by Dave Gerard
HH&K, like all good law firms, made an effort to attend fundraisers for judges, and donate to their election campaigns. Attendance was often delegated to younger lawyers like me. Judge Gleeson was one of the judges being honored. So Kruckemeyer told me that I’d better damn well show up and shake his hand.
The gala was held at one of Houston’s marquee country clubs. It was evening when I arrived. I had gotten my car detailed, and it gleamed as I pulled up, the dents and scrapes hidden by the darkness. I tipped the valet five bucks and walked up a marble staircase to the entrance.
“Champagne?” a waiter asked me, offering up a small flute as I walked in. I thanked him and accepted it. I walked up to a table in front and found my name tag, which was handed to me by a young woman with a smile. Then I entered the ballroom.
I sipped my champagne while I looked around to get my bearings. The ballroom was big, with room for a couple hundred people. Crystal chandeliers cast a soft yellow light around the room, the type of glow that makes everyone look better. Well-dressed couples and groups were talking in a mellow hum, and a string quartet played tasteful music at the far end of the room. Waiters walked around with appetizers, and there was a bar at either end. About half of the men wore tuxedos, and the other half suits. I didn’t have a tux, so I’d worn a dark suit with an evening tie.
I saw someone making their way toward me, double-fisting drinks. It was Harder, wearing a tuxedo. He held out one of the drinks, a whiskey on the rocks. I glanced around quickly and then quaffed my champagne in a single gulp. Then I took the whiskey. Harder and I clinked glasses.
“Decent of you, old boy,” I said, sipping it appreciatively. “Meet any of the judges yet?”
“I said hello to Wright and Whittaker,” said Harder. “Talked up the firm a little bit. I told them about some of the initiatives we’re rolling out. The new associate mentorship program, the pro bono stuff, and all that. They seemed really excited.”
“I’ll bet,” I said.
“I want to say hi to Judge Tolliver too,” Harder went on. “Him and my dad go way back. One time I had this case in his court, and he just loved my argument…”
Harder started to drone on about some brilliant thing he had done. I tuned him out, listening just enough to nod and offer the odd “nice” or “oh really?” at the right moments.
Meanwhile, I sipped my whiskey and looked around the room. I spotted the judges, older figures surrounded by clusters of people listening to them respectfully. They seemed a little awkward. Judges aren’t politicians. They don’t have the easy, practiced grace with which a congressman asks for coin. But they do have to get elected, and fundraising is a part of that.
In Texas, like in many states, judges are elected. Their campaigns are funded primarily by lawyers—the same lawyers that later appear in front of these judges. Ostensibly, lawyers donate to ensure a strong judiciary. That benefits everyone. But they also donate in a subtle attempt to influence the outcomes of cases. It’s never overt; a judge won’t rule your way because you give him money. But when the lawyer who funded a judge’s entire election campaign shows up in court, you can imagine that creates certain pressures.
In the 1980s, there was a case called Pennzoil v. Texaco, which ended in a ten-billion-dollar jury verdict, one of the biggest of all time. The lawyer for Pennzoil, an infamous Texas trial lawyer named Joe Jamail, made a ten-thousand-dollar donation to the judge’s reelection campaign just two days after he was appointed to the case. And both sides later donated hundreds of thousands of dollars to the justices of the Texas Supreme Court during the eventual appeal. None of this was illegal, or even uncommon. But there are a lot of subtle ways that a judge can influence a case, and you have to be realistic about these things.
“Are you even listening to me?” Harder asked, to which I replied “hmm?” which evidently was the wrong thing to say.
“I don’t know why I even bother to tell you these things,” he huffed.
But my attention was focused on something else. I had caught sight of Judge Gleeson, the judge in our case. He was surrounded by a knot of well-wishers, including some younger attorneys.
Gleeson was an even-keeled, older judge. He was not a star, nor a dunce. He had been around a while and knew his business. He was receiving an award tonight. Thankfully, we had been supporting this event for years, so our donation and well-wishes would not look like anything untoward. My job was to shake hands with Gleeson, mention the firm, and not say anything stupid. Kruckemeyer was especially adamant about that last part.
I was about to walk over there, but then stopped. I recognized two of the lawyers talking to Judge Gleeson. Kathleen Loudamire and L. Lucius Quinto. Quinto was listening intently with a frown above his chiseled jaw line, while Loudamire stood awkwardly and giggled.
“Get a load of that,” I said to Harder, gesturing with my glass.
“What?” said Harder, still annoyed with me.
“Badden and Bock,” I said. “Those are the two associates from the court hearing.”
“Oh really?” said Harder. “Aren’t they from New York?”
“Yeah. The firm has a Houston office too, but their flagship is in New York. That’s where those two work.”
“What are they doing at this shindig?”
“I think they’re here to meet the Judge,” I said.
“What, in that pro bono case of yours?” scoffed Harder.
“It’s not pro bono anymore.”
“Whatever. I doubt they came down from New York to just to attend some Texas state judges’ party, no matter how important your little case is.”
“Probably not.”
“They’re wearing nice suits. How much do you think they make?”
“You know how much they make.”
Salary was standard at the biggest law firms in New York. It started at over two hundred thousand dollars a year now. Plus bonus. If Loudamire and Quinto were a few years in, they probably made three or four hundred thousand dollars a year, easy. Everyone knew it, including (and especially) Harder.
“Yeah,” said Harder, envious.
“Hey, why didn’t you go work there?” I asked him, as if the thought had just occurred to me. “You went to Cornell or something, right?”
I knew full well that Harder had interviewed for those big firm jobs after law school, but struck out. He was still bitter about it.
“Asshole.”
I clapped him on the back. “Ah, come on now. Think of the positive. If you worked there, you’d be an even bigger douchebag.”
“Appreciate it,” he said sourly.
“Anytime.”
Just then, we saw a young woman walking up to us, waving excitedly. She had short blond hair that bobbed up and down as she came. Her outfit wasn’t particularly fashionable. It looked like it had been lifted from her mother’s closet a decade ago.
“Ugh,” muttered Harder. “It’s Cindy. New associate at the firm. I’ve been assigned to be her mentor.”
“I thought you were all about the mentor program?”
“Yeah, yeah. She’s a strange one, though. I know some people who went to law school with her…”
Harder shut up and put on a fake smile as she approached. “Hey, Cindy!” he said.
“Hey Richard!” she replied.
“Glad you could make it.”
“I’m so excited to be here! This is amazing. I’ve never been invited to one of these things before.”
“This is Jack Carver,” said Harder, introducing me.
I reached out to shake her hand. There was something oblivious about her, but I liked her immediately all the same. Her smile was genuine, and her eyes were guileless.
“The Jack Carver?” she said. “Richard was talking about you earlier. He said you joined the firm relatively recently too. From some small Podunk shop, I think he said. Isn’t
that right Richard?”
Harder was making motions to try and cut off this line of conversation.
“Absolutely,” I said, turning to Harder. “Podunk and Podunk. You’ve got a good memory, Dick.”
“Dick?” Cindy said.
“Yes. We like to call him Dick around the office. Among friends. He prefers it,” I added.
“I do not,” he said, elbowing me in the ribs.
“Harder!” I yelled.
“First time I’ve heard that one,” Harder muttered. But Cindy spluttered with laughter. At least someone appreciated my sense of humor.
“You going to go say hi to Judge Gleeson?” Harder asked me, an edge in his voice.
I contemplated this for a moment. “You know, I think I will,” I said, putting down my drink and straightening my tie.
“This should be interesting,” said Harder. “I’m coming.”
I shrugged. “Suit yourself,” I said. I made my way toward the knot of people in front of Judge Gleeson. Harder and Cindy followed. I felt a bit apprehensive, since the Badden & Bock associates were there. But I wasn’t afraid of them. They spotted me and said something to each other.
“Judge Gleeson,” I said, putting on a big smile as I approached. “Jack Carver, with Holland, Haroldson, and Kruckemeyer. Congratulations on the honor.”
Judge Gleeson shook my hand. I thought I saw a flash of recognition in his eyes. He may have remembered me from the hearing, although it would be impolitic to mention it.
“Mr. Carver,” he said. “Hello. How do you do?”
Harder lunged forward and introduced himself as well. “T. Richard Harder,” he said. “The third.” Harder pumped Judge Gleeson’s hand for all he was worth. “Chair of pro bono and associate development efforts at HH&K. A real pleasure.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Harder. Lyle Gleeson. Thank you for supporting our event.”
“Absolutely. It’s so great to be here. So great,” Harder said.
I interjected. “And this is Cindy…” I paused expectantly for her last name. But Cindy just smiled blandly, not getting it. There was an awkward pause. I recovered by making some comment about the judiciary’s charity work, which had been described in a little booklet they’d passed around earlier. Judge Gleeson demurred. We made a bit more small talk, and then I made ready to leave, before I could say something stupid. But he stopped me.
“Have you met these young lawyers, Mr. Carver?” Gleeson said, indicating Quinto and Loudamire. “They’re from New York, I believe.” His voice was neutral, but I thought I saw a sardonic glint in his eye. I couldn’t tell if he recognized them from the hearing or not. Frankly, they had done little more than hold Bock’s jockstrap. “Perhaps you could make them feel welcome,” he said to me.
“Of course,” I said, turning to Quinto and Loudamire. Judge Gleeson bid us a good evening and walked off to another knot of well-wishers.
“Well, well,” said Loudamire in her nasally, high-pitched voice. Who even says that, aside from villains in bad movies?
“Kathleen,” I said. “You’re looking well.” I greeted Lucius Quinto too, and he introduced three of the local Badden & Bock associates, insufferable-looking young white men from Houston. Their names were Chad Waller, Derek Doniger, and Cornelius Adipose, a real gem of a guy whose cleft chin was raised at a near forty-five-degree angle as he looked down on me.
“Chad went to Penn, and clerked for Judge Rawlings,” Quinto said. “Derek went to Georgetown, and clerked for Judge Ollison. And Cornelius went to Stanford, and clerked for Judge Flynn on the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals.”
What Quinto was saying was that all of them had gone to Ivy League schools, and all of them had clerked for federal judges, which was a mark of prestige. Top law students competed to serve with federal judges for a year or two after graduation. The law clerks attended court hearings, did legal research, drafted judicial orders, and advised the judge how to rule. It was an invaluable way to gain experience and connections, and to see how law worked from the inside.
“Wow,” Harder said admiringly. “The Fifth Circuit. Very prestigious post.”
“Thank you,” deigned Cornelius Adipose.
Harder turned to me. “Where did you clerk again, Jack?” he asked nonchalantly.
I forced a smile. “I didn’t. Wanted to get right to work, you know?” In reality, I hadn’t had a prayer at landing one of those spots. But all of them murmured their fake understanding, as if they understood the siren song of capital all too well.
Harder clapped me on the back. “He’s good, though. One day soon maybe the firm will even promote him from independent contractor to full time employee. Eh, Jack?” Waller and Doniger snickered. My smile froze in place. I wanted to throttle Harder.
“What about you, Richard?” Loudamire asked. “Did you clerk?”
“No. But I did attend Cornell for law school,” he added quickly.
“Good school,” Quinto said, favoring him with a nod.
“Thank you,” said Harder. “It was a great experience.”
“We take a couple of Cornell grads each year, don’t we?” Quinto said with a sideways glance at Loudamire.
“We do,” she confirmed. Quinto smiled handsomely and sipped at his drink.
“So,” said Chad Waller, or Derek Doniger, I couldn’t remember which. “I hear you and Kathleen are facing off tomorrow.” He was smirking.
“We are,” I said.
“Do they let associates take depositions at your firm?” Cornelius Adipose asked, puzzled. “I would have thought a partner would handle it, for an important matter. I assume Zachary is handling it from our end?” he asked Loudamire. She nodded.
“Our firm likes to make sure associates get hands-on experience,” I told him. “So they’re not just highly paid paper-pushers, you know?”
“I see,” said Adipose. “How does your client feel about that?”
“Quite well, thank you,” I said
“What firm are you guys with?” Cindy interjected.
“Badden & Bock.”
“Oh, wow!” she said. “That’s a great firm. You guys must be really good.” I scowled at her, annoyed. They demurred.
“Badden and Bock was on today’s donation list for the event,” Cindy continued. “A platinum level donor to Judge Gleeson. That’s fifty thousand dollars minimum, isn’t it?”
“Something like that,” said Quinto, exchanging glances with Loudamire. I frowned. I hadn’t known about that.
“Isn’t it sort of weird to make a donation when you have a case pending in front of the judge?” Cindy asked, puzzled. “Are you allowed to do that?”
They stiffened up. “Of course,” said Quinto. “It’s standard practice to support the judiciary. That’s what this event is all about. Obviously, our firm adheres to all of the ethical rules.”
“Hang on,” I said incredulously. “You guys gave fifty thousand dollars to Judge Gleeson? Tonight?”
“I don’t know the details,” said Quinto. “You’d have to talk to our pro bono committee about that.” Loudamire smirked.
I had a bad feeling about this. But there was nothing I could do about it just then. So I traded a few more barbed pleasantries with Quinto and Loudamire and then made my exit. I had done my job and wanted to get a good night’s sleep. Loudamire and Quinto would both be there tomorrow, and I resolved to wipe the smirks off their faces. Cindy and Harder stayed, and continued chatting to the Badden & Bock associates as I walked away.
When I got home, I took off my suit and tie and sank down onto the couch. My apartment was dark and cool. It was a loft, with exposed brick walls and pipes. The kind of place that lets people know you’re chic. The interior had been redone with warm hardwood floors. It would look great if I had the wherewithal to decorate it. No matter. I was a minimalist, I told myself.
I c
hecked the time. The deposition was coming up in less than twelve hours. But I was too amped up to sleep. So I switched on an episode of The Dominator to take my mind off things.
The Dominator had started as one of those scripted wrestling shows where they decide who wins and loses each match. The titular character, The Dominator, was a real wrestler. He had been a UFC fighter before he snagged the lead on the show. The series was pitched as a way to bring back the glory days of the WWF.
Unfortunately, the ratings for season one were dismal. In season two, the producers decided to write off The Dominator, who wasn’t connecting with audiences. So The Dominator was set to lose a bout to The Subjugator, who would then replace him as the lead character, perhaps improving the show’s prospects before it got cancelled.
But instead of going down, The Dominator went off the rails. He smashed The Subjugator, seriously injuring him in the process. This shocked the producers, who were ready to fire him. But the footage leaked onto the internet, and people went wild. The ratings jumped, and the producers couldn’t fire The Dominator anymore. They had to keep him on. But they never knew when he was going to follow the script and when he was going to fight for real. This heady mix of staged performance and reality TV delighted fans, and the show had built up a small cult following. Rumor was that the producers were going to hire a real wrestler, someone from the UFC, who would finally take down The Dominator whether he liked it or not. I was hooked.
I checked my email, a reflexive habit in the modern legal world. Oddly, there was a new email from Bock & Co. They must have sent it just now. I checked the time. It was eleven thirty.
“Dear Mr. Carver,” the email said. “Please find attached a privilege log, detailing records that Rockweiller has withheld from tomorrow’s deposition. Best regards, Kathleen Loudamire.” I frowned as I opened it.
A privilege log is a list of documents that are being withheld under the attorney-client privilege. The privilege lets you keep emails with your attorneys confidential. But you still have to acknowledge they exist. So, when the other side asks for documents, you list them on what’s called a privilege log. It’s a simple chart that includes the name of the document, the date, who wrote it, and a brief description of why it it’s confidential. Privilege logs are one of the most boring things in the legal field. And that’s saying something.
