Supreme Ambitions

by David Lat

  We entered the judge’s private office, as elegant as ever, and took our seats around a marble-topped table in the conference area. An antique mantel clock on a side table showed it was exactly 9 o’clock.

  The judge was sitting at her desk in the center of the room, reading a brief. She read for what seemed like forever, while the rest of us sat in awkward silence. Finally, she set aside the brief, walked over, and seated herself at the head of the table.

  “Good morning,” she said with a smile, looking around at everyone. “Audrey, welcome to chambers.”

  I wasn’t sure if I was expected to say anything, so I just smiled and nodded. I wanted to keep my mouth shut as much as possible—fearing that if I opened it, I might vomit.

  “So how were your weekends?” the judge asked. She turned to Amit, who had taken the seat directly to her right (of course).

  “I spent most of the weekend working,” Amit said. “I made excellent progress on my bench memos for the upcoming sitting. I think I’ll be ready to discuss my cases ahead of schedule, Judge.”

  Even though this was true—Amit and James and I all saw each other in chambers on both Saturday and Sunday—Amit said it so sycophantically. I could see him waiting for a pat on the head from the judge. But that wasn’t what he got.

  “Amit, my chambers is not a sweatshop! I appreciate your diligence, but you really should get out on the weekends. There are so many wonderful things to see and do, both in Pasadena and in Los Angeles. Promise me that you’ll do something fun next weekend.”

  I half expected Amit to say work was fun, but he simply nodded, chastened. Perhaps his predecessor clerk hadn’t explained the Monday morning meeting to him as well as Janet had explained it to me. Janet had told me that the judge would ask about our weekends at each Monday meeting and wanted to hear that we had outside interests and got to enjoy some of what L.A. had to offer. It struck me as a sign that the judge cared about her chambers staff, seeing us as more than mere workhorses.

  The judge turned her gaze to James, sitting to Amit’s right.

  “I had a great weekend,” said James, omitting mention of the many hours he spent working. “I checked out the new postwar sculpture exhibit at the Norton Simon.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” the judge said. “A lovely museum, right here in Pasadena. Robert served on the board for a number of years.”

  “I also went for long runs in Arroyo Seco Park on both days,” James added. “And on Sunday I had dinner with a friend from law school.”

  “Larry,” said Judge Stinson, “what about you?”

  “Went out to my parents’ place in Malibu. A barbecue for some of their friends. Pretty sweet.”

  So that’s where Loyola Larry was while the rest of us were toiling over our bench memos—out at his famous father’s Malibu beach house.

  “Please thank your parents for the invitation,” said the judge. “We had hoped to stop by, but I was feeling so exhausted on Saturday after getting back from my trip.”

  After Brenda recounted her weekend spent gardening, everyone turned to me. James had taken the high road in not bragging about working, but I couldn’t resist.

  “I joined Amit and James here in chambers over the weekend,” I began, wanting the judge to know that Amit wasn’t the only one with a work ethic. “But I took last night off for dinner and a movie with a friend.”

  “What did you see?” the judge asked.

  “The Queen of Versailles,” I said, starting to explain the somewhat obscure movie—Jeremy’s pick. “It’s a documentary …”

  “About the woman who builds the huge mansion?”

  “Yes, Judge. Supposedly the largest single-family house in the United States.”

  “And how did you like it?”

  “I thought it was great—entertaining, topical, a meditation on marriage and money …”

  “Nicely put. I will cite your recommendation when I try to get my husband to go see it. Robert and I are both big movie buffs. He favors Hollywood fare—it’s how he makes his living, after all—but I prefer documentaries and foreign films. Audrey, you have good taste.”

  The judge smiled at me. I beamed back at her. Amit shuffled his papers.

  We then moved into the meeting proper. Together we reviewed a series of different lists: pending cases, cases needing draft opinions, possible en banc cases, cases on the six-month list. As Judge Stinson moved through the lists, she fired off questions to all four of us. Which other judge still needs to send us comments on our draft opinion? What is the status of this potential en banc call? Why is this case on the six-month list? The judge’s questions didn’t touch on the merits of any of the cases, so I couldn’t gather much about her jurisprudence, but I could tell she was a skilled manager.

  I had been nervous about the meeting before it started, especially given my hangover—but once we started talking about the cases, I forgot my discomfort and focused on what was before me, like a seasoned athlete on a playing field. I stumbled the least in answering the judge’s queries, followed by Amit and James in a rough tie, followed by the hapless Larry.

  At the end of the meeting, Judge Stinson collected her papers and stood up, resplendent in a cerulean suit that looked like Chanel (or my idea of Chanel, since I didn’t own one myself).

  “Excellent work, everyone,” she said. “Audrey, it’s wonderful to have you on board.”

  7

  A few weeks later, on a Wednesday in September, a cab dropped off my co-clerks and me in front of the James R. Browning United States Courthouse. We were in San Francisco for the annual Ninth Circuit law clerk orientation.

  The cab ride to the courthouse wasn’t long; we could have walked. And we would have, if the doorman at the Union Square Hilton hadn’t grimaced when we asked him for directions to Seventh and Mission. He suggested we take a cab. Before the four of us could discuss, Amit had already hopped into one—taking the front passenger seat, of course. As we drove past boarded-up buildings, payday-loan providers, and Chinese takeout places featuring photos of their dishes above the counter, I could see why the doorman counseled against walking.

  The Browning Courthouse looked like a courthouse should: just as magnificent as the Ninth Circuit’s courthouse in Pasadena, but less inviting and more imposing. Even through the thick morning fog, apparently unusual for this time of year, we could make out balustrades, cornices, and pediments—hallmarks of Beaux-Arts design that I remembered vaguely from an architecture class I took in college. It made sense to me that this majestic building, clad in white granite and brick, was the official headquarters of the Ninth Circuit. It made less sense to see the structure surrounded by seediness, sticking out like a wealthy widow who had wandered into a strip club.

  “Did you know,” Amit said, reading something off his iPhone, perhaps a Wikipedia entry, “that the courthouse’s design was inspired by Italian Renaissance palazzos? That skilled artisans had to be brought in from Italy to do some of the work? That when it opened for service as a federal government building in 1905, it was praised as ‘the post office that’s a palace’?”

  “I did not know all that,” James said, shooting me a sly smile. “But it sounds about right. It’s a beautiful building.”

  “I dunno,” Larry said. “It looks kinda … old. And some of these old buildings are totally crap on the inside.”

  But what we encountered on the other side of two gigantic bronze doors was anything but “crap.” After passing dutifully through the metal detector and security checkpoint, we found ourselves in a vast entry hall whose air felt cold due to all the marble it contained—panels of classic white marble trimmed in green marble, a double-barrel-vaulted ceiling with marble mosaics, and more mosaic tile on the floor. Each end of the hall featured a rotunda with a stained-glass dome ringed with eagles that appeared to be made of more marble mosaic tile.

  Standing in the majestic foyer of the James R. Browning Courthouse, I shivered—partly from the marble-cooled air, and partly from
the glory of it all. I hadn’t had this feeling when I first entered the Richard Chambers Courthouse in Pasadena, but that building, while no less beautiful, exuded an intimate, residential feel. The Browning Courthouse sent a different message, emphasizing the power and impersonality of the law. Marveling at the marble, I thought to myself: this is a temple to the law, my boss is one of the law’s high priestesses, and I am one of her acolytes.

  We made our way to the library atrium, the main site for the orientation sessions. Each clerk received an orientation packet that contained the Code of Conduct for Judicial Employees, a pamphlet called “Ethics for Federal Judicial Law Clerks,” and different handouts on assorted topics of importance—immigration law, habeas corpus law, and the ever-important subject of jurisdiction.

  The most interesting item in the packet was the law clerk “facebook,” a compilation of capsule bios of all the other law clerks, including education and employment histories, career plans, and hobbies. As we waited for the orientation to start, I flipped through it, looking for the clerks with the most high-powered backgrounds—the clerks most likely to be interested in clerking for the Supreme Court. I was dazzled by many of them: a winner of the Purple Heart, a master scuba instructor, a certified sommelier, a reader of ancient Greek poetry, a former Olympic diver. Who were these people? I felt like an impostor among them.

  I turned to the bios for the clerks to Judge M. Frank Polanski, the biggest feeder judge on the court. Three men, one woman. Their bios contained sly jokes about how hard the notoriously demanding Judge Polanski was making them work. Under “Future Plans,” one of them listed “sleeping for a very long time.” Under “Travel,” another wrote “to and from chambers,” while a third wrote “yes please, preferably somewhere without a fax machine.”

  The woman clerking for Judge Polanski looked familiar. I stared at her picture, then realized where I recognized her from: she was the unfriendly brunette whom I spotted in Judge Stinson’s waiting room back when I interviewed for my clerkship. As I had guessed from her frumpy attire, she had gone to Harvard Law School:

  Lucia Aroldi

  Law Clerk to Judge M. Frank Polanski

  Place of Birth: Topeka, KS

  Date of Birth: April 15, 1986

  Hometown: Lawrence, KS

  College/Degree/Year: Princeton, AB, 2007

  Law School/Degree/Year: Harvard, JD, 2012

  Other Post Grad/Year: Cambridge, M. Phil., 2009 (Marshall Scholar)

  Prior Employment: Summer Associate, Sullivan & Cromwell.

  Hobbies/Interests: Hobbies? What hobbies?

  Future Plans: World conquest.

  Travel: Extensive.

  Stories/Items of Interest: First woman to win the Fay Diploma in ten years.

  That bio had “future Supreme Court clerk” written all over it. Noting that she won the Fay Diploma, the prize for graduating from Harvard Law with the highest GPA, was gauche. But someone in Lucia’s position didn’t have to worry about social niceties.

  Of course I flipped over to my own bio to review it against the others (and to check out my photo, which thankfully was fine):

  Audrey Coyne

  Law Clerk to Judge Christina Wong Stinson

  Place of Birth: Far Rockaway, NY

  Date of Birth: June 19, 1988

  Hometown: Woodside, NY

  College/Degree/Year: Harvard, AB, 2009

  Law School/Degree/Year: Yale, JD, 2012

  Other Post Grad/Year: None listed.

  Prior Employment: Summer Associate, Cravath Swaine & Moore.

  Hobbies/Interests: Running, movies, reading (mostly fiction).

  Future Plans: Practicing law to the best of my ability.

  Travel: Canada, Mexico, Philippines, United Kingdom, United States.

  Stories/Items of Interest: None listed.

  Looking at my bio, I felt poor, boring, and small. There was nothing tony about my towns; Far Rockaway and Woodside were both solidly working-class. I had no other postgraduate education; many of the other clerks, like Lucia, had master’s or even PhD degrees. My travel paled in comparison to that of many of the other clerks, who had lived and worked all over the world. Sure, there were some nice names on my résumé, like Harvard, Yale, and Cravath, but those institutions cranked out thousands of people each year. Amit at least had the distinction of being the National Spelling Bee champion. There was nothing in my bio that felt similarly special.

  Needing to feel better about myself, I turned to Loyola Larry’s entry:

  Larry Krasner

  Law Clerk to Judge Christina Wong Stinson

  Place of Birth: Los Angeles, CA

  Date of Birth: September 26, 1985

  Hometown: Beverly Hills, CA

  College/Degree/Year: University of Southern California, BA, 2007

  Law School/Degree/Year: Loyola (Los Angeles), JD, 2012

  Other Post Grad/Year: None listed.

  Prior Employment: Krasner Productions; Summer Associate, Gang Tyre Ramer & Brown.

  Hobbies/Interests: Movies, TV.

  Future Plans: Lawyer to the stars.

  Stories/Items of Interest: Yeah, my dad is Jonathan Krasner.

  Larry’s bio didn’t give me the ego boost I had hoped for. It showed he belonged here—in California, where he was born and raised, and in these corridors of power, as someone who grew up in Beverly Hills. Sure, it reeked of nepotism—he probably got into USC because his father had given millions to its film school, and his work experience was for his father’s production company and for Gang Tyre, his father’s law firm—but at least it was different and interesting. He certainly was the only law clerk who could claim that his father was a famous film director.

  The day passed in a blur of speeches, tutorials, and panel discussions on topics like habeas corpus law, en banc procedures, and standards of review. I finally got the guidance on immigration law that I was seeking. At a panel on jurisdiction, we were reminded of the importance of double-, triple-, and quadruple-checking whether the court has jurisdiction. Does the court have jurisdiction over the parties? Does the court have jurisdiction over the issues? Was the notice of appeal filed on time?

  In the evening, we gathered at the Sir Francis Drake, a small and stylish hotel in Union Square, for cocktails and dinner. At the reception, my co-clerks and I huddled together in a corner. We hadn’t been great about networking, so we didn’t know a huge number of clerks other than people we had gone to law school with. I looked for Jeremy and watched him working the room, chatting comfortably with one judge after another. My co-clerks were drinking—Larry had a beer, James had a glass of red wine, Amit had some fruity-looking cocktail—but I just nursed a Diet Coke. I had learned from past experience to avoid alcohol before dealing with federal judges.

  Suddenly I felt a chill wind. Had I walked into excessive air conditioning? Actually, no—it was Judge Marta Solís Deleuze, liberal lioness of the Ninth Circuit, heading straight for us. She was short, had no make-up, and wore a hideous orange pantsuit that didn’t flatter her dark skin tone—truth be told, it made her look like a prison inmate.

  “I’m Judge Deleuze,” she said, extending her small, bony hand. We introduced ourselves by name and shook hands with her. Her hand was cold, her grip fierce. I suppressed a shudder.

  “And where are you all clerking?” she asked.

  We all paused, for a few seconds too long, before James stepped up to the plate.

  “In Pasadena,” he said cheerily. “It’s such a beautiful courthouse, the way they did the restoration is just …”

  “For whom are you clerking?”

  “For Judge Stinson,” he mumbled, in the way one might greet an acquaintance whose name you think you know but aren’t sure about.

  Deleuze frowned.

  “Have a good year,” she said, before turning on her heel and walking briskly away.

  Larry brayed loudly. I shot him a look of death. Deleuze might be lacking in social graces, but she was still a federal judge.


  “What’s her problem?” Larry asked.

  I looked around to confirm that Deleuze was out of earshot.

  “She and Judge Stinson are at opposite ends of the Ninth Circuit ideologically,” I whispered. “And for Judge Deleuze, the political is personal.”

  Larry shrugged. “Whatever.”

  A fork clinked against a glass, and the room quieted. Attention turned toward the front of the room, where a gray-bearded man with kind eyes was speaking into a microphone.

  “Good evening,” he said. “My name is Stanley Runyan, and I’m the chief judge of the Ninth Circuit, with chambers in Billings, Montana. I’m pleased to welcome you all to tonight’s dinner, the highlight of the law clerk orientation.”

  Applause—and it sounded genuine. Word on the street was that the chief judge was well liked and respected, even by the conservatives who were his jurisprudential opponents.

  “During dinner, we’ll be treated to a panel discussion featuring three of my colleagues, who will share their reflections on serving on our wonderful court. I hope you’ll find their conversation stimulating and enjoyable.”

  “Tonight we have almost the entire court in attendance,” Chief Judge Runyan said. “More than 40 judges from nine states, including senior judges, and almost all of the law clerks—120 strong. This evening is an opportunity to get to know people from other parts of our great and far-flung court, people you wouldn’t otherwise meet.”

  “We have not done assigned seating,” he continued. “I’ve learned from my time as chief that federal judges don’t like being bossed around.”

  Polite laughter. Always laugh at a judicial joke.

  “But as you head into dinner, please distribute yourselves so that there are no more than two judges at each table, and no law clerks sitting with their own judge. If we follow those two rules, everything should work out right. Thank you, and enjoy the evening.”

  More applause, followed by the crowd breaking up and drifting toward the doors leading to the dining room.

  “Who should we try and sit with?” James asked.