Supreme Ambitions (5 page)

I was nervous when I arrived at the Ninth Circuit courthouse for my first day at work. My pale gray Theory skirt suit, a pricey splurge from my summer at Cravath, wasn't giving me the usual jolt of confidence. I don't sweat very much, but by the time I arrived at work, I was sweating—and not from the seven-minute walk from my apartment to the courthouse, in a still-cool California morning.

This Monday marked the start of my Legal Career. And because I went straight though to law school from college, this was also the first day of my first Real Job. This was a Big Deal.

When I reached the door to Judge Stinson's chambers on the fifth floor, I pressed the buzzer tentatively, just as I had when I came for my interview. Instead of being buzzed in, the door flew open before me.

“Audrey! So wonderful to see you! Welcome!”

Before I knew what was going on, I was being hugged by the judge's secretary, Brenda Lindsey—
all
of Brenda Lindsey. I tried my best to return the hug, although I feared I was doing so too stiffly. Brenda and I had met just once, but as the outgoing clerks had told me, Brenda viewed the clerks like her children.

“The judge is out of town this week for a conference,” Brenda said, “but let me show you to your office and introduce you to the other clerks.”

I was the last of my clerk class to arrive, a position I had chosen to give myself time to decompress after taking the bar exam in late July. The downside of arriving last meant I got the one windowless office, while
my co-clerks enjoyed views of the Arroyo Seco valley and the Colorado Street Bridge. I consoled myself by telling myself this would be an advantage: a windowless office meant fewer distractions from work. (And I could always go work in the chambers library—yes, the chambers had its own private library, in addition to the main courthouse library on the first floor—if I wanted sunlight and a view.)

As for my co-clerks, we had already met each other online—i.e., over email and Facebook—but meeting them in person still felt momentous. Would we become fast friends, foxhole buddies in the Ninth Circuit's jurisprudential war? Would we wind up as rivals for the favor of Judge Stinson, constantly trying to outdo and one-up each other? Or maybe a bit of both? The legal profession, stocked with competitive overachievers, was rife with such “frenemy” relationships.

Something made me uncomfortable about Amit Gupta, a graduate of Columbia Law, where he had served as executive managing editor of the
Columbia Law Review
. (He didn't mention that when we met, but of course I had looked up all my co-clerks on Google prior to arriving in chambers.) Amit seemed intense, energetic, and high-strung; he bowed slightly when he shook my hand and said, in a manner that bordered on fake, “It is a pleasure to meet you!”

We had some things in common—minorities, both from New York, both from Queens, even—but I felt there was something Amit was hiding from me, something that made me uneasy. I resolved to keep an eye on him. Maybe I just felt threatened by him because I viewed him as my biggest competition for Judge Stinson's favor. Amit had won the National Spelling Bee as a child. Would that kind of quirky honor catch the eye of a justice or a clerk skimming through Supreme Court clerkship applications?

I felt more at ease upon meeting James Hogan, who had a firm but not crushing handshake and a bright, easy smile. He could also be in the running for a SCOTUS clerkship, as a graduate of Boalt Hall, the judge's alma mater. His impressive height and striking good looks certainly wouldn't hurt him. It seemed to me, based on anecdotal observation,
that Supreme Court clerks tended to be better-looking than average; perhaps the justices, faced with so many excellent résumés, used looks as a tie-breaker.

For whatever reason, I didn't feel as immediately competitive with James as I did with Amit. Maybe it was because James and I were so different; he seemed so relaxed, so Californian, and so tall. Compared to James, Amit and I looked like dark neurotic dwarfs.

I didn't know what to make of my third co-clerk, Larry Krasner. Maybe I was reading too much into the fact that he graduated from a less highly ranked law school—Loyola Law School, based here in Los Angeles—but he didn't have a very academic air. Maybe he was having a bad day or something, but he greeted me with so little enthusiasm, it seemed like he didn't even want to be in chambers.

I spent the rest of my first day with Janet Lee, the outgoing clerk that I would be replacing. Janet, whom I had briefly met when I interviewed with the judge, was also originally from New York, although she had gone to law school at Stanford. She was now moving back to New York to work at Wachtell Lipton.

Janet described my specific duties as a clerk, which could be divided up into three broad areas. First, in advance of each oral argument “calendar,” or one-week period in which Judge Stinson would hear cases in court, I would help the judge get ready for the arguments. This would involve writing a “bench memorandum,” a memo summarizing the facts and legal issues of a case and offering a recommendation for how the case should be decided, and preparing a “bench book,” a binder containing the memo and various key documents relevant to the case. (Janet referred to the making of the bench book—which involved highlighting the documents, putting them in a particular order, and sticking colorful tabs all over them—as “arts and crafts.”) I would also meet with the judge to discuss the cases orally during “review week,” the week immediately prior to the calendar week.

“Here's one thing you
must
remember,” Janet said. “When you first get a new case, you need to make sure the court has jurisdiction to hear
it. Judge Stinson is very particular about jurisdiction.”

I knew this from having talked about it with the judge during my interview and from the judge's writing in the area. Jurisdiction concerns the court's authority to hear a particular case. There are all sorts of reasons, some quite technical, as to why a court might lack jurisdiction—and if there's a “jurisdictional defect,” the case must be dismissed.

“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.”

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, man
aging 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.”