Post Twenty-five: Everyday stress of being an attorney . . .

So, last Friday discovery responses were due. In a federal court case, no less. A little primer for you non-attorneys: when discovery requests are served (e.g., interrogatories (which are basically questions to another party) or requests for production (document requests)), the responding party has 30 days to answer (sometimes a 3-day or "mailbox" rule comes into play, but never mind that for now).

There is one tricky discovery device known as requests for admission. Basically, you're asking the party to "admit" or "deny" certain facts. However, if you don't answer within the 30 days, the requests are "deemed": i.e., they are all admitted. In such an event, your case will in all likelihood be fucked, as will you. Quoting Dorsaneo, "Call your carrier." And if you happen to be the associate who missed the deadline, enjoy doing public defender work at $10.00 an hour after you get shit-canned from the nice-paying firm job.

So I, being the conscientious associate, send my client's discovery responses out via facsimile (which included all three aforementioned discovery devices) on Friday, the due date (I'll save my experience dealing with the idiot client over the past week and a half for another day). Actually, I hand the signed discovery responses to my secretary and say, "These need to go today. They're responses to discovery." No problems, as she is very, very dependable. I go home and sleep well over the weekend.

I come in this a.m., and one of the file clerks calls me and asks "What's going on with the fax back here?" A teeny-tiny black pit opens up in my gut. I say "What?" and she says, "I'll bring it to you." The pit grows. I wait. And wait. But she never knocks on my door. So the pit shrinks. False alarm. Damn that clerk.

Well, this afternoon my secretary brings to my attention that the responses were apparently not sent on Friday (again, the due date), despite having been sent to the file room Friday afternoon. Small pit is now a gaping cavern, sucking my lead-weighted intestines through my throat into my stomach in an endless cycle (I don't even know how it happens, but that's exactly what it feels like).

Now, I've been an associate long enough to know that it will ALWAYS be my fault when something goes wrong. No blaming the paralegal, secretary or file clerk for their not doing their jobs. It is the associate's responsibility: no quarter given. I suppose it has something to do with the pay scale, but that's what we associates have to deal with.

Well, I am forthright: I don't hide it when shit hits the fan as it typically only creates bigger problems somewhere down the line. I go to the nice partner (conveniently, the only partner here, but she would be the one I went to anyway), and explain the situation. After much plotting and scheming, we come up with a plan that might involve a bit of perjury sometime in the future, but that's just speculative.*

Well, as the partner is explaining things to the file clerk, the file clerk conveniently whips out the fax confirmation page from Friday, demonstrating that the discovery responses were indeed sent out on Friday. Crisis averted. Of course, the ulcer that is slowly forming in my stomach is probably a certainty now, and I'm sure this whole event took some time off of the end of my life. But hey, that's the price you pay for being a high-powered attorney. Shit.

Damn that clerk.


*[a cover-my-ass qualifier in the event anyone took that seriously] Of course, I wouldn't do anything like that.