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I previously wrote about my experiences with a unique trial lawyer (and war hero) I had the pleasure of working with too briefly before he retired, Lee Horton. Lee gave me a copy of a primer he wrote with the goal of preparing young lawyers to try their first case. In the preface, Lee listed 4 golden rules on which he premised his successful career as a trial lawyer, focusing largely on air-crash cases. I already described the first rule. Here’s the second:

“I always want to know the four or five facts it will take me to win and the corresponding four or five facts it will take me to lose. I try to develop these facts as a Chronology early in the preparation of a case.”

Right off the bat I’m suspicious: isn’t this overly reductive? Sure it’s possible to reduce the “crucial” facts of a dispute arising from an intersection fender-bender or medical malpractice to four or five for each side, but how do you apply this rule to a complex commercial or intellectual property trial?

Some answers to this objection come to mind. First, bifurcation, or separate trials, of certain issues may be an option. In the event of a bifurcated trial, it is not unreasonable to expect that each separately tried issue can be reduced to four or five crucial facts. But I think a better way of looking at this point–and how I imagine Lee himself would answer the objection–requires a fundamental philosophical recognition that we are much more likely to grab and keep the jury’s attention if we do limit the crucial facts to be focused on to merely four or five, regardless whether the case is a fender-bender or Apple v. Samsung. If you’re preparing for trial and you can’t narrow the absolutely critical facts to just four or five, then maybe you should take yourself back to the woodshed and narrow your focus. Finally, if you really are getting ready to try an ultra complex case that cannot reasonably be reduced to four or five crucial facts, then give yourself the luxury of six, or ten, or whatever. The point is to focus.

Now, the issue becomes how to decide which four or five facts are most crucial? In my own practice, I begin with the jury instructions I expect will be given at the conclusion of trial. The elements of the claims and defenses identify the crucial facts. Many will not really be in dispute. But of those that are disputed, it should be possible to identify just a few that, if proven, will win or lose the case.

The other component of Horton’s second rule involves developing the facts “as a chronology.” I recognize that not every story is told chronologically, but I suspect jurors appreciate stories that are. I know I would. Think about it this way: if you knew you were going to be tested at the end of a movie about exactly what happened, would you prefer the movie to be more like Usual Suspects or Gone With The Wind?† Because we experience our lives as a chronology, beginning with birth and culminating with death (or amnesia), most of us can “follow along” better if a series of important events are told to us chronologically.

Lee Horton carries this “rule” of distilling the case to four or five crucial facts, told chronologically, throughout the remainder of his trial primer. At the end, in the chapter devoted to closing argument, he again echoes the rule:

“I have told you in each of these presentations (almost like a broken record) that, prior to trial, I have a well-defined theme that is consistent with the favorable evidence and deals with the unfavorable evidence. This theme is supported by three to five foundational facts. By closing, the jurors have seen me go to great lengths to weave this theme, and its factual support, through every aspect of the trial. A good closing should have a clear beginning, middle and end. The beginning should have impact and briefly recite the theme and the 3 to 5 facts that support it. It should be followed with a story-like presentation of the evidence, with several ‘impact points’ to keep their interest high.” (Emphasis added.)

It’s too bad Lee retired before I got an opportunity to second-chair a trial with him. It would have been a great learning experience, I’m sure.

†For the record, I am a HUGE fan of complex, nonlinear narrative in fiction (Infinite Jest, Alexandria Quartet) and movies (Memento, Pulp Fiction). But I try to leave that passion outside the courtroom.

Some employers struggle with reasonable accommodation of an employee’s religious preferences. Effective January 1, 2013, the California Fair Employment and Housing Act (FEHA) definition of “religious creed” will be amended to explicitly include “religious dress practice” and “religious grooming practice.” “Religious dress practice” includes the wearing or carrying of religious clothing, head or face coverings, jewelry, artifacts, and any other item that is part of the observance by an individual of his or her religious creed, while “religious grooming practice” includes all forms of head, facial and body hair that are part of the observance by an individual of his or her religious creed. The terms “religious dress” and “grooming practices” are to be broadly construed.

I hold the (perhaps naive) belief that, when most employers violate prohibitions against religious discrimination, it’s often by accident. So I try to provide examples.  The HR Gazette provides these:

“‘[R]eligious dress’ means virtually any piece of clothing or accessory that signifies or expresses a religious creed or belief.  The most common examples are a hijab (the headscarf worn by Muslim women), the dastar (the turban worn by Sikh males) or a yarmulke (the skullcap worn by Jewish males).  Religious dress could also include jewelry such as a Christian cross, Star of David, or an Ankh.”

“[A]n employer would be required to accommodate an employee’s religious belief by allowing him to wear a beard or long hair in the workplace.  Some religions require men and women to shave their head.”

Here are a couple of ripped-from-the-headlines cases to further illustrate:

1. A certain “preppy” store refused to hire a woman when she appeared for an interview wearing a headscarf, which she wore for religious reasons as a devout Muslim. The employer argued that it had a strict “Look” policy in order to insure a unified “preppy” brand image. The jury awarded the woman $20,000.

2. A fast food chain was sued after terminated a devout Nazirite due to his failure to cut his hair. Nazirites do not cut their hair as a sign of devotion to God. The employee had worked for six years without cutting his hair (in fact, he had not cut his hair since he was 15 years old) before the company tried to enforce its grooming policy that required him to cut his hair. The chain entered into a consent decree whereby it settled the case and agreed to pay the employee $27,000, and also to adopt a formal religious accommodation policy.

Employers subject to FEHA must reasonably accommodate an individual’s religious creed. The amendments provide that an action that segregates or hides an individual, either from other employees or the public, because of that individual’s religious dress or grooming practices is not a reasonable accommodation of an employee’s religious dress or grooming practices.

Legal blogging rock star and client service guru Dan Hull recently recommended an interesting book, Lawyering: A Realistic Approach to Legal Practice, by James C. Freund. Trusting Dan’s judgment, I promptly ordered up a dog-eared copy of the tome from AbeBooks.

Turning first to the chapter entitled “Handling Clients,” I found some interesting and sage advice right away. Freund asks what do you do when a client calls and wants to be counseled whether her company can legally do something. In the simplest terms, if a client asks you the sum of 2 + 2, do you automatically say 4? Or should we be concerned with what the client wants to hear? Would she prefer to hear 5?

Recognizing this sounds like ethical blasphemy, Freund rushes to explain himself:

“Now before you round up a posse to haul me before the bar association, let me hasten to add that the reason for desiring this knowledge is not . . . that it can or should affect the substance of your answer or reaction, where a legal issue or some other objective manifestation of your views is concerned. You’re not worth your salt as a lawyer if you provide phony answers to please a client. You have to call ’em as you see ’em, no matter what the consequences: it may be painful at the time, but in the long run your client will respect you for this and value your advice all the more.

On the other hand, knowing how the client wants to come out can be very important to you in deciding on the manner in which you reply–the style, as contrasted with the substance–and on shaping any practical advice you might offer.” (151-152)

Freund offers a couple of good illustrations, hypos if you will, to make his point. In the first, you are called by a client CEO who immediately announces you are on speaker phone and in the room with him is an “Employee.” CEO wants to know whether the company can issue the Employee shares of stock which the Employee will pay for with promissory notes.

While the law either allows or doesn’t allow the company to issue shares to an Employee to be paid for with promissory notes (I have no friggin’ clue), Freund points out that “the way that you handle the question can be influenced significantly by whether . . . (CEO) actually wants to issue . . . (Employee) some stock for notes, or whether . . . (he)’s just going through a charade–using you as a whipping boy–for the benefit of . . . (Employee).” (152)

What do you do? Freund suggests you try to ascertain what client CEO really wants to hear before you begin providing advice (assuming, unlike me, you could answer this query on the fly). Freund concedes it may not be easy to determine CEO’s angle:

“By the way, ascertaining . . . (CEO)’s real interest here may not be so easy–and tomorrow, you should let him know what an uncomfortable position he put you in, with a warning against future repetitions. For openers, don’t answer right away. Get . . . (CEO) talking; he’s likely to drop a clue (such as, ‘I told (Employee) this was a very difficult thing for a public company to do . . .’), which you can then pick up on.” (152)

Another way to get an idea what the client is looking for is to “test the water. Say: ‘And what did you tell him when he made that suggestion?’ The client’s reply should give you a fair indication of the direction in which he’s heading.” (153)

But why do you want to know? Again, it’s not about conjuring a phony answer, but about subtly strengthening your relationship with the client and bringing greater value. For example:

“If you determine that  . . . (CEO) isn’t really interested in issuing the stock, you can emphasize the legal difficulties which do exist under the applicable state law when you use notes to pay for par value shares–to say nothing of the unfriendly scrutiny such a transaction would receive from stockholders, other employees, and so on. All of this is good, sound counsel; you’re not deceiving anyone . . . On the other hand, if you sense that . . . (CEO) very much wants to issue the shares, then your litany of difficulties would be somewhat more muted, with a smooth transition into a constructive analysis of how the transaction can be accomplished–by securing the note, charging bona fide interest, and so on.” (152)

Again, as Freund says, the object of this preliminary fact-finding isn’t to cause you to change the substance of your advice to match the client’s desires, but instead to influence how you present the advice. The closer we get to the justifiably coveted status of “trusted advisor,” the more these subtleties matter. We’re not legal research “machines,” hired to churn out one-dimensional answers to legal questions without regard to how our advice impacts the client. Our role is not just to protect, but to advance the client’s interests, and the route to this goal is not always obvious or easy.

Perhaps this is unique to California, but I just received another announcement from our attorney service of a courthouse closure. In addition, the notice mentioned yet another court that, although not closing altogether, was being reduced by several newly darkened courtrooms.

As a lawyer who makes his living doing things court-related, I’m both saddened and alarmed to learn that entire courthouses are closing. It’s not that I’m sad or afraid because there are fewer lawsuits being filed (that appears to remain on the rise), but rather that there’s a rapidly shrinking number of venues available to resolve those disputes. It will take longer for cases to get to trial, resulting in fewer trials and less access to justice. It will also make it harder for newer generations of lawyers to get trial experience. (This is obviously a secondary concern, but it is a legitimate concern for many of us.) It’s . . . a . . . disappointing to live in such a perpetually mismanaged state. But I’ve been thinking about ways the judiciary and our profession can cope with this situation and I’ve come up with a couple of ideas.

First, I recently co-authored an article for the ACC Docket which talked about the notion of a “compressed” trial, in which the judge forced the parties to present a case that would normally consume 3 weeks in just 4 days. Much of the article discussed tips and suggestions how to better prepare for this kind of compressed trial format, but I also argued that lawyers and their clients should not just accept such a drastically condensed trial, but actually embrace the concept. After all, if a trial that would normally consume 3 weeks could be reasonably condensed down to 4 days,* that would free up 2 weeks in which two more highly compressed trials could be completed. Imagine completing 3 trials in the time if used to take to do just one.

There was a program introduced in some parts of California for the 1 day jury trial. I don’t know if that was successful or is still being practiced. But that’s not what I’m advocating. If the lawyers can shape a case to be tried in a day or less they will almost always do so on their own. But it takes a pretty heavy-handed judge to force the lawyers and parties to condense a 3 week presentation to something like 4 days. Perhaps more judges should do this. Just a thought.

Another idea involves ADR. If budget cuts are effectively privatizing access to justice in some places, it ought to at least be done right. A major concern centers around the cost of ADR, and I’m not talking about the hourly fees of neutrals. In my experience, the rates of most neutrals are commensurate, or even slightly less, than those of the attorneys appearing before them. But there are costs associated with working with an “institutional” ADR provider that tend to give our clients pause, and with good reason. If law firms are going to be squeezed and forced to do more for less, shouldn’t ADR providers do the same? What about more “solo” ADR providers?

My personal beef with ADR, at least arbitrations, is the inconsistent application of the rules of evidence. Appellate courts keep judges honest, but some arbitrators can and do dispense with evidence rules rather freely, which makes the hearing something of a chaotic free-for-all.

There’s no real silver lining to the issue of darkened courtrooms and closed courthouses. Wherever it occurs, there is reduced access to justice. Perhaps, though, we can collectively brainstorm and come up with constructive ways to manage the problem.

*Whether it was in fact “reasonable” for the judge to compress the trial this aggressively was a subject of some debate, particularly by counsel for the losing side which, fortunately, was not me.

If anyone reading this blog has not read–and read often–Associate’s Mind, you must absolutely begin following it. Every post has some nugget of brilliance.

Before I  actually read the blog, I assumed from the title I would encounter either (1) ranting about the misery of being an overworked albeit overpaid BigLaw associate à la the old Greedy Associates message boards;* or (2) posts like “Five Easy Tips To Bill 2,700 Hours Before October!” I couldn’t have been more off-base. Instead, I’ve always found thoughtful, well-written posts offering insight on topics ranging from the profession to litigation strategy to Eastern Philosophy.

And, now that I’ve been a partner in an AmLaw 150 law firm for almost 10 years, I feel qualified to endorse the following observation by the blog’s author, Keith Lee:

“Although frequently people speak of always thinking like a “partner” or “partner-level” thinking when in regards to how one should conduct oneself inside a firm –  reject the notion. Just as in the mind of the master there are few possibilities and in the Beginner’s mind, infinite – most partners have fixed ways of thinking and conducting their practice and processes.

An Associate’s Mind should be flexible and open to new ideas and processes, while being mindful of the guidance of those who have tread the road before him.”

I recognize this tendency in myself to “have fixed ways of thinking and conducting [my] practice and processes,” and I don’t like it. When he refers to the beauty of the “Beginner’s mind,” I think I may know what Lee means: I love to watch how my 4-year-old approaches any new issue, problem or obstacle. Her thinking is always “outside the box” (or whatever cliché you prefer) because she hasn’t yet been trained to think inside the box.

As we gain experience and, hopefully, wisdom in our profession and our life, we should strive to retain the infinite possibilities of the Beginner’s mind.

*Note: I have not read Greedy Associates in many years, so I don’t know if such ranting still persists, though I expect it does.

I counsel and defend both small and large companies, mostly on employment issues and cases. I see many differences in how a larger, more established company handles its role as a defendant in civil litigation, and I think there are important lessons a smaller entity can learn from these “big dogs,” even if they never plan (hope!) to get sued again. Chief among these lessons is the value of a well-considered evaluation report.

Smaller companies might view any kind of written evaluation as a frivolous, unnecessary expense. I sympathize with this view, but I think it is misplaced. First, as you’ll see, I’m not advocating the kind of “term paper” report demanded by large corporate defendants. For a corporate client or insurance carrier that is regularly involved in litigation and knows what it wants to know, I’m happy to provide the most detailed report in the world. Why would I object–I get paid to do it?

But when I counsel a company that rarely finds itself in civil litigation, I don’t think it’s necessary to incur the cost of a 20 or 30 page tome. Rather, something that is between 2 and 4  pages total balances cost-efficiency with the importance of a written evaluation.

Before I get to what to look for in an evaluation, I want to cover timing. Large corporate clients for whom I’ve prepared evaluation reports typically require a comprehensive initial report anywhere from 90-180 days after the suit was assigned. Thereafter, most corporate clients like to see an update every 90-120 days, with some kind of even more comprehensive pre-trial evaluation about 60-90 days before the scheduled trial date. There’s no reason a smaller company should deviate from this timing. It is important to understand that an update is just that, it’s not a re-writing. I simply bold any information that is new since the last report. If there are things from prior reports that no longer belong, they can either be scored or deleted altogether.

Here are the elements I would, as a client, always expect from an evaluation of a case in litigation:

1. Brief statement of operative facts. Brief means brief. The point is to make sure both the client and the lawyer have a common understanding of the operative facts. These might be both what is alleged and what the defendant is expected to prove. The last thing any client should want is for its lawyer to start trial without ever having run through a narrative of the operative facts on paper.

Also, even a very small company will likely have people involved at the management level with only a marginal understanding of the facts. This brief (did I say brief ?) statement can be shared with senior management, directors, investors or partners, to bring everyone up to speed. In addition to the liability facts, I would also include a list of the theories of liability and a brief statement of the damages sought, even if only in summary prayer, rather than concrete dollars and cents.

2. Very brief evaluation of the venue, judge, opposing counsel and plaintiff. (I mean brief dammit!)

3. Evaluation of each viable defense, including strengths and weaknesses. This is really the heart of the evaluation. This should be written in language that, to the extent possible, is devoid of legalese or confusing concepts. Clients who are not lawyers should be able to read this section and get a clear understanding of what will be proven at trial and how. On receiving this, clients should ask counsel to clarify any point that is not clear.

Now, while this section of the evaluation is written for the client, part of the value is in the composition process itself. In formulating this part, the lawyer will be forced to think through the client’s defenses, evaluate their viability and even develop a short inventory of what evidence will support the defense or make it challenging.

4. Exposure. How much, realistically, could the client lose if the case is tried and lost. In my field, employment law, this needs to include an estimate of the opposing side’s attorney’s fees since most federal and state employment law schemes permit a prevailing employee to recover her reasonable attorney’s fees.

5. Ultimate recommendation. Is this a case that should settle? Is it a trial candidate: i.e., one in which there is a 75% or greater likelihood the client will win (I prefer to think of it this way: a jury will return a defense verdict 7 out of 10 times)? Clients’ risk tolerances differ; some are more willing to gamble, others want to be virtually certain of prevailing at trial (there’s no such thing as virtual certainty of a verdict, by the way).

If the recommendation is to pursue settlement, what is a reasonable settlement amount, and what is the proposed path to get there?

6. Tasks and budget. Clients should be entitled, at every stage of any lawsuit, to a list of what is anticipated to be done in the next 60-120 days, and a reasonable estimate of what the cost will be. Hopefully clients understand that this is only a thoughtful estimate of what is required and the cost. None of us is omniscient.

Crucially, an evaluation should be considered a living document. Cases evolve. If every single fact, estimate and nuance of an evaluation remains the same from the beginning of the case until the start of trial, something is missing. Again, I advocate an approach that simply adds new developments to an old evaluation in bold.

Many lawyers will provide some kind of evaluation as part of their ordinary practice. If you’ve hired one that does not, ask her not only to provide an evaluation, but to provide it early enough so that a bad case can be settled before so much time and money has been invested that settlement is not a viable option for one side or the other.

In a November 28th editorial in the NY Times, Case Western Reserve University Law School Dean Lawrence E. Mitchell defends the investment in a law school education. He writes:

“I’m a law dean, and I’m proud. And I think it’s time to stop the nonsense. After two years of almost relentless attacks on law schools, a bit of perspective would be nice.”

The gist of Dean Mitchell’s well-crafted apology is that the strongest criticisms are wrongly premised on a prospective lawyer’s first job, i.e., whether there will be an entry-level law job available and how much a first year lawyer will earn, compared with the heavy blanket of debt lawyers will carry into their chosen careers. He argues:

“[T]he focus on first jobs is misplaced. We educate students for a career likely to span 40 to 50 years. . . . Many graduates will find that their legal educations give them the skills to find rich and rewarding lives in business, politics, government, finance, the nonprofit sector, the arts, education and more.the focus on first jobs is misplaced. We educate students for a career likely to span 40 to 50 years. The world is guaranteed to change in unpredictable ways, but that reality doesn’t keep us from planning our lives. Moreover, the career for which we educate students, done through the medium of the law, is a career in leadership and creative problem solving. Many graduates will find that their legal educations give them the skills to find rich and rewarding lives in business, politics, government, finance, the nonprofit sector, the arts, education and more.”

Mitchell makes good points, but I don’t think he goes far enough–in either direction. On the one hand, while he acknowledges that the average graduate of a private law school comes away with $125,000 in debt, I don’t get the sense that Mitchell has any clue what a mountain of debt that heavy feels like. As one who finished school and passed the bar in 1993 owing roughly $80,000, I can tell you it sucked. While I found employment, and got the opportunity to don a suit and tie, hone my skills and learn from a really terrific mentor, the loan payments dug heavily into my $57,600 first year lawyer salary. The drag of “servicing” this debt for the first 10-15 years (or more) should not be lightly brushed aside as a mere inconvenience.

On the other hand, for some (few!), our profession is truly a calling. If someone asked me to honestly answer whether law school is worth the investment of time and A LOT of money, I would answer in the way many successful artists, writers, musicians answer when asked if sacrificing everything to draw, paint, write, cook, etc. is “worth” it: if you honestly can’t imagine living out your life without the experience of practicing law–not just “applying the skills to a career in government or business”–but you literally can’t imagine doing anything else–then law school is absolutely worth it. If you come from means and an extra $50k is waiting to be put to good use, then the law school investment is absolutely worth it.

But if you are like many of us, from middle-class families, who are taking the last few classes needed for your Poli Sci or English (in my case, Philosophy) degree, and you think a career in law “is as good as anything else,” then perhaps you should save your time, (borrowed) money and psyche. Maybe do something else instead.

Dean Mitchell worries that all the “hysteria” (his term) has effectively turned off talented prospective students from law schools that really should go ahead and apply, notwithstanding the cost and dismal job market. He trots out the following example:

“Last spring we accepted an excellent student with a generous financial-aid package that left her with the need to borrow only $5,000 a year. She told us that she thought it would be “irresponsible” to borrow the money. She didn’t attend any law school. I think that was extremely shortsighted, but this prevailing attitude discourages bright students from attending law school.”

Aw, what a shame! Here’s the truth: if that “excellent student” really felt the need to be a lawyer deep enough in her bones, she would have borrowed the $5,000 a year, or panhandled or done something else and found the money. Like a musician who wants to make music–who needs to make music like she needs to breathe–bad enough to starve as a street busker* for a few years, someone who can’t imagine not practicing law will find a way–some way–to make it work.

For everyone else, me included, there’s no harm in doing what Dean Mitchell’s “excellent student” actually did (turns out she was pretty smart): rationally weigh the costs and benefits of borrowing $15,000, or $125,000 and spending 3 years of your life pursuing a dream that might not be the rosy path to success it once was.

I’m glad I struggled through law school and struggled through paying off my law school loans. I’m doing pretty okay now, and I generally like what I do (some parts MUCH MORE than others). But, if you can rationally weigh the alternatives, and can reasonably picture spending the next 30-40 years doing something other than practicing law, then don’t be too quick to rush in. Go ahead, take some time, weigh the alternatives.

*Joe Strummer, for example, who was a street busker for years before he found fame and fortune.

Honored. Humbled. Happy.

The ABA Journal’s inclusion of Atcounseltable.com in its annual Blawg 100 pretty much made my week. Thank you!

But I worry. What will happen if I go “Blue?” If I “sell out?” If I stop writing about depositions and post-it notes, and start covering Paris Hilton or Lindsey Lohan? Probably not something to worry about any time soon . . .

Visiting with my brother over the Thanksgiving holiday, our talk turned to strategy in chess. I confessed that, after about the fourth or fifth move in any game, I’m invariably at a loss for what to do next. My brother pointed out that, like so many games (and sports), the most important factor is to control a particular environment or space within the board.  “Just like you want to control the ‘T’ on a squash court,” he said, “you always want to control the middle of the board in chess.”

Later the same day, in writing another blog post, I was looking at the brilliant primer on trial advocacy prepared by my former partner, Lee Horton. Among his rules in the Preface, I came across the following:

“I attempt to control the case and the environment in which it is presented. The best prepared lawyer is almost always in the best position to control a witness or the flow of evidence. But controlling the courtroom environment is also important. I try to reduce the potential prejudicial variables in a courtroom to as few as possible. Remember, a juror associates everyone in the courtroom associated with you with your client’s claim. Therefore, I only want essential personnel in the courtroom. I also believe that those which do come into the courtroom should be properly schooled on courtroom attire and conduct. This may sound extreme, but I can point to three large cases that were lost because of a lack of consideration of the potential prejudice which can come from an out-of-control courtroom environment. In one case, the jury got mad because of the note-passing between the defense counsel and their client in the audience. In another case, the jury perceived the defense as dishonest because a paralegal frequently found herself in the bathroom with jurors on a break. In the last example, the jurors resented smirks from unknowing associates who came to watch their first trial.”  (Emphasis added.)

Taken in the most literal sense, I’ll admit it’s something of a stretch to analogize the courtroom environment with the center of a chess board, or the “T” in squash. But I think there is something here worth observing. While just controlling the courtroom environment by eliminating harmful distractions isn’t a recipe for automatic victory, the failure to maintain control at any point in the jury’s presence can be fatal.

In a less literal sense, however, there may be something more to the analogy.  After all, controlling the center of the chess board, or the “T” in the squash court, will always put the opponent on the defensive (at least until she over/re-takes the middle of the board or the “T” area of the court). As I’m a lousy squash player, I’m familiar with the feeling of trying to over/re-take the “T”. In other words, I’m familiar with being on the defensive in squash and, as a result, I lose most games.

But I never like the feeling of being on the defensive in a case or in the courtroom (even when representing a defendant). I do know the feeling, though. Naturally it can happen when one party has far better evidence, or when parties are not in comparable financial positions, such that continued or aggressive litigation will financially exhaust one party (or their lawyer) before the other. But these are circumstances beyond any lawyer’s control (at least any defense lawyer–a prosecutor or plaintiff’s lawyer should be able to choose better cases).

More commonly, though, I’ve seen it (or experienced it myself) by coming “late to the party” or being underprepared for an event, like a deposition or a hearing. I so hate that feeling I try never to be on the defensive for the wrong reasons. Like so much else in our profession, it comes down to preparation. By being the better prepared advocate, I control the “T” of the squash court, the middle of the board.