Like everyone, I’ve experienced many embarrassing moments in my life, some big, some small: the run in my pantyhose, the goop that I sat on that ruined a dress, the wrong word said at the wrong time (a lot of those), the mistaken turn onto a one way street, the late date, the forgotten date, etc.
However, one of the most embarrassing moments of my entire career occurred during the first big case to which I was assigned. I was so thrilled and so terrified. The case was the biggest in the office and required maintaining a discovery calendar, coordinating with co-counsel, preparing and arranging subpoena services with state sheriff offices, informing local counsel, various court reporters and reserving hotel conference rooms for depositions, among other duties.
One day, though, a very rushed attorney, while waiting for his plane, called and asked that I notice the deposition of Van Buren for the following month. Of course, I said, equally rushed; I had another attorney standing in my office, spewing forth even more urgent instructions. In short time, I duly prepared the deposition notice of Martin Van Buren.
A few days later, I received a phone call from one of our more caustic co-counsel, calling to say that he and other members of the steering committee oftentimes remarked on my superior abilities to keep all aspects of the discovery process organized and commending my extraordinary skills (wow, coming from this guy, particularly known for his acerbic wit, this was a huge compliment; I was practically dancing in my seat) and he was most impressed with my superior subpoena powers that could raise the dead (what? wait, what?). He had a couple of cases where this ability would come in very handy and he would greatly appreciate it if I could send him the relevant citations. (Oh dear, oh dear, what had I done?) He finished by barking confidently that the eighth president of the United States would undoubtedly not present himself for this seance, and then unceremoniously hung up.
The color did not just drain my face, it left my entire body. I almost fainted, unable to breathe. Horrified, utterly horrified, I sat frozen to my chair. After my heart finished racing and my initial muzziness subsided, I remembered one of the first rules of law, that almost anything can be fixed once it is realized. Plus, once I told my problem to someone more senior, it became that person’s problem.
I sprinted down the hall to talk with the most junior associate to explain my predicament — out of office. I ran to the next senior associate, who likewise was out of office. I headed upstairs to the junior partner. Again, no one home. I was left with only one option — the senior partner on the case. Unfortunately, I had never met the man. I felt like Dorothy about to confront the Great Wizard. My fear was palpable.
To make matters even worse, his secretary was a mean spirited, spiteful old battle-ax who had worked as his gatekeeper for more than twenty years and hadn’t any problem sneering at me while cackling her “no!” at my request for an audience. She made it clear that he was a very important senior partner who had no time for the likes of a mere paralegal such as myself.
Dispirited, but wily, I noticed that it was nearing the noon hour and everyone knew that she left her desk 15 minutes before her appointed lunch hour to visit the ladies room and primp so that she would be ready when her scheduled lunch hour officially began. I hovered out of her range of vision and when she left her desk I sprang, knocking on his nearly closed door and boldly marching into his office.
He looked somewhat surprised but said nothing when I walked up to his desk and quickly introduced myself, explaining, in a high pitched, rapid paced monologue, what I had done to find myself in front of him. I did not stop talking until I completed the entire sordid story, including the co-counsel’s humiliating phone call and my stealthy circumvention around his secretary. After I was done, he sat quietly for a moment, staring at my sorrowful face while my entire, short, life flashed before me. Then he closed his eyes, shook his head and I watched, wide eyed and silent, as his entire body rocked with laughter. After he’d calmed, he remarked on the courage that it must have taken to come to him. I thanked him, somewhat disconcerted, hoping that my career was not about to come to an end . . . maybe. He then explained how to prepare an amended notice for the deposition of Robert (not Martin) Van Buren and shooed me out of his office before his secretary returned. He confessed that he was as afraid of her as I was.
In later years I came to know him as a kind and patient man, oftentimes with a twinkle in his eyes. And somewhere along the way, I learned that he had served in the United States Army Air Corps during WWII and had spent years as a prisoner of war at Stalag Luft III. My best guess is that an inane event (like noticing the deposition of a dead president) was an amusing diversion compared to his past life experiences.
As I became more experienced in my career, I was approached by a local university to teach, pro tem, paralegal discovery procedures. In class, I was very clear that attention to detail was first and foremost in this profession and used the above story as a prime example of what not to do, anytime, anywhere, ever.
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