I had little to do, sitting in a courtroom the other day waiting for the judge to take the bench.  It was about 9:15 when I got there, and it was almost 11 am now.  The court officers read the Daily News and the Post, ignoring the lawyers sitting in the front row.

A few feet away from me was a young lawyer.  He was very well groomed, almost to the point of looking like an ADA.  Even his tie was regimental, an affectation that most defense lawyers lose after a few years.  Some revolt as they get older, choosing ties that assault the eye as a branding thing.  My good buddy “Don’t Worry” Murray does that, as if he needed more branding.

After a while, an older lawyer walked up to this young man, studiously reviewing the file and reading, or more likely rereading, the opposition papers.  The older lawyer wore the trappings of a hallway lawyer.  A suit that hadn’t seen anything hot and steamy in a very long time, baggy at the knees and elbows, droopy around the back.  He wore the black sneakers that referees wear, like someone who thinks that no one notices that they are wearing sneakers instead of shoes.  He needed a haircut and had a 5 o’clock shadow.  On his wrist was a Rolex, though it was impossible to tell if it was real.

Then the old lawyer started talking to the young lawyer.  It was a conversation I’d heard about a thousand times.  In the vague vernacular of the New York streets, he started telling the young lawyer about his experiences, peppered with war stories of great glory and brilliance.  The “th” sound was replaced by “d”, making all of it sound so strained.  The hallway lawyer was trying to convince the young lawyer that he was still a man to be reckoned with.  He still knew his way around the courthouse, including the back hallways to the judges’ chambers.

I don’t know if this happens in courthouses around the country.  But in New York City courthouses, there are always old lawyers to be found in the hallways.  They can always be found there.  They have a handful of cases every day.  Rarely retained, except for the odd arraignment by the scared wife whose husband was arrested the day before and without a clue where to turn.  He’s the guy who will pocket the $200 in the hallway outside the arraignment part and deftly handle the misdemeanor plea.  He’s done it a thousand times.  He could do it blindfolded.

The young lawyer listened diligently.  He looked the older lawyer in the eyes, and sat silently as the old man spoke.  He nodded occasionally, but mostly sat there rapt as the old-timer told pedestrian tales of his many successes and dear, close friends in power.  When the old timer finished, the young lawyer thanked him and told him that he appreciated his thoughts.  He told the old man that he had not yet made a decision as to the best tact to take in the case, but that he would certainly give a great deal of thought to what the older man had to say.  The young lawyer turned back to his file and continued to read.

The older lawyer stood there, as if he had nowhere else to go.  He seemed like he wanted to tell more stories to his attentive listener, but the young lawyer was back to work and the old lawyer didn’t want to be told to get lost or ignored.  After fiddling with his clothing, looking around the room and seeing no one he could chat up, he walked out of the courtroom and into the hallway.

The judge finally took the bench.  He was an old friend, a former United States Attorney for a brief period, and made a production about seeing me.  He told the clerk to call my case first, and then he called me to the bench to tell me a few jokes, and I gave him a few of mine.  We laughed, and then he moved on to other cases. 

After I finished up, I walked out into the hallway.  There, sitting on the bench, was the old lawyer.  He was talking to a young lawyer, his hands gesticulating wildly as he was re-enacting some courtroom scene of apparent importance.  The young lawyer appeared to be listening intently, though he was nervously fondling his file, as if he had work to do and really preferred to get back to it.  But he wouldn’t be rude to the old-timer, and listened without interruption.

I’ve walked along those hallways for 25 years, and there have always been old lawyers in the hallways.  I remember when I was the young lawyer listening intently. I had work to do, but it would have been rude to interrupt.  The only lesson I learned was that I never wanted to be an old hallway lawyer.