APRIL 19, 2019 – I remember well the day. It was early in my career at the venerable law firm with roots nearly as old as St. Paul itself.
I’d been assigned to the litigation department, where I was learning in the shadow of old masters and in the wake of young go-getters. Many of the “masters” were as old and battle scarred as my grandfather. The “go-getters” were a hard-hitting, garrulous lot, and through the lens of my insecurity as a brand new lawyer, I mistook their cockiness for competence.
At that time, Dave Forsberg was department head. Intelligent, thoughtful, with decades of experience, he worked harder than anyone else in a firm that boasted many workaholics. His colleagues always deferred to him.
On that particular day I wrestled with an assignment from another lawyer. I’ve long forgotten the details, except that the issue was procedural. By mid-morning I’d already devoted much time to the problem and achieved too little progress.
At noon I went for my usual run but returned early to get back to more research. Before long three o’clock arrived—with no answers, just more questions.
An hour later I was distressed. The demanding lawyer who had assigned me the question was out of town. We were scheduled to meet first thing the next day. I worried further about what to write on my day’s timesheet—“Legal research relating to motion requesting blah, blah, blah. 9.5 hrs.”? How would it look to have spent so much time for so little gain? What, then? “Legal research [etc.]. 1.5 hrs.”? How would I explain so little billable time on such a critical matter?
By six, most of the department had left for the day. Time to walk to Dave’s office and present my problem and humiliate myself. He would draw on decades of experience and expertise. David C. Forsberg, department chair, knower-all-things-of–the-law, would speak the answer and save the day,
I peered into his office and saw him poring over a couple of casebooks, his jaws clenching a pencil. To the side was a yellow pad bearing lots of scribbling. “Got a minute, Dave?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “Have a chair.”
I described the problem, my approach and a summary of my findings; then asked, “So, what do you think?”
Dave tossed the pencil onto his desk, leaned back, blinked hard, and said ever so confidently, “The hell if I know. All I know is that it’s one helluva question.” He opened his copy of the Rules of Civil Procedure and paged to the rules I’d cited. He thumbed around for awhile, flipped back and forth, asked some questions and said, “You know, sometimes you just have to piece things together and do the best you can. Sounds like you’re on the right track.”
Unwittingly, Dave had imparted something of far greater value than the answer. He’d shown me wisdom.
© 2019 Eric Nilsson
