New York Lawyer
November 28, 2007

As my hand grasped the old brass doorknob of number seven Second Street, my heart raced and pounded like the hooves of the thoroughbreds racing around Saratoga Racetrack. I knew the law. I had a diploma to prove it, but I did not know what to expect on my first day as an attorney at a law office. I turned the knob.

Number seven Second Street was a musty old brick building that had lived through the growth and decline of a city. During my interview I learned that Teller, Wagner, Drucker and Brehan, the firm it housed was just as old as the building having formed in the 1850s. Like the building, the firm had once been prestigious but was now in decline.

Upon entering, I was once again struck by the 1930s decor now faded, dingy and dusty from age and use. I made my way down the hallway, dimly lit by old dusty lamps, as I had for my interview the day before. The office was deserted. Neither the receptionist nor the secretary were at their desks.

“Where is everyone?” I wondered. The clock on the wall showed six past nine.

I made my way to my office. It was a small cramped space, dominated by a large cherry desk, and lined with Bookshelves crammed haphazardly with old legal journals and texts. The desk was strewn with piles of books that appeared to have been pushed back to the edges, clearing a small space in anticipation of my arrival. A rickety old captain's chair welcomed me, and I sat down.

Despite it being 2003, the office’s high-tech equipment consisted exclusively of a typewriter and rotary phone, which, aside from the books, were my desks only companions. I opened the drawers, and saw pens, pencils and a pad of paper.

“Thank God, no quills,” I thought with a chuckle.

“What am I doing here?” I asked myself. Such an inauspicious beginning was not what I had envisioned for my first office, or my legal career.

"Well no point sitting here. Best find something to do," I said to myself.

I went to a room lined with old, dinged, steel filing cabinets. I opened them searching for the life-blood of any law firm. Files. The blood seemed to be running dry in this firm. The metal drawers creaked open and banged shut on three whole filing cabinets before I found a single file. As I continued, I found that aside from a handful of traffic tickets, the twenty or so files consisted mostly of wills awaiting their owner’s demise. I concluded this firm truly was on life-support.

“This was a big mistake,” I thought to myself. Then suddenly I heard…

"Magee! That you? Come give us a hand here please!" The gruff old voice of Mr. Brehan, my new boss, broke with age.

James Brehan seemed as old as the building. The last surviving partner of the firm, he looked as though he could have been one of its founding members. At eighty-eight, he had been practicing law continuously since 1939 with the sole exception of "a little 'vacation' to Europe, courtesy of the U.S. Army," As he put it. He had forgotten more of the law than many attorneys would ever know.

Widowed close to twenty years earlier, he now lived to work. From eight in the morning until he left, exhausted at three each afternoon. The law is what kept him going, like blood to a vampire. His body had bent with age giving him the profile of a question mark. He now shuffled along slowly aided by a cane. Gravity had pulled on his wrinkly, sun-spotted skin until his cheeks sagged into bulldog-like jowls. Thick, coke-bottle glasses dominated his face. His thinned, white hair was slicked to his head in the style of his youth.

I hurried to Mr. Brehan's large, drafty office. Entering, I found him seated at a substantial, oak conference table in one of the cracked, old, brown leather chairs. The missing receptionist and secretary huddled around him.

"John! Good. You're here. Help us out with this darn contraption. I think it's broken."

"What's the problem?" I approached, and saw on the table an adding machine.

"What? Oh, my name’s Marjorie," said our receptionist, a nice, older woman with salt and pepper hair. It was easily apparent she was quite hard of hearing. An unfortunate handicap given her profession.

"No, not what's your name! He asked what the problem is!" Mr. Brehan yelled so she could hear. An annoyed look had taken hold of his face.

"I don't know. Oh, I'm so confused," Barb the middle aged secretary answered in a complete fret. It seemed that Barb's favorite phrase was "I'm so confused." She kept repeating it over and over, like a broken record.

Air whooshed from the leather chair I sat in next to Mr. Brehan. It decompressed, forming a fit to my body. I slid the adding machine in front of me.

"What are you trying to do?" I asked.

"We're doing accounting for this estate, but it's just so confusing," Barb sighed.

"It won't subtract. Darn piece of junk. Days of pencil and paper were so much easier." Mr. Brehan was exasperated.

"Show me how you've been doing it."

"Barb you do it." Mr. Brehan handed her a pad with figures on it.

"Well we want to subtract this smaller number from the bigger."

"Granted, now show me how you did it."

Barb took the adding machine. "Well I type the first figure in," she said, typing in the larger number. "Then I hit subtract." She hit a button with a plus and minus sign on it.

I shook my head in disbelief.

"Then I type the second figure and hit equals." She did it as she said it. "See! It's so confusing! Why does it do that?" Barb said bewildered, pointing at the large negative number that appeared as an indictment of the machine’s obvious malfunction.

"Because it's broken." Mr. Brehan said confidently without looking over.

"Smoking? No you have to go outside," Marjorie added, confused.

"No! Broken!" Mr. Brehan yelled.

"What?"

"Never mind!" he gave up.

"I see you're problem." I said calmly.

"You do, my boy?" Mr. Brehan said partly excited, partly disbelieving.

"Sure. It's an adding machine. It adds. It doesn't subtract."

"What? Oh, I’m so confused."

"Yeah." Mr. Brehan agreed with Barb.

I tried to put it as simply as I could. "That isn't a subtraction button. It's a positive/negative sign. It makes numbers positive or negative. So you're making the larger number negative. That is why you're getting that result."

"Really? Very good John. Very good," Mr. Brehan thought it through and was impressed.

"So how do I subtract?" Barb asked.

"Type in the bigger number, hit add, then the smaller number. Make that number negative with that plus/minus button. Hit equals, and voila," I showed them.

"Very impressive John." Mr. Brehan patted me on the back as he got up and shuffled over to his desk on the other side of the room.

"Huh?" Barb was still confused. Mr. Brehan rolled his eyes. After a half-dozen more demonstrations, she finally got it and left the office with the adding machine as happy as the caveman who had discovered fire.

'I have to get out of here!' My mind screamed.

"You're pretty sharp John." I was now alone with the old man. Looking at him across his desk, there was a hint of the imposing figure he had once cut, but time had shrunken him in the chair, like a grape to a raisin.

"Thank you, sir."

"You remind me of Bill Teller."

"Was he the Teller whose name’s out front?"

"Yes, but he was more than that. He was the Congressman for this district in his day."

"Really?" I was amazed, 'this firm must have been something once,' I thought.

"Yes. Bill was ten years older than I. Real sharp guy and a good friend. Last surviving partner with me."

"What happened to him?"

"He died nine years ago. I now own this building with his widow."

"I see."

"You know, this building was designed and built by the same fellas that did Madison Square Garden?"

"No way!" I wasn't buying it.

"Go look on the wall." He pointed me to a framed press clipping hanging in his office. I went over and read the headline. 'Local Landmark’s Ties To The Garden.' There was a picture of the building and the architect. He was telling the truth.

"Amazing." I turned back to the old man.

"Yes John, there's often more to things than meets the eye. Remember that or you'll underestimate opponents and misread cases in this job."

The phone on the desk rang interrupting us, and the old man waved me out with his hand. I made my way back to my office, taking some estate work from the beleaguered Barb as I went. Sitting down at my desk, I started doing some of the tedious accounting work.

About two hours later, the sound of a cane poking, and the shuffling of feet harkened the coming of the old man.

"John?" The old, breaking voice took me from my work. Looking up I saw him leaning on his cane in my doorway. "Come with me. I want to talk to you." He beckoned with his hand, turned and slowly started making his way back down to his office. I jumped up and followed after, curious about what was going on.

"What's this about sir?" I asked as we entered his office.

"I have a project for you. Get that manila folder on my desk and that brief case over there." He pointed. I grabbed both. The folder was very thin with the name Cynthia Baxter typed at the top. The brown, leather, lawyer's briefcase was heavy with books that felt like I was moving concrete blocks.

"Hurry up. We're going to be late."

"For what?"

"Trial of course."

"What?!" I nearly dropped the briefcase on my toes I was so surprised. "What kind of trial."

"Traffic ticket."

"This will be neat to see."

"See? John you are going to do the trial."

"Excuse me?" My mind raced. He couldn't be serious. But he was. "Sir, I've never done a trial before."

"Time you learned then. First time for everything. Now stop dawdling." The old man turned and shuffled to the front door. Dumbstruck, I followed him out to his black, 1993 Cadillac without uttering a word.

It was surprising that for someone who moved so slowly, Mr. Brehan drove rather fast. He topped out at fifty in a city thirty zone. He accelerated at such velocity that I was pinned into his white, leather seats.

"Don't you think we're going a bit fast?"

"No we're fine."

"Limit's thirty, might want to slow down."

"No we're late. Now listen, trials are very important. Few attorneys do them, fewer do them frequently, and fewer still do them well."

"This will be my first one."

"That's fine. Trick is to get one under your belt. A lot of attorneys are afraid to do trials because they never have. Now they're too old to start, the anxiety would kill them," He chuckled.

"Not everyone has to do trials," I pointed out.

"True. But litigation attorneys do. In fact it is the most important tool in their arsenal. A Litigation attorney who can't do a trial is as useless as tits on a boar-hog," He laughed at his own saying. My attention was split between his advice and his driving, which seemed to get more reckless by the minute.

"That's what I'm grooming you for, litigation, so it's time you learned about trials. Time to jump right in. Trial by fire."

'Great.' I thought to myself. Butterflies welled up, tying my stomach in knots. It reminded me strangely of the feeling I would get before a sporting match in high school or rugby game at college.

"What's wrong? Nervous?" I must have looked a bit green. "Everyone gets nervous, judges, lawyers, police. Even the best get nervous. Know why?"

I shook my head.

"Because if you aren't nervous, it means you don't care, and they wouldn't be the best if they didn't care would they?"

I shrugged.

"You need those nerves, hold on to 'em. They'll keep you sharp, but roll down the window if you're going to be sick."

I noticed the light at the intersection up ahead was red and yet we continued to hurdle toward it with no sign of slowing down. Was he too busy talking to notice or did the coke-bottle glasses not allow him to see that far? I wondered.

"Um, the light is red."

Mr. Brehan continued blathering on with advice I wasn't listening to, showing no signs of stopping.

"Red light!" I tried louder.

No effect, he continued talking. Ten yards out now. The green turn arrow came on. A few cars turned.

"Mr. Brehan! Stop light!" I yelled.

"What?" He awoke from his diatribe. We were only feet from the intersection.

"Red! The light!" I pointed. He just looked at me confused. I closed my eyes and braced for impact.

… Nothing.

"What's the matter with you?" He sounded annoyed.

"Me? You just went through a red light!" I was fuming.

"Oh no! The arrow was green," He said confidently.

I was stunned. If this was a reflection of his legal knowledge, I was in real trouble at this trial.

"That was a green turn arrow! To turn, Not go straight!"

"No! … You sure?"

"Positive!"

There was a moment of silence while he pondered this. "Sharp John. You're sharp. Gonna do just fine at this trial." This vote of confidence rang hollow after what had just happened.

I was elated when ten minutes later we arrived in one piece, without further incident or conversation. I sprang free from the car like a convict being paroled. The file in one hand, heavy briefcase in the other, weighed down enough to keep pace with Mr. Brehan so that we entered the Court together.

Cynthia Baxter was a woman in her early sixties, neatly dressed in her Sunday best. She sat on the edge of her seat in a small conference room outside the courtroom, wringing her hands, she was nervously waiting. Her face brightened with a smile as we entered and she leapt from her seat.

"Jim! Thank God you're here! I was beginning to wonder."

"Relax Cynthia. Everything's fine."

We sat across a small table from her.

"This is John Magee, Cynthia. Very sharp young man. He will be doing the trial today."

The smile and color disappeared from her face. "What?"

I felt both out of place and uncomfortable.

"Don't worry. I have every confidence in him. You're in good hands." Before she could protest further he rose from his seat. "Excuse me. I have to go check in and talk to the prosecutor. You two go over the case. I'll come collect you when it's time." With that he shuffled out tapping a rhythm with his cane.

As he left, it occurred to me; I had yet to read the file. I knew nothing of the case. I flipped open the manila folder and scanned the contents trying not to look flustered. I tried to exude confidence I didn't feel. I looked up at my first-ever client and smiled.

"First time?" She asked surprisingly calm.

I hesitated. "Yes ma'am."

She nodded her understanding, reached out and patted my forearm now folded across the table.

"You'll do fine. If Jim says you can do it, then you can. Best attorney in his day, that Jim."

"Really?"

She gave me a stern look. "Darn right. Won hundreds of cases he has. Why, you're very fortunate to be under his tutelage."

I pondered this a moment before remembering I had a trial to prep for.

"Okay let's go over the facts."

I was a quick study. Sucking up facts like a sponge and writing them on my legal pad. This was a fender bender case. She had been hit from behind while stopped at a light, shoving her car into the car in front of her. She was ticketed for following too closely. I also learned there was a lawsuit.

After five minutes the thumping of the old man’s cane signaled the end of preparations.

"It's time," He said entering.

"Did you talk to the prosecutor?" Cynthia asked.

"Yes. Very nice guy, offered the lowest he could, a parking ticket with no points…"

"I'll take it." She snapped.

"I can't advise that. There is a provision that you pay restitution that is not covered by insurance, which is an admission of liability."

"Oh. … So what do we do?"

"John's going to do the trial. Are you ready?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Follow me." With that, we followed him slowly into the courtroom, a good sized room with white walls, a jury box to the right, two small tables up front and a large oak bench beyond them with a witness stand. A large middle-aged man with a mustache, glasses and a stern look was seated at the bench in black robes. He was flanked by two women I assumed to be his clerks.

The butterflies returned, and I could feel my whole body shake. It was the same feeling I had being rolled in to surgery to remove my appendix. 'I can't believe I'm doing this,' I thought. I considered that this must be what it's like to be walked to the gallows, but I decided that was silly. This was far worse.

"Your Honor; this is my new associate, John Magee. He will be doing the trial."

"Nice to meet you," the judge extended his hand with a smile.

"This is Judge Pat Abrams," Mr. Brehan completed the introduction, and I shook the judge's hand.

"I'm Matt Carusone," said a young man in a dark suit to my left, with his hand extended.

"He's with the D.A.'s office," Mr. Brehan added. I shook the prosecutor's hand.

"First trial?" He asked wryly.

"Here? Yes." I tried to conceal my inexperience.

"Oh. How long have you been practicing?" The prosecutor was dogged and did not relinquish the issue. I couldn't think of a quick response. I was out of places to hide.

"This is my first day," I said sheepishly, with a whisper, so Cynthia would not hear.

"Don't worry. We've all been there," the prosecutor said understandingly.

"Welcome to the law." The Judge added.

"Don't worry about him. He's sharp," Mr. Brehan said slapping my back.

“Hopefully, for Mr. Carusone’s sake, he’s not as sharp as you were years ago when I went up against you as a young prosecutor in The Caldwell Case,” The Judge said with a mischievous smile.

“Not still bitter about that I hope.” Mr. Brehan retorted.

“Never was Jim.”

The Judge announced it was time to get started. My heart raced, and I could feel the blood pump to my extremities as I took my seat at the small table.

The prosecutor rose from his table to my left and spoke briefly, laying out in his opening what he intended to prove. I was too nervous anticipating my turn, to pay attention to anything the prosecutor said.

"Mr. Magee?" The Judge called.

I rose slowly. My knees trembling. My body shaking like a building in an earthquake.

"Mr. Carusone. Your Honor," my voice trembled at a whisper.

"Speak up." Mr. Brehan coached.

"The defense will prove…"

"No. No. Come here," Mr. Brehan interrupted. I leaned down and he whispered into my ear, "The defense doesn't prove anything. Just say the prosecution won't meet their burden for reasons that will become clear later."

I had caught a third of that and retained only a quarter. I looked blankly at Mr. Brehan, my eyes wide with terror, like a deer in headlights. He motioned for me to continue.

"W,-We don't h-have to p-prove…"

"Speak up Mr. Magee. I can barely hear you," the judge requested.

"Yes sir!" I spoke as loud as I dared.

"That's better."

"I'm not p-proving anything. Um… I t-think the prosecutor ah… can't s-show you this b-beyond um… the reasons to ah… d-doubt, you will see later." I paused to think if there was more. "Thank you," I added, satisfied that I had done alright and survived. I was oblivious to the confused looks on everyone's faces.

"That was fine. Now get ready with that pad and write down everything their witness says for cross," Mr. Brehan instructed.

An impressive looking sheriff's officer took the stand. The prosecutor asked short, concise questions drawing out brief, descriptive answers in an organized and chronological fashion. It was very precise and efficient, like a well oiled machine that would have made the military proud. I was so awestruck that I forgot to keep writing, and did not retain the details of what was said.

"Object!" Mr. Brehan whispered loudly.

"What?"

"Object! Stand up and object!"

"Objection!" I yelled, springing from my seat like a jack-in-the-box.

Everything stopped. All eyes were on me. The officer had just finished answering the question.

"On what grounds Mr. Magee?" The judge demanded.

Having no idea why I had objected in the first place, I turned back to Mr. Brehan. "What grounds?"

"Hearsay. He wasn't there when the accident happened."

I repeated what I was told, but not as eloquently.

"Overruled at this time. The answer is already out." I stayed standing. The Judge looked at me a moment. "Anything further Mr. Magee?"

"No, Your Honor."

"Great. Then have a seat."

I sat and the prosecutor continued. Mr. Brehan leaned closer. "You have to pay attention to the question as well as the answer. You have to object quicker before the answer comes out."

"I'm trying," I said demoralized.

"You're fine. We'll get him on cross."

After a few more minutes, the prosecutor concluded his direct and sat down.

"Mr. Magee?"

I rose, trying to conceal my trembling hands by putting them in my pockets.

"What's your name again?"

"Sergeant Keith Bentley."

"You work for the sheriff?"

"Yes."

"You say my client was responsible for the accident?"

"Yes."

"She was following too closely?"

"Appears so."

"How do you know?"

"Because she hit the car in front of her."

"She was too close?"

The officer looked at the prosecutor with a confused expression, as if to ask if this was a trick question. "Yes she was."

I stared at the officer, wracking my brain for another question that wasn't coming. I was stumped. I went back to the desk and rustled through papers looking for a question.

"John." I bent down to Mr. Brehan. "You're just reinforcing his case. You need to attack it."

"How?"

"Pick it apart."

"But how?"

"Calm down. First, get him to tell you where this happened." He waved me away. I turned back to the officer.

"Where did this happen?"

"Intersection of Seventh and Columbia."

"Where's that?"

He looked at me blankly.

"Why don't you give him a point of reference? From where." The Judge suggested.

I wasn't sure what the judge meant. I looked around the court and spotted a map hanging in a large frame on the wall. I approached it and saw that it had the city streets.

"Come here," I instructed the officer.

"Objection." The prosecutor stood up.

"Sustained." The judge said. "Ask my permission to have the witness approach." He instructed.

"Can I please have the witness approach?"

"Officer please go over to the map."

The officer rose and approached me.

"Please point to the intersection on this map."

"Right here." He pointed.

"Which direction on here were the vehicles going?"

"West on Seventh," he indicated again on the map.

"Thank you. You can sit." I strutted back to the desk, proud as a peacock of my use of the map. Out of questions, I headed for more sage advice.

"Mr. Magee." The judge stopped me.

"Yes sir?"

"For future reference you need to have an exhibit like that marked with one of these." He held up a red exhibit sticker. "And you have to move it into evidence."

"Okay. Can I have the sticker and I will move the map in." I approached to get the sticker. The judge's face turned red.

"Mr. Magee the map would have to stay with the file. You would have to take my map off the wall and that giant thing would have to stay with the file! It won't fit in our filing! So get your own folding map!"

The prosecutor's stifled laughs were escaping in intervals now. I felt very foolish and wanted to sink through the floor and escape. I scurried back to the safety of the table.

"You're doing great," Mr. Brehan lied. Cynthia's face told another story, one of disaster.

"No I'm not."

"Confidence my boy. Deep breath."

I did as instructed. "Now what?"

"Ask, ‘isn’t it true you didn’t see the accident.’"

I turned and repeated the question.

"Yes."

I turned back to get the next question.

"Ask him if it’s true he doesn’t know how far away her car was.”

I asked.

"Well, based on the damage … too close."

“Ask if it’s true that he doesn’t know if she was too close before the accident.” I did as I was told.

The Sergeant hesitated. “No, I don’t know if she was too close then.”

"Ask if we can agree it wasn't too close then, because there wasn't an accident."

I repeated it.

"Yes, I would agree."

"Ask if it’s true the accident and damage is the only basis of the ticket."

I repeated.

"You could say that."

"Ask where the damage was."

I turned to the officer again.

"To the front of your client's car, and the back of the other vehicle."

Mr. Brehan had me show the Sergeant pictures of Cynthia's car on which he identified damage to the rear of her car. He said it was consistent with her having been hit from behind by another driver. He disclosed that this other driver was ticketed also.

"Ask, ‘so if not for the other car hitting Cynthia from behind she would not have been too close’ in his view.”

When I asked this question, the officer hesitated looking over at the prosecutor. "No, she probably would not have been."

“Ask if we can agree that the other car hitting Cynthia was not her fault and outside of her control.”

I asked.

“I can’t argue with that. It was out of her hands.”

I was amazed at Mr. Brehan's performance, that what had appeared to be an old, feeble mind trapped inside a decaying body, could so readily transform into a sharp legal instrument dissecting the prosecution's case. I hung on his every word.

I began to believe we could achieve the impossible, a victory. Cynthia seemed hopeful as well, a look of excited anticipation lit up her face.

"No more quest…"

"No. Not yet." Mr. Brehan interrupted. I had nearly jumped the gun.

"Now for the Coup De Grace. Ask if its true that department policy says he has to issue tickets on all accidents so he has no discretion."

I repeated the question.

"That is department policy."

I decided to go off script.

"So that is the 500 pound elephant in the room?"

Everyone stared at me confused.

"Elephants weigh tons, not pounds." Mr. Brehan shook his head. I decided not to ad lib again. "Ask if without this policy he might not have issued Cynthia a ticket."

I repeated word for word.

"I can't say. I'm not in that situation." The Sergeant tried to duck the question.

"Isn't it possible you would not have?" I wasn’t letting him off.

"I suppose it's possible."

"You have nothing further. Sit down." Mr. Brehan whispered.

"Nothing further." I sat down. The adrenaline was rushing through my body giving me the same natural high I used to get playing high school sports. It was a great feeling, and I knew I wanted to do this again. I was hooked.

The prosecutor asked some more questions to try to rehab his case. When he was done we made a motion to dismiss. I repeated every word of the argument Mr. Brehan gave me. I was too excited to appreciate the legal niceties of the arguments being made, however.

I waited with baited breath for the judge's decision. He quickly jotted down some notes, increasing my nervous anticipation.

"First of all, I want to say, that I find Sergeant Bentley was completely credible and forthright. I also feel that Mr. Carusone did a very good job for The People under the difficult circumstances of having the other driver, whom he subpoenaed, not show up."

My heart raced. Did this mean he was finding for the prosecution? I felt sick.

"Mr. Magee. Mr. Brehan." I perked up at hearing my name.

"That was the best ventriloquism act I have ever seen." The whole court laughed.

"Seriously, you both did a fine job. I find that you are correct on the law here, and that the people have not met their burden, so I am dismissing this case."

I was elated.

"You did a great job John." Mr. Brehan said.

"Thank you." Cynthia said beaming with a smile.

"Nice job." The prosecutor said shaking my hand.

"Well now that you've won your first case, do you want to drive back to the office? I know my driving makes you nervous." Mr. Brehan asked. The keys dangling from his trembling, outstretched hand.

"No thanks, sir. I like your driving just fine."