Assuming his parents have told you everything. Always a shaky assumption.”
“But if everything’s right there?” I ask, pointing to the file.
He shrugs and nods and smiles again. “Then it’s a good case. Not a great one, but a good one.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Simple, Rudy. This is Tennessee. Land of the five-figure verdicts. Nobody gets punitive damages here. The juries are extremely conservative. Per capita income is pretty low, so the jurors have great difficulty making rich people out of their neighbors. Memphis is an especially tough place to get a decent verdict.”
I’ll bet Jonathan Lake could get a verdict. And maybe he’d give me a small slice if I brought him the case. In spite of the hangover, the wheels are turning upstairs.
“So what do I do?” I ask.
“Sue the bastards.”
“I’m not exactly licensed.”
“Not you. Send these folks to some hotshot trial lawyer downtown. Make a few phone calls on their behalf, talk to the lawyer. Write a two-page report for Smoot and you’ll be done with it.” He jumps to his feet as the phone rings, and shoves the file across the desk to me. “There’s a list in here of three dozen bad-faith cases you should read, just in case you’re interested.”
“Thanks,” I say.
He waves me off. As I leave his office, Max Leuberg is yelling into his phone.
LAW SCHOOL has taught me to hate research. I’ve lived in this place for three years now, and at least half of these painful hours have been spent digging through old worn books searching for ancient cases to support primitive legal theories no sane lawyer has thought about in decades. They love to send you on treasure hunts around here. The professors, almost all of whom are teaching because they can’t function in the real world, think it’s good training for us to track down obscure cases to put in meaningless briefs so that we can get good grades which will enable us to enter the legal profession as well-educated young lawyers.
This was especially true for the first two years of law school. Now it’s not so bad. And maybe the training has a method to its madness. I’ve heard thousands of stories about the big firms and their practice of enslaving green recruits to the library for two years to write briefs and trial memos.
All clocks stop when one does legal research with a hangover. The headache worsens. The hands continue to shake. Booker finds me late Friday in my little pit with a dozen open books scattered on my desk. Leuberg’s list of must-read cases. “How do you feel?” he asks.
Booker has on a coat and tie, and he’s no doubt been atthe office, taking calls and using the Dictaphone like a real lawyer. “I’m okay.”
He kneels beside me and stares at the pile of books. “What’s this?” he asks.
“It’s not the bar exam. Just a little research for Smoot’s class.”
“You’ve never researched for Smoot’s class.”
“I know. I’m feeling guilty.”
Booker stands and leans on the side of my carrel. “Two things,” he says, almost in a whisper. “Mr. Shankle thinks the little incident at Brodnax and Speer has been taken care of. He’s made some phone calls, and has been assured that the so-called victims do not wish to press charges.”
“Good,” I say. “Thanks, Booker.”
“Don’t mention it. I think it’s safe for you to venture out now. That is, if you can tear yourself away from your research.”
“I’ll try.”
“Second. I had a long talk with Mr. Shankle. Just left his office. And, well, there’s nothing available right now. He’s hired three new associates, me and two others from Washington, and he’s not sure where they’re gonna fit. He’s looking for more office space right now.”
“You didn’t have to do that, Booker.”
“No. I wanted to. It’s nothing. Mr. Shankle promised to put out some feelers, shake the bushes, you know. He knows a lot of people.”
I’m touched almost beyond words. Twenty-four hours ago
“But if everything’s right there?” I ask, pointing to the file.
He shrugs and nods and smiles again. “Then it’s a good case. Not a great one, but a good one.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Simple, Rudy. This is Tennessee. Land of the five-figure verdicts. Nobody gets punitive damages here. The juries are extremely conservative. Per capita income is pretty low, so the jurors have great difficulty making rich people out of their neighbors. Memphis is an especially tough place to get a decent verdict.”
I’ll bet Jonathan Lake could get a verdict. And maybe he’d give me a small slice if I brought him the case. In spite of the hangover, the wheels are turning upstairs.
“So what do I do?” I ask.
“Sue the bastards.”
“I’m not exactly licensed.”
“Not you. Send these folks to some hotshot trial lawyer downtown. Make a few phone calls on their behalf, talk to the lawyer. Write a two-page report for Smoot and you’ll be done with it.” He jumps to his feet as the phone rings, and shoves the file across the desk to me. “There’s a list in here of three dozen bad-faith cases you should read, just in case you’re interested.”
“Thanks,” I say.
He waves me off. As I leave his office, Max Leuberg is yelling into his phone.
LAW SCHOOL has taught me to hate research. I’ve lived in this place for three years now, and at least half of these painful hours have been spent digging through old worn books searching for ancient cases to support primitive legal theories no sane lawyer has thought about in decades. They love to send you on treasure hunts around here. The professors, almost all of whom are teaching because they can’t function in the real world, think it’s good training for us to track down obscure cases to put in meaningless briefs so that we can get good grades which will enable us to enter the legal profession as well-educated young lawyers.
This was especially true for the first two years of law school. Now it’s not so bad. And maybe the training has a method to its madness. I’ve heard thousands of stories about the big firms and their practice of enslaving green recruits to the library for two years to write briefs and trial memos.
All clocks stop when one does legal research with a hangover. The headache worsens. The hands continue to shake. Booker finds me late Friday in my little pit with a dozen open books scattered on my desk. Leuberg’s list of must-read cases. “How do you feel?” he asks.
Booker has on a coat and tie, and he’s no doubt been atthe office, taking calls and using the Dictaphone like a real lawyer. “I’m okay.”
He kneels beside me and stares at the pile of books. “What’s this?” he asks.
“It’s not the bar exam. Just a little research for Smoot’s class.”
“You’ve never researched for Smoot’s class.”
“I know. I’m feeling guilty.”
Booker stands and leans on the side of my carrel. “Two things,” he says, almost in a whisper. “Mr. Shankle thinks the little incident at Brodnax and Speer has been taken care of. He’s made some phone calls, and has been assured that the so-called victims do not wish to press charges.”
“Good,” I say. “Thanks, Booker.”
“Don’t mention it. I think it’s safe for you to venture out now. That is, if you can tear yourself away from your research.”
“I’ll try.”
“Second. I had a long talk with Mr. Shankle. Just left his office. And, well, there’s nothing available right now. He’s hired three new associates, me and two others from Washington, and he’s not sure where they’re gonna fit. He’s looking for more office space right now.”
“You didn’t have to do that, Booker.”
“No. I wanted to. It’s nothing. Mr. Shankle promised to put out some feelers, shake the bushes, you know. He knows a lot of people.”
I’m touched almost beyond words. Twenty-four hours ago
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