Reaching the Bar: Stories of Women at All Stages of Their Law Career

Section I •Lessons Learned

Lessons Learned: Introduction

AT THE BEGINNING of each day, we have no idea what awaits us or who we will encounter. Sometimes we learn brand new things, other times we realize what we knew all along. But every day is an opportunity for us to learn about the world, our jobs, other people, and even ourselves.

Learning is an especially important component of attorney life. From the first day as a lawyer, there is a prodigious amount of information to absorb. It’s hard to imagine after spending all that time and money that law school leaves you high and dry as far as the actual practice of law. Law school doesn’t teach you how to file a complaint, conduct a deposition, or choose a jury. Law school doesn’t show you how to handle clients or answer discovery. Law school doesn’t discuss billable hours. All of these things are learned on the job. Ironically, they are exactly what we need to learn to do our job correctly.

Some things we learn during summer clerkships and law internships. The rest is sink-or-swim. Mistakes are a huge part of a new attorney’s life because they have so much potential to teach us important lessons. And fortunately, lessons we learn—especially through our mistakes—tend to stick with us.

Besides learning how to do our jobs, we attorneys must also learn lessons about the law. Not only is the law changing all the time, but society is changing, attitudes are changing, and all of this affects how we will practice law. Not knowing changes in the law can mean an embarrassing court appearance or even the loss of a case. Like doctors with new medical techniques, an attorney must stay current because people’s lives are at stake.

Beyond the training we get about the law and being an attorney, some of the most important lessons we can learn are about others and ourselves. Sometimes this comes in the early stages of an attorney’s career. Ideas about who our clients will be and how opposing counsels will behave come later. It’s only after we have worked a case that we see who we are really dealing with.

Other lessons come later in our careers. Cases we wouldn’t normally have taken can show us how we can really make a difference with the skills we already have. Then there are those lessons we learned about being an attorney long before we ever passed the bar exam. The struggle of getting through law school teaches us more about ourselves than any other experience. The people we meet along the way to becoming an attorney show us a tremendous amount about who we could become with our law degree.

There are an infinite number of lessons to be learned. Some are big and some are small. Some are easy to grasp and some take time to settle in. They make us better people and better advocates for the clients who count on us.

Tarts and Torts

Cynthia Patton

I WAS 23 AND a first-year law student at the University of California—Davis. Riding my battered three-speed across the leafy, bike-filled campus, my head was stuffed with everything but property and torts. My college fund had been stretched like Silly Putty to cover my first year of law school, and the account had now run dry. I needed cash, and I needed it quickly!

Swerving to avoid a bottleneck, I pondered my options. I’d already taken a teaching assistant job critiquing environmental impact reports. That would pay my rent for a couple months, but I needed something substantial to pay another two years of tuition and books.

I eased around a traffic circle, cursing the crowds. Law students operated on a different timetable than the undergrads pedaling around me. It was mid-April, and I was facing three weeks of finals while they were in party mode without a midterm in sight.

When I reached the quad, I hopped off my bike, studying the faces around me. I could pass for one of them, but a year in law school had already set me apart. Although I didn’t realize it then, I was between lives—no longer an undergrad, not yet an attorney, still struggling to define my place in the world.

I skirted the quad and watched students lounging in the sun. How I ached for that life! A guy ran past to retrieve a Frisbee and I had a flash: I really didn’t want to work in a law firm this summer. (The following year I’d have to clerk or risk career suicide.) That summer of 1987 was precious, my last chance at freedom. The question was: what could I do to earn money while having fun?

Later that week, at a party, I mentioned my quest for an unconventional job. I may have been a little drunk, or perhaps I was pissed off that I didn’t have the option of an unpaid internship like my classmates who’d be working at the Sierra Club or Earth Justice. When a male friend suggested we both take jobs as blackjack dealers in South Lake Tahoe, we looked at each other and then had to laugh. Blackjack dealers? Us?

It turned out to be the perfect solution. Harrah’s Resort and Casino in Stateline, Nevada, hired us both, and I smirked whenever my boyfriend mentioned his boring law clerk job. To earn additional cash, I accepted a second job with my torts professor, who was an expert in gender-based discrimination. Professor Baker needed to update her torts textbook, and it was my job to read through a decade of decisions and winnow them down. Find something memorable, she told me as I copied case after case. She studied the five overflowing file boxes. And try to be concise.

My friend found us a condo at the top of the Kingsbury Grade, at the rear of Heavenly Ski Resort. Instead of a view of Lake Tahoe, our two-bedroom getaway overlooked acres of barren asphalt swarming with fat, slow-moving squirrels. No matter, the place was furnished and the price was right. We dumped our suitcases and headed for the casinos. Our summer of fun had begun.

At orientation, the hiring manager announced there were too many dealers that year and too few cocktail waitresses. I learned that my hours, like everyone else’s, would shrink to accommodate the extra dealers. The following day, a manager asked if I would consider working as a cocktail waitress.

I’m a law student, I said huffily.

You can work full-time, plus you’ll get tips.

He had my attention. I’ll make more money?

Probably—particularly a woman who looks like you.

Now he really had my attention. Other than my mother and my boyfriend, no one had ever commented on my appearance. I didn’t think I was ugly, but all my life I’d been the smart girl, not the pretty one. He sensed my hesitation. You want to see the outfit?

I followed him to the room where the girls changed, and he handed me a black velvet dress. It had a scooped neck and long fitted sleeves; the flared skirt ended an inch or two above my knees. I studied myself in the mirror. I looked good. The dress was flattering and not too revealing. I bit a fingernail and stared at my reflection. I couldn’t decide what to do.

The manager had me turn so he could check the fit. Yep, he said. You’ll definitely make more money.

But my friend was appalled. Being a dealer is one thing, he said, but cocktail waitress? You want that on your résumé?

I’d had the same thought. I couldn’t imagine explaining this summer of madness to a future employer. On the other hand, I needed money or there would be no future. I called Professor Baker, and surprisingly, she favored the switch. Think of the research potential. We can coauthor a paper on what you discover.

To my surprise, my boyfriend found the idea incredibly hot. He even wanted his father to drive to Tahoe to meet me. I slept on it, and in the morning agreed to take the job, partly because of the money, and partly because I was flattered. I told my roommate, I’m subjecting myself to sexism in the name of higher learning.

It was a lifestyle designed for a split personality. By day I’d work on the casino floor in my black velvet dress and heels; at night I’d go home, change into sweats and fuzzy slippers, and read case law, making notes in tiny block letters on index cards while my glasses slipped down my nose. I’d fall asleep exhausted, dreaming of the paper Professor Baker and I would write.

MY FIRST DAY as a cocktail waitress was a bit like falling through Arctic ice and plunging into a dark, unexplored sea. Except for a few summer girls from Cal State Chico, most of the waitresses were at least ten years older than me. Almost all of them had been married and many were divorced.

In contrast, I was in my first serious relationship. Most of them had children; I had a cat. They had car loans; I drove a bike and an old hand-me-down Cadillac. They had furniture and kitchen appliances and credit cards; I didn’t even own a television. In short, they were adults, and except for my financial concerns, I had yet to experience the real world.

What I did have was a college degree. The summer girls were annoyed because they couldn’t figure out what I was doing in Tahoe. The old-timers didn’t believe I had a bachelor’s of science, let alone a year of law school. Yeah, right, they’d say and roll their eyes. Just say you’re in college, one advised. That’s impressive enough.

Ignored by both groups, I concentrated on my job, which wasn’t as simple as I’d thought. I had to balance 25 to 30 drinks on a tray while walking in heels. I learned how every drink was made so I could line up proper glassware for the bartender and assist with ice and garnish. Soon I could identify each drink by sight and had developed a tracking system as I traced my route across the casino floor.

Eventually, when that became routine, I memorized who ordered what so I could distribute drinks on my return without asking what had been ordered. This caught the attention of the senior waitresses. You’re smarter than the others, one said grudgingly.

A few days later, she asked for my advice about a landlord problem. I helped her draft a letter, and when her stove was repaired the following week, I became the go-to girl, the one with all the answers. From that point on, my coworkers asked me to review leases and explain W-4 withholding. Several asked for advice on child-support issues.

I didn’t know much, legally speaking, but what I could offer was a glimpse into a world where women actually had options.

One day, the women asked me to join them after work, but I said no because of my second job. Never would’ve guessed, said Jackie. You’re more like us than I thought. Soon they were announcing, Cindy’s going back to law school in the fall. They’d slip a few dollars into my jar whenever a high-roller gave them a sizable tip. I tried to refuse—most of them needed the money more than me, but they’d insist.

Don’t you see? Barbara said. We want to contribute. It gives us hope.

As the summer progressed, I would resolve minor disputes for them, and in return, my coworkers gave me relationship advice. When I worked swing shift, they taught me how to handle a drunk. One coworker asked me about returning to school, then another. My presence had empowered them to make changes in their lives. I told them all the same thing: My grandmother was an immigrant with an eighth-grade education. I’m going to go farther, and if I can do it, you can too.

Somewhat to my disappointment, the expected episodes of sexual harassment on the job never materialized. True, one man got in my face when I asked whether his pregnant wife wanted a nonalcoholic beverage after her third or fourth alcoholic drink.

A few men complimented my appearance. Another told me I had a nice laugh. One man instructed me to get a better job, dropping a handful of change on my tray as he exited the slots. The father of one of my undergraduate classmates, tipsy after a day of gambling, said upon learning I was in law school, Wear short skirts when you go to court.

In the fall, when I returned to Davis, Professor Baker sat me down, her eyes gleaming, and asked what I’d discovered on the job. Was it rife with harassment? Nope, I said. When she pressed, I did tell her the story of my friend’s father and the short skirt comment.

I’m not sure I’d call that harassment, she said. Did it feel discriminatory? I shook my head. Professor Baker looked downcast. I don’t think it’s enough for a paper.

I know, I said. It surprised me too.

My classmates assumed I’d slummed all summer for the prestige of writing a paper. Some pitied me and some gloated that the paper wouldn’t happen. It never occurred to them that I didn’t care. None of them understood that the same cocktail waitresses they looked down upon had supported and encouraged me. Now I was proud to call those women my friends.

The cocktail waitresses weren’t the only ones changed by my summer in Tahoe. When Professor Baker mentioned the new public interest law program, I was one of the first to enroll. Instead of moot court, I participated in the immigration law clinic and prevented the deportation of an innocent man.

The following summer I clerked for a Sacramento firm (where a year later I would begin my legal career). When the senior partner learned I’d worked two jobs during my second year to make ends meet, he insisted I work for his firm and paid me more than the two jobs combined. Except for the support staff, I was the only woman, but in that year I never encountered any discrimination, and fortified by my experience as a cocktail waitress, I expected none.

To my surprise, private practice was my first cold plunge into discrimination on the job. On the first day, a partner insisted I not lean on the counter when speaking with my secretary. A client might get the wrong impression, he said, gesturing toward my rear. I wasn’t sure how to read his comment, but I noticed his concern didn’t include my male coworkers. He said that now that I was an attorney, I should stop associating with the women. I wondered how he thought I could avoid myself.

For the first three months, I was the pretty girl. Then, I once again became the smart girl, working hard to fit in. I memorized sport statistics and swore like a trucker. I forced myself to laugh when men joked about their wives.

When I’d been a cocktail waitress, I felt powerful as a woman in the workplace. I walked tall and proud in my heels. My first year as an attorney, I felt weak and vaguely ashamed, the consummate outsider. Yet, just as I had in the Tahoe casino, I decided to bloom where I was planted. I learned to thrive in that boys’ club, putting in hours of hard work, determined to earn the respect of my male colleagues. And whenever I visited the building department to secure a permit, I’d wear a skirt that showed my knees.

Somehow, I won their approval, and I wonder now, was it my skirt or my brain? Probably a little of both, but we all know that a smart girl will work with what she’s got.

The Power of a Post-it

Lindsay LaVine

BACK IN 2000, I was a disillusioned 23-year-old who had completed my first year of postcollegiate employment. It wasn’t what I’d hoped for; in fact, my only opportunity to be creative was to generate form letters. Here I was—a journalism major with marketing and Spanish minors, working in sales in Chicago—and I was miserable.

One day, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I sat down and wrote a mission statement for myself, a succinct wish/plan for my life. It was on an index card—ruled, white, and plain. While it seemed like an unremarkable piece of paper at the time, it would turn out to provide a powerful road map for my life.

I don’t remember where the idea to put pen to paper came from, or when I first had it. I know it wasn’t dramatic —it didn’t come to me in a dream. I think it just seemed natural to write down what I wanted for myself. Having a daily, visual reminder of what I was working toward made sense, and knowing that I was taking steps to change my circumstances made me feel better.

The whole Post-it note approach actually began with a telephone call from a college friend. We had taken some journalism classes together, and she was telling me how much she enjoyed working at a television station in Ohio. As we ended our conversation, she said to me, You know, Lindsay, I always thought you would be doing this [journalism] too.

Her words struck a deep chord inside me, and for the first time in a long time, I did not complain to my mother during our nightly telephone conversations about how much I hated my job. Instead, the next day I wrote my first mantra: I will be a news writer. I will teach myself to write for television and will do what it takes to be successful.

I stuck the note on my refrigerator, marched down to the local college bookstore, bought a book about writing for television news, and taught myself how to do it. I had studied print journalism in college and quickly learned that writing for the ear was completely different than writing for the eye. I then, somewhat naively, mailed out over 100 letters of interest to television stations across the country, most in