Coming across the word “septuagenarian” startled me. Someone between age 70 and 79, someone in their eighth decade. The word evoked less-than-pleasant images to me: doddering, for one. Am I at the age of being described in terms of a decade?
Last year, I had a choice to make in what I did. I still had my legal career, though my motivations were changing. Having paid off college loans and the wedding for our daughter, the financial impetus had eased up. My wife and I now had more freedom, financial and otherwise. But there was a drawback for me. During my career, one thing I had neglected was developing outside interests.
Where my wife and I lived, a friend had been town judge for many years, and I was never going to run against him. But when he announced his retirement, an opportunity presented itself: run for this position? As a septuagenarian? It would be a contested political race against an opponent, with plenty of effort required.
This wasn’t something I needed to do, psychologically or financially. Or for any other compelling reason. I could ease into an of counsel position at my office in the coming years, or just retire. But instead of going gentle into that good night, and after a long talk with my wife, I decided to throw my hat into the ring. It eventually worked out in the end, though not as easy as I had thought.
Politically, there was a primary for a third-party line, which my opponent won. I was facing a general election with one line and my opponent with three. And he had a gazillion lawn signs.
Financially, the race turned out to be more than I had expected. I was willing to largely self-finance the effort, but it seemed my opponent had plenty of backing. And as good or better a ground game than mine.
Despite my having plenty of friends, many are my age, and when it came to running for office, they were not ones to do door-to-door or much other political work. A lot of the work for this was solo. A small campaign staff of volunteers (largely family) kept my head on straight as I did the face-to-face with voters.
Here’s a fascinating insight: going door to door is not fun on your feet. I went through four pairs of shoes. Fortunately, I quickly got rid of my office shoes and found comfortable ones that were presentable. Late-night Epsom salts became a ritual.
But meeting people in town was also energizing. People were polite, aware of the race, and encouraging. And it made me think that despite some judicial candidates grousing about why we should have to run for judicial office, there’s something important about working for the position. A commitment to democracy. Being willing to listen to the concerns of voters. Going hat in hand and asking someone else for their vote – for some candidates, it might be the last time to show some humility. Once you’re elected a judge, there’s an inevitable isolation that occurs. I’ve seen that plenty of times in judges, and I didn’t want to fall victim to that.
On election night, I didn’t want to publicly hear the election returns that were surely a death knell to my septuagenarian aspiration. I agreed to stop by, at least briefly.
Turns out my pessimism was off. “Lawn signs don’t vote” is a political cliché with some truth in it. The approach of shoe leather, palm card, politeness, and a handshake worked out. Didn’t lead the ticket, but I won.
So, what happens next? Being elected required shifting my practice in a few ways: avoiding conflicts and making sure I had time to be on the bench. Not difficult, though I’ve found that adding anything means you have to cut back on some things.
And then preparing to be a judge. This entailed a weeklong seminar with other newly elected judges across my state, and a laughably small amount of preparation. Did I need it? For decades I had been a criminal defense practitioner in the town courts, had written and lectured on the subject, so everybody said I would easily transition to the bench.
Yes, I needed the training. CLE is important, but CLE isn’t enough.
Someone once said, “Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did. She just did it backward and in high heels.” That’s how I felt: having been on one side of the bench for years, I now needed to do the same legal stuff I had seen on the other side. (But without high heels.) At first, there was an awkwardness in everything I was doing as a judge, like initiating on-the-record discussions.
I also felt much more at ease with advocacy than deciding something.
One of the pluses of the position is that it is part-time, which means I’m still practicing. Which means that I still appear before other judges and see the good and bad ways they handle things. That’s a weakness that full-time judges have: isolation.
I wanted to avoid the mistakes of other judges. There are a lot of things about judges I’ve appeared before that I don’t want to emulate. For example, a fair number of judges take themselves too seriously. (As LaFontaine wrote, “When magistrates are assess, we salute / The law’s regalia, not the dressed-up brute.”)
And insularity. I’d like my time as a judge to make this lower court into a teaching experience for young attorneys to learn some of the basics. That remains an aspiration.
There also are other judges who have standards and approaches you want to emulate and live up to.
Part of my approach was based on something that Lincoln apparently said: “If I have eight hours to chop down a tree, I’d spend the first six hours sharpening my axe.” Preparation – reviewing files, spotting potential issues before they arose, researching areas I’d never encountered before – was needed. I wanted to know each case as well as the attorneys who were appearing before me. Being in charge without acting like I was in charge.
Lesson: Spending more time than is necessary is worthwhile.
In the Mikado, Gilbert and Sullivan provided “a little list” of “people who never would be missed,” including “the judicial humorist.” I’ve learned to stifle my sense of humor on the bench. Not everyone in court may have the same sense of mirth at the law’s absurdities.
Another lesson: no war stories in chambers. Don’t lapse into reminiscing about the good old days when a man’s word was his bond, and blah blah blah. Nobody wants to hear that stuff, not even me.
I was fortunate to be assigned a mentor judge, which is a great idea. It turned out to be a close friend of mine, and we’d talk almost daily, arguing a lot, about what issues, what approaches, should be considered. That relationship was invaluable. There were plenty of moments that arose when I didn’t know what to do, and a quick text to my friend was terribly important.
Small claims are one of the things I have had to deal with, which is not what I did in private practice. But it’s interesting. I’ve known some judges who disdained these cases to the point of issuing their decisions on a postcard. I’ve found it worthwhile to take the cases seriously and to write a decision for each one. These are pro se litigants who take their cases seriously, and their claims or defenses deserve to be treated with respect, with an explanation given. The small investment of time is worth it.
Be willing to try cases. Some judges get elected and seem to want to avoid doing any work. That’s what you were elected for, to make decisions. Sure, try to settle, but the extent to which some judges avoid trying a case is distressing.
My being on the bench has also been blessed by having a more-than-capable court staff. Whether a judge looks bumbling or good, it may be due in large part to the quality of the support staff. (The exact same as when you’re practicing law.) In both private practice and judicial roles, I’ve had high-quality support staff. Turnover in staff can be devastating. People you work with need to be paid enough and appreciated.
Some bumps along the way? You betcha. Small ones, like calling a court interpreter “Your Honor.” Larger ones, like not knowing how to turn on the computer to record a midnight arraignment. Actually, several of these glitches. But nothing in the awful range, not yet.
Not everyone has the relatively smooth experience that I’ve had. Another newly elected judge that I went through training with has had some rough spots. His court clerk left after a month, leaving him with no one for support. Plus, his co-judge in that town court had no computer skills whatsoever. So, my friend got stuck doing pretty much all the considerable reporting and financial requirements for both judges in that court. I really don’t know what I would do if I landed in that situation.
One strength I brought to the bench is the preparation. My experience taught me not to wing it. Being a bit of a grind, to figure things out, I need to write things down, set them aside, return to it a second or third time.
Years ago, when doing some adjunct teaching, I remember a student commenting about another teacher in the department. The student said of my colleague, “When class ends, he’s always the first one to leave.” Ouch.
Years ago, a colleague once got a nice appointment to do some legal work and told his staff, “We’ve got to make this work.” He was willing to put in the time necessary, and pay his staff do so as well, to succeed in their task. He wasn’t going to cut corners. That has been part of my approach as well. I’m not trying to do this job to maximize my income and minimize my time. Nor am I seeking higher office or greater income, but wanting to do a good job, a very good job, is the outcome I’m seeking. Reputation remains important.
You can have a bad day as an attorney and certainly as a litigant. But a judge can’t afford to have a bad day on the bench. Today may be the only occasion this person will appear in front of me or any other judge: I need to be polite and nonjudgmental and avoid a lot of other things we’ve all seen in some judges over the years.
At this point, less than a year on the bench, it’s far too early to call this experience a success. What I can say with some certainty is that I haven’t messed up too badly in anything major. That’s an okay start.
Another lesson learned: Not taking yourself too seriously. I don’t really like being called “Your Honor” or “Judge.” In court, yes. In chambers for conferences, yes. Outside, call me Gary.
