But it's not that often that I get a call from a lawyer who has been in the game more than ten, fifteen years, so when Brian Tannebaum told me he had a serious question, I figured he meant it. I settled into my chair and listened.
Brian has a great practice. A mix of state and federal criminal work. A mix of criminal defense and bar disciplinary cases. A reputation of skill and effort, for which he's well respected. He does well, even if he suffers the same ups and downs that every small or solo practice endures. Revenues can be spotty, and hot months are followed by cold months, always wondering if the month after will be hot again. That's solo life.
The dilemma Brian faced was one that a great many lawyers would love. A biglaw firm wanted him. What should he do.
He left the question hanging. He didn't give me any further indication of why he was asking me, whether he just wanted a sounding board or whether there was something I could bring to his thought process that might not be on his radar. I decided that the best I could offer was the perspective of an older lawyer, one who could only see 18 years of practice in the rearview mirror.
There was a time, way back when, that a call came in asking whether I would be interested in hooking up with a law firm. At the time, I was still climbing the mountain, enjoying the struggle to see what could be accomplished and looking forward to the bright lights ahead of me. Midlife still seemed far away, and the future was mine for the taking. I had already tried a bit of law firm life, and it was unpleasant, to say the least.
Having my choices, my decisions, subject to other people's approval felt like a lead weight on my back. Dealing with personality conflicts, whining, complaining, jockeying for position, wasn't my idea of practicing law. Who needed to deal with all that crap, when fighting it out in court was where all the fun was? And there was no more money for doing so.
Sure, the revenues evened out better with more lawyers, as each brought in cases at different times, and one lawyer's low month was another's high. But at the end of the year, it was pretty much even, and all the aggravation that went with managing people was a burden for which there was no reward.
Some of my friends also got the call, and went with it. Today, they sit in corner offices down the end of long hallways. Some haven't seen a courtroom in years. They manage. They advise. They send young soldiers off to war and pray they come back unharmed.
Some still try to get into the courtroom as much as possible, hoping to feel that burst of adrenalin when they're offered the opportunity to give the jury an opening statement. But they have to get back to the office for conference calls, feeling their blood pressure level off and their butt flatten.
At 40, the idea of sitting on conference calls and listening to associates whine about assignments is like death. The bright light fades to a fuzzy glow; you know it will always be there but it will never be bright again. From there, it's just waiting until the last meeting when they hand you the gold watch and carry the box of your life to the waiting car.
At 50, however, it looks a little different. This was the perspective I could offer Brian that he wouldn't be able to see on his own. The thrill somehow disappeared one morning, as you wake up and find parts of your body hurting that never hurt before. You've done enough openings. Closings. Crosses. More importantly, you hear yourself explaining things to potential clients that you've said too many times before. The novelties of youth have grown old. It's not that you don't want a challenge, but that you reached the peak of the mountain. That was it. The rest of the time would be standing there.
I told Brian that the great moments of solo practice would lose some of their luster soon. Not that a "not guilty" verdict wouldn't thrill him, but that the thrill wouldn't last much past the next day. I told him that hanging out in bars and restaurants with clients until the wee hours of the morning would give way to wishing you were in bed by 10 because you're exhausted.
The thrill of scoring the next big case diminishes, while the knowledge that there will be a check every other week becomes comforting. A couple of kids in college, the cost of maintaining the big house and a few cars hangs over you. Where before you felt compelled to accumulate the things that bring you pleasure, you begin to wonder why you need all this stuff, and what you're going to do with it. You begin to feel as if it owns you rather than the other way around. And big kids need big things. And eat a lot more than little babies.
But when this realization hits, that there is virtue in stability and a slower pace, a funny thing happens. You're no longer the up and coming young buck with a proven track record and a glorious future. You're a fixture, a known quantity that's hit his stride. You're too expensive for the investment, and can't promise enough good years left to guarantee that a significant investment will pay off.
I told Brian that when he reaches my age, there won't be a call from Biglaw asking him to come aboard. His opportunity to make the change is now.
I neither advised him to take the job or pass. I tried to give him a flavor of what the future might look like so he could make his decision with an understanding that you don't stay 40 forever, and that life brings changes in perspective and concern. No one told me that when I was younger. I passed on a few opportunities, firms, bench and teaching, that had little luster at the time but are far more attractive today. It's not to say that I made the wrong choice, but that I made a choice without a clear appreciation of how life looks after the bright light fades.
Brian turned down the offer. Whether he made the right choice for him won't be known for another decade or two. I hope my thoughts helped him to decide.
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