April 2008

Performance Enhanced

Lawyer Discovers Courtroom Opponent on Steroids

A humorous look at what might happen in the courtroom if lawyers start imitating certain professional sports figures.

by Michael Heatherly

Right off, I noticed something different about Chuck Flimsy Jr., my frequent courtroom adversary. His usual lackluster rambling had been replaced with stunningly forceful oratory. Answering my penny-ante motion to compel, he came on like Clarence Darrow at the Scopes Monkey Trial. Flimsy seemed transformed, even physically. His doughy middle-aged form had given way to a robust physique that strained the shoulders of his Men’s Wearhouse suit jacket. When the judge nodded my way and asked, “Rebuttal, counsel?” I didn’t bother. I was 10–2 lifetime against Flimsy and accepted that I was about to go 10–3, and justifiably so.

Afterward in the hall I approached the previously docile litigator with my congratulations. “Fine job, Flimsy. I didn’t know you had it in you,” I said, extending my right hand.

“I got tired of losing to guys like you,” Flimsy barked. “So I stepped up my game.” With that he applied a vise-like grip to my hand that shot searing pain to my shoulder.

As I returned to my office, I was haunted by Flimsy’s cryptic remark about stepping up his game. Then it hit me like a Louisville Slugger: Flimsy was juiced. And not on the three-martini lunches his old man had used to fortify himself back in the day. No, the once-flaccid Flimsy was pumped up — on steroids!

My head spinning, I scanned the Rules of Professional Conduct. Surprisingly, I found no specific prohibition of steroids or other performance-enhancing substances. Still, something just didn’t seem right about a lawyer using artificial means to gain advantage over those who get by with God-given talent alone. I considered calling the police but I had no evidence: no syringe, no incriminating urine sample. I realized I had to deal with this man-to-man.

I rang up Flimsy and confronted him point-blank. At first he denied having any idea what I was talking about. When I pointed out the abrupt, freakish enhancement of both his rhetorical skills and upper-body mass, he attributed it to his recent enrollment in a yoga class.

“Look, Flimsy,” I replied, “a few contortions in sweaty tights doesn’t turn Napoleon Dynamite into Johnnie Cochran overnight. You might as well come clean.” I was unprepared for what happened next. After a long silence, I heard uncontrollable sobbing. Poor Flimsy was breaking down.

“Okay, okay,” he wailed. “An old client, a sports trainer, hooked me up. I had to do it. You sole practitioners just don’t know what it’s like at a big firm these days. I’m on the bad side of 40. I was running out of gas and these young associates were litigating circles around me. There they were every day with their iPhones and their wireless Westlaw access and their 20-hour work days. I needed — an edge. And it was working. Suddenly I could go all night. I’d analyze 10, 12 cases, write a brief, get a couple hours of sleep, then show up in court, fit as a fiddle. I was unbeatable!”

“But Flimsy, you’re living a lie. Those victories are tainted,” I said.

“Believe me, I know. When I look at myself in the mirror I’m ashamed. If I’m found out I’ll be a disgrace to my family. And who knows what damage I might be doing to my body. Already, I think I’m starting to grow . . . .”

“I get the picture, Flimsy,” I said. “Look, I’ll give you a week to clean yourself up. Otherwise, I’m turning you in.”

A week later I faced Flimsy in court on another motion. I was relieved to see that his old mediocrity and lack of confidence had returned. His belly was creeping back over his belt, and he bored the judge to tears within the first two minutes of his argument. I won the motion and got $500 in costs that I hadn’t even requested.

I caught up with Flimsy in the hall and gave him a pat on the back, which knocked the wind out of him. Looking me square in the eye, he said, “I want to thank you for setting me straight. I may get fired for poor performance, but I don’t care. What’s important is that what you’re looking at is the real me, not some over-inflated, drug-fueled monster.”

“You’re a good man, Flimsy,” I said. “A good man.” As we left the courthouse I made a mental note to file for summary judgment before Flimsy got canned and the case got reassigned to one of those cut-throat punks with an iPhone.    

Bar News Editor Michael Heatherly practices in Bellingham and can be reached at 360-312-5156 or barnewseditor@wsba.org.