Unfit to Practice

“A job like this requires extreme subtlety, quiet smarts. Maybe-”

“I’ll quietly smart you,” Paul said, grinning. “I’m on to you. You’re jealous.”

“Well, she is my wife.”

Nina interrupted. “I was your wife, Jack. Past tense, over, and let’s not forget it because so far, that has worked for me.”

Paul’s smile grew.

“Of course I want your help, Paul,” Nina said. “Thanks.”

“Obviously,” Paul said.

“But I plan to take Jack’s expert advice. I’ll tell them tomorrow, if possible.”

Now Jack smiled.

Paul shrugged. “I can live with that.”

Jack steamed forward. “Okay. That was the good news. It’s not the usual disbarment situation. Also on the plus side, Nina, your truck might still be found with files intact. Or nothing comes of this for whatever reason, and nobody complains to the state bar, so no process gets initiated. Now let’s talk about the bad news. Let’s assume a client does complain.”

“Okay,” Nina said, bracing herself.

“Let me lay some startling statistics on you. Solo practitioners are about twenty-three percent of the lawyers in California. That’s sizable. About one out of four out of one hundred seventy thousand lawyers. Now. Fifty-four percent of complaints, which are called inquiries, are filed against solos. You get twice as many complaints filed against you, you solos, proportionately. You get that?”

“Yes. Why’s that? It doesn’t seem fair.”

“I’ll get to that in a minute. You think that’s unfair, listen to this-seventy-eight percent of the cases the state bar takes through the disciplinary-hearing process to completion are solos. Damn near four out of five, although solos only constitute a quarter of the lawyers. What does that tell you?”

“It tells me something’s wrong with this picture,” Nina said.

“Now. Let’s skip the small-firm practitioners with fewer than ten lawyers in the firm. They don’t get off easy, but don’t do nearly as badly as the solos. Let’s compare what I just said about solos to the big-firm lawyers. Lawyers in firms with more than ten people. About forty-four percent of the lawyers in California are big-firm lawyers. But guess what percentage of inquiries concern them.”

“I won’t even try,” Nina said.

“Only twenty-eight percent. And guess what percent of the cases the state bar prosecutes to completion are big-firm lawyers.”

“What?”

“Two point eight percent. Less than three percent, compared to seventy-eight percent for the solos.”

“No,” Paul said. “You’re kidding.”

“No lie. Of you solos, four out of five are going all the way. If you’re big-firm, one out of forty is going all the way.”

“That’s got to be illegal,” Paul said. “Targeting the little guys.”

Nina sat there, stunned.

“So you don’t, repeat, don’t, want to get close to the system. It’s a whale. Sucks in the little krill, avoids the sharks.”

Nina gathered her wits. “But that’s discrimination. Deliberate or institutional, I can’t believe my colleagues would allow it.”

“Who knew?” Jack said. “There were rumors for years, and we finally got a law passed to force the bar to keep the statistics and make a public report. It’s called the State Bar Report under Senate Bill 143. Read it and weep.”

“But what are they going to do about it?” Nina said.

“Not a goddamn thing. They report the stats because they have to, then they apply a thick coat of whitewash. The whitewash goes like this: It’s the fault of the solos because they don’t make as much money, don’t have lots of clerks, don’t have other lawyers around to make appearances when they’re down, operate under more stressful conditions. They say the solos are more dishonest, basically, more likely to dip into the trust account. I say bullshit to that. I don’t think that’s what happens. I’ve represented enough lawyers in these proceedings that I’ve got the real picture.”

“And?” Nina said.

“It’s two things,” Jack said. “First, when one of their own gets in trouble, the big firms pay off the client. Poof, the problem goes away. And second, the state bar disciplinary procedure is totally different from regular courtroom procedure. The mines are buried in different places. The solos in trouble often can’t afford a lawyer. They start thinking well, shit, I’m a lawyer, I’ll represent myself. Boom, they make a minor technical mistake and they’ve lost their profession and their livelihood and incidentally their reputation and often their marriages and they don’t even know what hit them. It’s ironic. They’re babes in the woods just like the pro pers who get slammed around all day in regular court because they don’t have lawyers.”

“I see,” Nina said. She stared at her plate.

“But you’ve got me,” Jack said, smiling. “You want me to represent you beyond this consult? I’m willing.”

“I could represent myself,” Nina said. “In spite of what you just said. I’m a good trial lawyer. It can’t be that different. If it comes right down to it.”

“No. No, you can’t do that. Let me give you just two reasons among many why that would be a big mistake.”

“I’m listening.”

“First, here’s a small thing, subtle. If you represent yourself, you don’t get to be called Counsel. You’re Ms. Reilly, and the other guy, the state bar lawyer, she’s ‘Counsel.’ You’re a second-class citizen. You don’t get any respect. You argue your brains out, the judge is looking at you thinking, well, it’s her ass on the line, can I trust this citation she’s giving me? See?”

“I’m still listening.”

“And second, much bigger. You’re your own lawyer, you’re on double trial. You’re trying to make a point, and the judge is watching you, saying, she did all right with that one, or she’s an exaggerator, or she’s all over the map on that one. You see? You incriminate yourself every time you open your lovely mouth. Your every flaw is blown up for the judge’s viewing pleasure, as big as in the movies.”

“That’s a good point,” Nina said.

“And I didn’t even mention the xenophobia. These people are as ingrown as my right big toenail. You sound like an outsider, you can’t help it, you don’t know the right approach, the lingo. The judge’s nose twitches, you give him a headache with your foreign ways. You need me.”

“What would you charge, Jack?” Nina said.

“Half price. One fifty an hour.”

“I do want the benefit of your counsel even if this goes nowhere, Jack. But it has to be at your regular rate.”

“I’m trying here,” Jack said. “Will you please let me make nice? For old times’ sake.”

“Don’t overdo it,” Paul said.

“I’m on to you, too,” Jack said. “Who’s jealous now?”

Paul held Nina’s shoulder in a death grip and scowled at Jack. Jack leaned across the table, practically snarling back. Nina nestled into Paul’s arm, furtively enjoying the posturing of these two rival males. The primitive female in her felt hugely gratified.

But back to business. They were all professionals. This hormonal dustup would settle down fast.

She reached her hand out and shook with Jack. She had a lawyer, even if everything he had told her so far discouraged her.

They moved on to topics that didn’t piss anyone off, heinous murders, extortions, securities fraud. Paul gave them the rundown on his latest conquest, locating an in-house theft ring at a local restaurant that included a stockpiled warehouse of fine wines and frozen gourmet pizzas.

Six o’clock came and went, and the waiters went around lighting the candles. Beyond the redwood railing the faraway cliffs softened as evening fog rolled in here and there. Suddenly feeling anxious, Nina thought about the long drive home, Bob waiting to be picked up, the dog at Matt’s, grocery shopping to do before starting her week. “I have to hit the road, gents,” Nina said, rising. Both men stood up, too.

They drove back to Carmel, Paul in the backseat again, Jack holding forth in the driver’s seat. The waves below reflected the gold of the setting sun and Nina lowered the sun visor in a useless effort to stave off its assault on her eyes. She wouldn’t be home until ten and she would be tired, but she felt better. She knew there were others supporting her. Like a general, without precisely realizing it, she had spent the weekend mobilizing that support.

This time she accepted a hug from Jack in the driveway, feeling some of the tension ooze away as she hugged him, but pulling away quickly.

“It’s been so wonderful to see you, Nina. You’re more beautiful than ever,” Jack said.

“Give it a rest,” Paul said. “I’ll see you in a couple of days, Nina. Call me.”

“Better yet, call me,” Jack said. “Or I’ll call you. See how it’s going with the clients.”

Her kiss good-bye to Paul was perfunctory because she didn’t want to precipitate any more dissension in the ranks. She left the two men standing side by side, her soldiers preparing for war, she hoped not against each other.

Book Two

The mail came late, at four in the afternoon. Nina had just grabbed her purse and was running out the door to pick up Bobby at Tiny Tots when Anne, the lead secretary at Klaus Pohlmann’s law firm, rushed down the hall toward her.

“From the state bar,” she said, handing Nina the white envelope.

Her bar-exam results. Only half the law-school graduates passed on their first try.

Nina returned to her cubbyhole law-clerk’s office, shut the door firmly, and leaned against it. She had taken the bar over a grueling two-day period in July and now, five months later, Santa and his reindeer decorated her window. Outside, the dark had begun to crawl over the cottages, shops, and shiny cars, bringing on the twinkling Christmas lights of Carmel.

During that long wait for the results, as she toiled through her daily life, she had thought so many times: Will I make it? She had never felt sure that the years of work would pay off. She never had enough time for the homework, and she had sometimes fallen asleep during the endless night classes. The devilishly difficult bar exam had seemed like a plot to keep out as many people as possible. She sat down in her worn chair, taking the load off her weak knees, swiveled back and forth, and stared at the envelope.