Editorial
Front Page - Friday, March 19, 2010
Under Analysis
Spencer Farris
Now that it is starting to look like spring, the Levison towers are sparsely populated. Filing runs to the courthouse are more apt to be made by partners this time of year. In fact, partners I haven’t seen all winter pop their heads in my office to ask if I need anything picked up from court. Or even the coffee shop. While I appreciate the help, I could do without the ghastly white arms sticking out of short sleeved shirts.
I took the opportunity to get out this past week and headed over to the local Court of Appeals. We are fortunate to have a beautiful and historic building to house our Court of Appeals . It was originally a post office, built when the government had the mail carrying monopoly. Before they sponsored Tour de France teams to drum up business. The main room of this building is cavernous, and full of detail work that would never make it past today’s bean counting paymasters. The grand statue in the center of the building alone would eat up half of the budget of the modern building.
This old post office sat nearly vacant for decades. Its revitalization was truly a gift to our city. I wasn’t there simply for the architecture however. A friend of mine was being sworn in as the newest judge on the Court of Appeals.
Some days I feel like a neophyte in the law. One of the older lawyers seated near me had been to “more of these ceremonies than he could remember.” Seeing my contemporaries become appellate court judges makes me feel like an old lawyer.
The swearing-in ceremony felt like church to me, but I always feel that court rooms are holy places. This was an especially memorable and moving ceremony because my friend’s father, a past judge of this very same court, swore in his son. I’m the first lawyer in my family, and notions of “legacy” rarely cross my mind. Being able to wear my father’s shoes only means that I have big feet. Although my friend comes from a family of lawyers, following ones’ father onto the Court of Appeals is still rare.
Events like this are among the best parts of being a lawyer. In these gatherings, there are no adversaries. The collegiality that we lose in the “business of the law” is regained when lawyers gather to celebrate. Even judges are just my fellow lawyers.
Of course, fellow lawyer or not, judges are different. The black robe and seat high above the courtroom are designed to set them apart from “regular” lawyers. We rise from our seats when they arrive in the courtroom and when they leave. Entire cases can be decided before a lawyer arrives at court, but nothing happens until the judge shows up. I’m not giving up any secrets when I say that I’m typically uncomfortable around judges.
In the court room, it’s easy.
“Yes your honor.”
“No your honor.”
So long as I am prepared and respectful I have few problems. Outside of the courtroom is a different story. Too many attempts at conversation, and I feel like a suck up. Not enough, and I’m rude. I rarely even call my friends by their first names once they have gone on the bench. In the back of my mind is the nagging question that has been floating around since I first became a lawyer – “why would a judge want talk to me anyway?”
Those of us who do a routine practice become very familiar with the expectations and foibles of state court judges. They had practices just like ours once upon a time. They still show up at our local bar functions. They were elected by local folks, or appointed by our governor, and may lose their position if the electorate so chooses.
Federal judges move in an entirely different universe. They likely worked as federal lawyers and practiced in federal courts. They got their robes from the President of the United States, upon the suggestion of a United States senator. They keep their spot on the bench for life.
Federal practice is different from state court. Federal timelines are etched in stone rather than ink. Many lawyers refuse to practice in federal court because the rules seem much more strict and appellate review occurs so rarely that it is hopeless to consider. The fear that a federal sanction might be served in Guantánamo Bay keeps me on edge when I go to federal court.
I greeted my favorite federal judge when he sat near me. (If you’re a judge reading this, of course you’re really my favorite. Just don’t tell the others.) The exchange was polite, and brief. Then he turned to ask, “how is your practice?” This man has always been cordial, but the question that he asked was one lawyers would ask each other. Discussing my practice with a man whose responsibilities included sentencing criminals to federal penitentiary felt strange – probably the way my teenaged sons feel telling me about their day at school.
I suspect that His Honor’s ease in talking with others may have helped him become a judge in the first place. The fact that he retained the gift is to his credit, despite the separateness he is required to assume in his role. It felt very natural to share a few words with him. An uninformed observer would’ve thought we were just two lawyers passing the time. On this day, he would have been right.
©2010 under analysis llc. under analysis is a nationally syndicated column of the Levison Group. Spencer Farris is the founding partner of The S.E. Farris Law Firm in St. Louis, Missouri. He wears a size 10 ? shoe. Comments or criticisms about this column may be sent c/o this newspaper or directly to the Levison Group via email at comments@levisongroup.com.
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