Supreme Ambitions

by David Lat

  “For example,” Janet added, “take the notice of appeal—the statement filed by the losing party in the trial court indicating it plans to appeal. If the notice of appeal is not timely filed, then the Ninth Circuit can’t hear the case, no matter how important the legal issues at stake. It must dismiss for lack of jurisdiction.”

  I nodded; this was all familiar to me. A few years ago, the Supreme Court had decided a case making clear that a late-filed notice of appeal deprives the appellate court of jurisdiction, full stop. When we discussed the case in law school, the policy struck some of my classmates as unduly harsh—shouldn’t there be some sort of “good cause” exception?—but it made sense to me. Allowing exceptions to the deadline would completely undermine the policies underlying the doctrine.

  Second, Janet explained, after the completion of each oral argument calendar I would work with Judge Stinson on the opinion in the case. How much work this would involve would vary depending upon the judge’s role in the case—writing the majority opinion, dissenting, or merely offering editorial suggestions on the opinion of a colleague—and whether the opinion was published or unpublished. Published opinions constituted official precedents of the Ninth Circuit, which would bind the court in future cases, and they tended to be formal and polished pieces of writing. Unpublished opinions or “memorandum dispositions,” involving just the case at hand, tended to be short and even cryptic.

  Third, I would assist Judge Stinson with “en banc” matters, an area where the judge was fairly active. This would involve reviewing the opinions generated by other Ninth Circuit three-judge panels to see if they were problematic—for example, inconsistent with Ninth Circuit or Supreme Court precedent. If so, the judge might want to call for rehearing en banc, or a rehearing by a larger group of judges. Working on en banc matters with the judge included advising her on which cases to call en banc, helping her issue en banc calls (which involved drafting a “call memo” explaining why the case should be reheard), and also defending the judge’s own opinions against en banc calls from other colleagues. Because Judge Stinson was more conservative than many of her Ninth Circuit colleagues, she participated actively in the en banc process, either calling for rehearing in cases where the panel reached a result she viewed as unjustified (read: unacceptably liberal), or defending her own opinions against en banc calls by ideological opponents like Sheldon Gottlieb and Marta Deleuze.

  In the final part of the orientation, Janet reviewed the specific cases I was inheriting from her. I was stuck by how many different areas of law they involved—criminal procedure, bankruptcy, intellectual property, sentencing, immigration—and all the different procedural stages they were at. It felt overwhelming, like a buffet at a casino hotel—except filled with things for me to mess up rather than consume.

  “I’ve never taken intellectual property or immigration law,” I confessed. “Is that going to be a problem?”

  “You’ll figure it all out,” Janet said. “Read the briefs and cases, do extra background reading if you have to. The main library downstairs has every treatise you could imagine.”

  “And I can always go to the judge with questions, right? She must know all these areas cold by now.”

  Janet paused.

  “I wouldn’t bother the judge with the small stuff,” she said.

  At the end of the orientation, Janet presented me with a document entitled “Janet Lee Departure Memo,” which summarized the training she had given me in written form.

  “This memo contains pretty much what you need to know,” Janet said. “You’ll have to prepare a similar departure memo when you finish the clerkship. The judge is big on clerks training their successors and transitioning their cases.”

  “Thanks! This looks great,” I said, thumbing through the tome. “And can I call or email with questions too?”

  Janet paused again. Was she frowning?

  “Well,” she said, “I’m going to be pretty busy once I get to the firm …”

  I could tell she was looking for a graceful out, so I quickly jumped in.

  “Oh, I totally understand. I’m sure your hours will be brutal. Do you think you’ll miss clerking?”

  More hesitation. Pursed lips.

  “I’ve learned a lot working here,” Janet said in a careful, measured way, “but I’m ready to move on. And to collect a salary with another zero in it.”

  Janet slung her handbag over her shoulder and extended her hand for a farewell handshake.

  “You’ll find clerking for Judge Stinson to be very … interesting,” she said. “Good luck.”

  5

  I spent Tuesday morning reading the briefs and doing research for Hamadani, an immigration case involving a Pakistani journalist seeking political asylum in the United States. To establish entitlement to asylum, the applicant must demonstrate a “well-founded fear of persecution” back in his home country on account of his political opinion. Ahmed Hamadani, a journalist and ethnic activist in the province of Baluchistan, claimed that his advocacy of autonomy for Baluchistan would put him in grave danger if he were forced to return to Pakistan, where other supporters of Baluchi nationalism have been persecuted and even killed over the years. But the legal standard for granting asylum is stringent, and Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), opposing Hamadani’s request, noted various inconsistencies in his asylum application. ICE also claimed that Hamadani was exaggerating his fear of persecution and his role in the Baluchi nationalist movement. It was an interesting and difficult case.

  So immersed in my reading, I didn’t realize it was half past noon until James’s tall, slender figure materialized in the doorway of my windowless office.

  “Lunch?”

  How could I say no to a sandy-haired boy with blue-green eyes, flawless skin, and great teeth?

  “Sure, thanks.”

  I had brought my lunch to work, and so had my co-clerks. Not only was that the economical thing to do, but there weren’t many dining options in the courthouse’s residential neighborhood. Fortunately, the chambers had a small but well-equipped kitchen. After collecting my salad from the refrigerator and microwaving my tomato soup, I joined my co-clerks around a conference table in the library.

  “So,” James said to me, “are you working on any interesting cases?”

  “I’ve just started reading the briefs in this immigration case …”

  “Audrey,” interrupted Amit, “he said interesting cases.”

  Larry guffawed at Amit’s bitchy quip. Amit seemed pleasant enough when we met yesterday; what was his problem today?

  “I never took immigration law,” I said, “so I’m finding it interesting, since it’s new to me.”

  “Then you’ll find almost all of your cases interesting,” Amit said. “You went to Yale, right? The Ninth Circuit doesn’t get that many 14th Amendment cases. Or constitutional-law cases. Or cases about feminist post-structuralist legal theory.”

  “Yale does have some incredible theoretical offerings,” I said, “but you can take many black-letter courses as well. I took Admin, Antitrust, Biz Org, Crim Law, Crim Pro, Legislation, Sentencing. Plus lots of statutory classes: Securities Regulation, Tax, Advanced Tax. And I really enjoyed Bankruptcy …”

  James was trying—unsuccessfully—to suppress a grin. Amit was staring at the ingredients list on his bag of potato chips; was the former spelling bee champ looking for more words to memorize? I realized my response was somewhat aggressive, but I wanted to show, early on, that I wasn’t a pushover.

  “Yeah, but those were the Yale versions of those classes,” Larry said. “At Loyola, we learned the law. Like, the kind you find on the books. Not all your airy-fairy crap.”

  I nodded politely, feeling no need to argue with Larry. I tasted a spoonful of my soup, found it too hot, and made a mental note to knock ten seconds off the microwave time in the future.

  “It sounds like you learned a lot at Loyola,” James said to Larry, managing to sound friendly rather than patronizing.
“Did you enjoy law school?”

  In order to land a Ninth Circuit clerkship, Larry must have blown the roof off of Loyola. And people who graduate at the top of the class tend to look back fondly on their law school years, like schlubby, middle-aged former jocks looking back at senior year of high school.

  “Actually, no,” Larry said. “I kind of hated it.”

  Larry was weird. He wasn’t making eye contact with us, nor was he looking down at his food. He seemed to be staring at the far wall of the library.

  After letting that response hang in the air for a while, Amit asked what we were all thinking.

  “But you must have done very well in law school, right? To land a Ninth Circuit clerkship with Judge Stinson?”

  Larry laughed, loudly—too loudly. This was still a library, even if we had temporarily converted it to a cafeteria.

  “Not really,” Larry said. “I wasn’t on law review. I graduated in the middle of the class. I got this job through my dad. My last name is Krasner—as in Jonathan Krasner.”

  Ah, Jonathan Krasner—the two-time Oscar-winning director, whose critically acclaimed films also managed to make tons of money. One of the biggest clients of Robert Stinson, the Hollywood super-agent married to my boss.

  “My dad and the Stinsons go way back,” Larry continued. “Bob has represented my dad his whole career. So when I went into my third year of law school without a job lined up for after graduation, my dad called the judge and got me this gig. I don’t think I’m going to be that into clerking—I really want to go into entertainment law—but hey, a job’s a job. And clerking’s supposed to be great for the résumé, even if you don’t go into litigation. Pretty awesome, huh?”

  My first thought was not awesome: the rest of us would end up doing Larry’s work for him. Nor was my second thought: one of my colleagues in this coveted job got the post through connections, not merit.

  But my third thought actually was awesome: there was no way Larry was getting a Supreme Court clerkship. Judge Stinson hired him as a favor to his dad, but she wouldn’t pick him as her favored clerk, the one she would push to the justices. Cronyism might get you to the Ninth Circuit, but it couldn’t get you to One First Street.

  My competitors for Judge Stinson’s favor were Amit and James. I had nothing to fear from Loyola Larry. One down, two to go.

  On Friday afternoon, shortly after I returned to my desk after another lunch with the co-clerks, my office phone rang.

  Who could it be? Who had this number? Who still used landlines, anyway?

  It rang a second time. How was I supposed to answer? Janet hadn’t said anything about that during orientation.

  After the third ring—I didn’t want to let it ring a fourth time, especially if it was the judge—I picked up.

  “Hello, chambers of Judge Stinson, Audrey Coyne speaking.”

  “Bitch, you’ve been in the building a week, why haven’t you stopped by? Or called?”

  “Hi Jeremy,” I said. “Sorry, I’ve been swamped. I’ve been staying late every night. I’m getting killed here.”

  “Last time I checked, girlfriend, you weren’t the only one with a Ninth Circuit clerkship. We have cases to read and bench memos to write here in Gottlieb’s chambers too. Don’t let this job turn you into a crappy friend.”

  “I am not a crappy friend! And friendship is a two-way street. Why haven’t you called me?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you this entire week. You haven’t responded to my texts. You haven’t answered your cell. I thought of leaving you a voicemail, before remembering that nobody has checked their voicemail since, like, 2005. So I finally decided to try your work phone—I looked you up in the courthouse directory—because I figured you wouldn’t dare let your office phone go unanswered.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “Sorry, I’m so overwhelmed. I have a million bench memos to write. I have a big ERISA case—I never took ERISA in law school—and I have a bunch of immigration cases, and I don’t know anything about immigration law. There’s so much I don’t know.”

  “You’ll get it all done. You always do. What are you up to this weekend?”

  “Working. My judge”—I hadn’t even finished my first week of work, and Judge Stinson was already “my” judge—“is coming back from out of town. I have a bunch of things I need to give her on Monday. And they need to be perfect. I’ll be here all weekend.”

  “Yeah, I’m working too. Gottlieb comes into chambers every day except Sunday, and he expects us to be here when he’s here. From nine in the morning to nine at night usually.”

  “For such a champion of labor, he’s quite the taskmaster.”

  “But he works as hard as we do. I’m learning so much. He’s brilliant. He calls me into his office to talk multiple times a day. We read the cases together. We edit the drafts together, line by line, until the wording is just right. We work so closely.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Just what a clerkship should be.”

  “So I’m free on Sunday, at least Sunday night. How about dinner and a movie?”

  “I don’t know, I have so much work. And on Monday morning, we have our weekly meeting, which is a big deal in chambers. It’s my first one. I need to be prepared.”

  “Come on, you’re like a damn Boy Scout—always prepared. You’ve worked late every night this week. You’re working over the weekend. Taking one night off won’t kill you.”

  “Monday is my first time seeing the judge since our interview. I have to be at my best. You know what they say: first impressions are everything!”

  “You know what they say,” Jeremy said. “All work and no play makes Audrey a dull girl!”

  I could afford to take one night off this week. Right?

  “Okay, fine,” I said. “But let’s meet up early.”

  “Deal. I’ll come by Stinson’s chambers around six to pick you up. Any excuse for me to see that hot co-clerk of yours.”

  “James? He’s straight.”

  “How do you know? Have you asked him? You’ve been here, what, a week?”

  “I just know. I have a feeling.”

  “And I have a feeling too. There’s a gay in every chambers in this court. And in the Stinson chambers, James is the best bet.”

  “You’re projecting. You did this all the time in law school. You think that every guy is gay. Especially if he’s attractive.”

  “So you think James is attractive, do you?”

  I was glad Jeremy wasn’t there to see my cheeks turning pink.

  “He’s attractive by conventional standards,” I admitted, “but that’s not necessarily my type.”

  “Because you’re just so unconventional. Let’s make a wager. I will bet you a nice dinner that one of your co-clerks is gay.”

  I couldn’t afford a “nice” dinner as easily as Jeremy could. He had no debt from law school, thanks to the generosity of his parents (who were also helping him out during the clerkship with a sizable “allowance”). But thinking over the bet, I liked my odds. As the best dressed and most in-shape of my co-clerks, James was arguably the most likely to be gay, at least based on stereotypes. But I just knew he couldn’t be gay—meaning that, a fortiori, nobody was gay.

  “That’s a bet,” I said.

  “Great,” Jeremy said. “I’ll start thinking about what I want to eat. Other than James.”

  6

  Monday morning. It was only five minutes to nine, and I had already cursed Jeremy Silverstein ten times.

  We had met early on Sunday night, as planned. After tasty and affordable Mexican food at El Cholo on Colorado Boulevard, we saw a documentary, The Queen of Versailles, at the Laemmle Playhouse down the street. After the movie, Jeremy convinced me to grab a “quick drink” at Bodega Wine Bar (which, despite having the word “bodega” in its name, is quite upscale). That “quick drink,” singular, turned into several rounds, plural, since we had so much catching up to do. We polished off a round of cocktails and a bottle of a strong Pe
tite Sirah from McManis, a California vineyard. I didn’t get home until one in the morning, and I didn’t get to bed until two—much, much later than I had planned. Jeremy had been kind enough to pay for the drinks (which made me feel less guilty for having to pay for a cab home). But I was paying the price now, with a brutal hangover.

  I folded my arms in front of me on my desk, rested my head on my arms, and closed my eyes. I just wanted my little windowless office to stop spinning.

  “Clerkadees!” Brenda sang out from the short hallway connecting the four clerks’ offices. “It’s Monday morning meeting time!”

  “Clerkadees,” Brenda’s preferred nickname for the four of us, was sweet and endearing, just like Brenda. But at that moment, I wanted to herd Brenda and my co-Clerkadees into my office, lock the door, flee the courthouse, and go home to sleep.

  I lifted my head up from my desk. Ugh. Still spinning.

  “Good morning,” James said, leaning lankly in the doorway to my office.

  “Hi,” I said feebly.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not looking so hot today, Coyne.”

  “Thanks. I’m not feeling so hot right now either.”

  “Did you and Jeremy have a late night?”

  “You could say that.”

  Brenda appeared next to James and poked her head into my office.

  “Clap clap, Clerkadees,” she said. “The judge doesn’t like being kept waiting.”

  I dragged myself to my feet and immediately tottered in my three-inch heels. I had chosen them because I wanted to look good for my first Monday meeting with the judge, but I now regretted the decision. I followed Brenda and my co-clerks across the chambers, stepping gingerly, as if walking through a minefield.