Baby Attorneys. It’s what experienced lawyers call new lawyers after they graduate from law school and are first sworn in — what the old call the new as they actually learn how to practice law.

I refer to baby attorneys in my novels. It’s partially because my own experiences as a baby attorney are branded so deeply into my psyche. After I graduated from the University of Texas Law School, I served a short stint in Amarillo working on a congressional campaign, then my wife and I moved to Houston where I began work for a mid-size law firm.

When You are the Baby Attorney

When you’re the new baby attorney at such a firm, you get assigned all the garbage work the senior attorneys don’t want to be bothered with.

Once the Managing Partner ordered me to get his best friend out of a timeshare. Or he’d have me drive from Houston to Beaumont for an 8:30 hearing: no one else ever wanted to make that drive so they’d give it to Russell. (In those days — the early 80s — I-10 East was always under construction: I got to drive in a demolition derby in the morning dark).

And as anyone who knows me can tell you, sometimes I say things that might better off not being said. I’m not the sterling “Whatever you say, Boss” gung-ho type of guy. So I was always in trouble.

The Senior Partner

The senior partner of the firm, Dale Whittington, took a personal interest in training the new attorneys. They don’t actually teach you to practice law in law school. They teach you the law and how to think. The real learning comes after you’re sworn in to practice.

Dale — he allowed us to call him that but it wasn’t because he was your buddy — was an elderly attorney who had practiced law for forty years. He was over-weight, with a wrinkled face and a huge nose; but his steely blue eyes were as sharp as you could possibly image. His mind focused in on the core of a problem instantly. He was as cold as ice in chaos.

Within the firm, they often told the story of the time he sat across the table from a Japanese automaker during settlement negotiations for a multi-million dollar case. All the senior partners sat on one side of the conference table. On the other sat representatives of the Japanese company and their entourage of attorneys.

The automaker’s attorneys began by haranguing our team about how bad our case was. They went on at some length — until Dale calmly interrupted them: “We’re not here to try the case,” he said, “We’re here to decide how much money you’re going to pay us.” There was stunned silence on their side of the table. And they paid.

How Dale Taught Baby Attorneys

This is the man who trained me to practice. He had a cold method for that, too. He’d call me into his office. (That was an awful call to get. I knew I was in trouble.)

I’d knock, and he’d tell me to come in and sit down.

Then, I’d sit on the very edge of his soft client chair, waiting, looking at him looking at me with his sharp, discerning eyes.

After a minute, he’d say something like “How’s it going?” or “How’s the family?” Then he’d tell me a story, usually an old war story of a case he worked on and the problems he had with it. Once, he told me a story about dealing with his pecan orchard on his ranch in the Hill Country. Another time he’d tell me a story about how he dealt with someone he couldn’t get along with.

My job was to listen to the story and get the point. If he was rebuking me, that would be in the story. If he was giving me a solution, that was in the story. I had to figure it out.

I Learned

As you can imagine, I had to go through many of these sessions. In some masochistic sort of way, I grew fond of them — I found it a remarkable method. Within his stories, he taught on several levels all at once. His eyes searched me as he talked, reading my reactions. I wouldn’t leave until those eyes discerned that I understood. I found it appealing to my intellect.

I adopted Dale’s method and have applied it to my entire life. As I raised my children, I used stories in much the same way. To rebuke without damage. To teach how to live. To offer solutions while saving face.

I’ve always felt sorry for baby attorneys who don’t have a Dale.