JANUARY 25, 2024 – I remember my very first client. Actually, the “remember” part is an overstatement. She didn’t make much of a lasting impression one way or the other. Over four decades later I wouldn’t be able to identify her in a police line-up, and if her name appeared with one other name on a multiple choice test, I’d have no better than a 50% chance of selecting the correct answer. What I do remember, however, is that she was my first client and that I wanted desperately to hide from her all evidence of her dubious distinction.
By way of background, my first day on the job at the prestigious firm I’d fooled into hiring me was just the day before the aforementioned initial encounter with my first client. Most of that first day had been consumed with innumerable smiling handshakes, short welcoming chats, and completion of new employee paperwork—and I do mean paperwork—for the year was long before the advent of “online” in humanity’s collective lexicon. Amidst the introductory activity, I was shown my individual office, which was tucked away in the far end of the south half of the litigation floor.
The furnishings were solid but sparse—a desk, a desk chair, two visitor chairs facing the desk, and a large two-drawer credenza behind the desk. Inspection of my new quarters required little time, even less effort. Save for a forgotten legal pad, the desk drawers were empty, as was the top drawer of the credenza. The bottom drawer, however, was stuffed with client files. My assigned secretary, whose quarters were right outside my office doorway, informed me that all the files were closed and belonged to a second year associate who’d moved to a slightly larger office at the north side of the floor.
Toward the end of the day, one of a litigation partner tapped on the wide frame of my office doorway.
“How’s the first day on the job?” he said.
“Great,” was my spontaneous reply. “Everyone is so welcoming. I’m really glad to be here.”
“We’re glad to have you,” he said, “and I’m sure the firm’s clients will be well served . . . Speaking of which, how would you like to get started with one?”
I cleared my throat before saying, “Sure.”
“Tomorrow morning at nine you’ll get to meet your first client—[Rosemary Watchit (not her real name)],” he said. “She’s the 30-something daughter of the CEO of [a Well Known Local Company], one of our better business clients. My secretary has made up a file.” The partner handed me a thin expandable red-rope file with several empty folders inside. If they fit the pattern of later files, those initial folders were labeled “Correspondence,” “Notes and Memos,” “Documents from Client,” and “Billings.”
Rosemary’s case was simple enough that my mentor didn’t feel a need to sit down to explain. Leaning against the doorframe, he told me that Ms. Watchit was upset with her stock broker’s inordinate fees and that she might have a claim for churning. From the context I divined the definition of “churning.” Beyond that I knew nothing, zippo, procedurally or substantively. At that point in my undistinguished law career all I knew about actually practicing law was doing legal research in a law library and writing memos[1].
In the first moment following the word “churning,” a searing doubt scorched my brain: was I really cut out to be a lawyer? In the moment that followed, the partner extinguished my immediate panic by compartmentalizing my immediate task: meeting the client and gathering information.
“I told her I had a hearing tomorrow morning but that we had a capable associate who could meet with her first thing to get details.” I wanted to believe his use of the word “capable,” but I knew better. “I told her,” he continued, “to bring in her brokerage statements for our review. After I get back from court, we can talk about next steps.”
“Sure,” I said ironically. I was anything but sure. I felt perched at the top of a triple black diamond ski run, about to become a human snowball.
The next morning I donned the same suit—my best—that I’d worn my first day on the job, along with a white shirt instead of a blue one and solid red tie instead of one striped yellow and blue. I got to the office extra early to prepare for my first client meeting. When I switched the lights on, I tried to view things through the eyes of my client. What would I see? How would I react?
For one thing, the office was way too neat. During yesterday’s introductory tour of the firm, what jumped out was how busy people were, and how “busy” never appeared “neat.” Files, folders, and loose papers were piled high inside all the offices except those occupied by “of counsel” lawyers old enough to be grandfathers of teenagers. Those lawyers were yakking leisurely with fellow members of St. Paul’s Old Boys Club. In walking back to my office, surely my client would notice the bustling offices of real lawyers and suspect me as an imposter when she saw my all-too neat office.
I then remembered the bottom drawer of the credenza full of closed files. I extracted two sizable clumps and laid them on top of the desk. Still too neat, I figured. I split them up into four stacks and turned a few so they weren’t in perfect alignment. Next, I took the thin red-rope file that my mentor’s secretary had prepared and stuck it amidst the remaining files stored in the credenza. I pulled one of the empty manila folders in the new client’s file up a bit so that I could later locate the file. One final touch was to position one of the chairs so it would have a sight line to the left end of the credenza drawer.
When the receptionist rang my secretary and the latter informed me that my client had arrived, I waited for the second hand on my watch to make a full rotation, then put on my best face and marched out of my office. With uncharacteristically good posture, I entered the mahogany paneled reception room and strode across the expansive oriental carpet to the lone visitor.
“Hi, Rosemary,” I said with feigned confidence. “Great to meet you. Why don’t you follow me back to my office.” Like a gold retriever on a short leash, I adopted a restrained pace, foregoing my usual speed-walking rate. “As usual,” I said over my shoulder, “we’re having a busy day at the firm.”
“I guess,” said the new client. I greeted everyone I encountered on the journey back to my office. Each was kind enough to grant me acknowledgment.
“Have a chair,” I said as we entered the room. I gestured toward the seat I’d pre-positioned. In closing the door I said to my secretary, “Julie, can you please take my calls while I’m meeting with Ms. Watchit?” I almost choked on my words as Julie’s facial expression answered, ‘What calls?’
After asking a bit about the client’s background, I got down to business. “Alright, Rosemary,” I said, “let me pull out your file.” Pulling open the credenza drawer, I leaned to the side so she could see me walk my fingers across a foot-long bunch of closed files to her “active” one. “Ah, here we go,” I said.
I then demonstratively cleared space atop my desk and laid down her file.
“Why don’t we start at the beginning,” I said, pulling a pen from my suit coat pocket and reaching for the legal tablet from the desk drawer.
“Tell me, when did you first meet your broker?”
By the time the half-hour session ended, I felt more confident that I wasn’t going to be fired two days into my job: my first client hadn’t signaled that she thought I was an imposter. My careful staging and acting, I told myself, had worked. So far, at least.
But now what?
I don’t remember much about what developed after that initial meeting, except that my activity involved a nastygram to the stock broker, some back-and-forth with a lawyer for the brokerage firm—all through the United States Postal Service—a few phone calls, and a minor settlement. The partner overseeing my work provided me with some forms, reviewed my drafts, marked them up, and ultimately approved what went out the door. At least I didn’t embarrass myself. If I had, I’m sure I would’ve remembered. On the other hand, maybe I did embarrass myself—enough to cause me not to remember anything beyond the preliminaries.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
[1]I’d served as a research clerk at the firm during my last year of law school. In the course of my work, I’d become very well acquainted with many lawyers. Also, long distance running was becoming a fad, and my stock within the firm soared when people learned I’d qualified for the Boston Marathon. My positive relationships, bolstered by my actual running in the famous marathon, morphed into an unsolicited offer to join the firm, provided, of course, that I passed the bar. After passing the bar, however, I decided against settling down and instead embarked on my “Grand Odyssey.” (See blog posts from January through April 2022). Only after sowing wild oats was I ready for the golden hand cuffs.
1 Comment
Such memories! 😀