In 1976, I was a young lawyer in a large (by the standards of the time) Midwestern law firm. My decidedly junior status was one reason for my surprise when a partner called me into his office and gave me an assignment for the firm’s largest and most prestigious client, one I’d never worked for.
Another reason for surprise was my total unfamiliarity with the subject matter of the assignment, an arcane (to me) piece of legislation then pending in Congress.
But the biggest surprise, by far, was the nature of the assignment. It was both simple and daunting—simple because all I had to do was ask someone his opinion of the legislation, daunting because the person I was to ask was President Gerald R. Ford.
You read that correctly: I was to ask President Ford.
How was I supposed to get an audience with the president? I wondered but was afraid to ask.
Simple, the partner said, reading my mind (or noticing my trembling hands). The president was coming to town to campaign for reelection. He’d hold an event at which he’d first make comments, then invite questions.
All I had to do, the partner concluded, was to be one of the people who asked a question. Q.E.D.
His answer had a strange effect on me. I couldn’t see how it would work—how I could manage to be chosen to address a question to the president. But he’d said that I could do it and that, in fact, it would be simple. And he was a partner, so he must know what he was talking about. I believed him.
But how could I formulate a sensible question on a subject I knew nothing about? The answer was as obvious as it was unpleasant: I’d spend every waking hour until the event cramming my head with information on the subject, writing and rewriting the question, and then memorizing it.
And remember, this was the 1970s, when all legal research was conducted in books, in the firm library.
In retrospect, I think of the product of my toil as a metaphorical iceberg. The deliverable product was a single (albeit long and complicated) sentence ending in a question mark. But that was only the tip visible above the water. Underneath were countless hours of research and work formulating the question.
The big day arrived. Although I was nervous, it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to ask my question. The partner had assured me I could do it.
(At this point, I must interrupt the narrative with an admission: I no longer remember the subject of the legislation or the wording of my question. Had I known I’d be writing about it half a century later, I’d have kept notes.)
But here’s what I do remember. Armed with the ignorance of youth, I secured a seat near the microphone stand that had been placed in the center aisle of the auditorium seating area. When the time came for questions, I was near the front of the line. (Full disclosure: My jockeying for position involved free use of my elbows and shoulders.)
My time came, and I asked my question. The president was probably the only other person in the auditorium who knew what I was talking about. But he knew all about it. He had, after all, been one of the leading legislators of his time. His answer was crisp, clear, and direct.
Immensely proud of myself, I returned to the firm and grandly reported to the partner that I’d successfully completed my assignment. The partner’s reaction was puzzling. He looked astonished. He asked me to repeat what I had just said, which I did.
Then he picked up his phone (land line, of course) and made three virtually identical calls, all along these lines: I have some good news about that legislation client X is concerned with. I sent an associate to the Ford event. He asked the president about the bill. Yes, seriously, he spoke to him directly, during Q and A. We got what the client wanted!
As he made his calls, I came to understand that each of these men, including him, had been asked by a superior to do what I’d just done. But each of them had known the mission was impossible and had passed it down, from one to another, until it reached me. Having no one to pass it down to and being too green to recognize the impossibility of the task, I’d accepted and performed it.
For perhaps 10 minutes, I basked in the partner’s lavish praise of my performance. That’s how long it was before he picked up his pen and asked me to recount, as best I could, the president’s precise words. When I did so, his face turned ashen, as he recognized that the president had confirmed his support of the legislation—legislation our client bitterly opposed and had hoped Ford would veto.
I had reported a success, and I had done so with enthusiasm and pride. The partner, not unreasonably, had assumed that the success was confirmation of the president’s opposition to the legislation. But my definition of success had been much narrower and self-centered: completion of my assignment to ask the president the question and get an answer.
The partner now faced two unpleasant truths. First, I hadn’t brought good news for the client; I’d brought bad news. Second, perhaps worse, he now had to make the three calls all over again. His message on the calls went something like this: Just so there’s no confusion, what I meant was, it’s good news we know where the president stands. But just to be clear, it wasn’t the answer we wanted. He’s not going to veto it. Yes, I know what I said. Look, I said I was sorry!
I could almost see crow feathers on his lips.
I’d continue to work cordially with that partner for decades. But we never spoke of the matter again. We were both too embarrassed.
