Blogging as an attorney might be more of a pain than it is worth, particularly in the manner I have chosen. The last post brought far more attention to my blog than I anticipated and I’m not sure how I feel about it. A few of you were kind enough to email your comments to my blog address (blog@toiletlaw.com) and most of the emails featured similar questions / themes.

1) Your aren’t using your JD much at all. Don’t you want to something more “legal”?

Yes. I would love to have a more balanced job, but I’m not convinced that I want to bill 10 hours a day. I enjoy client interaction too much to leave it behind completely.

2) Have you told Val – what’s up with you guys?

I told her. We are still on the rocks.

3) Are you a fake blogger sent from the TTT law schools to con would-be law students into paying through the nose for legal education?

No.

4) But what about the case you just signed up, aren’t your rich now?

No. I get 4.2% of the firm’s 35% – meaning, I get 1.4% of the total settlement. This will be by-far my largest commission and I am very fortunate to land the case, but this isn’t some huge “time-to-retire” windfall. First, I’m going to lose numerous days working the case when I could be signing up clients. I prefer this work, but I will make less on other cases. Second, there is a good chance that this case takes 12-18 months. I won’t be receiving a bonus until late 2010 at the earliest. Third, taxes. The bonus is going to be severely neutered by taxes.

If I collect in 2010, there is a decent chance that I make more than my biglaw counterparts, but only by a few thousand.

5) But you said you were going to quit at the end of the case, how will you support yourself?

If my bonus is large enough, I want to give running my own firm a real chance. I haven’t really thought it out but the money will go a long way to financial freedom.

It’s difficult to describe the feeling. I recently signed up what will undoubtedly be the biggest commission of my short career, but the circumstances surrounding the case are particularly horrible. I wrote the following blog a few days ago but I debated not posting it:

Val and I are still together but I often consider putting the relationship out of its misery. This morning we had an outrageous fight about how I am not doing enough to support her recent weight loss efforts. She’s particularly mad that I keep telling her that she doesn’t need to lose weight – she’s a size 2.

Due largely to said fight, I didn’t get to work until 9:30. By then the overnight messages had been picked clean. I ended up with two dead-end slip-and-falls and a call marked as “Misc.” I couldn’t understand what the Misc. call was about but I was able to pick out a phone number.

I called the number at 10:00. The man who answered was very obviously asleep.

“Hi, this ToiletLawyer from ToiletLawFirm returning your call from last night. I’m terribly sorry to wake you.”
“uh-huh”
“Well, I listened to your message, but our system has been on the fritz and I couldn’t understand what you said. How can we help?”
“nothing … no … i already have a lawyer for it”
“Oh ok, well if you need anything just give us a call”
“you guys take customers to lunch?”
“Heh, umm, sometimes I guess”
“could you meet me at stanleys on baltimore?”
“I bet I could find it, but sir, can I get some information about your case. Were you in a car accident?”
“my wife died”

This is where my heart jumped through my chest – for all the wrong reasons. Seeing only dollar signs, I continued:

“I’m, I’m terribly sorry. Stanley’s you said? On Baltimore?”
“yes”
“What time would you like to meet?”
“im leaving now”
“Ok sir, can I have your name?”
“uh-hum”

He hung up. My boss wasn’t very happy about my departure, I don’t think he believed my story – but as I didn’t have a single promising case, I wasn’t doing much good in the office. It took about 20 minutes to get to Stanley’s which, of course, was a bar. I don’t know why I thought differently.

I walked in and the place was empty. No patrons, no employees, nobody. I sat in a chair by the door. Eventually a middle-aged woman walked out from a door in the back and informed me that they were closed. While I was explaining the situation a youngish (18-24) guy walked through the door.

“you the lawyer?”
“Yes sir, did I speak with you earlier?”
“uh-huh. Marge, can we have a booth” – the woman nodded.

He led the way to a booth in the very back of the room. He carried a bright red Marlboro gym bag.

“Thank you for meeting with me, I’m still a bit hazy on what happened. Did you say your wife died? I’m terribly sorry.”
“yeah, she died. my little girl too. both dead.”

About this time, Marge brought two glasses of ice and a bottle of Jim Beam to the table.

“Would it be possible for you to tell me how it happened?” I had my pen and pad ready to take notes.
“would you like a drink?”
“Yes thank you”

He filled the glasses to the top. We each took a gulp.

“youre a lawyer right?”
“Yes.”
“ok, whered you go to school?”
“Penn State”
“oh yeah? do you know John Cutter? i went to highschool with him, i think hes at law school right now”
“No I don’t think so, I haven’t been to the school since I graduated.”
“uh-hum”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, I tried my best to pace his drinking. At one point my cellphone began to ring, I ignored the call.

“eighteen wheeler ran em over on 95, hospital wants ten thousand”

The alcohol was getting to me – I hadn’t eaten breakfast. We sat in silence for another few minutes.

“you guys handle the hospital”
Yeah, we handle everything”

He refilled our glasses.

“whats your cut?”
“35%”

That rate is actually 5% lower than most of the cases we take, but I was confident that the firm would honor it.

“you have papers i need to sign?”
“I have an employment agreement if you are ready to employ us. I have a few questions though.”
“no thanks nevermind”
“Ok sorry, one question…two questions.”
“i dont have another attorney and i havent signed any papers from the insurance”

He had obviously spoken to other attorneys, he already knew my questions. I gave him the papers, he filled in his information and signed them. We stayed at the bar until 3 pm, we finished the bottle. I called the firm and asked my boss to send two taxis to the bar. I was evidently intoxicated but the boss obliged without question.

I was beyond intoxicated by the time the taxi dropped me off at the firm, I could barely stand. I should have gone home, but I was concerned about my job. I stumbled into my boss’s office and explained. He sent me home in the same taxi, I slept on my couch.

We’ve since received quite a bit of information about the case. An intoxicated truck driver slammed into the back of the car – pushing it into another truck. The firm is quite happy – I’m going to be the liaison between the client and the firm – for which they bumped my commission rate. I’m probably going to quit when we finish this case.

A flagged case is one that the firm plans to take to court. I don’t know the exact formula the firm utilizes for flagging cases, but I do know that whether or not the opposing firm has struck favorable deals with our clients in the past is a primary factor. You might think this a bit unethical or even reckless, but it does increase the average award for our clients, which is why they pick our firm over the other fifty local firms that practice the same law.

From the perspective of a junior attorney though, flagged cases suck. Cases take a long, long time to go through court, meaning it takes a long, long time to get your commission. And beyond that, the junior attorney who signs up the flagged case is expected to do handle a significant amount of the case’s paper work and filings. Driving to the courthouse to file a motion isn’t all that bad, but getting a medical history from an overweight, middle-aged, Russian-speaking alcoholic is a royal pain in the ass.

All I really needed to figure out was whether this former Soviet tank driver had ever experienced any sort of physical trauma that would make his right arm especially fragile. Instead, explained the tank driver, it was far more crucial to discuss why vodka that is only $3 a bottle in the Ukraine is $33 a bottle in America. He seemed displeased when I attempted to discuss taxes, regulations and transport costs.

I initially misunderstood the next topic he wished to discuss, although I knew it had something to do with the attractive, young receptionist who had, unfortunately, aided him in finding my desk. While attempting to pick out the random English sandwiched tightly between various Cyrillic ridiculousness, I was caught off guard by an unexpected word – “webcam”. In retrospect, I should have picked up on it sooner – the drunken Soviet was proposing a some sort of terribly illegal joint venture where we set up a video camera in the firm restrooms.

Nevertheless, determined to get the information, I soldiered on. I heard about his wife, who may or may not have slept with Putin’s uncle before settling down with the client. I heard about how he used to pleasure himself to photos of Nadia Comaneci, and that someone other than his wife liked to dress up in tights for him. I heard about his son who went back to the Ukraine after graduating high school and is now going to become an attorney. “juct lik achoo!” I wasn’t sure if he was complementing me or sneezing. (maybe both?)

After an hour of this, I asked him to leave. Seeing that I was frustrated, he relented and told me that three of his fingers were broken on a merry-go-round when he was a kid, but that his arm had never been injured. I made an unfunny joke about how much money would could have won him for the childhood accident. He left a good amount of grease/sweat on my hand during our goodbye shake as a token of his appreciation. I get to see him again at the end of the week when we fill out his insurance paperwork…

I wasn’t particularly impressed with the last post either. It sounded bitter and manufactured – and for that I apologize. Social skills are an important part of life, but you don’t need me to tell you that. I’ll do my best to never write anything like that again.

Up until the moment I graduated law school, I was a drama addict. School drama, relationship drama, family drama, etc – if there was an unwise, decadent display of emotion to be found, I wanted to be a part of it. I suppose my boring, middle-class upbringing left me excitement-starved, and rather than take up skydiving, I used drama to satisfy my completely juvenile need.

Family lore holds that my father married the first (and only) woman he ever dated (mom). In retrospect, I probably could have done the same. Actually, save one colossal dating blunder, I could have married any of the women I have dated and been quite happy. My drama addiction, though, laid waste to each relationship. I would start an extended fight* that would eventually force the girl to leave me. Some relationships took my sabotage better than others, one even limped along for more than a year. Eventually, each died. The period in each relationship between the initial fight* and the final goodbye would presumably satisfy most’s lifetime drama requirement.

*Fight is used here in its most expansive definition. My modus operandi was to, over the course of a month, passive-aggressively push on the woman’s insecurities until she broke. Each woman would spend the next week/month/year yelling and crying before ultimately leaving.

And I thought, after years of this, I had grown up. I figured my next serious, long-term relationship would result in marriage or, at least, some sort of adult “we aren’t right for each other” breakup.

The girlfriend and I are on the rocks. I’m pretty sure we are done. I’m pretty sure it’s my fault.