Ramsey Clark is a bit of a mystery. As Attorney General, Clark fought diligently for civil rights. He began his career as an insider who was independent and critical but seemed to respect the institutions in which he worked. The son of Supreme Court Justice Tom Clark, he made enemies when he served in the Johnson administration, but he was hardly radical. When he left government work, however, his practice took an unusual turn for a lawyer of his stature and pedigree. Like the famous leaker of the Pentagon Papers, Daniel Ellsberg, Clark went from consummate insider to unyielding government critic. He went on to represent infamous clients like Saddam Hussein, the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO), and President of Syria Bashar Al-Assad. He also defended two former Nazis in deportation proceedings and stood by Elizaphan Ntakirutimana, a Hutu clergyman accused of luring Tutsis to their slaughter during the Rwandan genocide. Conducting these representations with skill, Clark often seemed fond of his clients, kind and even admiring at times. All the while, he relentlessly criticized the United States for its cruelty and hypocrisy.
In this biography of Clark, author Lonnie T. Brown, skillfully leads us through his subject’s life and career, giving us clues as to why Clark turned into such an unyielding critic of his country. Clark was involved in so many major events in American history that the book offers a unique perspective on the last sixty years. But Defending the Public’s Enemy is more than just a retelling of famous events in our past. Ramsey Clark’s unflinching independence offers insight into the role of the Attorney General, a particularly timely topic. His later career as a defense attorney and activist—representing some of the most notorious individuals—sheds new light on age-old discussions of how lawyers, especially the elite of the profession, should choose their clients, and how they can justify defending villains. Finally and most importantly, Clark’s transformation, his personal story, told directly to the author, is a story of the American Left. It helps us understand the political landscape in a way that most political and cultural histories cannot.
Clark worked in the Department of Justice (DOJ) during the Kennedy administration, and when President Lyndon Johnson replaced Attorney General Bobby Kennedy with Nicholas Katzenbach, Clark was chosen as Deputy Attorney General. He spent his early career in the DOJ working to protect civil rights. He traveled throughout the South to enforce the desegregation mandate of Brown v. Board of Education.
In the early 1960s, as the Freedom Riders rode buses through the South to protest segregation and African-American activist, James Meredith, sought admission to the University of Mississippi, Clark became more actively involved in the administration’s response to the civil rights movement and its backlash. Horrified by the violence these peaceful demands met, Clark drafted a memorandum to Robert Kennedy urging legislation, an early inspiration for the Civil Rights Act of 1964. In 1965, he coordinated the U.S. Army troops and the Alabama National Guard to protect marchers in Selma, Alabama, and he responded to the riots in the Watts neighborhood of Los Angeles, by studying and drafting a report on the causes of racial unrest.
Once elevated to Attorney General in 1967, Clark devoted much of his time to shaping the Johnson administration’s response to the civil rights and the anti-war movements. Inspired by Martin Luther King, Jr., Clark considered himself a pacifist. He privately opposed the war and clashed with F.B.I. Director J. Edgar Hoover, who sought to use the power of the DOJ to undermine King and other civil rights and anti-war leaders.
As the struggle for civil rights grew more violent, Stokely Carmichael and H. Rap Brown vied for control. Clark continued to support government institutions and advocate for a lawful response to injustice. Yet his personal involvement, working with local civil rights leaders and law enforcement authorities in the aftermath of the race riots of the late 1960s, gave him a complex understanding of the racial dynamics in the U.S. He sympathized with activists like Carmichael and Brown who, frustrated with the slow pace of change, demanded a more immediate solution than King’s peaceful protests could achieve.
At the same time, however, he believed in the rule of law and in government institutions, leading to willing (if not enthusiastic) enforcement of the Selective Service Act that authorized the draft. Despite pressure from members of the Johnson administration, however, Clark refused to seek an indictment against black activist Stokely Carmichael for his vocal anti-war stance. Instead, he prosecuted a group of wealthy, white protestors who came to be known as the Boston Five. Clark justified his decision for pursuing the Boston Five rather than Carmichael, by appealing to traditional rule of law values like the relative strength of the cases, though as Brown explains, Carmichael was probably guiltier than Spock and his cohort. Perhaps, as the author speculates, Clark refused to prosecute Carmichael because he empathized with the message that Black Americans should not have to fight a war for a country that denied them equal rights.
Clark’s independence was admirable. He refused to let political pressure influence his decisions in individual cases. However, as Brown explains, his repeated rejection of the administration’s policy goals bordered on arrogance. As a result of his intransigence, Clark was excluded from meetings of the National Security Council and increasingly seen as a hostile outsider rather than a trusted member of the cabinet.
Clark’s clash with the other members of the Johnson administration demonstrates the importance of an independent Attorney General. Defensive about his role in the war and angry about perceived ingratitude for his efforts on behalf of the black community, Johnson had a political vendetta and was not in a good position to determine whom should be prosecuted. But at the same time, Clark serves as a reminder of the dangers of law enforcement unmoored from democratically elected officials. This need for balance between independence in individual prosecutions and a responsiveness to administration policy can help inform us now, as we seek to understand the proper relationship between the Attorney General and the President.
When Clark left government, he took his opposition to the war to a new front, defending anti-war activists. Skeptical of government representations about the scope of the war, he also traveled to North Vietnam with a group investigating the accuracy of reports on the nature of U.S. aggression. After the war, Clark’s controversial list of clients grew. He represented one of the inmates in the infamous Attica prison uprising, as well as radical civil-rights figure Ruchell Magee. But he drew the most criticism for his representation of Nazi war criminals, Karl Linnas and Jack Reimer, as well as his long-time relationship with the PLO and Saddam Hussein.
How, Brown asks, could a man dedicated to peace and equality take on such violent and bigoted clients? Every accused man deserves a defense, the old line goes, but perhaps not all deserve a lawyer as skillful as Ramsey Clark. And in any event, they certainly do not deserve Clark’s affection. Brown considers a few theories. Was Clark an anti-Semite? Brown engages the possibility but ultimately dismisses it. Did Clark grow angry and distrustful of the government because he witnessed America lie to the public during the Vietnam War and use unlawful tactics in its fight against civil rights activists? That is certainly true, but it does not explain why he represented the PLO or the Hutu reverend. Nor would it account for his seeming affection for some of history’s worst villains. Instead, Brown suggests that Clark was disillusioned with the U.S. government, in part, because it tends to dehumanize its enemy, which in turn legitimates cruel and even unlawful actions and policies. Clark, in reaction and defiance, learned to find the humanity in his clients, even in those who had committed grave wrongs. The purpose of his controversial representations then became finding humanity in even the worst criminals.
In addition to an insight into Clark’s motivations, this analysis serves as an interesting contribution to an old, legal ethics debate, most famously expressed in an exchange between Monroe Freedman and Michael Tigar about whether a lawyer, especially one with elite status, has an obligation to offer a public justification for representing an unpopular client. If one accepts Freedman’s view that lawyers do have this duty, Clark’s example offers one such possible justification. As Abbe Smith has written, “defense lawyers try to find the humanity in the people they represent no matter what they have done.” They are drawn to the outsider. As Clark himself explained, “By instinct, I am a maverick. I rather like the outside way. It’s more fun.” (P. 31.) Finding the humanity in a client, as Clark’s story shows, is not just a personal choice but a political conviction based on his assessment of how government power corrupts.
But as Brown notes, resisting dehumanization and finding the humanity in the evilest enemies of the state blinded Clark “to other possible alternative realities and made him do to his nation what he contends his nation does to others. He has demonized America, or at least the American government.” (P. 199.) I would go even further to argue that Clark, in his later life, seems to distrust all power. Israel may be the home of people targeted by the greatest genocide in world history, but it is rich and powerful now, so Clark chose to serve the Palestinians because they are not. The Hutus grotesquely abused their power in Rwanda; however, by the time Clark represented Ntakirutimana, the Tutsis had taken control, so Clark was representing a member of the disfavored group. It seems that his proximity to American leaders taught him that power and ambition corrupt, necessitating that he stand with the least powerful to combat that inevitable degradation.
The question this book poses, and Brown’s thoughtful if tentative answer, do more than contribute a new voice to a discussion in professional ethics. They also suggest a possible insight into the development of the American Left. Why, some wonder, does the Left seem to hate America? Why do progressives equate all of the country with its worst historical institutions, such as slavery and Jim Crow? While many dismiss these critics as modern-day McCarthyites, and insist that the Left is patriotically holding America to its highest promise, there is at least some truth to the fact that the Left focuses on the country’s wrongs. The same critics ask, why do those on the Left seem to favor every marginalized group over those with power regardless of their relative merit? Again, the question may unfairly characterize the Left. But to the extent there is truth in the query, the answer may lie in part in Clark’s story. Disaffected with the government and horrified by what happens to those in power, the Left chooses to stand by individuals and groups who have none.
Charles Yablon writes mostly in fields adjacent to Professional Responsibility, such as civil procedure and jurisprudence. However, as a junior associate at a big law firm in the mid-1990s, I found his article on discovery abuse to be refreshingly clear-eyed and unsanctimonious about an ethical problem that was pervasive in my own practice. Ever since then, I have considered him as a kind of honorary legal ethics scholar. It was therefore with considerable interest that I noticed his new paper on providing legal assistance to clients in activities he refers to as “not quite legal.”
Permissible legal assistance to businesses in the emerging cannabis industry is becoming a popular CLE topic (I am presenting a seminar this summer entitled “High above Cayuga’s Waters?”). The discussion is usually framed around Model Rule 1.2(d), which states that a lawyer may not “counsel a client to engage, or assist a client, in conduct that the lawyer knows is criminal or fraudulent.” Even in a state in which medical or recreational use of cannabis products is permitted under state law, a dispensary or other business is still committing a serious federal felony of possession and distribution of a controlled substance. The on-again, off-again practice by the Justice Department of turning a blind eye to marijuana-related offenses in legal-use states raises an interesting jurisprudential issue. Yablon argues that the formal legal prohibition on the possession or sale or marijuana “should not be treated as the sole dispositive fact” regarding its legality. (P. 345.)
This jurisprudential approach sounds radical, but it is consistent with mainstream philosophy of law. As Joseph Raz contends, all legal positivists are committed to the Sources Thesis, which holds that the existence and content of a law can be determined solely with reference to its sources, excluding normative considerations such as morality. An official policy of non-enforcement or a clear trend in the direction of legalization could be sources of law, in Raz’s sense. If they are, one might be justified in concluding that operating a cannabis dispensary in a legal-use state is not actually a crime, notwithstanding the federal statute, and a lawyer providing legal services to the dispensary would not be in violation of Rule 1.2(d). Similarly, Yablon argues that a lawyer may be justified in concluding, on the basis of objective evidence, that the conduct is likely to be permitted in the foreseeable future. (Pp. 379-80.) In that case, the lawyer might believe that Rule 1.2(d) does not prohibit providing legal assistance to a dispensary. (I should note that many states, either in ethics opinions or amendments to the rules of professional conduct, have sought to carve out an exception to Rule 1.2(d) for lawyers assisting state-legal cannabis businesses.)
Yablon usefully expands the scope of “not quite legal” conduct to include, not only cannabis distribution, but also self-styled disruptive companies like Uber and Airbnb. Love them or hate them, one characteristic of many of these newfangled businesses is their indifference to existing regulations. Uber famously charged into cities in which its business model was prohibited by taxicab licensing and regulation schemes, and defied regulators to come after it, knowing that its popularity with customers would insulate it from enforcement. Here’s where things get extremely interesting from the point of view of jurisprudence and legal ethics. Many taxi licensing regulations, and also the byzantine hotel regulations that hobble—or at least complicate—Airbnb’s expansion, are anticompetitive and are the product of rent-seeking by well-connected local industry lobbyists.
Beyond that, there is much to like about these companies. I loathe Uber’s ethical culture, but I must admit that it significantly outperforms legacy taxi companies on measures of customer service, convenience, and price. Suppose, for the sake of argument, that Uber and Airbnb have greatly increased the aggregate utility of society, albeit at the cost of significant harm to certain groups, such as taxi medallion owners. Of what relevance is this observation to the duties of lawyers representing these companies?
The great ethical risk presented by the valorization of disruptive business models is encouraging lawyers to see the law as nothing more than an inconvenient obstacle to be avoided, planned around, or engineered out of the system. In one of the news sources cited in Yablon’s article, the Chief Legal Officer of Uber was quoted as saying:
I tell my team, “We’re not here to solve legal problems. We’re here to solve business problems. Legal is our tool….I am going to be supportive of innovation.”
(P. 350.) Legal questions thus become risk-management problems, with the risk to be minimized by creative lawyering.
It is often observed that lawyers love the mantra “zealous advocacy within the bounds of the law,” but tend to forget the “bounds of the law” part. Similarly, some corporate legal departments appear to promote the value of innovation or problem solving, while forgetting that they, too, must advise their clients within the bounds of the law. Here is where the interesting jurisprudential argument returns. Who says the bounds of the law are static? Isn’t it the lawyer’s job to push the bounds of the law? If the legal profession had been content to stay within the bounds of the law, we’d still be living with Plessy v. Ferguson.
There are several responses to this line of argument. One relatively straightforward response is that much of the legal change we applaud in our system occurs through litigation, in which a party seeking to extend, modify, or reverse existing law must argue openly and on the basis of persuasive legal authority for the change. Yablon agrees that Uber and Airbnb, as well as players in the emerging cannabis industry, are “genuinely engaging in a version of law reform.” (P. 366.) Their conduct can be distinguished from that of truly antisocial actors who are simply evading the law in two ways. First, their conduct is aiming at some socially beneficial legal change, and second, their violations are transparent and thus could be subjected to challenge by regulators or those affected by the conduct. (Pp. 368-70.) In this way, Yablon seeks to connect the ethics of lawyers for these companies with the tradition of civil disobedience.
Civil disobedience proceeds from the assumption that the law in question is valid, though unjust. John Rawls refers to it as “disobedience to law within the limits of fidelity to law.” A more subtle defense of the conduct of lawyers for Uber and Airbnb would, therefore, be to deny that the law on point actually prohibits the companies’ conduct. The starting point for this argument would be a kind of anti-formalist approach to legal interpretation that should command broad agreement. Sources of the law, again following Raz, can conceivably include a range of interpretive conventions, including maxims of statutory interpretation, rhetorical techniques such as broad and narrow framing of rules, and specialized doctrines such as desuetude for outmoded statutes. Yablon notes that Airbnb has a plausible legal argument in support of its activities, while Uber more clearly (and repeatedly) violates many existing laws. (P. 357.) There is room for legal change within the bounds of the law, but the bounds cannot be stretched indefinitely. Beyond some point, lawyers advising a client are acting wrongfully, either because their advice and assistance runs afoul of the prohibition in Rule 1.2(d) or, more controversially, because even in situations where the client conduct is not a crime or fraud, it is contrary to the principal-agent structure of the client-lawyer relationship to permit the lawyer to act on the basis of inadequate legal authorization for the client’s conduct.
Where is the boundary? It is quite literally the entire job of lawyers to answer that question. There is no simple, algorithmic response that can substitute for the informed professional judgment of the professional community. Notice that slippage? I shifted from talking about the individual lawyers in question to community-based standards of judgment. Uber lawyers don’t get to decide for themselves whether their company’s disruptive technology is socially valuable enough to justify defiance of the law. Rather, there is an objective standard of reasonableness that can be used to analyze and critique the reasoning offered by lawyers (or, in a hypothetical vein, reasoning that could in principle be offered by lawyers). It would be possible, for example, to criticize Uber lawyers and give lawyers for Airbnb a pass. This ethical analysis is necessarily engaged legal analysis, however, and not a direct implication of the alleged social value of these businesses.
Even if Yablon may not be a card-carrying member of the community of professional responsibility scholars, we ought to welcome this contribution to “our” literature. His article reminds us that our ethical obligations do not depend only on the rules of professional conduct, but may turn on some subtle and contested issues in the philosophy of law.
- Atinuke Adediran, The Relational Costs of Free Legal Services, 55 Harv. C.R.-C.L. Rev. __ (forthcoming, 2020), available at SSRN.
- Atinuke Adediran, Solving the Pro Bono Mismatch, __ U. Colo. L. Rev. __ (forthcoming, 2020), available at SSRN.
One of the things that struck me most early on in law school was the notion that some paths were considered more elite and desirable than others. I simply didn’t understand why my classmates were obsessed with particular opportunities. That was, until I attended a diversity reception at a large law firm during my first year, where someone mentioned the starting salary for lawyers (at the time $125,000). Suddenly, I understood why law students seemed so desperate to secure jobs at large law firms after graduation.
As it turns out, those running elite, large law firms understand that some law students experience a conflict when deciding on what path to take after graduation: pursue the money and perceived prestige associated with the work done by large law firms or fulfill a desire to help people without easy access to legal services. It is important, at least in part, for there to be strong pro bono initiatives at elite large law firms because they enable talented attorneys to pursue both goals in tandem. Atinuke Adediran’s recent work, however, challenges the efficacy of that narrative.
In 2017, Professor Adediran conducted a qualitative study of the relationship between pro bono services provided by large law firms via nonprofit legal services organizations (NLSOs), and she draws upon her fascinating findings in two forthcoming papers: The Relational Costs of Free Legal Services and Solving the Pro Bono Mismatch. To obtain a better understanding of the relationship between NLSOs and large law firms, she interviewed thirty-eight executive directors or pro bono coordinators of NLSOs and thirty-six individuals at large law firms responsible for coordinating each firm’s pro bono activities. What Adediran found is that the pro bono services provided by elite large law firms often do not line up with the true needs of the poor identified by NLSOs—and this disjunction, she explains, creates a “pro bono mismatch.” Perhaps more importantly, she founds that the power dynamic between law firms and NLSOs is often imbalanced, with NLSOs sometimes spending significant resources on pro bono matters that are more important to the lawyers at law firms than the poor the services are supposed to help. In short, big firm lawyers providing pro bono services to the poor may not be doing as much good as they—and we—think in addressing the need for greater access to legal services for certain populations.
In Solving the Pro Bono Mismatch, Professor Adediran addresses the mismatch between the pro bono preferences of law firms and the needs of the poor. In particular, she explains how the individual interests of lawyers contribute to firms’ selection of pro bono matters, leading them to focus on certain types of pro bono work, like immigration, over others, like housing or family law. For example, one individual she interviewed explained that many litigation partners are “uncomfortable being involved in a family law case.” Additionally, another interviewee explained that lawyers tended to work on matters within their comfort zones, due to a fear that they might “screw up really badly” on matters too far outside their areas of expertise. In short, her work demonstrates that elite lawyers themselves are driving the demand of certain types of pro bono work as opposed to the preferences of those who are actually in need of legal services.
In The Relational Costs of Free Legal Services, Professor Adediran, again harnessing new and important insights from her qualitative study, explains some of the background for how the pro bono mismatch between large law firms and NLSOs has impacted the delivery of pro bono legal services in potentially important ways. As the government reduced its funding for civil legal services during the 1980s and 1990s, NLSOs had to find resources from other avenues. For many NLSOs, the support of elite large law firms—both in terms of actual monetary donations as well as the “free” labor provided by firm attorneys—became indispensable. One consequence is that NLSOs are required to keep the firms that provide vital resources to them happy, often leading NLSOs to accept relationships with firms that result in less-than-optimal pro bono services that fail to meet the most acute legal needs of the populations the NLSOs were meant to serve. Additionally, Professor Adediran demonstrates that it can be quite costly for attorneys at NLSOs to supervise the work of a law firm attorney engaged in a type of pro bono matter for the first time. Those investments would make sense if each law firm lawyer committed to take on several similar pro bono cases (so the lawyer’s initial training would pay dividends going forward), but instead, an attorney will often complete a type of matter only once, requiring the NLSO attorney to repeatedly engage in costly and time intensive supervision. And because the NLSO depends on the law firm for survival and wants to ensure that it remains happy, the NLSO is often not in a position to demand arrangements at firms that would be less costly and more efficient for the NLSO attorneys.
Professor Adediran puts forth some rather bold suggestions to resolve the issues she identifies. For example, she suggests that each state creates a centralized pro bono system, which would provide participants with better information about local pro bono legal needs and allow for the identification and prioritization of areas with the greatest needs when allocating pro bono matters to firms. Additionally, she suggests harnessing the power of intermediaries, like American Lawyer Media rankings, to apply pressure on law firms and incentivize them to engage in pro bono efforts more closely related to the needs of the poor, thereby helping to reallocate power between law firms and NLSOs.
Whether or not you agree with Professor Adediran’s conclusions, the insights from her study and subsequent papers are important contributions to conversations concerned with the ways in which pro bono legal services are provided by large law firms and other providers and, therefore, the ways in which the poor are able to access legal services. For those leading NLSOs, her work suggests it may be time to think through mechanisms that will shift the current balance of power between NLSOs and the elite, large law firms they partner with. For those charged with overseeing pro bono efforts at large law firms, her work suggests it is time to consider how pro bono activities could be restructured to make them less costly for NLSO partners and more aligned with individuals’ demand for legal services. And for those who study the legal profession, her work offers a trove of qualitative information that will serve as a springboard for future work in the area.
In short, Professor Adediran’s work is interesting, insightful, probative, valuable, and definitely worth the read. To say “I like it a lot” would be an understatement!
Cite as: Veronica Root Martinez, Legal Elites Serving the Poor (or Not?)
(February 20, 2020) (reviewing
Atinuke Adediran, The Relational Costs of Free Legal Services
, 55 Harv. C.R.-C.L. Rev.
__ (forthcoming, 2020), available at SSRN.
Atinuke Adediran, Solving the Pro Bono Mismatch
, __ U. Colo. L. Rev.
__ (forthcoming, 2020), available at SSRN.
Legal scholarship that creates new avenues of inquiry is inherently appealing, but when it also reveals obscured narratives of power in American society, you have the makings of a truly important contribution. Shortlisted: Women in the Shadows of the Supreme Court, by Hannah Brenner Jonhson and Renee Knake Jefferson, is all that and an engaging read besides. In their book, Brenner and Knake resurrect the largely forgotten history of accomplished female lawyers nominated but not selected for the Supreme Court. As these narratives highlight the pitfalls of being shortlisted rather than selected, Brenner and Knake’s work queries whether the term “shortlisted” is pejorative rather than a boon for female candidates. The authors present the harm of historical obfuscation as compound: “it is not just that the women were denied positions of distinction, but that their tales have been subjugated…unfairly stifl[ing] national imagination.” (P. 133.) Compiling this history and bringing it forward alone would be enough to make the book worthwhile—but the project doesn’t stop there. Instead, Shortlisted also ambitiously engages with the question of how to sidestep such marginalization moving forward.
Throughout the book, stories of highly qualified female candidates who are summarily eliminated from contention or only facially considered for political cover pulls the distinction between consideration and appointment into stark relief. (One reporter quoted in the book notes, “The women…reflect another White House strategy: mentioning certain names to score political points, while not taking them seriously as contenders.”) (P. 122.) The book begins with a deep dive into the life of Florence Allen, a jurist “universally respected” for her work ethic and intellect, who was shortlisted by President Truman. She is not only the first person on the shortlist—in a way, she bookends Sandra Day O’Connor—but her downfall became Justice O’Connor’s entrée. Before nominating Judge Allen, Truman consulted with then-Chief Justice Fred Vinson about her potential nomination. Chief Justice Vinson negatively responded that the presence of a woman would inhibit needed deliberations amongst the men. As such, Judge Allen’s nomination stalled; she was shortlisted, more of an end game than a path forward. Only with this context, can one truly appreciate the weight that the law school friendship between Chief Justice Rehnquist and then-nominee Sandra Day O’Connor played in history. If the two hadn’t been friends, would history have been different?
While the bulk of the women shortlisted for the high court are white, Brenner and Knake are aware of pitfalls of colorblind feminism, and they highlight the intersectionality barriers that women of color face in gaining status commensurate to their experience and talents. The luminous career of Amalya Lyle Kearse, the first and only women of color considered for the Supreme Court prior to Justice Sotomayor, highlights some of these additional dimensions to the shortlisting paradox. The first female and first black partner at her Wall Street law firm, she was also the first women elected to the American Association of Trial Lawyers and a member of the American Law Institute. By the time Judge Kearse ascended to the Second Circuit in 1979, she was only 42 years old. Although she served for an illustrious four decades on the Second Circuit, Judge Kearse was shortlisted twice to the Supreme Court, only to be set aside.
Each of these lawyers’ stories is relevant, important, and worth reading in any format. However, Shortlisted has the added bonus of being more entertaining than a virtuous slog through a survey of names and dates. Taking care to add nuance and color to what might otherwise be dry, Knake and Brenner pepper the recounting of the past with the voices of historic figures. Plucking plums from presidential libraries, news articles, and audio recordings, Shortlisted delights with references that leave one thinking “that’s rich.” (One particular favorite—Richard Nixon states, “I don’t think a woman should be in any government job…they are erratic. And emotional.”)
After O’Connor’s appointment, the book shifts to examine how women fared more broadly in the federal judiciary, to review impediments to additional judicial appointments, and to provide a brief treatment of the appointment and confirmation processes of Justices Ginsberg, Sotomayor, and Kagan. These factual retellings are less interesting than the normative brainstorming that follows: how to move women from the shortlist quicksand to actual nomination and finally to appointment and confirmation. Here, the authors seek to find intergenerational themes of subjugation in the specific histories they’ve just recounted to draw lessons for moving forward. The shortlisted women’s stories share certain common experiences of objectification (either through scrutiny and commentary on their physical appearances or using their candidacy instrumentally as a pawn in political chess), laser-like focus on their family status and obligations, each of these compounded by intersectionality with rigid sexual norms, age-related tropes, and racial bias.
This is a lot for anyone to bite off and chew, but Shortlisted resists the temptation to come up with a glib and pithy eleventh-hour answer. Some might fault the book at this point for failing to deliver on the promise of a straightforward solution. To this, I would counter that this book is best understood as an invitation to the scholarly community—to do more historical research, to invest in the project of building pragmatic solutions for working attorneys. The book enumerates, without embellishment, observed common themes and focuses the bulk of its remaining energy on presenting recommendations for getting more women selected for judicial appointment and confirmation. Some proposals require institutional reform such as the creation of systems of accountability that document inequity; some—like access to universal childcare—are practical. But the authors are aware that broad buy-in is needed for these suggestions to materialize and therefore home their energy towards recommendations that empower individuals to implement change. Specifically, they talk in terms of women’s deliberative choices: choices about partners and friends and how to use legal education to collaborate professionally and support other women, and the choice to create meaningful opportunities elsewhere rather than linger in dead-end environments waiting for Senator Godot to pluck them from obscurity. (P. 193.) While Shortlisted’s proposed fixes are not exhaustive, the book has ignited a brain buzz that is still simmering—and that will likely continue for weeks to come.
The conventional wisdom has long been that law school, especially at the elite level, is a hostile place for students aspiring to pursue public interest careers—those whose professional goal is to serve a larger social cause, not just individual clients. The concept of public interest “drift,” coined by Robert Granfield in his seminal study of Harvard Law School students in the early 1990s, held that students who started on the public interest path dropped off in substantial numbers due to a range of law school factors. Key among them was the ideological transformation that occurred during the 1L year: when students were subtly taught to abandon their moral commitments in favor of a hired-gun professional ethos. Duncan Kennedy’s classic polemic, Legal Education and the Reproduction of Hierarchy, provided a nonempirical vision of this same phenomenon, identifying the pedagogical mechanisms through which 1Ls were asked to submit to a “double surrender” to the infantilizing 1L classroom experience of deference to the professor and to a more profound nihilism: that there is no right or wrong, only arguments to be made.
In a powerful new empirical analysis, From Idealists to Hired Guns? An Empirical Analysis of “Public Interest Drift” in Law School, John Bliss upends this conventional wisdom by showing how 1L public interest identity is more ill-defined and pliable than often thought and by placing more emphasis on the 2L hiring cycle than the 1L classroom experience as the crucible of assimilation. Methodologically, Bliss selects a different empirical design than previous “drift” research. Instead of using surveys to assess attitudinal change, he followed over 50 elite law school students during the first two years of law school: using interviews, ethnographic observations, and identity mapping (a technique in which he asked students to graphically depict the centrality of different identities to their sense of professional self). (P. 1990.) In addition to deploying a different methodology, Bliss also looked at the law school timeline through a different lens, assessing attitudinal change during the first two years of law school and focusing particular attention on the 2L summer hiring process. Four facets of his analysis stand out.
First, Bliss problematizes the very concept of public interest “commitment” by presenting a more nuanced account of the actual “uncertainty” that many students professing a public interest commitment experience. Although he confirms the existence of a 1L public interest “subcultural community” that feels marginalized from the law school mainstream, he paints a more complicated picture. (Pp. 1995-96.) Specifically, by focusing on “drifting” students—those who move from a 1L public interest aspiration to a 2L summer law firm job, Bliss uncovers how the ambiguity of public interest commitment interacts with background factors and law school culture. With respect to demographic factors like race and class disadvantage, Bliss finds that “social identities can cut both ways with respect to job-path preferences—as sources of commitment to working with underserved communities and as motivation for working in elite firms where minorities, women, and people from working class backgrounds are underrepresented.”(P. 2001.) The most interesting finding, however, relates to the professional uncertainty expressed by drifting students overall. One subject captured this sentiment: “[W]e don’t know what we are doing, as much as we like to say we do.” For drifting students, Bliss concludes that “the 1L experience appears to generally produce only a slight alteration from an initial unspecific preference for public-interest careers in the first year to an exploratory and risk-averse decision to apply to large firms at the end of the 1L summer.”(P. 2003.) Thus, contrary to the picture of strongly held views being dislodged by 1L pedagogy and firm-oriented culture, Bliss suggests, at least for drifting students, those views are much less solidified at the outset.
Second, Bliss reconceives the salient timeline for understanding when and how drift occurs. At the school he studied, big law firm interviewing started at end of 1L summer, while the application process for post-graduate public interest jobs occurred much later, generally in 3L year. Bliss found that drifting students were particularly worried about career prospects, felt like they lacked information about public interest options, and believed that, because public interest jobs were more competitive, applying to firms was a strategy for hedging career risk. Not wanting to “close any doors,” the “sum of these risk factors made the decision to upload their resumes for [summer law firm jobs] feel necessary and even overdetermined.”(P. 2006.) Once the students entered the interviewing process, their ambivalence translated into moderated views about firm lawyers, who were surprisingly “nice” and “chill.”(P. 2008.) Although many students cared about pro bono opportunities, they found themselves “re-narrating” their public interest background to emphasize law firm commitment, not pro bono interest, in order to secure offers.
However, and this is the third point, students did not completely reconcile themselves to law firm life. Although they tended to tell themselves stories “obscuring doubts” and making them “open to other things,” these internal stories did not produce complete professional acceptance, but instead led to greater ideological fragmentation in which professional identity became less core to one’s sense of self: the law firm gig was just a job. (P. 2015.) Interestingly, instead of fully embracing the law firm mission, drifting students continued to harbor moral reservations, expressing hope of returning to public interest law after paying down debt. Thus, although cognitive dissonance permitted students to justify the choice to accept the firm job, their resolution of moral qualms was never complete.
Finally, Bliss offers a set of innovative recommendations on how law schools might think differently about supporting public interest-minded students, particularly as they navigate the challenges posed by the law firm hiring process. Focusing on the fact that ambivalence and risk aversion are key factors producing drift, Bliss recommends interventions, like public interest specializations, that reinforce public interest subculture and provide more robust 1L education on career paths and professional identity. Relying on choice architecture theory, he also suggests other changes to nudge students forward on the public interest path: including things like pushing back the law firm recruiting process to spring of 2L year, and providing more opportunities for skills and professional formation in 1L year, which he believes could “lend understanding and unity across the corporate/public-interest student divide, mitigating competing accounts of deviance among first-year students.” (P. 2030.)
These are important ideas that law schools should take seriously. They also raise a number of unanswered questions and further puzzles. It would be interesting to know more about the race and gender dimensions of drift and how programs that strengthen subcultures interact at an intersectional level. Bliss suggests that more information earlier about the profession could promote better informed choices and reduce risk aversion. Yet courses on the legal profession and professional responsibility are notoriously disfavored by students, no matter where they are located in the curriculum. Very few schools have ventured to introduce the study of professionalism and the profession into the first-year curriculum, and the results have not been systematically studied. Moreover, the type of risk aversion that Bliss describes—opting into big law firm hiring—is a peculiarly elite institutional strategy. Students at lower ranked schools have to hedge risk in other ways and many opt for jobs in the public sector precisely because the law firm track is not available.
There are also large-scale trends and constraints: The economic model of elite law schools, driven by well-documented limits imposed by U.S. News rankings, is oriented around rising tuition nourished by a pipeline of large-firm jobs, which must be normatively sanctioned, even as schools must simultaneously promote commitment to supporting public interest careers as a recruitment strategy. Another constraint is the public interest job market itself. Because the number of public interest jobs, defined as those in the nonprofit and governmental sectors, are relatively fixed as a proportion of the overall profession, some have suggested that what ultimately limits entry is less the supply of aspirants than the demand for their talents. Bliss acknowledges this problem, but he suggests that increasing supply could help legal aid and other public interest groups by increasing the number of strong applicants, which would enhance the system overall. Bliss also suggests that strong support for public interest students could lead to lawyers entering private practice with a greater commitment to altruism—although this is complicated since the very subcultures necessary to sustain public interest commitment may be less accepting of broader public service conceptions of professional identity upon which the noblesse oblige model of the private lawyer rests. However, at a time when lawyers at the apex of power seem to have embraced the worst aspects of partisan advocacy, conceiving of strategies of professional integration and value-promotion that produce more public-minded lawyers, not just in legal aid but throughout the profession, might be the most important implication of Bliss’s significant study.
Elizabeth Chambliss, Evidence-Based Lawyer Regulation
, 97 Wash. U. L. Rev.
297 (2019), available at SSRN.
What should a modern legal service regulator look like? In some jurisdictions, like England and Wales, this question has resulted in dramatic reforms, such as taking the power of self-regulation away from lawyers. In contrast, much of the regulatory change in North America has involved relatively low-hanging fruit. Some new duties have been incorporated into codes of conducts, some economic restrictions have been lifted, and certain processes have been professionalized. There hasn’t been, however, any radical change.
For many years, the North American legal profession has defended this regulatory stasis with relatively simple appeals to broad concepts such as the “independence of the bar,” “the public interest,” and “professionalism.” In her recent article, Evidence-Based Lawyer Regulation, Elizabeth Chambliss argues that this approach is no longer sustainable and that “the profession’s authority over the regulation of legal services increasingly will require a commitment to evidence-based regulation.” In other words, if the legal profession wants to introduce—or even maintain—regulatory policies, it must offer convincing empirical data in support of such policies rather than simply lean on well-worn rhetoric.
In making her case, Chambliss points to two events that have created pressure for evidence-based lawyer regulation in the United States: (1) the 2015 decision of the Supreme Court in North Carolina Board of Dental Examiners v. Federal Trade Commission, and (2) the American Bar Association’s (ABA) 2016 adoption of Model Regulatory Objectives for the Delivery of Legal Services.
The N.C. Dental case did not directly involve lawyers or bar authorities; it was a dispute over whether non-dentists could perform teeth whitening. Nonetheless, N.C. Dental’s potential impact on the regulation of legal services was clear from the get-go, given the case’s engagement with how the state-action immunity doctrine applies to a professional regulator facing an antitrust challenge. In N.C. Dental, the Court held, inter alia, that state dental board, although statutorily defined as an “agency of the state,” was not entitled to state-action immunity due to the fact that the board was controlled by active market participants and did not receive adequate supervision. Chambliss notes that, following N.C. Dental, bar committees will have to demonstrate that their regulatory activities are subject to “active supervision” by the state (i.e. state supreme courts). She further observes that “most commentators read N.C. Dental as tightening the standard for ‘active supervision’ and signaling the need to produce a record of substantive, evidence-based review.” At the end of this section of the article, Chambliss concludes:
[N.C. Dental] is likely to reopen questions about the basis and scope of state courts’ inherent powers to regulate the practice of law. From a political standpoint, the organized profession should aim to get ahead of these questions, by making a credible commitment to evidence-based regulation.
The ABA’s 2016 adoption of Model Regulatory Objectives also, in Chambliss’s view, “represents an effort to raise the standard of judicial review of professional self-regulation.” She notes that “[r]egulatory objectives, by their very nature, create a framework for empirical assessment” and that “by urging state supreme courts to be guided by regulatory objectives, the ABA is effectively urging courts to be guided by evidence; that is, by empirical review.”
In short, Chambliss identifies the N.C. Dental decision and the ABA’s adoption of Model Regulatory Objectives as two events that, together, have created a tipping point for American lawyer self-regulation and ushered in a new era where the old, largely rhetorical, defences of the bar’s monopoly will no longer suffice. Chambliss is careful to contextualize these two events within a broader background of mounting “economic and political incentives to invest in evidence-based policy-making.” Such incentives, she argues, stem from the growing successes of some alternative legal services providers and an “increasingly organized political challenge” from groups concerned with access to justice.
It is within this milieu that Chambliss presents her call to action: “The bar, collectively,…[needs to] signal a normative commitment to evidence-based policy-making and build the profession’s capacity to contribute to relevant research.” On the latter point, the article provides a helpful summary of existing independent empirical research that has challenged the premises of the bar’s historic defenses regarding the need for a lawyer monopoly over the delivery of legal services. The article then ends by providing specific strategies that can be used to institutionalize evidence-based self-regulation. Chambliss considers, in turn, possible approaches for state supreme courts, law schools, and bar associations. The strategies presented are diverse, ranging from proposed changes to the professional responsibility curriculum in law schools to ABA investment “in the development of a proactive research agenda guided by professional regulatory objectives.”
In recording a precise moment in the history of the regulation of the American legal profession and proposing steps forward, Chambliss contributes to both legal profession scholarship and to those charged with the practical job of regulating the American legal profession. For readers outside the United States, this article offers an accessible primer on the challenges that the American legal profession is currently facing in retaining its ability to self-regulate and its options going forward.
The case set out in the article does raises some additional questions that would be interesting for Chambliss or others to explore in future work. What, for example, are we looking at evidence for? It is helpful to have regulatory objectives, such as the protection of the public interest, but the boundaries and meanings of these objectives are not always self-evident.
Lively and sometimes ferocious debates have recently erupted in Canada regarding the meaning of, and obligations that flow from, law society mandates to govern in the public interest. Different perspectives on public interest mandates were a significant part of the public debate and judicial analysis on the question of whether Canadian law societies should accredit what was described in a national newspaper as the country’s first “gay free” law school, due to a required pledge which includes abstention from “sexual intimacy that violates the sacredness of marriage between a man and a woman” (for more on this case, see here). Divergent perspectives on what the public interest requires were also front and centre in recent debates over whether the Law Society of Ontario should proceed with an initiative requiring the province’s lawyers and paralegals to create and abide by an individual statement of principles that acknowledges their obligation to promote equality, diversity, and inclusion (for more see, here).
Requiring evidence for lawyer regulation is a good idea but doesn’t remove more fundamental questions about what, exactly, a modern regulator of lawyers should be doing or even more pragmatic questions of what evidence is meaningful in any given situation. On the latter point, I note that Professor Laurel Terry has observed that, as we begin to think of legal services being provided by legal service providers as opposed to simply lawyers, “it [is] much more likely that lawyer regulations will be the subject of benchmarking not only across national borders, but across professions.”
In writing Evidence-Based Lawyer Regulation, Chambliss challenges the American legal profession to create and support modern, sophisticated lawyer regulators. If the fundamental structure of the current self-regulatory system is to continue, this challenge must be taken up whole-heartedly. Embracing evidence-based regulation is a first essential step, but it is only the beginning of what will surely be an interesting yet sometimes tumultuous journey.
Richard Abel is the most prolific, as well as the most eminent, scholar of legal professions. Among many other books, he has written a detailed and moving study of the handful of courageous South African lawyers who challenged the apartheid regime. He has unearthed documents from lawyer disciplinary proceedings to uncover new lessons about lawyer deviance. And he has now completed two massive volumes on the Bush and Obama Administration’s anti-terrorism policies in the wake of the 9/11 attacks, the legal means employed to carry them out, and the legal responses to them. Law’s Wars deals with detention of suspected terrorists at the Iraqi prison of Abu Ghraib and at Guantanamo Bay, interrogation, electronic surveillance, and law of war on the battlefields of Iraq and Afghanistan. Law’s Trials covers many of the legal proceedings resulting from counter-terrorist measures: criminal prosecutions in ordinary courts, military commissions, and courts-martial (of U.S. personnel), and the various legal challenges to all of the above, such as habeas corpus petitions, civil damages actions, and civil liberties complaints.
The books are intended to be comprehensive, and they are. The genre that they most resemble is that of reports of Truth Commissions established after mass atrocities to give a meticulous account of events, perpetrators, and victims, to ensure that a record is made and that collective memory of events is preserved as an instruction and warning to later generations. See, e.g., Report of the Chilean National Commission on Truth and Reconciliation. Those reports, however, are typically the product of multi-member bodies employing large research staffs. Rick Abel is just one tireless, persistent Recording Angel. His chapters relate every relevant incident—in every relevant detail—of the events he covers, including not only records of proceedings and official reports, but contemporary comments by administration officials, politicians, leading newspapers, academics, and NGOs. His prose is undramatic yet sharp and crisp; the sentences as lucid as pebbles dropped into a clear mountain stream. For the most part, he adopts the role of objective reporter, but in concluding sections to every chapter, he discloses his own analysis and his own judgments.
Those judgments are, mostly, severely critical of the conduct of the “War on Terror,” especially of the Bush Administration’s policies and legal arguments, but to some extent, of the Obama Administration’s as well. Abel divides officials and judges into two camps. One is the camp of the “executive-minded.” These are the authoritarians inclined to promote or defer to assertions, however improbable, that suspected terrorists might be dangerous; to license coercive interrogation, intrusive surveillance, and “kinetic” military action; and to emphasize the risks of requiring proof before action. The other camp is of “liberal legalists,” concerned with due process, fair and humane treatment of suspected terrorists, dangerous blowback from injury to foreign civilians, and perceptions of world opinion.
Abel presents both sets of views fairly but leaves no doubt that he sides with the liberal “rule of law” parties. The authoritarian tough guys, over and over, damaged America’s reputation without gaining much in the way of results. After the 9/11 attacks, the U.S. government rounded up thousands of innocent Muslims, jailed them for months, mistreated them, and then released them. Military operations in Iraq and Afghanistan killed thousands and exiled millions, while creating new terrorist enemies such as ISIS. The Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, after a mammoth multi-year investigation, concluded that “enhanced interrogation techniques” (torture) used on prisoners yielded little information of value. The military prisons at Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bay incited the condemnation of the world for little positive gain: nearly all the prisoners at Guantanamo, said to be the “worst of the worst,” too dangerous to hold even in supermax prisons on the mainland U.S., were eventually released, while congressional Republicans still refuse to close the facility holding the few who remain. The tough guys insisted that suspected terrorists be tried by military commissions, fearing that civilian courts with their due process protections would acquit them. In fact, regular courts efficiently convicted over 660 defendants for terrorism-related offenses, while military commissions have, since their inception, been a complete shamble of carelessly improvised procedures and have achieved only eight convictions, all but one of which was reversed. Rendition of suspects, some demonstrably innocent, to CIA “black sites” or foreign torture chambers has repeatedly embarrassed allied and other governments who cooperated with the United States.
Just as troubling as the mistakes and misdeeds of the authoritarians is the failure of institutions to hold any of them accountable. The chief strategists of the administration that caused most of the damage to the rule of law—President Bush, Vice President Cheney, Chief Deputy Addington, Defense Secretary Rumsfeld, Secretary of State Rice—still defend their actions and policies. Jay Bybee and John Yoo, authors of the famous “torture memos” and other Office of Legal Counsel opinions, succeeded in immunizing CIA interrogators from criminal liability. Although the two were briefly censured by the Justice Department’s Office of Professional Responsibility for slipshod legal work, even that censure was mostly lifted after review. Now, one is a federal judge, while the other is a law professor at Berkeley.
The Obama Administration, notoriously, chose to “look forward and not back.” It declined to assign blame, though it changed many of the policies and tried to close Guantanamo. Its special prosecutor, John Durham, declined to charge CIA officers in whose custody suspects actually died. The most exhaustive investigation of torture, the Select Senate Committee report, was spied upon and attempted to be sabotaged by the CIA as it was being written; it remains unpublished to this day. The most critical report on Abu Ghraib was suppressed before being leaked, and its author, General Antonio Taguba, was forced into an early retirement. Military contractors largely escaped justice for killing civilians in Iraq. The U.S. Supreme Court’s decision, Boumediene v. Bush, said Guantanamo prisoners were entitled to habeas corpus review. But Republican judges on the D.C. circuit have gutted Boumediene by reversing all decisions to grant habeas. With rare exceptions, civil damage suits by innocent victims failed to advance in court, stonewalled by government claims of state secrets. A few low-ranking soldiers were tried for abusing Iraqi prisoners or civilians, but their superiors escaped liability.
Abel chronicles this dismal litany of mostly unrectified abuses with a singularly dispassionate lucidity and objectivity. Among his most effective chapters in Law’s Wars is one on repeated civilian casualties inflicted by military operations in Afghanistan. As one innocent family after another is wiped out, the U.S. military first denies wrongdoing, then concedes, apologizes, and offers modest compensation. Abel relentlessly recites the story of every single case. The cumulative effects on the reader is one of numbing horror.
There are some bright spots in this grim history: lawyers who performed better. Federal judges who tried terror suspects mostly did so fairly (though many of the prosecutions were of hapless mopes who could never have done any real harm without the encouragement of FBI undercover agents). Bar associations mostly spoke out for due process and the rule of law. Volunteer lawyers represented Guantanamo detainees, some while facing fierce criticism. Military lawyers, in particular, pressed for adherence to Geneva Convention treatment even of detainees labeled “enemy combatants”—some at considerable cost to their careers. NGOs like Human Right Watch, the ACLU, and Amnesty International supplied many lawyers to challenge administration policies.
For extensive analysis and critique of the legal doctrines used to prosecute the “War on Terror,” there are, as Abel says, better sources than this. But as a comprehensive record of the legal achievements and failings of this “war,” Abel’s two huge volumes are unlikely to ever be surpassed. In this record, if we want to use it, are the lessons to be learned from this history of excesses, follies, and valiant attempts to safeguard the rule of law.
Cite as: Robert Gordon, Lawfare in the “War on Terror”
(November 12, 2019) (reviewing
Richard L. Abel, Law’s Wars: The Fate of the Rule of Law in the US “War on Terror”
Richard L. Abel, Law’s Trials: The Performance of Legal Institutions in the US “War on Terror”
The new Global 100 law firm ranking is out, and it reports that Big Law is thriving. Despite challenges and change experienced by elite law firms, there is a continuing—indeed growing—appetite for the work of Big Law’s global actors. For example, gross revenue for the firms on the list grew by more than 8% in 2018, “a step up from 2017’s already robust 6.7% growth and a showing that dwarfs the 2.8% and 3.1% growth from the two preceding years. These firms brought in a collective $114.2 billion, more than the 2018 gross domestic product of Ecuador, the 60th largest economy in the world.” And despite the turbulence over the last decade in the market for legal services in which Big Law participates, these law firms have deepened their footprint internationally: the firms on the Global 100 list have added nearly 200 additional offices outside of the U.S. and more than 6,600 lawyers during the decade ending in 2019.
But what does it mean to be a global “firm” for purposes of the Global 100? Most law firms on the Global 100 reflect an organizational structure that uses offices as the connective tissue of the firm, but the notion of a law firm as a coherent organization glosses over important differences that suggest the rankings of firms are as much about pretense as reality. Jing Li takes on this topic in a new article, All roads lead to Rome: Internationalization strategies of Chinese law firms, where she analyzed the websites of 123 China-based law firms in order to assess how their internationalization strategies compare to the expectation of the one-firm-integrated-office model.
Li explores several internationalization strategies. First, addressing offices based on their development and relationship to the firm as a whole, she uses the notion of an “organic expansion” as the ideal-type for global law firms. “Organic” here refers to growth stemming from an expansion of the original law firm through incremental hiring, rather than growth from associating with or acquiring existing law firms in another location, which Li describes as “associated” or “merged.” (P. 163.) Li found that associated or merged strategies were common for the international offices of China-based firms with more regional than national reputations (what she describes as “second-tier law firms”), despite them marketing themselves as “organic.” (P. 175.)
Yet, even for those law firms that follow a seemingly traditional expansion model, Li shows that the reality is more complicated; for example, she explores how the number of lawyers in an “office” reflects the office’s viability. She finds that many offices, particularly those of second-tier law firms, “are generally still very thinly staffed, and one-partner offices are a rule rather than exception. As such, internationalization often carries symbolic value and works as ‘cosmetics’ for these periphery firms to enhance their professional image in front of the clients.” (P. 175.) Indeed, it is not simply periphery firms that exhibit this divergence; Rachel Stern and Su Li’s work on international law firms’ China offices reveals a similar phenomenon.
Finally, Li explores relationships that fall outside of the office model; these include formal and informal networks and alliances that reflect looser connections compared to a traditional, formal law firm organizational structure. These sorts of relationships were a common globalization approach for the firms in her sample. (P. 170.) She describes a “decoupling of formal structure and actual practice…[that] allows [the firms] to effectively operate on a referral-based networks and still appear competitive relative to their peers.” (Pp. 173-74.)
In scrutinizing the office unit as the mechanism for global expansion, Li highlights the nuance that is lost when these particulars are conflated to align with the ranking’s criteria. She reminds us that national influences and the histories that shape and frame organizations are central to understanding them, and that the importance of being perceived as an integrated firm—reflecting the ranking criteria—influences the way firms describe themselves and their relationships. In the search for a way to simplify the complexity inherent in organizational structure and operation, the risk is that firms react to the ranking itself in their presentation and strategic decisions. Li finds that the approaches of the firms she studies reflect the financial constraints and the particular focus of the organizational clients they intend to pursue. (P. 157.) In these ways, the firms simultaneously respond to the forces of rankings, prestige, and pragmatism. Chinese law firms’ reactions to the rankings has broader implications, too. Notably and provocatively, it is an example of the reactivity that Wendy Nelson Espeland and Michael Sauder described in the law school context, as, in Espeland’s and Sauder’s telling, the ranking criteria affected schools’ decisions and management. It “determine[s] who counts and who does not, who is noticed and for what.” Li’s contribution counters the lure of simple, quantifiable comparison that is the temptation of a global ranking.
Law school graduation is a critical turning point in the early career of legal professionals. Going to the public sector or to private practice marks two distinct career tracks, in both common law and civil law jurisdictions. However, research on legal education and the legal profession usually focuses on either a lawyer’s law school experience or her legal career after graduation, with little effort to capture this key moment of transition. Even recent studies aimed at bridging the gap, such as the American Bar Foundation’s After the JD study or John Bliss’s research on the professional identity of law students, have not yet analyzed law students’ professional or political orientations at that crucial moment, right before their graduation.
Kathryn Hendley’s new article on Russian law graduates helps fill in this gap. Based on a 2016 survey of 2,176 prospective graduates from 163 law departments or faculties across the vast territories of Russia, Hendley shows that law students who plan to go to state service and private practice markedly differ in terms of their support of state policies, attitudes toward courts and lawyers, as well as opinions on political cases. This is a remarkable study, especially considering the difficulty in obtaining empirical data in authoritarian regimes like Russia. It suggests that lawyers’ professional identities, political orientations, and career choices have deep roots in their educational years. In other words, early career choices and professional/political values go hand in hand. Those law students who are more supportive of the regime and the courts are more likely to go into public service. By contrast, law students who choose to start their legal careers in private practice, such as law firms and in-house legal departments, often are more skeptical about the state as well as the moral standards of lawyers.
One rarely studied group of law students that Hendley’s survey successfully captured are the so-called “correspondence students,” i.e., those students who study law part-time. Correspondence students are generally older; they tend to come from less privileged family backgrounds; and they often combine their studies with a full-time job. To be sure, part-time legal education widely exists in the United States and many other countries, yet this group of law students has received little scholarly attention so far. As Hendley’s analysis suggests, although full-time law students and correspondence students are quite different in their socioeconomic backgrounds, when it comes to their attitudes toward law and the judicial system, the two groups show notable convergence. Yet there is a sharp difference between law students and the general Russian population on those attitudes. Very few law students displayed the “legal nihilism” omnipotent among ordinary citizens in Russia.
In terms of career aspirations, correspondence students have stronger preferences for the state sector, as compared to their full-time counterparts, though, for both groups, more than half of the survey respondents expressed aspirations for state-sector jobs, such as prosecutors, judges, and criminal investigators. Not surprisingly, law students from Moscow or St. Petersburg, the two largest cities in Russia, are significantly more likely to aspire to a career in private practice than students from other regions, as the private sector is more developed in metropolitan areas. Among private-sector jobs, corporate lawyer is not a choice as popular as advocate (advokat) or in-house counsel for both groups of students. A plausible reason is that the corporate legal sector in Russia is much smaller than that sector in Britain or the United States and not many law graduates would find employment in it. Furthermore, the percentages of law students who were “unsure of career plans” or had “no plans to work as a lawyer” are notably higher for correspondence students than for full-time students.
In addition to the variations between full-time and correspondence students, another striking finding of this study is about law students’ political orientations. In particular, law students who have stronger beliefs in democratic principles, who regard lawyers as having high moral standards, and who see social change as a primary motivation to study law are significantly more likely to desire to work in private practice after graduation than other students. This finding suggests the possibility that, even in authoritarian regimes, liberal and democratic ideals still drive law students’ career choices and their relations to the state. As Terence C. Halliday and I have shown in our study of Chinese criminal defense lawyers, there is often an inverse relationship between lawyers’ political liberalism and political embeddedness, that is, those lawyers who have stronger connections to the state are less likely to be politically liberal or to challenge state power. What the Russian case shows is that this differentiation between politically liberal and politically embedded lawyers starts as early as in law schools—politically liberal law students are more drawn toward private practice and less likely to begin their careers in the state sector. In contrast, those law students who aspire a career in the state sector, especially the criminal justice system, are already less liberal in law schools. Or, in Hendley’s words, “rather than learning to be prostate on the job, they come to state service with strong prostate sympathies.” (P. 163.) This orientation can be clearly observed from their more supportive attitudes toward the guilty verdicts of political cases such as the trials of the rock band, Pussy Riot, and the activist lawyer, Aleksei Naval’nyi.
The implications of Hendley’s rigorous and groundbreaking study are profound, for not only the legal profession in Russia, but also lawyers in other legal jurisdictions or political regimes. It shows the importance of the state in structuring, not only the bar, but also the system of legal education, especially in authoritarian contexts. In contrast to Heinz and Laumann’s classic “two hemispheres” of the Chicago bar, which distinguished lawyers based on client types, in many authoritarian regimes, the state overshadows clients as the key external force that shapes the social structure of the legal profession. Furthermore, the study also suggests that professional socialization in law schools not only leads to different career paths for law students, but also contributes to their distinct political orientations. Most civil law countries have multiple legal professions with various degrees of proximity to the state (judges, prosecutors, advocates, in-house counsel, etc.), and law students are socialized into these professional roles partially according to their political beliefs. This political dimension of professional socialization is often overlooked in existing studies of legal education. Whether it is nature or nurture remains an intriguing question for future research.
All lawyers in private practice must recognize the possibility of opening a summons and seeing their names listed as defendants. Many private practitioners are more concerned about malpractice than professional discipline. The Preface to the Restatement of Law Governing Lawyers captures the regulatory role of malpractice in stating that “the remedy of malpractice liability and the remedy of disqualification are practically of greater importance in most law practice than the risk of disciplinary proceedings.”
Despite the important role that malpractice plays in influencing lawyer conduct, only a small number of empirical scholars have studied legal malpractice claims. That is one reason why we should welcome the recent book by Herbert M. Kritzer and Neil Vidmar, When Lawyers Screw Up: Improving Access to Justice for Legal Malpractice Victims. As suggested by the book title, the book persuasively makes the case for change because a large percentage of victims are deprived of a meaningful remedy in pursuing legal malpractice claims.
In the introduction, Professors Kritzer and Vidmar note that the book’s purpose is to provide a portrait of legal malpractice claims. Unlike other studies conducted by bar groups and insurers, the book goes beyond providing statistical tabulations related to types of claims. The authors use different empirical methods and data sets to systematically analyze what gives rise to claims, how claims are handled, and the nature of claims. They also provide background information on the legal bases of claims and professional liability insurance. Their discussion provides context for lawyers, as well as lay people unfamiliar with the anatomy of a legal malpractice case, the role that malpractice insurers play, and the profile of the defense and plaintiffs’ bars.
Throughout the book, the authors use data and other information to demonstrate that lawyers’ professional liability is not a “unitary phenomena.” (P. 4.) Rather, they assert that there are two distinct worlds: “one involving claims in the context of legal services for individuals and family businesses and one for claims arising from work on behalf of large corporate entities.” (P. 4.) This analytical framework builds on the “two hemispheres” construct used by John P. Heinz and Edward Laumann in their Chicago Lawyers study to describe the two segments of legal practitioners. One hemisphere serves primarily the corporate sector and the other primarily serves the personal services sector. Understanding the differences in the two hemispheres helps explain the different outcomes related to whether and how a malpractice claim will be brought and handled.
Most notably, the distinct differences in the two hemispheres are apparent when considering the likelihood that an injured person will be able to pursue a legal malpractice claim. Injured clients from the corporate sector are probably represented by lawyers who carry malpractice insurance (P. 5.) By contrast, lawyers serving the personal services sector are more likely to be uninsured. This lack of insurance will affect the ability of an injured person to retain counsel willing to handle a legal malpractice case on a contingency fee basis.
Although lawyers who take claims on a contingency fee basis routinely screen claims carefully, such screening is particularly important for legal malpractice cases because of the cost of pursuing professional liability cases and the risk that defendant-lawyers do not carry professional liability insurance. Relying on qualitative and quantitative data, Professors Kritzer and Vidmar discuss how the size of the claim and the insurance status of the tortfeasor-lawyer affect whether a client will be able to find counsel willing to handle the malpractice matter. Specifically, in interviews with attorneys who handle plaintiffs’ work, the authors learned that the amount of the potential damages was an important criterion in plaintiffs’ lawyers deciding to accept representation on a contingent-fee basis. Most attorneys reported requiring a threshold amount ranging from a low of $100,000 to a high of $5 million. (P. 147.) That means that many victims will likely not be able to retain experienced counsel unless the amount of damages is large enough to convince a plaintiffs’ lawyer that it is feasible to agree to a contingency fee.
Assuming that the amount of damages would support a knowledgeable plaintiffs’ attorney handling a matter on a contingency fee basis, a second hurdle in retaining a lawyer relates to insurance and the prospect of recovery. Because states, other than Oregon and Idaho, do not require that lawyers carry a minimum level of professional liability insurance, there is a significant risk that the tortfeasor will be uninsured. Although no national numbers are available, state-level information reveals that a significant percentage of lawyers practice without insurance. The percentage ranges from 6% in South Dakota (a state requiring that lawyers directly disclose to clients that the lawyer is uninsured) to 36% in Texas. (P. 41.) The likelihood of being represented by an uninsured lawyer is considerably higher for consumers who hire solo attorneys because uninsured lawyers are predominately in solo practice. For example, a state bar survey in Texas revealed that 63% of solo lawyers are uninsured. This suggests that those clients in the personal services sector who are infrequent users of legal services may be the most vulnerable to being exposed to uninsured lawyers. Although the harm to these clients may not be quantifiable, the qualitative data from Professors Kritzer and Vidmar support the conclusion that these malpractice victims will likely not be able to retain counsel if the wrongdoer is uninsured. This points to the access to justice problem. As stated in Professor Leslie Levin’s book review of When Lawyers Screw Up, “If individuals cannot obtain competent legal representation to pursue their [malpractice] claims, they cannot effectively access the courts. If lawyers are not required to pay for harm they cause clients, justice is also denied.”
To address the access to justice problem, Professors Kritzer and Vidmar identify a number of changes that would help malpractice victims obtain meaningful redress. The first option they suggest is that more U.S. jurisdictions ought to join the vast majority of common law countries that require lawyers to carry a minimum level of liability insurance. For decades, Oregon was the only U.S. jurisdiction to require that lawyers participate in a mandatory insurance scheme. The legal landscape began to change in 2017 when the Idaho Supreme Court adopted a rule requiring that lawyers in private practice carry professional liability insurance coverage with limits of liability of $100,000 per occurrence and $300,000 for annual aggregate of claims. In addition to the move in Idaho, bar groups in other states began studying the issue of mandatory malpractice insurance. In 2019 bar-appointed bodies in California and Washington issued reports making recommendations related to mandatory insurance. Importantly, both reports referred to Professors Kritzer and Vidmar’s work related to how the failure of lawyers to carry insurance affects victims’ ability to hold lawyers accountable.
The reports’ references to the Kritzer and Vidmar findings point to the important role that empirical work can play in informing the debate and decisions related to lawyer regulation, access to justice, and public protection. Moving forward, their work may inspire other researchers to tackle other empirical projects to bridge the disjunction between the legal academy and the legal profession. As Judge Harry T. Edwards urged over two decades ago, “law schools should be producing scholarship that judges, legislatures, and practitioners can use.” When Lawyers Screw Up is precisely the type of “useful” scholarship because it helps us better understand how lawyers err and how, as a profession, we can better provide access to justice to those who lawyers harm.