Out of Order: To Thine Own Self, Be True
By Nick Pro Tunc
Attorney Phineas Figby was distraught.
He had heard that lawyers were getting a bad rap. Now his fears were
confirmed in print. The National Law Journal reported a Harris
poll comparing the general population's 1977 attitudes towards various
professions with their 1997 attitudes.1
Asked to rank which professions are of "very great prestige," the
percentage of people listing "lawyer" had dropped from 36 percent 20
years ago to 19 percent today. That was the biggest decline for any
profession. The respondents ranked (in descending order) scientist,
doctor, teacher, minister/clergyman, engineer and athlete higher in
prestige than attorney.
"Well, if that's what the public
wants, I'm going to set an example and become a renaissance lawyer or a
lawyer-for-all-seasons, or whatever," Figby declared.
Figby eagerly set forth on the high road toward his make-over. Since
scientists ranked numero uno, Figby bought a large telescope for his
office. He began asking his clients whether they favored the Big Bang or
Steady State theory of cosmology. Unfortunately, his clients didn't
understand "cosmology," and thought Figby was referring to his billing
practices. It didn't help matters, either, that Figby's office lacked a
window out of which to aim the telescope.
"Science alone may not do it," Figby reflected. "I'll try medicine
next."
Figby's colleagues grew concerned about his new habit of wearing a
white smock instead of a suit. In truth, Figby was only trying to
combine the image of a man of medicine with that of lab scientist,
figuring he could cash in on both professions. Unfortunately, Figby's
new wardrobe made clients think of the man in the proverbial white coat
who is coming to take you away, ha, ha, ho, ho, not a physician or
physicist.
Figby's clientele dwindled.
Undaunted, Figby sought to emulate the third profession on the list:
teacher. He figured that a college professor would be the highest in the
teaching pecking order. Figby traded in the smock for a tweed jacket
with elbow patches. He began smoking a pipe and acting contemplative.
Those clients who could handle the telescope that looked nowhere were
disarmed when they asked for legal advice and Figby merely stared at the
ceiling and puffed on his pipe. Those clients who stuck around long
enough to get an answer to their question were not rewarded with a
simple "yes" or "no," but instead endured a discourse on the meaning of
life and law.
Figby's practice continued to shrink.
Figby started to take indigent court appointments to shore up his
business. At the same time, he was convinced he just hadn't quite
captured the proper image. Perhaps taking on the trappings of a
clergyman would be the rainmaker. Figby encountered a distinct lack of
cooperation from his court-appointed clients when he addressed them as
"my son" or "my daughter" and asked them to think upon their sins.
Prosecutors and public defenders alike, fearing a ground swell of
ineffective assistance of counsel claims, pleaded with the judges to
take Figby off the court appointment list. Figby was trying to entice
everyone to plead guilty and repent.
In due course Figby was destitute. He checked his list and found that
the only remaining professions ranking higher than lawyer were engineer
and athlete. Unfortunately, in his despondency over his failure to
enhance his professional standing, Figby failed to appreciate what kind
of engineer the poll mentioned. He again attempted to merge two
professions into one. Wearing expensive top-of-the-line running shoes
and a blue and white striped train engineer's cap, he dashed up and down
the courthouse steps, passing out his card, and shouting, "Chug, chug,
woo, woo. I'm fit as a fiddle and ready to sue!"
Alas, this sordid tale does not have a happy ending. The moral is
clear: Don't worry about surveys and polls, just be you, the best lawyer
you can be. Amen.
Nick Pro Tunc is still trying to
figure out what he wants to be when he grows up.
Endnotes
1 Aug. 25, 1997, at A6.
Wisconsin Lawyer
