Ketchup

First, an apology. It seems that whenever I have nothing to write about other than cupcake stores and how much I despise my office neighbor, I have plenty of time to do said writing. But whenever I have many interesting things to write about, I also have many interesting things that must be done. I apologize profusely for my neglect, and in an effort to get back in your good graces, I have arisen early on a Saturday morning to do all things life-related before I head to work.

Second, an update. Work has gotten approximately 1,287,526 times better recently. Work has also gotten approximately 1,287,526 times busier recently. I am entirely convinced that the driving force behind both of these changes is one teeny tiny life change--I moved offices.

After one particularly memorable outburst involving an F*$%ing printer and a techie who purportedly does bad things to his mother and a flying chair, I decided to make my difficulties known to the powers that be. My practice group leader took pity on me (apparently Loud Liverish Lobbyist has a reputation) and gave me his permission to occupy one of the empty "good" offices, which had theretofore been reserved for a summer associate. Let me fill you in on one of the dirty little secrets of Biglaw--the powers that be keep the "good" offices empty all year so that they will be available for the summer associates. This way, in the ten-week brainwashing session that is the summer, the recruits will garner the impression that all the other lawyers in the firm are totally normal, friendly people with whom you can see yourself working forever. Only after they suck you in are they willing to expose you to the innards of firm life, such as Loud Liverish Lobbyist.

Ahem...Moving on. So now I am actually on the same floor as the other lawyers who do appellate work. Not only are appellate lawyers apparently far nicer, nerdier, and more sedate than lobbyists, but they are also the ones who dole out the cool (in my opinion) work in the office. And now they all have to walk right past my desk to get to the bathroom. It seems that a lot of good thinking gets done in the bathroom, because these lawyers are constantly dropping by my office on their way back and giving me something to do. And now, like magic, I am in the thick of a ton of interesting matters.

Unfortunately, I can't tell you much about said interesting matters, and that is what is taking up all (and I do mean all) of my time right now. But I can tell you about my first Supreme Court experience, which occurred just a couple days after the Big Move. You might recall that I spent the bulk of my first few months at work poring over ancient English cases in order to show the real powers that be that due process does not include the right to a judge that is (or, more accurately, appears) unbiased--or, at least, that it didn't at common law. Well, that case was argued a couple of weeks ago, and the other associate who worked on the case and I got to go watch! It was one of the premier matchups of the season, with our Andy Frey (now 65 Supreme Court oral arguments under his belt) and their Ted Olson (former Solicitor General) duking it out over judicial bias before a bunch of judges. And it did not disappoint. Most of the Justices had clearly staked out a position early, and they were not shy about making their feelings known. The lawyers sparred admirably. I don't think any of the Justices' questions were a surprise, but the level of their vehemence (on both sides) certainly was. We'll see how it turns out.

The experience itself deserves some more discussion, though, just because it was an exercise in extremes. Another little legal insight for the lay readers out there--the Supreme Court courtroom is quite grand but really, really small. Because of this limited space, the Court's odd mix of egalitarian and elitist ideals are made readily apparent in things as simple as the manner in which people get in to see a Supreme Court argument. The process starts with the three lines: (1) the "three minute" line, (2) the Bar line, and (3) the Public line.

As soon as the Court announces the dates of its arguments, people start scrambling for "tickets" for the three minute line. Actually, there are no physical tickets, your name just goes on a list, kind of like an elite nightclub for law nerds. People with these tickets get to waltz right up the steps to the court, wait in line literally for three minutes, and get ushered in to a good seat. Magic. You get these tickets by either (a) being a litigant or one of his ten or so closest friends, (b) being a former Supreme Court clerk, or (c) being friends with a current Supreme Court clerk. As our litigant tickets were claimed by the client and the more senior lawyers on the team, as we were not former Supreme Court clerks, and as our Supreme Court clerk friends were barred from talking to us during the pendancy of the appeal (particularly important in a case involving judicial bias), we were unable to procure one of these golden tickets.

Which brings me to the bar line. The bar line is for people like our bosses, who are members of the Supreme Court bar. They have their own separate line, which is capped at a certain number of reserved seats. These members of the bar run some risk in particularly popular cases, but if they get there about an hour in advance, they're likely to get a seat. We are too young to be members of the bar, however, so that one was out, too.

Finally, there's the Public line. This line is for the crazy people who, for whatever reason, are so interested in the case before the Court that they are willing to wake up at the crack of dawn (or, for an argument that has generated a lot of press like our case, well before dawn) to stand in line for hours in freezing cold temperatures to fight for one of the 150 seats reserved for the public. These seats are on hard wooden chairs squeezed in between (and behind) big marble pillars, so you may or may not actually see the Justices. But you will be inside the Court, and you will hear them, and for those of us who do care enough to risk frostbite in order to hear Nino's take on the brief we helped write, that's enough.

So Other Associate and I got up at 4:30 in the morning, pulled on our long underwear underneath our best suits, and headed to the marble steps of One First Street to stand in the Public line. Let me tell you, long underwear and a business suit do not do much in zero-degree temperatures well before the sun comes up. But we bonded with each other, and with the Public Citizen lawyers and the West Virginia tourists and the Mississippi high school students and all the other crazies who were also standing in line. We also invented the Public Line Dance, which involves moving your feet from side to side in a little jig to keep them from freezing solid, and we bonded and danced for three hours until being ushered in to the hallowed halls of the Court.

So I've already discussed the argument, which was excellent, and which gave us a chance to thaw out a little bit and transition into our elitist experience. After the argument, and after Andy was finished talking to the media on the steps of the Court, the full legal team and the client all went out to a fancy lunch. It was my first client meet and greet, and it was an incredibly (and awkwardly) cool experience. It was also a bizarre experience. Our private room in the fancy steakhouse was filled with twelve big, old, white men, who were all talking animatedly about the state of the law, and two small, young, blond women at the far end of the table, who were trying not to spill food on their laps. The whole thing, from 4:30am to 2pm, was quite an eye-opener.

And with that missive, I must now go to work. One last thing--Ankur and I did take a break from work last Saturday to attend a simulcast of the Metropolitan Opera production of Madame Butterfly. Fantastic. You should definitely look into these simulcasts--they are so well done, and so much cheaper and easier than actually going to the Met!

Hope you are well!