In which I am magically transformed from

The World’s Greatest Attorney to The World’s Worst

The Volunteer Legal Services Corporation (VLSC), a subdivision of the Alameda County Bar Association, recruits attorneys who offer to provide free or low-cost legal help to low-income clients left stranded when President Reagan gutted Legal Aid.  Every year they recognize the attorneys who provide more than 50 hours of pro bono services by presenting them with the Wiley Manuel Award (named after a distinguished Alameda County jurist.)  I won the award one year – all due to one client.

But people tend not to value what they receive for free.


*

The poor kid was about eight years old when he tried playing with matches one day and lit his highly flammable pajamas on fire, leaving him with third-degree burns over ninety percent of his body.  The lawsuit wouldn’t be settled for some years yet.

Aside from the excruciatingly painful baths and skin grafts, he spent the next several months in a “pressure suit” and having to do painful stretching exercises every day to keep his re-growing skin from tightening and restricting his mobility.

Unfortunately, his parents were divorced and too immature themselves to cooperate over the boy’s rehab.  Father blamed mother for the accident and mother was convinced that father wasn’t capable of raising their son.  It’s not an untypical story.

Father was a bit of a control freak, who insisted that the boy do his exercises on schedule and wasn’t softened by the kid’s tears.  Stacy, the mother, who had primary custody, didn’t usually follow through on the regimen.  She was too busy with her own life to be able to give her son the attention he needed.  All she knew was that the boy was “her dolly” and she wasn’t going to share him with anyone.

Father filed a motion for change of custody; VLSC referred Stacy to me and I agreed to take the case.

There followed several hearings and many mediation sessions with Family Court Services.  The mediator went well beyond what they generally have the time or budget to do, interviewing not only mom and dad, but the boy’s doctors, mom’s family, dad’s family and anyone who could help her formulate a difficult and potentially heart-breaking recommendation to the court.

During these hearings, I grew to like dad less and less.  So I fought for Stacy, even though I believed at the time that she was only the lesser of the two evils.  Hour after hour of conferences and court appearances, until I had racked up well over $10,000.00 in free legal services.  (My opposing counsel, now retired, and for whom I had the greatest respect, was also working at a severely reduced hourly rate.)

Finally, the court date arrived at which the mediator’s report and recommendation would be presented to the parties and the court.  As is fairly usual, we didn’t see it ahead of time and went into court with no idea what to expect.

The recommendation was to transfer custody to dad.  That afternoon.

The report was several pages long, detailing the research that had gone into it, the difficulty involved in making the recommendation, and ending with a well-reasoned analysis of how the conclusion had been reached.  In a nutshell, it was tragic that the kid’s parents couldn’t work together, but his physical health meant that he had to be given to his father.

I did my best, but the judge adopted the recommendation.  Stacy was livid and began screaming in the courtroom at the top of her lungs.  I practically dragged her out into the corridor and attempted to calm her down.

No use.  She threw her purse the length of the hallway and began ranting that she was going home immediately to grab the boy and disappear.  I was beginning to be more than a little frightened at her hysterics and at the thought of her taking her son away from his doctors.

When my opposing counsel came out of the courtroom, Stacy had worked herself up into a fine shape.

“I’m going home right now!  I’ll get him out of school and take him to Mexico!  He’s not going with that son of a bitch!  I’ll make sure they never find us!  When he gets there to pick him up, we’ll be long gone!”

“Steve, I’m going back in to tell the judge about this,” opposing counsel warned.  I nodded.

And I held Stacy there.  Under the guise of trying to calm her down, but actually physically restraining her until the court attendant (they’re not called bailiffs or marshals anymore) got there.

“Stacy!  Listen to me!  You can’t do this!  Just calm down for a minute!  You’re going to get yourself in big trouble!”  All the while holding her by the shoulders and blocking her from leaving.

The court attendant finally came out, took her firmly by the arm and escorted her back into the courtroom, where the judge ordered her to sit in the jury box and advised her ex-husband to go get the boy immediately.

But did this stop her screaming?  Not a bit.

I sat with her in the jury box, where I had a prime view of the court reporter’s laptop computer whose software automatically transcribed everything the reporter was taking down.  Long afterwards, it seemed funny.

“You can’t do this to me, you asshole!” Stacy screamed, and the computer screen read You can’t do this to me, you asshole.

“Stacy, shut up!” I snapped, worried that the judge would hold her in contempt and have her carted off to jail, and the computer screen read Stacy, shut up.

*

I could no longer justify representing Stacy.  She had shot all of her credibility with me and I was willing to accept the mediator’s recommendation.

But less than two weeks later, she was on the telephone again.

“I want to make a motion to have the judge reconsider his ruling,” she said.  “You did a great job for me and I want you to file the motion.”

“I’m sorry, Stacy,” I said, as calmly as I was able.  “But I’m finished.  You’ll have to find another attorney.”

And the screaming began again.  “You’re the worst attorney I’ve ever had!  You didn’t do anything for me!  You fucked up my case and made me lose my son!  I’m going to report you to the State Bar!”

Half an hour later, Stacy’s mother was on the phone, with but a variation on a theme.  Many clients expect their attorneys to work magic, but the speed of this transformation from best attorney to worst must certainly be some sort of record.

*

This was not the only case that demonstrated to me that the most demanding clients are those who aren’t paying.

But at least I won the Wiley Manuel Award.  More than 50 free hours in one year.  And all for one client.