MY DECISION TO BECOME A LAWYER was irrevocably sealed when I realized my
father hated the legal profession. I was a young teenager, clumsy, embarrassed by my
awkwardness, frustrated with life, horrified of puberty, about to be shipped off to a
military school by my father for insubordination. He was an ex-Marine who believed
boys should live by the crack of the whip. I'd developed a quick tongue and an aversion
to discipline, and his solution was simply to send me away. It was years before I forgave
him.
He was also an industrial engineer who worked seventy hours a week for a company that
made, among many other items, ladders. Because by their very nature ladders are
dangerous devices, his company became a frequent target of lawsuits. And because he
handled design, my father was the favorite choice to speak for the company in
depositions and trials. I can't say that I blame him for hating lawyers, but I grew to
admire them because they made his life so miserable. He'd spend eight hours haggling
with them, then hit the martinis as soon as he
walked in the door. No hellos. No hugs. No dinner. Just an hour or so of continuous
bitching while he slugged down four martinis then passed out in his battered re-cliner.
One trial lasted three weeks, and when it ended with a large verdict against the company
my mother called a doctor and they hid him in a hospital for a month.
The company later went broke, and of course all blame was directed at the lawyers. Not
once did I hear any talk that maybe a trace of mismanagement could in any way have
contributed to the bankruptcy.
Liquor became his life, and he became depressed. He went years without a steady job,
which really ticked me off because I was forced to wait tables and deliver pizza so I
could claw my way through college. I think I spoke to him twice during the four years of
my undergraduate studies. The day after I learned I had been accepted to law school, I
proudly returned home with this great news. Mother told me later he stayed in bed for a
week.
Two weeks after my triumphant visit, he was changing a lightbulb in the utility room
when (I swear this is true) a ladder collapsed and he fell on his head. He lasted a year in a
coma in a nursing home before someone mercifully pulled the plug.
Several days after the funeral, I suggested the possibility of a lawsuit, but Mother was
just not up to it. Also, I've always suspected he was partially inebriated when he fell. And
he was earning nothing, so under our tort system his life had little economic value.
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