My Law Firm Interview Was On A Hotel Bed In West Hollywood

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1981

Abstract

yes seemed kind. He looked like a lawyer to me, at least like the ones that I saw on T.V., with his navy blue suit, white shirt and red power tie. He had thinning brown hair that needed a trim and was graying around the temples (like very important people in stressful jobs.) He had a firm handshake and calm demeanor that said, “I’m nice and fair,” with just the right hint of, “Don’t test me.” Gotta respect that in a person.I glanced at the hotel bed — the only place to sit. I sat down tentatively, started talking about myself and before I knew it, my allotted 15 minutes was up. As I rose to leave I could hear the clawing of the other crabs at the door.I was pleased that I was called back for a second interview to the firm’s offices in downtown L.A. I walked into the firm’s conference room and what seemed like hundreds of eyes turned towards me; not really hostile but not really warm either. I instantly felt overwhelmed. I sat down at a conference table that could easily seat 50 people. It was the largest table I had ever seen. All those eyes waited for me to speak. And all that I could say was, “Wow. This is a big table.” With that, I knew that I had blown the interview and my one chance for that prestigious law firm job. To my surprise, the eyes collectively chuckled and miracle of miracles, I was hired.For a new lawyer, the elation of gainful employment immediately turns to dread. The first few weeks (strike that, years) of being a new lawyer, the feeling of being a fraud, a grifter, a con artist is never really far from your heart, head or blank computer screen. You feel as if you know nothing, yet you are supposed to dive into the cavernous firm law library and come to the water’s surface with a pearl — a well-researched and expertly crafted legal argument. What the hell? I’m not a Supreme Court Justice!I received my first assignment and spent one solid week diligently research

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ing in the law library. I didn’t feel very confident about my legal research nor did I think I belonged on the 25th floor of a 75 year old law firm in its mahogany paneled library. I felt what I perceived as disapproval from the portraits of the firm’s founders that I walked by every day on the way to my office.I heard the snarky comments around darkened corners.“There aren’t many women in litigation.”“She better be able to write, he’s tough.”“They tried to hire one once, but . . .”“Where did she go to law school?”My first litigation department meeting was in the conference room around that same enormous conference table; young and seasoned lawyers alike. Mr. Baker, the Chair of the litigation department strode in confidently as always. But his booming voice was clipped and he seemed mildly annoyed. Everyone around the table subconsciously slumped in their chairs and looked down at their yellow legal pads.“I read all of your briefs,” Mr. Baker said. “They need work. I’ve made corrections in red.” Then he dismissively tossed a pile of documents on the table.“But, Ms. Bridges.” He turned to me as did everyone else at the table. I felt his deep voice penetrate my sternum. “Ms. Bridges, your brief was . . . .” (This pause seemed like an eternity, and it was). “Your brief was excellent. It was well written and well-researched. Have your secretary make copies to distribute to the group. Thank you all.” And then he was gone.What remained in the conference room as the crab lawyers clawed at the pile of legal briefs covered in scribbles of red pen was uncertainty, mild panic and the realization that weekend plans would need to be scrapped. But I felt on top of the world because what remained for me was the greatest gift. A feeling of confidence and belonging that I carry with me always.</article></body>

How One Kind Act Boosted The Confidence Of A Young Lawyer

I first met Mr. Baker (not his real name, but close enough) on a hotel bed in West Hollywood; an unlikely place for a law firm interview. I was there for a job fair where thousands of baby crab lawyers crawled over one another in an attempt to escape the terror of student loan debt, crippling self-doubt and the sinking realization that living at home with overbearing parents forever was a distinct possibility.

All of us crabs scurried about into various hotel rooms that had seen better days and smelling faintly of a combination of Pine-Sol, dirty feet and French fries. We were all there for the same reason — to beg any law firm, shadowy government entity, rich old lady with legal problems, whoever, to give us a job. None of us had any practical skills (why teach lawyers how to be lawyers in law school?), but we could recite the Statute of Frauds authored by Lord Nottingham in 1677 with aplomb.

I entered the hotel/interview room exuding false confidence while trying to simultaneously remember the name of the law firm I was interviewing with; make eye contact and smile (not too much eye contact to look creepy and just enough of a smile to not look desperate); and keep the waist of my ill-fitting suit from slipping. I bought it on sale at Nordstrom, so that should count for something.

When I shook Mr. Baker’s hand and met his gaze, I immediately felt at ease. He smiled slightly, but warmly and his eyes seemed kind. He looked like a lawyer to me, at least like the ones that I saw on T.V., with his navy blue suit, white shirt and red power tie. He had thinning brown hair that needed a trim and was graying around the temples (like very important people in stressful jobs.) He had a firm handshake and calm demeanor that said, “I’m nice and fair,” with just the right hint of, “Don’t test me.” Gotta respect that in a person.

I glanced at the hotel bed — the only place to sit. I sat down tentatively, started talking about myself and before I knew it, my allotted 15 minutes was up. As I rose to leave I could hear the clawing of the other crabs at the door.

I was pleased that I was called back for a second interview to the firm’s offices in downtown L.A. I walked into the firm’s conference room and what seemed like hundreds of eyes turned towards me; not really hostile but not really warm either. I instantly felt overwhelmed. I sat down at a conference table that could easily seat 50 people. It was the largest table I had ever seen. All those eyes waited for me to speak. And all that I could say was, “Wow. This is a big table.” With that, I knew that I had blown the interview and my one chance for that prestigious law firm job. To my surprise, the eyes collectively chuckled and miracle of miracles, I was hired.

For a new lawyer, the elation of gainful employment immediately turns to dread. The first few weeks (strike that, years) of being a new lawyer, the feeling of being a fraud, a grifter, a con artist is never really far from your heart, head or blank computer screen. You feel as if you know nothing, yet you are supposed to dive into the cavernous firm law library and come to the water’s surface with a pearl — a well-researched and expertly crafted legal argument. What the hell? I’m not a Supreme Court Justice!

I received my first assignment and spent one solid week diligently researching in the law library. I didn’t feel very confident about my legal research nor did I think I belonged on the 25th floor of a 75 year old law firm in its mahogany paneled library. I felt what I perceived as disapproval from the portraits of the firm’s founders that I walked by every day on the way to my office.

I heard the snarky comments around darkened corners.

“There aren’t many women in litigation.”

“She better be able to write, he’s tough.”

“They tried to hire one once, but . . .”

“Where did she go to law school?”

My first litigation department meeting was in the conference room around that same enormous conference table; young and seasoned lawyers alike. Mr. Baker, the Chair of the litigation department strode in confidently as always. But his booming voice was clipped and he seemed mildly annoyed. Everyone around the table subconsciously slumped in their chairs and looked down at their yellow legal pads.

“I read all of your briefs,” Mr. Baker said. “They need work. I’ve made corrections in red.” Then he dismissively tossed a pile of documents on the table.

“But, Ms. Bridges.” He turned to me as did everyone else at the table. I felt his deep voice penetrate my sternum. “Ms. Bridges, your brief was . . . .” (This pause seemed like an eternity, and it was). “Your brief was excellent. It was well written and well-researched. Have your secretary make copies to distribute to the group. Thank you all.” And then he was gone.

What remained in the conference room as the crab lawyers clawed at the pile of legal briefs covered in scribbles of red pen was uncertainty, mild panic and the realization that weekend plans would need to be scrapped. But I felt on top of the world because what remained for me was the greatest gift. A feeling of confidence and belonging that I carry with me always.