes a different piece when played by an ensemble of kazoos instead of a major symphony orchestra? The medium is the music. Why should we find it difficult to accept the parallel truth in writing?” (p.4)

In Lawyering, James Freund offers a different take why style should not be an afterthought. He writes,

“It’s not telling any tales out of school to observe that most writing on legal subjects by lawyers–the style, as contrasted with the substance–tends to be extremely dull. There is a pre-packaged, monochromatic quality to the prose that dulls the edges of even the most fascinating issues. It’s almost as if the author were seeking the Somber Seal of Approval, fearful that any injection of sprightliness or creativity into the writing will stamp him as a lightweight thinker or lacking in total dedication to a ponderous profession. And then too, most lawyers are so concerned with the substance of what they’re saying . . . that once having achieved precision, they give little or no thought to style. . . . Whatever merit total sobriety may  have in formal legal documents . . . it strikes me as altogether unnecessary in less formal (and formidable) writings such as letters or memos, where you are attempting to educate or persuade–particularly when your reader is not a lawyer. You may have succeeded in rendering your document clear and concise, but if it’s dry and monotonous the reader may experience difficulty keeping his mind on the subject at hand.” (pp.54-55)

While these may offer compelling arguments in favor of attention to style in legal writing, questions remain, including (1) what exactly does “style” mean in this context, and (2) can too much of it be a bad thing? Because this post was not intended to be book-length, I’ll turn back to Bryan Garner for some brief, but telling, responses. First, he writes this about “style,”

“What is style? We can hardly improve on Jonathan Swift’s formulation, ‘proper words in proper places.’ That focuses on the right level of detail, but it begs questions or propriety. What are proper words, and how do you know when they have been put in proper places?

In judging words and their placement, remember that the character of the writer determines the character of the prose. . . What you say and how you say it reveals your habits of mind. In trying to write your best, you may strive to proportion one part to another and to the whole, to cut out what is useless, to accent what matters most, and to preserve a uniform tone throughout.” (p.5)

Can style be overdone? Absolutely! I suspect most of us know it when we encounter it. A Shakespearean demand letter? A Dantesque jury instruction? Imagine an US District Court law clerk confronting a brief riddled with Faulkner’s poetic, but torturous sentences. While Garner acknowledges that tastes for “grandeur” in legal writing have evolved over time, he describes what is currently in vogue:

“[M]odern readers — even of law books — prefer the Attic style. We like what is plain; we grow impatient with what is fancy. Legal readers admire directness and scorn baroque curlicues.” (p.8)

Well, there’s a starting place. Consider style. Accent that which is important. Cut out what is useless. Strive for proportion. But, at all costs, guard against the baroque curlicue.

As I grow older, I become increasingly familiar with the feeling of “dating” myself by admitting to TV shows I watched, music I liked, or even sports I played (remember Dodgeball?).  I date myself as a California litigator when I reminisce about the “Five Year Rule.” The Rule wasn’t repealed. It’s still part of the California Code of Civil Procedure. Section 583.310 provides: “An action shall be brought to trial within five years after the action is commenced against the defendant.” Section 583.360(a) says: “An action shall be dismissed by the court on its own motion or on motion of the defendant, after notice to the parties, if the action is not brought to trial within the time prescribed in this article.” (All emphases added.)

The statute sounds ominous, doesn’t it? I remember being a new defense lawyer in the early 1990s opposing motions to exempt a case from the Five Year Rule for some reason or another. I was awed by the relative calm with which plaintiff lawyers argued these motions, on the very eve of expiration, as though they had nothing at all to worry about. I knew that I would be an absolute wreck if I thought there was even the smallest chance my client’s case would be dismissed. But, I never had a case get dismissed for failure to start trial in five years. It seemed like the statute had more bark than bite.

The Five Year rule never went anywhere. Instead, the California courts changed, rendering the Rule completely irrelevant. Around my third or fourth year, the state courts initiated the Delay Reduction Act, or “fast track” rules. When the fast track rules (majority of cases to be tried within one year) were first implemented, I remember judges were really difficult if you wanted to exempt a particular case from the fast track. God forbid a case might legitimately take 18 months or, gasp, 2 years to be ready for trial. Certain judges were so committed to the new rules that they would set a trial date within 12 months even if it fell on Christmas eve or interfered with someone’s wedding or honeymoon. I suppose it seemed particularly draconian because I hadn’t yet realized that, regardless when they’re set, most civil cases never actually start trial.

While it’s mostly dinosaurs like me who remember the Five Year Rule, it now seems that, with the massive changes to California’s courts occasioned by the budget crisis, the Rule could become relevant again. If we do see a resurgence of motions to dismiss under the Five Year Rule, here are a couple of things to keep in mind:

• The parties can stipulate, either in writing or orally in open court, to extend the time for trial to occur. (CCP §583.330)
• The time is calculated to exclude time during which the court lacked jurisdiction, or prosecution of the trial was stayed or enjoined, or getting the case to trial was impossible, impracticable or futile. (CCP §583.340)
• Courts have significant discretion in their application of the §583.340 exceptions. See, Bruns v. E-Commerce Exchange, Inc., 51 Cal.App.4th 717 (2011).

However, even armed with dicta from Bruns, lawyers representing plaintiffs must be able to show they’ve been diligent in moving the case along. Otherwise, mandatory dismissal is technically possible.

Ever found yourself in that situation where you are not only losing an argument or motion, but it seems mysteriously like the judge is bent on preventing you from making a decent record of your position?

In Litigation, the wise Professor McElhaney identifies games judges commonly play with attorneys in the interest of preventing them from making a record which can be used to challenge the ruling on appeal. He writes, “If [the judge] can force lawyers to waive objections or forget to make offers of proof . . . it will improve [the judge’s] batting average with the court of appeals.” (p.294) Here are a few such games:

1. Cutting off, under the guise of preventing speaking objections, any argument or objection.

2. Refusing to permit offers of proof at the time an objection is sustained; requiring counsel to wait until the next recess or next day of trial, when they’re likely to forget.

3. Insisting that exhibits be offered and admitted only at the end of the entire trial. This “forces lawyers to waive most of their evidentiary objections about exhibits. At the end of trial they are thinking about their final arguments, not about foundations or rulings.” (p.295)

4. Making “weasel” rulings on evidentiary objections: “I’ll let it in for what it’s worth.”

5. Making noncommittal rulings. “I’ve heard enough, let’s proceed.” Or, “All right, I understand your positions; let’s move along.” These aren’t rulings and, regardless what happens next (i.e., the objected-to question is answered and/or the jury hears the evidence), it will be all but impossible for an appellate court to identify an error, since the judge shirked her responsibility to make a ruling.

Recognizing your judge is playing one of these games will help you to maintain your resolve to make an effective record. Oh, and if you’re in a California state court, be sure to order and pay for that court reporter, otherwise you’re not going to be making a “record” at all.

“We got a kinder, gentler,
Machine gun hand” – Neil Young

There is the temptation, it’s almost primal, to be derisive, if not outright mean, when cross-examining a witness who has lied in the past or is lying on the stand. Even if it’s only theatrical, to provide an example to the jury how they should regard the witness with suspicion or contempt, it seems almost natural to treat her with disgust.

But it’s important to bear in mind that, even if the substance of the cross-examination establishes the witness is a liar or unsavory individual, the jury might not reward an examining lawyer–or his client–if he crosses the line. The real challenge, however, comes when litigating a case on the road, in a venue whose culture draws “the line” of civility differently than an attorney’s home court. I’m thinking here about an experience my colleague had some years back when he (a Los Angeles lawyer) tried a civil case in Hawaii.

I’ve visited Hawaii a few times, but never had an opportunity to conduct business of any kind beyond securing a reservation for dinner or a scuba dive. Frankly, I’ve never given a thought about how Hawaiian citizens would receive a cross-examination of a witness differently than someone from Los Angeles. But it turns out that they don’t cotton well to a lawyer who takes a harsh tone to a witness during examination. This became clear to my colleague (this is hearsay, of course, I wasn’t there) after he cross-examined an important witness using a less-than-gentle tone. Apparently it was clear to everyone in the courtroom that the jurors did not react well as the witness was being subjected to a tone of questioning we Californians might consider perfectly appropriate.

That night, in preparation for the following day of testimony, it was decided that our local counsel, a native Hawaiian, would handle the cross-examination of the next adverse witness. I am told the contrast between the his tone during cross-examination, gentle, less confrontational, like “a knife cutting through heated butter,” and my colleague’s examination the previous day, was palpable. Let me make clear that my colleague’s cross was not over the top at all,† just consistent with how we would take such a witness here in Los Angeles. The difference was simply that the Hawaiian jurors do not appreciate the kind of confrontational tone we might employ when addressing a witness in cross-examination.

This highlights a concern we should always have when litigating, or even transacting any king of business, in a venue that is culturally different from our own. When faced with a trial in a culturally unfamiliar venue, I would always recommend involving local counsel, if only to advise about these kinds of cultural differences.

†In fact, it was not a “temper” or anger issue, at all. The title of this post is probably an unfair misnomer.

I confess that I dream of having the kind of following that if I said, “Read David Foster Wallace or you’re dead to me!” there would be a subtle, but statistically significant, uptick in sales of Infinite Jest the following week. Sadly, I do not have that kind of following, and cannot afford to tell readers they’re “dead to me” in any event.

But that won’t prevent me from quoting one of his “Twenty-Four Word Notes” from another favorite, Both Flesh And Not. Specifically, discussing the term utilize, he writes:

“Utilize  A noxious puff-word. Since it does nothing that good old use doesn’t do, its extra letters and syllables don’t make a writer seem smarter; rather, using utilize makes you seem either like a pompous twit or like someone so insecure that she’ll use pointlessly big words in an attempt to look sophisticated. The same is true for the noun utilization, for vehicle as used for car, for residence as used for house, for presently, at present, at this time, and at the present time as used for now, and so on. What’s worth remembering about puff-words is something that good writing teachers spend a lot of time drumming into undergrads: ‘formal writing’ does not mean gratuitously fancy writing; it means clean, clear, maximally considerate writing.” (p.261)

While not targeted toward an audience of lawyers, this is excellent advice to any writer, including lawyers. Avoid puff-words. They’re just noxious.

And no, the irony is not lost on me that this writer, who here urges “maximally considerate writing,” foisted upon us, his readers, arguably the most frustrating, wonderful, puzzling, brilliant, maddening and challenging novel since Joyce penned Ulysses. Infinite Jest spans 1,079 pages and includes 388 separately numbered endnotes (some of which have footnotes of their own). Nope, I love irony.

This post could be alternatively titled: “Beware The Interloper With The Pen,” or “Why I’m Not A Great Team Player At The Writing Table.” In a recent article in the ABA Journal,”Why Lawyers Can’t Write, legal writing pro Bryan Garner discusses why lawyers often think they’re far better writers than they really are. The article is perceptive. He attributes our collective blindness to our inadequacy on a phenomenon termed the Dunning-Kruger effect. Here’s what he says:

“In 1999, two Cornell psychologists—David Dunning and Justin Kruger—conducted a series of studies showing that unskillful or unknowledgeable people (1) often think they are quite skillful or knowledgeable, (2) can’t recognize genuine skill in others, (3) uniformly fail to recognize the extremity of their own inadequacy, and (4) can recognize and acknowledge their own previous unskillfulness only after highly effective training in the skill.”

I agree with Garner that lawyers often suck as writers (my term, not his). There are exceptions. Most appellate specialists I know are pretty handy with a pen (yes, Ben Shatz, I mean you). But I would say most legal documents, briefs, letters, agreements that come across my desk are worth about a “C.” Considering what these lawyer-writers are paid for “C”-quality writing, they’ve really earned an “F.”

One point Garner makes that rings true concerns collaborative writing. Almost any lawyer who works at a law firm, large or small, has to contend at some point with another lawyer who insists that certain edits be incorporated into the final product. Even solo practitioners are not immune, as clients can rightfully insist on edits. Garner makes this point about this kind of “forced” collaboration:

“Sometimes, I’m told, a brilliant legal writer will be asked to incorporate a sentence or two, unchanged, written by an inept one. It’s a bad feeling. How would the pianist Vladimir Horowitz feel about inserting a 30-second sound clip into one of his recordings? A sound clip played by a pianist who had hardly progressed beyond “Chopsticks”? It must feel awful.”

Lest you get confused, let me say here that (1) I don’t consider myself a “brilliant legal writer,” and (2) I don’t equate my skills (in anything) with Vladimir Horowitz. But Garner’s point is well-taken, even for a middling writer like me. My mentor about whom I often speak is actually a really great writer, so his input is almost always an improvement. But over the years I’ve been forced to incorporate some real dreck into briefs or letters.

If you’re a junior lawyer and the edits come from a senior partner, or your client has suggestions, you may be powerless to argue. Don’t sacrifice your future over an awkward and unnecessary edit.

But you can also learn from the forced-edit experience, because it affords an opportunity to evaluate why you write as you do, and why you don’t think an edit improves the product. One lawyer with whom I worked for several years was only a couple of years senior to me, but I really admired his legal reasoning skills. He also had a tremendous grasp of the case-law surrounding the issues with which we routinely dealt (automotive product liability). But his writing was vomit. It was not that he couldn’t write–it was that he didn’t know how or when to stop writing. He was verbose and insisted on including every possible quote, from every possible case, to illustrate his point, without any regard for the judge and clerks. Fortunately, while he was senior to me, he was not so senior that I was powerless to re-edit his edits, which I did without hesitation. The final product benefited from his big brain, but I trimmed off much of the unnecessary excess. Evaluating his edits forced me to confront the question how much is enough and how much is too much.

Litigating any case is stressful business. But I had a real nail-biter some time back. It was a product liability case and my client was a small mom-and-pop outfit that supplied a component which had been materially altered, mis-installed, and ultimately caused a rather horrendous accident.

Legally, it should not have been a difficult case to defend. The problem I found myself having was grasping exactly how the alteration and mis-installation had ultimately impacted my client’s component. Any product liability lawyer will tell you this was crucial to the defense. The technical issues were pretty complex, at least for me (a philosophy major, not an electrical engineer), and no matter how hard I tried to understand, no matter how much I thought I’d finally “got it,” I would struggle anytime I tried to explain how the alteration and mis-installation had fouled up my client’s product.

In any other case, I would have relied on our technical liability experts to teach me all of the technical details I need to know. The problem here was that my client was defending the case on a shoestring budget. If we weren’t careful, this case would bankrupt his company. He insisted that he would serve as the primary expert, since he was an engineer who’d invented the component in the first place and nobody knew the technology better. The obvious issue with this was he has no cloak of independence. His testimony would be viewed by the jury as completely self-serving; his opinions suspect as such. The less obvious issue that I had with this plan was the fact that, while my client was undoubtedly a first-rate engineer, his teaching skills were less than stellar. If he couldn’t teach me, how could I expect him to educate the jury? Meanwhile, my opponent was retaining expensive, experienced testifying experts from Exponent, etc.

I typically wouldn’t hire anyone as an expert who couldn’t help me understand, since (1) my comprehension of the technical details is absolutely crucial to my ability to confront the plaintiff and her experts, both in discovery and at trial; and (2) our expert’s ability to educate someone of less-than-genius-level intelligence (i.e., me) is going to be needed in order to help the jury understand why my client can’t be liable. The importance of an expert’s ability to educate the trial lawyer, as well as the lawyer’s responsibility to conduct his/her own outside learning, is discussed by Professor McElhaney, in Litigation. He says:

“The first job for the [expert] witness is to explain everything to you [the trial lawyer]. You have to keep asking questions and demanding answers until you are satisfied. Do not just rely on the witness, either. Read as much additional literature as you have time for; it is not just background information. Learned treatises that support the witness are admissible under Rule 803(18) of the Federal Rules of Evidence.” (p.62)

Our case ultimately settled, and I breathed a deep sigh of relief, but not before spending several near-sleepless nights worrying how I was going to overcome the challenges of sufficiently understanding the technology to deal with both the plaintiff’s and defense liability experts. It was a learning experience in several ways. I learned to quickly recognize when I’m having difficulty grasping the complex technical concepts necessary to effectively defend (or build) a case. I learned that, regardless of budget constraints, it will not suffice to rely on testifying experts who, though knowledgeable in the subject matter, cannot effectively teach it to a complete novice. I learned that selection of experts is not a discussion to put off having with a client until the time for expert retention, but should be addressed at the outset, to ensure the client has an opportunity to think about how an appropriate, qualified expert can be identified and compensated, even with severe budget constraints.

A strong editorial in the Wall Street Journal today by SNR Denton lawyer Matthew Lifflander discusses the economic impacts of lying, with a particular emphasis on perjury in court. I’m sure that, like any ethical issue, we all have different views on the importance of telling the truth and what would constitute a just and deterrent punishment for perjury.

I vividly recall being on vacation in Rome with a politically conservative close friend when the Republicans were all in a lather over the Clinton-Lewinsky scandal. I found it amusing that he was so indignant that our President would be caught blatantly red-handed lying about a blow job. On the other hand, what can we tell our children about the oath of perjury if our leader, our President, ignores it  with impunity?

As the title of his piece suggests, Mr. Lifflander comes at the issue of perjury from an economic, cost-benefit (what benefit? and to whom?) analysis. It’s no surprise to any litigator that the practice of committing perjury is alive and well in our system, whether the liars are alleged criminals, greedy plaintiffs or callous corporations and their executives.

What I like about the piece, however, is not the shift from a purely ethical to a hard-line economic analysis of lying. Mr. Lifflander does offer some compelling statistics about the cost of dishonesty. For example, he cites that, “[i]n 2011 NY City  paid $550 million in personal-injury and property-damage tort settlements and judgments . . . City lawyers have previously said that up to 10% of the claims . . . involve fraud or misrepresentation.” But, while compelling, these numbers don’t move me. I suspect this is because I’m still naive enough to believe one adheres to a policy of truth both (1) because any deviance from this policy threatens a reputation for honesty that I consider sacrosanct (I prefer not to do business with dishonest people), and (2) because it’s just the right thing to do.

Rather, what I like is that Mr. Lifflander offers suggestions on how to curb this rampant abuse. He endorses (1) creating a fund to pay for prosecution of perjurers (to be funded by small taxes on large personal injury judgments), (2) establishing a statutory civil tort to redress those who can prove they were victimized by perjury; and (3) a change to the law to authorize civil trial judges to punish perjurers through fines, sanctions or reductions in judgment.

I would throw out the first two suggestions. I abhor new “taxes” of any kind, and I’m not clear why successful personal injury litigants should be taxed to pay for prosecution of perjurers. If a tax is needed to raise the funds, it should be levied on everyone–not just successful litigants. Establishment of another tort is not the answer, either. Must new lawsuits be spawned off of the wrongs perpetrated during other lawsuits? Do we really need litigation-about-litigation, meta-litigation?

I do, however, endorse Mr. Lifflander’s third proposal: to make it easier for a trial judge to punish instances in which perjury has obviously occurred. There is nothing more frustrating that showing a judge clear and convincing evidence that a litigant has blatantly lied to the court, only to have it ignored. I remember my frustration during one evidentiary hearing in which I held up a real estate document in which it was obvious that the defendant had forged my client’s initials on an arbitration provision (obvious because, next to it, I had a version of the document obtained by subpoena that did not contain her initials), and the judge glossed over the issue. Are you kidding me? I thought. What kind of judge are(n’t) you?

The problem I see, though, is not that judges lack the authority to punish liars, but that many (most?) judges can’t be bothered to do it. The solution is probably not more legislation, but a change in the way judges–those in whom we place our trust to enforce the laws against perjury–view the crime. I doubt much will change on this front, however, until the public takes the crime of perjury and its consequences, ethical or economic, more seriously.

A couple of posts back, I tried to address the difficulty of getting jurors to apply commonly used, but inherently ambiguous, legal terms and principles, such as “reasonable” to the facts of a particular case. For example, when the jury is instructed that a defendant is liable if he/she/it acted “unreasonably” under a set of circumstances, what are jurors supposed to do with that term?

A solution proposed by Rick Friedman and Patrick Malone, in their popular book, Rules of the Road: A Plaintiff Lawyer’s Guide to Proving Liability,† involved developing a set of rules or principles or standards which, when applied to the evidence of what occurred in the case, yield the conclusion that the defendant did not act reasonably (or indeed acted reasonably, depending on whether you represent the plaintiff or the defendant). In that post, I promised to follow up with some guidelines, or rules of the rules of the road. Here we go.

Rule No. 1: A rule of the road should be a requirement that the defendant do, or not do something. (22) The authors describe the basic structure as follows:

“A [type of defendant] should (or should not . . .) do [fill in relevant conduct sought to be enforced by plaintiff].” (23)

Here’s an example: “A surgeon should carefully identify what it is he/she is supposed to be cutting before commencing surgery.” Or, “An insurance claims examiner should fully, fairly and promptly evaluate and adjust a claim for coverage.”

Rule No. 2: A rule of the road should be easy for the jury to understand. (22) After all, the whole point of having rules of the road is to aid the jury in understanding an already ambiguous word or concept in a way that is favorable to your client. To illustrate this point, the authors suggest that, in the context of a physician’s alleged failure to diagnose a disease, a rule of the road can be gleaned from an internal-medicine textbook. However, the language from the textbook may be unnecessarily arcane, and a principle that jurors can easily understand may need to be refined into more accessible wording. (I realize my own wording is often inaccessible and arcane and my blog posts should probably be re-written to be easier for readers to understand. Blame all those philosophy books I read in college.)

Rule No. 3: A rule of the road should be a requirement that the defendant (or, if your client is the defendant, then the plaintiff) cannot credibly dispute. (22) Your opponent may not easily buy into the rule but, as the authors point out, “[d]isagreeing with the Rule should hurt the defense as much as or more than agreeing with it. If a doctor endorses a text as authoritative . . . he is going to look bad disagreeing with a simple, straightforward principle stated in that text.” (25-26)

Rule No. 4: A rule of the road should be a requirement the defendant has violated (or, if you represent the defendant, one he has not violated). (22) Otherwise, why would that principle or standard matter?

Rule No. 5: A rule of the road should be important enough in the context of the case that proof of its violation will significantly increase the chance of a favorable verdict. (22) “This is not like issue-spotting in law school. Your case does not get better in proportion to the number of Rules you add to your list.” (30)

The Rules of the Road approach offers a strategy to bridge the chasm that inevitably exists between broad, ambiguous legal terms and principles and the concrete evidence received by the jury during trial. As the authors note, “[w]e cannot let jurors make up their own definitions.” (15) And you certainly shouldn’t let your opponent do the defining. Developing a set of rules that adheres to the requirements above should help you avoid getting broadsided at trial.

†Citations are to the second edition.

The path from the first day of law school to an aspiring lawyer’s first job is an increasingly precarious journey, with a shrinking margin for error. I like to think others can learn from my mistakes, which is why I am going to describe the dumbest thing I did when I was in law school. (I also continue to be inspired by Jordan Rushie’s brutally honest post on the Philly Law Blog specifically on the topic of hubris.)

Like every law school, Loyola (Los Angeles), where I attended, offered classes in Trial Advocacy. Believing I wanted to be a litigator, I took “Trial Ad,”  and had a fabulous adjunct professor (John McNicholas), who is a gifted trial lawyer and extremely successful fellow Loyola alum. I received a great education about how to try a case. The only problem is that the nuts and bolts training I received was not done in an actual courtroom, but in a posh new classroom constructed (at students’ and alumni expense) to look like a courtroom. Other members of the class served as judge and jury.

While I learned how to introduce evidence, lay a foundation, examine and cross-examine witnesses, object, respond to objections, etc., there was none of the extreme pressure, i.e., fear factor, that comes with trying to introduce evidence, examine a witness, etc. in a real court of law, in front of a real judge, with real facts, real victims, real defendants and real consequences. Plus, even though I “tried” a theoretical case during class, there were no bragging rights that came with completing my Trial Ad class; I couldn’t tell prospective employers in an interview that I had any real courtroom experience because, like most law students, I had no real courtroom experience. But imagine how impressive I could sound during an interview if I could say I’d cross-examined a witness in a preliminary hearing!

As it happens, one of the professors at Loyola (at least at that time) had created a special program in conjunction with his connections at the LA City Attorney’s office. Instead of one semester, this trial advocacy class was a full year, the first semester being classroom training much like I received, and during the second semester students would spend a day or two (I can’t remember which) “embedded” in a City Attorney’s office and acting as a prosecutor for criminal preliminary hearings. The cases weren’t all that sexy or complicated–drug possession, perhaps prostitution–but this was the perfect training ground for a future civil litigator or criminal lawyer to develop crucial skills, only with real victims, defendants, witnesses and judges. Even better, while the professor would determine students’ grades for the first semester of classroom training, it would fall to the Deputy City Attorneys to propose a participant’s grade for the second semester. (I never heard about anyone getting below a B, and As were the norm.)

The catch? Of course the program was only open to a limited number of students, and a student who wanted in had to interview for a spot. You know the rest of the story, right? You’re thinking I signed up, totally choked on the interview and didn’t get invited. Or that I missed the deadline to sign up. Or I got in but was kicked out for some ghastly reason or another.

Nope. It was none of these. Instead, even though I recognized it was a great opportunity, I purposely let the time come and go to sign up and interview. Why? Because I was insulted by the fact I was required to interview. I thought it was ridiculous–a needless imposition. It seemed to me that, if I was paying the same tuition as everybody else, I should automatically be allowed to take the class.

In other words, I let some lame, unrealistic expectation stand between me and an opportunity I knew even then was a golden one. Of course my law school girlfriend signed up, interviewed and got in. And she loved it. Learned a lot and had a blast. And she got an A both semesters.

Hear this: I made this mistake so you don’t have to. Don’t do it. Whether it was immaturity, hubris, unconscious fear of rejection (or fear of success)–whatever the reason–don’t let something stupid hang you up and prevent you from seizing a golden opportunity. Don’t disappoint me; I’m watching.