is there no justice?

Alright, one of the shitty things about law school and the bar exam is that one teaches and one tests a subject called "Professional Responsibility." These are the rules that govern a lawyer's conduct. Some of them are pretty easy to discern (e.g. don't have sex with clients, don't steal client funds, etc). Some are a little more complicated (e.g. imputed disqualification, conflicts of interest in situations where clients are not materially adverse).

In practice, I think that these rules have very little application in the day to day thoughts of most attorneys. You instinctively maintain client confidences and its pretty easy to avoid having sex with a client. However, this doesn't stop some of the less honorable in the profession from using them as a sword against others -- rather than a guide for their own conduct. And, rarely -- if ever, are such accusations justified.

The most interesting thing about this is the blanket statement made my some -- "You are breaking some of the rules!" What the hell is this supposed to mean? From my perspective, this is akin to me standing on the sidewalk, waiting for a bus and someone running up to me and saying -- "You are breaking the law!!!!!!''

What rules? What law? Do people not understand that veiled threats and general claims carry with them no tenacity, gravity or need for concern? Specificity will set you free . . . seriously.

Way back in the day, I recall learning a valuable lesson on the playground during recess. The value of specifics. On this particular day -- my friend (Mikey) and I became embroiled in a conflict with the (C)lawson cousins -- Chris and Shawn. Words were said, four-square balls were thrown, sexuality was questioned, mothers were insulted . . . nothing was sacred.

At this point, the tension was undeniable and I feared that Mikey and I were going to get our asses throttled by the (much) larger (C)lawson clan. Then, in all of his infinite wisdom -- Mikey appealed to the only tool that he knew would get us out of this situation -- specificity.

Without warning, Mikey launched into a very specific and completely emotionless diatribe focusing on EXACTLY how he and I were going to throw these meatheads the beating of the century. Specific body parts were mentioned, specific pains described, specific outcomes expounded upon. The end result of all of this was that the (C)lawson's became fully convinced that only a madman who was hell bent on inflicting the max amount of pain (and had clearly taken a great deal of time to research and consider how those ends could be met) would make such a wild, untethered, seemingly homicidal claim.

Needless to say, by the time Mikey wrapped it up -- the (C)lawson's were not in the mood for being anywhere near Mikey. They ran away as fast as their overdeveloped frames would carry them.

At this point, I was in shock. I couldn't believe (1) that Mikey had it in him to stare death in the face and fight back, and (2) that his strategy had worked. When I finally got over my shock, I said to Mikey, "HOLY SHIT [ed. note -- cussing was really cool in 5th grade] . . . I can't believe they just ran off!"

Mikey's reply? "Gotta be specific. It's the only way people know you are serious."

Mos def, Mikey. Mos def.