Talk Amongst Yourselves

It seems like one of the stupidest ideas ever for the state to send a bunch of young lawyers back to the town where most of us went to law school and trust us to attend classes like good little law minions. But that is exactly what happened the latter part of last week when we were all sent to the state-wide judicial law clerk conference. Each morning, bedraggled clerks came trickling into the seminars, mumbling things about “hangover” and “Jagerbomb” and “donkey show.”

Instead of staying at the conference center, I stayed with BeadFreak so that I could take the Boston Terrorists with me. Our evenings were much tamer, and involved lots of red wine, giggling, wedding talk and Grey’s Anatomy. Oh, and pillow fights in our underwear. Because that is what we girls — even ones with professional degrees — do anytime we spend the night together (Note: Anonymous Boyfriend contends that if there are no photos or videos, it didn’t happen. I tried to explain that we law-types are risk averse and therefore wouldn’t record it, but he remains unconvinced).

The first day Judge D. gave one of the conference lectures. During his talk, he couldn’t resist singling me out: “My law clerk, LST, does this all day long. LST, where are you? Raise your hand!” This, of course, was a personal nightmare; those of you who know me know that I hate being the center of attention, whether at a professional conference or at a hibachi table. And of course for the rest of the week, people kept coming up to me and asking, “You’re Judge D.’s clerk, right?” Shoot. Me. Now.

At some point I also realized that gunners will always be gunners, even after law school is but a fleeting and distant memory. One of the Career Law Clerks they couldn’t resist getting into a heated argument with a judge about whether or not a conference is necessary before a party files a motion to compel discovery. Not only was CLC an obnoxious know-it-all, she was flat out wrong. It takes a lot of balls to fight with a judge, and even bigger balls to continue the fight even when you’re wrong and the rest of the room is fed up with you.

As if that weren’t punishment enough, I got my very own one-on-one time with CLC as she ambushed me on my way to the bathroom.

CLC: You’re Judge D.’s clerk, right?

Me: That depends on who is asking.

CLC: Can I ask you a question?

Me: I suppose that was rhetorical.

CLC: On the materials Judge D. handed out about adoption, it says that a criminal background check is required for all adoptions.

Me: Yes.

CLC: Is that just your circuit’s policy?

Me, dumbfounded: [long pause] It’s the law.

CLC: Is that a new law?

Me, trying to make a hasty escape: No. You’ve always had to get a state background check. Now, as of July 1, you have to get an FBI check too.

CLC: Does that apply to adult adoptions as well?

Me, incredulous: … No. There’s a whole statute about adoption. I hear it’s pretty informative.

She then proceeded to violate my aural canal with thisthatandtheother about the sheriff’s office and fingerprinting and the clerk of court blah blah blah.

It had to have been divine retribution for some horrible offense I’d committed, like replying to jail mail with random photocopied pages from the encyclopedia, or telling a petitioner that the statute of limitations on divorce had run so he’d have to just learn to live with his wife.

It’s a tough job getting paid to enjoy the gorgeous fall weather and play with your girlfriends and eat out every night on the state’s dime. Oh and learn. A lot. But, somebody’s gotta do it.