Kate, a forty-three-year-old single mother of three, is trying not to panic. As she hobbles down the street to the courthouse in her new high heels, she quickly realizes that law school has done nothing to prepare her for the real world of practicing l

Balancing Act

By Diane Tupper

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Diane Tupper
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4697-5308-9

Chapter One

September Peters v. Peters

Anxious not to be late for my first day as an articling student, I arrived at the front door of the law firm of McWilliams Cameron at 7:30 a.m., before anyone else and without a key or an umbrella.

In the hour I waited for someone else to arrive, I had plenty of time to reflect on the year on which I was about to embark.

Articling is the year you spend after graduating from law school during which you are a lawyer in training; it is the year that will determine whether or not you will become a "real" lawyer. It is a year in which you work at least 12-hour days, study at night for the bar exams, and, in my case, hope that you have some time and energy left for your children.

Hoping I would make it through the upcoming year, the last remnant of the feudal system, I tried to look like I had a reason to be hanging out on the street corner. It had just recently been vacated by Amanda, who, I subsequently learned, was 20 years younger than I, had a grade-nine education, and made about four times as much money in her chosen profession as I would make that year in mine.

This I learned on my second day on the job, after I had been given a key and been advised that I was expected to start work most days by 6:30 a.m., the time that Amanda was usually heading home.

Once Amanda realized that I was not trying to take over her corner, a supposition I found strangely flattering, she and I would occasionally vent our frustrations concerning our respective professions and clientele.

After I'd been standing on the corner for about an hour, getting progressively wetter, John McWilliams, the senior partner, finally arrived and ushered me into the building where I would begin my year of articles, without doubt the longest, most nerve-racking year of my life.

As soon as we were inside the building, John, who I later learned was manic-depressive and who was clearly in a manic stage, greeted me by shouting out that I must be the new "baby lawyer!" As I had graduated from law school at age 43 and was a single mother of three children, I was both taken aback and flattered to be called any name that sounded youthful rather than old; I was euphemistically known as the most "mature" student in my class.

John then proceeded to give me his version of an orientation, during which he dashed around the office moving files for no apparent reason and, at one point, threw all of his telephone messages in the garbage, explaining that they were so old there was no reason to return the calls. Over the next few days, I learned that John seldom returned calls but rather ignored them despite his secretary's pleas. It soon became one of my jobs to return his calls, and I was put in the position of trying to soothe irate clients and assure them that their case, about which in some instances I knew little or nothing, was going well.

Within 10 minutes of entering the office, I learned that it was being renovated and that there was not an office, a secretary, or even a desk for me. According to John, everyone who worked for him, including the renovators, was incompetent. He informed me immediately after this speech that I was to go to court in about one hour to get something called "short leave" on the Peters file. This was the sum total of my orientation.

When I spoke to some of my fellow articling students in the coming weeks, I discovered that they had had orientation weeks in which they were slowly and methodically introduced to the practice of law. They were given tours of their offices and the courthouse and introduced to the personnel in their firms and had the opportunity to observe client interviews and court cases. No one I spoke to was sent off to court the first day of his or her articling year, and many never went to court on their own all year.

After my "orientation," John dashed off, leaving me in the reception area. He reappeared in a few minutes and presented me with three boxes, which contained the Peters file. He then started up the stairs to his office shouting over his shoulder that I was to get short leave for an application for Mr. Peters to have access to his children.

As I sat in the reception area surrounded by the Peters file, various members of the firm began to arrive, along with other individuals who were obviously the incompetent renovators. Only the receptionist acknowledged my presence; she advised me that I would have to move, as the reception area was for clients only.

Trying not to panic, I took stock of my situation: I was soaking wet and being stared down by an intimidating receptionist; I had three large boxes, no time to read the files, no office, no desk, no idea what short leave was, and only a vague idea where the courthouse was located. Clearly, I needed help.

Out of sheer necessity, I somehow found the courage to approach the receptionist, who grudgingly pointed out John's secretary, Caroline.

Carrying two boxes, wishing as I would do many times in that year that I had taken a weight-lifting course, and assuring the receptionist I would be back for the third box, I made my way to Caroline's desk, which was already piled high with files, all of which were covered with a coating of drywall dust courtesy of the renovators, who were working on the ceiling directly over her head.

Caroline was a lifesaver that day, as she would be on many other occasions. Once I had explained my orders from John, she calmly brushed the debris from her hair, found the documents I needed to take to court, and explained that a short leave application was an application to have a matter heard sooner than the rules of court allowed. To be successful, one had to persuade the judge that the matter was urgent.

In this case, Caroline advised me, Mr. Peters wanted to take his children to Disneyland and had, in fact, bought the plane tickets. Mrs. Peters, who was outraged that she had been replaced by a younger version of herself, was taking the position that Mr. Peters could never see the children, especially if Debbie, the new love of his life, was also going on the trip.

It occurred to me as Caroline was outlining the foregoing that perhaps I could bring an application for an order that my former husband, who very seldom saw our three children, be forced to have access. As the year progressed, I encountered a surprising number of women who did not want their children's father to have access to them, usually to get back at him for ending the marriage. This I never understood. How are you punishing someone by taking on the sole responsibility of raising your children? Although I loved my children dearly, there were a fair number of occasions when I would have considered giving them to a total stranger for a day or two.

As it turned out, the courthouse was only about two blocks from my new place of employment, so I bravely headed down the street with the portion of the Peters file that I thought I needed but had had no time to read.

By the time I arrived at the courthouse, I was thoroughly intimidated and very cold and wet, since I had left my soggy coat at the office. Finding the building was not difficult, as it took up a whole city block. Finding where to go once I got in there was another matter. I wandered aimlessly for a few minutes, trying to appear as if I knew where I was going and what I was doing, but at five minutes to 10:00, the time I had been told that court began, I again realized that I needed help fast.

There was a sheriff standing outside one of the courtrooms, and I headed in his direction hoping that he would be able to save me from experiencing the shortest articling year on record. I dashed toward this poor young man, no doubt looking like one of the individuals that sheriffs occasionally had to escort from the courthouse. He looked genuinely frightened as I skidded to a stop in front of him. Fortunately, he did not reach for his gun.

Law school, I quickly realized, did nothing to prepare you for the real world of practising law. I had read hundreds of cases, argued and written exams on the principles and theory of law, and, with the rest of my class, been told by the Honourable Chief Justice in our law school orientation lecture, that I was the cream of the crop—one of the leaders of tomorrow.

As I stood in the courthouse begging the sheriff to save my skin, I felt a lot more like curdled milk than cream; I was a bedraggled 43-year-old straight-A student who had no clue how our judicial system actually worked.

The sheriff explained that there were lists posted showing in which courtroom a matter was to be heard and pointed me in the general direction of the lists. Trying to read the lists and find "Peters" was somewhat of a challenge, as they were taped to the wall and surrounded by a number of lawyers and lay litigants, all of whom were taller than my five-foot-one vertically challenged self.

After jumping up and down a few times, I was unable to spot "Peters" on the lists. Desperate, I asked one of the young lawyers who was blocking my view where short leave applications were heard. He informed me that I should go to courtroom 42, and, in his best condescending manner, stated that my case would not be on the list because, as it was a short leave request, no one knew I was coming. He then added, in case I was the complete idiot I appeared to be, that courtroom 42 was on the fourth floor.

I located the elevator, went up to the fourth floor, found courtroom 42, ran in, and proceeded to drop the Peters file, scattering the contents in various directions. What seemed like 100 pairs of eyes, including the judge's, all peered in my direction as I scrambled to pick up my documents, some of which had slid under the benches.

After a period of dead silence, the proceedings resumed, and I took a seat and tried desperately to put the papers back in the order that Caroline had so carefully arranged for me—a hopeless task, as I had no idea what sort of order I was trying to achieve.

I then sat for the next two hours while one lawyer after another was called to the front of the courtroom by the court clerk to make his or her arguments in support of various applications. I badly needed to use the washroom, wherever that was, but was afraid to leave for fear my case would be called in my absence. By about twelve o'clock, I was the only person, save for the judge, the sheriff, and the court clerk, left in the courtroom and still the Peters matter had not been called.

What I did not remember was that short leave applications were never on the list. What I learned was that one was supposed to advise the court clerk, before court began, that one had such an application.

At this point the court clerk said something to the effect of, "All rise; this court is no longer in session." In a panic, I stumbled to the front of the courtroom and announced to no one in particular, as I had no idea to whom I should impart this information, that I had an application for short leave.

The judge, who was halfway out the door, returned to his seat and asked me to state my name and tell him what my application was about. I did not have too much trouble with my name but did have trouble with his. Should I call him Your Honour, My Lord, Your Lordship? I settled for avoiding calling him anything.

I managed to explain my application by simply reading the affidavit that outlined the client's Disneyland plans and his ex-wife's refusal to hand over the children. His Honour, with thinly disguised amusement, said I could have my order and that it must be served on Mrs. Peters by 3:00 p.m. He then promptly left the courtroom.

In my supreme ignorance, I continued to stand at the front of the courtroom waiting for someone to give me a written version of the order. After asking why I was still there, the court clerk, who clearly wanted to lock up the courtroom, in what can only be described as a lofty sneer, advised me that it was my job to write up the order for the judge's signature. He further advised that I should have brought a draft of the order with me to court so that the judge could sign it.

With mixed emotions and as much dignity as I could muster, I left the courtroom. I had completed my first trip to court and obtained my order, but the whole ordeal had left me feeling as if I had just put in a 12-hour day, and it was only 12:30 p.m. I still had to get someone to type up the order, find the judge so he could sign it, and serve Mrs. Peters by 3:00 p.m.

When I returned to the office, it seemed that everyone had gone to lunch, except for the receptionist, who was clearly unlikely to be of any assistance, and a young man sitting in the reception area doing the New York Times crossword puzzle.

At first I assumed he was a client, as I did not think that anyone would be brave enough to disobey the receptionist's edict that the area was for clients only. However, as I entered the office, still wet and dishevelled, this fellow stood up and introduced himself as Patrick Cunningham. When I explained who I was and made a move to shake his hand, he backed away, probably afraid that I would drip on his impeccable outfit.

I soon learned that the receptionist, whose name, according to her prominently displayed name plate, was Jazmin, favoured Patrick, a 30-year-old associate lawyer. He was allowed to do many things that the rest of the firm, including the partners, were not. He regularly sat in her waiting room, used her telephone, and helped himself to supplies and the candy that she kept at her desk.

The rest of the staff were clearly afraid of her, as were the renovators, who were soundly chastised if they did not wipe their feet prior to entering the building and simply ignored if they had the nerve to ask to use her telephone.

I never learned how or why Jazmin had become so powerful, but, like everyone else, I tiptoed around her and simply avoided her as much as possible. This was not particularly easy as she was the keeper of all office supplies and the overseer of the office's only fax machine.

As it was already 1:00 p.m., I again needed help if I was to get my order typed and signed by the judge, whose name I had not thought to ask, and then serve it on Mrs. Peters, whose address was presumably somewhere in the three boxes of files.

It was unlikely that Jazmin would even acknowledge me, never mind help me. My only alternative was Patrick, who appeared only slightly more approachable than Jazmin. As I launched into the details of my predicament, Patrick sat impassively with his pen in hand, obviously anxious to get back to his crossword but too well brought up to ignore me completely.

Patrick, I subsequently learned, came from a very privileged background and had attended all the right schools. He went straight from high school to university and then to law school. Prior to practising law, he had never worked a day in his life. He was extremely literal and had no practical sense and limited people skills—which were very important in a law firm that practised almost exclusively family law.

The term family law is an odd designation, as all the clients we dealt with were breaking up or in the process of breaking up their families. They were also, in most cases, going through a very traumatic event in their lives; they were often distraught and unreasonable and badly needed to work with a lawyer who was skilled in dealing with their emotions as well as their legal problems.

When I approached Patrick this first day and outlined my situation, he stared at me blankly, as if to indicate that he did not see how any problem of mine could possibly have anything to do with him. His only response was to point out that John McWilliams was my principal and that I should speak to him.

Of course, John was nowhere to be found, as he was enjoying one of his typically—as I soon learned—extended lunch breaks. Many days, John simply did not return from lunch. I quickly realized that he could usually be located in a bar down the street. If he had not consumed too many beers, he was always willing to give me advice; in fact, when he was sober, he was an excellent if somewhat erratic teacher.

Although I did know how to type, having been a bookkeeper in my life before law school, I did not know how to use a computer; nor did I know the form on which to type up an order. Patrick, after filling in a few more answers in his crossword puzzle—in ink of course—finally volunteered that I could find sample orders in a precedent book, which was, unfortunately, located behind Jazmin's desk.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Balancing Actby Diane Tupper Copyright © 2012 by Diane Tupper. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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