by David Lat
She was practically looking down on a clerkship with Justice Keegan, while for me it represented my last hope of SCOTUS clerkship glory. I tried not to get angry.
“When’s your interview?” I asked.
“This Friday.”
“I guess he likes to do them on Fridays. Mine is the Friday after this Friday. Are you nervous?”
“No. Why should I be?”
“Oh, I wasn’t saying that you should be nervous; I’m sure you’ll do great … But, well, I’ve heard the process is tough—especially the four-on-one grilling by the law clerks, where they ask you about every complex constitutional-law issue under the sun.”
“I can handle tough. That’s what drew me to Harvard Law School. I got into Yale too, but one of my mentors at Princeton, who graduated from Yale Law himself, warned me that Yale babies its students. I didn’t want to be babied—I wanted the intense, brutal, true law school experience, straight out of One L or The Paper Chase. So I turned down Yale and went to Harvard instead. It wasn’t as tough as I had hoped—apparently Harvard has softened over the years—but it was still good training.”
Gulp. Lucia sounded like a machine.
“And have you done extra research and preparation for the interview?”
“Polanski sends a clerk to Keegan practically every year, so many former Polanski clerks know the process inside out. I’ve spoken to every one of them, either in person or over the phone, to get the inside scoop on the experience. Then, this past Saturday, I did eight hours of practice interviews. First the judge and my co-clerks interrogated me for four hours. Then four Polanski-Keegan clerks—two who live here in southern California, and two who participated by Skype—raked me over the coals for another four hours. I’m ready.”
Double gulp. Lucia sounded like The Terminator of judicial clerkship interviews—while I hadn’t done any preparation, and certainly not an entire day of mock interviews. Feeling stressed out by Lucia’s superiority, I steered the conversation in another direction.
“Well, it certainly sounds like you’ve done your homework. It probably hasn’t been easy, given how hard Judge Polanski works all of you. How have you liked clerking for him?”
“It’s been a good experience. I wanted tough, and it’s been tough. We work seven days a week. During the week, we work from 8:30 in the morning until two or three in the morning, or whenever the judge stops emailing us or calling us or faxing us—yes, he still uses a fax machine—from home. On the weekends, it’s a little better—sometimes we can get out by seven or eight at night if we’re lucky.”
“Those sure are long hours.”
“I don’t mind. The more I work, the more I learn. Polanski drafts most of his own opinions, including all the published opinions, and we do research for him and give him edits. Once he trusts us, he lets us draft a few things, mostly mem dispos or sections of opinions, but he edits those extensively. We go through as many as 30 drafts of an opinion before we’re done. I learn so much from him during editing. He has an incredible legal mind—he can recall the tiniest details, like some footnote of dicta in a case from ten years ago, but he can also see the big picture, in terms of how one opinion might affect the development of the law in, say, a completely different area. He’s so fair-minded—he calls each case as he sees it, based on the law. Even though he’s personally conservative, he’ll vote for the liberal outcome when it’s what the law calls for. And he’s a great writer—so stylish, yet so clear. I don’t think I’ll ever have a boss as brilliant as Polanski—even if I clerk for SCOTUS.”
So this was how to get Lucia to open up: ask her about work. I enjoyed my work as a clerk, and I liked thinking and writing about the law—especially when a case presented interesting issues, like Hamadani and Geidner—but I didn’t love the law as much as Lucia or Harvetta did. And I suspected that my boss, Judge Stinson, didn’t love the law as much as Judge Polanski did. For her—and perhaps for me—excelling in the law was less about law for the law’s sake and more about the attendant prestige or status or approval.
“Judge Polanski sounds like an amazing boss,” I said. “What’s he like as a person?”
Lucia paused. I guessed she preferred talking about the professional over the personal.
“As a person, he has his … quirks. He is not your typical federal appellate judge. For a judge, he crosses a lot of boundaries. His sense of humor can be … irreverent.”
“I sat next to him at the law clerk orientation, and he was very entertaining,” I said. “He regaled me with tales of his childhood growing up in Poland under Communism. Some judges can be distant, but Judge Polanski was so warm and friendly.”
“Of course he was—to you. You’re pretty.”
The remark caught me off guard. It was a strange thing for her to say.
“That’s very nice of you, but I don’t consider myself pretty,” I said, babbling nervously and trying to control the flush in my cheeks. “I’m half-Filipina and half-Irish, and growing up, I looked rather … odd. I wasn’t quite Asian, I wasn’t quite white, I wasn’t welcomed in either community. I got teased a lot. I was overweight. A definite ugly duckling.”
“And now you’re a swan,” Lucia said. “A gorgeous, beautiful swan.”
Suddenly it dawned on me: Lucia was attracted to me—very, very attracted to me. That devouring gaze she gave me when we first saw each other wasn’t a look of intimidation, but a look of lust. And now she was attempting—clumsily, ham-handedly—to flirt. I guess they didn’t teach Seduction 101 at Harvard Law School.
“And so are you,” I said—trying to be polite, the way my Filipina mother raised me. “You are very pretty.”
“No, I’m not. I know my strengths, and I know my weaknesses. My strengths are that I’m smart, tough, and hardworking. Pretty I am not.”
“But you are pretty,” I insisted. “You have the most lovely eyes.”
“Really? You think so?”
“Absolutely. They convey your intelligence, but also reveal a hidden vulnerability.”
This was my Irish side talking, the art of blarney I learned from my father. Because Lucia was right: she was not particularly attractive, at least by conventional standards. Her surprisingly large, limpid eyes were her best feature, but not enough to make her pretty.
Lucia lifted her coffee cup to her lips, finished what was left, and smiled with her eyes over the rim. I smiled back.
“This was fun,” she said. “I have to get back to work, but can we do this again sometime?”
“Definitely. And soon.”
27
Over the next two days, Lucia and I exchanged a flurry of emails and text messages that hovered between friendly and flirty. I played along, somewhat unthinkingly and half-heartedly. I felt so inferior to Lucia in so many ways—no Marshall Scholarship, Fay Diploma, or clerkship with Judge Polanski—that part of me enjoyed interacting with her in a realm where I had the upper hand. She kept on complimenting me, especially on my looks, and while part of it felt creepy, part of it felt good. Ever since my days of childhood insecurity, I’ve always had a weakness for praise and positive reinforcement—whether in the form of good grades, debate trophies, or text messages from quasi-closeted lesbians.
I got the sense, from how quickly Lucia responded to every message, that she was starved for human contact, smitten with me, or both. She invited me to join her for her early evening coffee run on Tuesday and then again on Wednesday, but I declined both times—the first time because I was busy talking to Judge Stinson about something, and the second time because, well, I felt a little weirded out and wanted some space.
On Thursday afternoon, Lucia emailed me: “Polanski’s releasing me early because I’m taking the redeye out tonight for my interview tomorrow with Keegan. Want to wish me luck over a quick drink?” Since I had blown her off on Tuesday and Wednesday, and since Judge Stinson had left chambers early because of one of her daughter’s violin recitals, I agreed.
We wound up at Bodega Wine B
ar and each ordered a glass of pinot noir. With both of us sober and straight from the office, the conversation started off just as stilted as I expected. Not surprisingly, Lucia was less forward in person than she had been over text message. To help herself prepare for her interview with Justice Keegan the next day—or perhaps to make me feel bad about how underprepared I was for my interview the next week—Lucia made me listen to her recite the holdings of the most important cases of the Supreme Court’s last term, along with who wrote the majority opinion and who wrote the dissent, if any. In the digital age—when so many facts are just a few keystrokes away, thanks to Google—rote memorization is less important than it used to be. But I still couldn’t help but be dazzled by Lucia’s power of recall, which surely played a role in helping her become Harvard Law’s top student.
After one glass of red, I was pleasantly buzzed—but with Lucia spouting con law doctrines like the Electric Fountain gushing water, part of me wanted to be outright drunk.
“Let’s order a bottle,” I suggested. “It’s more economical that way.”
“I really shouldn’t,” Lucia said. “I have the interview tomorrow.”
“Come on,” I said. “One bottle. One bottle!”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
Feeling slightly tipsy, I grabbed Lucia’s right hand with my left and squeezed; she squeezed back, shyly but unmistakably.
“Just one bottle,” I insisted. “I’ll drink most of it! I can drink—I’m half-Irish, don’t you know.”
This was something of a lie—not the part about my being half-Irish, but the part about my drinking ability—since I inherited my limited tolerance for alcohol from my Asian side. But before Lucia could protest further, I had obtained the wine list from the bartender and was perusing it eagerly.
One item immediately jumped out at me: the McManis Petite Sirah. The extremely potent California wine that Jeremy and I had gotten majorly drunk on near the start of my clerkship. The wine that sent me into my first Monday morning meeting nursing a serious hangover. Perfect.
Before we knew it, we had a bottle of the McManis and two full glasses in front of us.
“Cheers,” I said, raising my glass and looking straight into Lucia’s eyes—which were, come to think of it, quite pretty. “To world conquest!”
“I’ll drink to that,” Lucia said, clinking glasses with me.
We made our way through the bottle, continuing to talk about constitutional law and the Supreme Court’s recent big cases. I knew much less than Lucia, but I knew enough to be a decent conversation partner. I consoled myself with the thought that I could do some studying over the weekend; I was always good at cramming.
I noticed that Lucia was drinking more than I was. She seemed nervous—maybe because she had the interview tomorrow, maybe because she was out with me—and seemed to be constantly refilling her glass. I didn’t object, since I was already getting fairly drunk myself.
“So,” said Lucia—her face wobbling like a bobblehead, the wine strong on her breath—“are you … seeing anyone out here? Or elsewhere—maybe a long-distance thing?”
I looked around the bar—partly out of caution, partly for dramatic flair—and leaned toward Lucia confidingly.
“Well, it’s a little early, but I think there might be something between my co-clerk and me.”
“Which one? The little Indian guy?”
“Oh God, Amit? Absolutely not!”
“Ha, of course not—I think he’s gay, actually.”
“Really? That never occurred to me. I think he’s just asexual. And high-strung.”
“I don’t know, I’ve never really talked to him—we Polanski clerks keep to ourselves, in case you haven’t noticed—but that guy just sets off my gaydar. And I have good gaydar. Usually. Except when it gets interfered with by … projection.”
“Projection?”
“You know—psychological projection. Say, you want someone to be gay, so they might be interested in you, so you project gayness onto them. So anyway, you were telling me about this thing with your co-clerk.”
“My co-clerk James.”
“Oh, I know the one you’re talking about—the tall, really good-looking one?”
“Yes, I guess you could describe him that way. He broke up with his longtime girlfriend over the holidays. And then recently we were editing a bench memo, and we kissed …”
“No, no—not good. That’s a recipe for big trouble.”
“You think?”
“I don’t just think—I know. Take it from me. I graduated from Harvard Law School with the highest GPA in five years.”
“With all due respect, Ms. Aroldi, your alma mater isn’t known for teaching about matters of the heart.”
“Actually, Ms. Coyne, the same analytical skills can be applied to romantic concerns. Here are my five reasons why you should not move forward with this co-clerk romance.”
“Proceed, counselor,” I said, taking another sip of wine. Maybe the alcohol was clouding my brain, but I was strangely intrigued.
“First, a guy that good-looking is going to be a player. That’s trouble.”
“I know James. We were friends before anything romantic developed. I don’t think he’s that kind of guy.”
“Second, he’s your colleague. Everyone knows that workplace romance is a bad idea. There’s wisdom to the old saying about not shitting where you eat.”
“That’s fair,” I acknowledged. “Continue.”
“Third, you said he just broke up with his longtime girlfriend—over the holidays, quite recently. Any relationship with you would have ‘rebound’ written all over it.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said, “but you might be right. What’s reason number four?”
“Is he your equal?”
“We’re clerking for the same judge. That sounds pretty equal to me.”
“Nonresponsive. Is he as professionally accomplished as you?”
“He graduated from Berkeley. He was on the law review. And now we’re co-clerks.”
“Berkeley—isn’t that where Judge Stinson went to law school?”
“Yes. What’s your point?”
“He’s a sentimental hire. She hired him because he graduated from her alma mater. And with all due respect to Berkeley, which is a great law school, it’s not Harvard or Yale.”
“For your information, not all smart people go to Harvard and Yale. A friend of mine who graduated from McGeorge just landed a clerkship with Justice Wilson.”
“Of course she got hired by Wilson,” said Lucia, rolling her eyes. “He’s the patron saint of TTT schools on the Supreme Court.”
“You’re such a snob!”
“I’m a little drunk, but in vino veritas. My main point is: even if his credentials are fine with you, how do you know that your credentials are fine with him? They’ve done studies showing that relationships where the woman has more money or power than the man are inherently unstable. Men don’t like it when the women they’re with outearn them, outshine them, out-anything them.”
“I don’t think James is like that. He is not the insecure type. I’m far more insecure than he is.”
I didn’t want to believe her. But part of me wondered whether she might be right.
“He might seem like he’s okay with it at first, with you being in the superior position,” Lucia said. “Over time, it will get under his skin. It happens to all of them, even the most ‘enlightened’ ones. This is why I can’t deal with men. Or why they can’t deal with me. I’m too smart, too aggressive, too intimidating.”
Lucia raised her wine glass and downed its contents in an almost violent gulp. She set the empty glass down next to the empty bottle of McManis.
“Here’s my final reason you shouldn’t date your co-clerk.”
Lucia leaned toward me, guided my own wine glass toward the counter, and planted a kiss on my lips. She didn’t part her lips, and I didn’t part mine—but I leaned into the kiss ever so sl
ightly, almost imperceptibly. I wasn’t sure why—was it the wine?—but I did.
“Res ipsa loquitur,” she said. Latin legal lingo for “the thing speaks for itself.”
“You’re a fun one,” I said, laughing and touching her knee. “For a Harvard girl.”
“I really have to get going,” Lucia said, noticeably slurring her words. “I have to go home and pack and get to the airport. But shit, I’m in no condition to be driving.”
I motioned to the bartender, who figured out what I needed without my having to say a word—perhaps because Lucia was barely able to hold her head upright—and told me a cab would pull up in five minutes.
“They’re getting you a cab. It’ll be outside in a minute. I’ll handle the check. And give me your car keys. I’ll come back tomorrow with James, who does know how to drive, and we can take your car back to the courthouse parking lot.”
“Thanks, Audrey,” Lucia said, stumbling to her feet, then steadying herself by placing her hand on the barstool. “Wish me luck tomorrow!”
“Good luck!”
She dug into her purse, fished out her car keys, and handed them to me.
“Thanks again, Audrey. You’re like my only friend out here. Or maybe more than a friend? I hope whatever this is turns out fine. And I hope my interview tomorrow turns out fine.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, stroking Lucia’s hand and staring into her eyes again. “Everything will turn out great.”
28
I did not feel so great the following morning. Even though Lucia had done most of the drinking, I had still consumed far more wine than I should have. I managed to make it into chambers more or less on time, but with a headache as powerful as last night’s Petite Sirah, I was not in peak condition.
“Good morning,” said James, materializing in my office doorway. “Whoa—what happened to you?”
“What do you mean, what happened to me?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not looking so hot.”