Author Archives: Amy Farr Robertson

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About Amy Farr Robertson

Civil Rights Lawyer. Dog Lover. Smartass.

Stupid Lawyer Tricks: Can I vent?

One of the themes of Stupid Lawyer Tricks is that, in civil litigation, there is one set of rules for plaintiffs and another for defendants. Instead of the FRCP – Federal Rules of Civil Procedure — which are supposed to govern what all parties do in federal court, there are really a PRCP and DRCP.

One of my earliest experiences with this was when a federal magistrate gave a defendant a complete Expert Witness Do-Over*.  My opponent designated an expert witness to testify to the astonishing** proposition that it was not racial harassment when my client — an African-American welder — found a naked black Ken doll at his work station with a noose around its neck.  It turned out that the only expert the defendant could find to support its position was — oops! — under indictment for fraud.  Ordinarily once the deadline to designate experts has passed, you gotta dance with the expert who brung you.  FRCP 26(a)(2).  In this case, however, the defendant filed a motion asking for a do-over and got it.  The defendant was permitted to find and designate a new — non-fraudulent — expert, long after the deadline.  DRCP 26(a)(2)(wtf).

My most recent experience is with a defendant who is represented by a 1,200-lawyer nationwide law firm.  We’ve been litigating this class action for 8 years, 6 of them against this firm.  I’m convinced that — big and fancy and expensive as it is — this firm’s technology is limited to Compaqs running DOS or perhaps trained horses scratching out numbers in their stalls.

Almost two years ago, we provided a list of 900-some-odd class members who had contacted us along with some information about each one.  We provided this list in a searchable pdf document of around 300 pages.  The deadline to take depositions in the case was last Friday. Last Tuesday the defendant demanded ten class member depositions.  Now generally, depositions require more notice than three days, especially when you want ten of them.  FRCP 30(b)(1). But these guys argued to the Court that they had had no way to find out who these folks were over the past two years, and the court agreed, on the grounds they were “concealed” in “voluminous discovery.”  DRCP 30(b)(ygtbfkm)

Let’s take a quick look at how concealed these folks really were.  If you had wanted to find the name of a specific witness or some other piece of information in the document we gave them, this is what you would have needed to do:  hit Control-F, then type the search term into Acrobat’s handy search term box, then hit return.  This would have taken you to the first occurrence of that term in the document. Now here’s where it gets a bit more complicated:  if you had wanted to see the next occurrence of the term, you would have had to hit either the return key or the little right-pointing arrow next to the search term box.  Rinse.  Repeat.

But honestly, you do not have to have an IT staff versed in advanced pdf-searching technology to find ten people in a 300-page document over the course of 20 months.  Any of the following would also have worked:

  • Have a paralegal read the document.  At the rate of half a page per day, you’d still have time left over.
  • Enter all of the data into an Access database and run a query.  This is what we did when the defendants included a 921*** page Word document with their motion for summary judgment.  Our opposition was due three weeks later, so our crack team of paralegals (possibly, in this case, meaning paralegals on crack) entered 921 pages of data into our database in the course of about one week.
  • Train a dog to bark at the name or information you are seeking, then show the dog each page and note the pages at which he barks.****

And all this complaining about how — help! help! — difficult it is to search a 300-page pdf comes from a defendant who produced many electronic documents so incompetently that the logos and other graphics embedded in the documents floated free and appeared as separate documents.  So they have produced hundreds of thousands***** of pages of documents, many quite helpful but many that look like this:

So it’s been a frustrating past few days, but ultimately there are several silver linings.  We’ll be headed to San Francisco as the Giants start the Series.  And, well, the case is already very positive for us; ten more witnesses supporting our position can only strengthen that.

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* The defendant didn’t call it that, but in my opposition brief, I sure as hell did.

** On the other hand, the judge did call the defendant’s argument “astonishing:”  “[The defendant] contends that  . . . there is no evidence that the incident was racially motivated.  [The defendant] may make that astonishing argument to a jury.  In light of the undisputed fact that a nude Black doll-as opposed to a doll of some other race-was found hanging from a noose in the locker of an African-American man, it would not require a jury to make a herculean leap of logic to conclude that the noose and doll incident was racially motivated.”  Gooden v. Timpte Inc., 2000 WL 34507333, at *11 (D. Colo. 2000).

*** I usually just invent the numbers on this blog, but this one is, coincidentally, accurate.

**** This would not work with Chinook or Saguaro, who would tell you to just use a fucking database so they could get back to obsessing about tennis balls (Saguaro) or napping (Chinook).

*****  Again, surprisingly, not an invention.  687,846 pages to be exact.

Litigation animation, or, I crack myself up!

I don’t know if any of you caught the hilarious animation ridiculing the iphone, but the tag line at the end was “Xtranormal.  If you can type, you can make movies.”  Well, I’ve always thought that I’d be a great animator, but for my total and complete inability to draw, so Xtranormal seemed like a great service:  my deathless prose; their artistic renderings.

Here is my first attempt.   Possibly not funny outside our case team, but importantly, I totally cracked myself up.

I pondered whether it was a good idea to post this and concluded that it was OK:  I don’t name the defendant, and every last bit of it is in the public record.  True,  as a technical matter, no giant saw blade was involved, and I don’t generally wear my Coffee Woman superhero outfit to court.  But it is otherwise completely accurate.

Ratio

(Time spent finding running clothes, putting on running clothes, finding running shoes, putting on running shoes,* putting up hair, finding leashes, leashing dogs, finding, folding & pocketing baggies, standing around waiting for dogs to pee, standing around waiting for dogs to poop,** scooping poop, & disposing of poop baggie) : (time spent running) = 2:1.

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* Despite the fact that my shoes tie like this:

I’m only sorry they didn’t have shoes like this when I was a kid as it took me an unnaturally long time to learn to tie my shoes.  Perhaps my mother can supply the photographic evidence of my entire nursery school lined up to say the pledge of allegiance, with me in my stocking feet.

** This occupies at least as much time as running does, because Saguaro insists on conducting a full olfactographic*** survey of a wide radius of space, and practice-crouching up to ten times before locating the precise right spot.  There is nothing that can be done to speed this up, and in fact I have to restrain Chinook from interrupting the maestro at work, or it will take even longer.

*** That is TOO a word.  I googled it.  Most of the results involved male sea lampreys.  Yes, Saguaro is just that weird.

Beezus, Ramona, and Sharia

One of my favorite characters in fiction  is Ramona Quimby.  And one of my favorite things that Ramona did was to announce “I”m going to throw up!” when she wanted to get out of a crowd and go home.  “Instantly everyone standing near her managed to move a few inches away.”*  I’ve often thought of that when I’m stuck in a crowded situation:  perhaps if I just announced that I was about to throw up, others would move away and give me the space my misanthropic, claustrophobic self needed.  But I think conservatives have given me even more effective and up-to-date tools:   I just have to wear a turban or invoke Sharia and I’ll have the place — any place — to myself.

I came up with this plan initially in response to an article I read about a passenger asking to be moved out of an airplane seat next to a guy in a turban.  Put aside the fact that,  if the turban-wearing dude is going to blow up the plane, being in a different row won’t really save your narrow-minded ass.  This is true but secondary.  Most important:  I now have an excellent device for getting an airplane row to myself.

More recently, we have the excellent spectacle of conservatives calling for a boycott of Campbells products because they are manufacturing a line of halal soups.  Now this is the type of political hypocrisy I just love:  free-enterprise-loving conservatives boycotting a company for making a rational cost-benefit decision to manufacture a product that people will buy.  But more than that, it suggests an excellent way to clear out the riff-raff.  And, as GOP senate candidate Sharron Angle has demonstrated, if it’s useful, you can assert that Sharia law governs almost anywhere without actually being — as a technical matter — correct.

In that spirit, conservatives, please note the following:

  1. The Safeway will be selling only Halal foods this morning, and all other weekend mornings, as well as any time within two hours before and after Bronco games.
  2. The DMV will be implementing Sharia during the month of November when I have to renew my driver’s license.
  3. Our flights to and from San Francisco this week will be known as “turban days” on Frontier.
  4. I-25 will be governed by Sharia, but only between the hours of 7 and 9 a.m. (northbound) and 4 and 6 p.m. (southbound).

Let this system work for you!  Don’t like the annoying fans in the opposing team’s stadium?  Make it know that the stadium is halal!  Find yourself in a slow-moving line?  Put on your turban and get served immediately!  And if the country ever drifts back toward rationality, you can always just announce that you’re going to throw up.

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* Note that I was able to recite these lines from memory but cannot remember the plot of the grown-up novel I read last week.

Congratulations, [your name here], you passed the bar!

We just learned the great news that our law clerk, Darryl Collins, and CCDC’s law clerk, Andrew Montoya, passed the Colorado bar.  Congrats, Darryl and Andrew!!  When I learned that Darryl would not make it to the official swearing-in ceremony, I decided we needed to recreate the experience at Dougherty’s — at least the experience of enduring the inevitable keynote address by some Leading Light of the local bar association.  As a public service, I thought I’d reprint it so that anyone facing the prospect of attending one of these events could save themselves the time and brain damage.

Ahem.

Effusive individualized welcome to various people here whose ass I need to kiss.

Generic welcome to the folks who just passed the bar and their friends and families.

Corny shout-out to family members who put up with loved ones in law school.

Endearing story about my own early years as a lawyer, one that is simultaneously self-deprecating and self-aggrandizing.

But seriously.

Self-evident statement about the importance of the occasion.

Long interlude of meaningless babble about the practice of law.

Several over-thought metaphors.

Frowny-face statement about how “increasingly” uncivil the practice is, despite the fact that the old farts at my law firm delight in crushing the spirits of idealistic young lawyers for sport.

A sentence or two designed to present the momentary illusion that I and my colleagues in big law firms give a rat’s ass about people who can’t afford to pay our fees by the hour.

Concluding anecdote.

Congratulations!

Things That are Inexplicably OK

I’m not talking about things that are bad but widely acknowledged to be bad like, murder or the Dallas Cowboys.  And I’m not talking about things that I’m confident are bad but as to which I grudgingly acknowledge that marginally reasonable minds could differ, like mayonnaise or light beer.  I’m talking about things that allegedly smart people in allegedly polite company seem to have no problem with but that are completely morally indefensible.

Peter Singer.  This guy is a philosophy professor at Princeton who advocates killing infants with disabilities.  Seriously.  I’m not sure this guy is on anyone’s radar outside the black-turtleneck-and-tweed world and the disability rights world, but now you know:  Princeton has on its faculty a professor who favors infanticide for disabled kids, largely based on his utilitarian approach which is based, in turn, on the sound philosophical principle that upper class white guys with tenure can judge the quality of life experienced by the rest of the world and make life and death decisions based on that judgment. I’m all for academic freedom and the First Amendment, and I don’t advocate that this guy be fired or punished for these absurd views.  I’m just wondering why on earth he’s taken seriously.  It’s like Princeton deciding to hire a Holocaust denier or “intelligent design” advocate — or really someone who offered a principled, philosophical defense of slavery.  I would defend any of those hires in the name of academic freedom, but I really think that many more people would join me in puzzlement as to why the hell such a person has a chair at Princeton.

The Tomahawk Chop. Atlanta Braves fans spend a large part of each game making gestures designed to mimic a tomahawk and humming a tune designed to mimic what antediluvian Hollywood thought was Native American music.  This is just gross racial mockery.*  I have to confess (sorry, Bruce) that I feel the same way about “Redskins.”  I don’t have a problem in general with Native American team names — Braves, Indians, Seminoles — because there are plenty of other groups-of-people names:  Padres, Vikings, Patriots, Mariners, Royals, Twins, Pirates, Rangers, Canucks, Canadiens, Packers, Texans, Buccaneers, Cowboys, Raiders, Senators, Kings, Celtics, Cavaliers, Trail Blazers, Warriors.  And, um, Wizards?  But “Redskins” is an epithet, not a generic group-of-people name.  Sorry.**

Flying the Confederate flag. What part of treason is unclear to these folks?  Seriously.  I love the fact that throughout the south “United We Stand” bumper stickers are pasted side-by-side with the stars & bars.  Again, I have no problem, as a First Amendment matter, with flying whatever flag you want.  Just don’t asked to be taken seriously when you display the Confederate flag and question other people’s patriotism.

“Free Mumia.” Give the man a fair trial, but damn, it sure looks like he shot a cop.  Let’s not free him til we’ve tried him fairly and he’s been acquitted.

This is a very very partial list.  Feel free to share your contributions in the comments!  (Really!  I LOVE comments!)

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* I always loved that Jane Fonda, during her Ted Turner period, could regularly be found in the Braves’ audience chopping away.  For you conservatives who hate her for being a liberal, the joke’s on you:  she’s just another shallow celebrity looking for attention — and you give it to her!

** I predict that this will engender more brotherly ire than all my liberal political rantings put together.

“The Hard Work of Compassion” – TNC

I read something today that was among the most remarkable pieces of writing I’ve ever read.  It’s by Ta-Nehisi Coates, who writes a blog for The Atlantic.  Coates, who is African-American, has been doing a lot of reading and blogging about the Civil War.  In the post that struck me, he was writing about Drew Gilpin Faust’s Mothers of Invention, a history of women in slaveholding families during the Civil War. It leads to a meditation on what it takes for him to understand such women, and why:

To answer such a question, it is not enough to understand cause of the Civil War. A debate over the meaning of the Confederate Flag is almost beside the point. You have to remove the cloak of the partisan, and assume the garb of the thespian. Instead of  prosecuting the Confederate perspective, you have to interrogate it, and ultimately assume it. In no small measure, to understand them, you must become them. For me to seriously consider the words of the slave-holder, which is to say the mind of the slave-holder, for me to see them as human beings, as full and as complicated as anyone else I know, a strange transcendence is requested. I am losing my earned, righteous skin. I know that beef is our birthright, that all our grievance is just.  But for want of seeing more, I am compelled to let it go.

More than any other book, Mothers has confronted me with the hard work of compassion.

In this society, we view compassion as a favor, something along the lines of forgiveness extended to the humble and deserving. No. My compassion is utterly selfish, and is rooted in a craving for power. It is compelled by my curiosity, itself, just another name for hunger, for desire, for want of the great power of knowing. It is not enough for me to sit around scoring morality points on dead people, all the while blind to the living morality of this troubled time. There’s no power in that. I need to know more.

Those paragraphs just totally kicked my ass.  “The hard work of compassion.”  A compassion that is not charity, but that also does not excuse.  Does not draw its eyebrows together and go “awww.”  That rolls up its sleeves and says, you can understand this but it won’t be fun.

Reading this, I thought of a couple of recent reviews I’ve read of Breaking Night:  A Memoir of Forgiveness, Survival and My Journey from Homeless to Harvard.  The title is pretty self-explanatory, but the reviews both* made clear that, while the author’s childhood was rendered almost unimaginably awful by her parents’ drug addictions, she has deep compassion and love for these flawed people.

As I sat there feeling stunned that an African-American can undertake the work of compassion toward Confederate women and a former cocaine baby can write compassionately about her mother, it dawned on me that it was Yom Kippur,** and appropriate to repent, or start the process of repenting, or start thinking about what a really good idea it would be to repent, of the many areas of my life in which I am too lazy for the hard work of compassion.  And after all the repenting, it’s time to get off my ass and get to the hard work.

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* OK OK the other review was in People Magazine.  I’m traveling this week, so I’m fully caught up on celebrity news, fashions, and – um – books.

** I’m half Jewish and a half-assed Jew.  It’s the closest generally acceptable label for my heritage and religious views, though still off by a considerable distance.  Fair warning:  there’s probably going to be future blog post about all that.

Update:  TNC is also the genesis of the “drinking with white people” concept which I found so evocative.  Also updated to correct an embarrassing error in punctuation.  Not telling.

Bruce’s Blog

You know how younger siblings are always complaining how they live in the shadow of their smarter, prettier, more popular older sibling?  Didn’t work that way in our family.

I was two years ahead of Bruce in school, and while I was a total and complete nerd, my nerdiness was focused on math and languages.  I didn’t really care about the rest, and had an attitude problem big enough to slack off where I didn’t care.  I especially hated gym,* but was also a very indifferent student in various science and social studies classes.  Bruce, on the other hand, excelled in all of his classes and was popular and athletic to boot.  Some of my most exciting high school memories are of hanging out at home on a Friday as Bruce headed out for an evening filled with the wholesome and educational things a group of 15-year-old boys did in 1977.

Now we’re all grown up, living in different cities, working in different professions, and holding diametrically opposed political views, so this whole being-outshone-by-your-younger-sibling thing should be far in our past, right.  Not hardly!  Put aside the fact that he ended up with both a Ph.D** and an MBA.  Put aside the fact that he had actually tried a case in court*** before I had emerged from junior associate document review hell.  He’s BLOGGING now!  And dammit he’s hilarious!

So if you get tired of the liberal claptrap and dog photos on this blog, head on over to Bruce’s Blog (til I come up with a catchier name).

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*  It was bad enough during things like basketball, where being the youngest, smallest, scrawniest kid in the grade was sort of a disadvantage, but I simply hated swimming.  Loathed it.  This may have been due to the fact that the class always ended up standing in some part of the pool where the water was over my head.  But I’ve always hated swimming, and hate it to this day.  My view is:  the evolution from gills to lungs was a good one, and we should enjoy ourselves up here on dry land.

** Hey, I’m a doctor too!  A JURIS doctor!!

** Small claims court vs. the limo driver from his wedding.  Complete with exhibits showing the fact that the driver’s route included a non-existent road.  He won.

“Not pretty . . .”: a follow up

I’ve gotten some feedback on the former post that I should name the stylist or at least the salon.  After thinking about it, I’ve concluded that that makes sense.  God knows I don’t have the readership to affect his business, but I don’t think he gets to make statements like that anonymously.

It was a guy named Marvin at the Matthew Morris salon.*

If I had had my wits about me — and the ability to freeze time for 18 hours while I composed my response — this is what I would have said to Marvin instead of just waving my civil rights lawyer cred at him.

Marvin, I wish I’d said, I’m guessing you said that because the people in the group home make you uncomfortable.  It’s very clear — since you told me this — that the recovering alcoholics scare you, and make you concerned that the fears of any family to whom you might want to sell your gorgeous house would drive down the sales price.  As you thought those things through, and came to conclusions about how you viewed the developmentally disabled and recovering people who wanted to live in your neighborhood, did you ever stop to think that discomfort and fear are exactly precisely what cause many people to discriminate against gay men and lesbians?  Change the setting and characters, and we can both easily imagine a group of homeowners in a conservative community talking about their gay neighbors in exactly the tones and words you used.

Don’t just “take them food at Christmas.”  Knock on the door.  Introduce yourself.  Get to know your neighbors.  Try to include them in your community as you would hope gay men and lesbians would be included in any community in which they chose to live.

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* One of the reasons I hesitated to name the salon was because its owner just won some sort of reality show contest.  Don’t know which way that cuts.  (Sorry!).

“Not Pretty…But Harmless”

Subtitle:  Drinking with white people, part deux.  Went to a new hairdresser today.  Turns out — I know this will come as a shock — he’s gay. [**] Within the first few minutes of our conversation, I learned that he had a husband to whom he’d gotten married in Vegas.  Awesome!  I’m a huge fan of marriage equality!  We had a grand ol time discussing the California Prop 8 case, how cool it was that he got married, what it was like to work with your husband (something we had in common), the comparative virtues of Lady Gaga’s meat outfit vs. Bjork’s swan outfit, and his penchant for (another surprise!) decorating.  Little did I know, my drinking-with-white-people experience had begun.  I learned about his fantastic historic house, in his fantastic historic neighborhood right downtown, where he and his husband could walk to many incredible restaurants.

But!  They were going to turn the historic property across the street into a 40 bed alcohol rehab facility!  Luckily he and his neighbors got together and raised hell, so they rejected it.  (Still not clear who the “theys” were.)  I weighed the pros and cons of explaining the Fair Housing Act and NIMBYism* at this point, but honestly I really liked the haircut and … well this is the sort of compromises you make when you really like the haircut but the stylist is an asshole.

Then it got worse.  Of course, he said, there are already two of them in the neighborhood.  Two facilities.  One is for, you know, mentally challenged people.

“You know, not pretty… but harmless.”

At this point, thank God, he was through cutting and was putting some sort of styling glop in my hair.  I rubbed my eyes and explained that I was a civil rights lawyer, that we did fair housing cases, and that all of these people and facilities had just as much right as he and his husband did to live there.  Of course, he sighed, you know we take them food at Christmas.

I guess I’m especially bummed because I’m guessing this guy has been on the receiving end of prejudice in his life but still could not see past his own prejudices.  This is, of course, not uncommon, but every damn time it depresses the hell out of me.

And I really did like the haircut.

Update:  I guess I should be clear on what was implicit in the last sentence.  NFW am I going back to that stylist or salon.  Oh well.

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*Not In My BackYard.

** Update:  A friend quite properly pointed out that this sentence itself — in its attempt at humor — is pretty stereotyped, like saying “I know this will come as a shock” that my banker is Jewish or an African-American is a good athlete.  All I can say is: yup.  I screwed that one up.  In the tradition of blogging (funny to have a tradition for something that has only about ten years of history), I’m not deleting it.  Rather in my own tradition, I’ll just go forward feeling stupid about it.