me awhile to get a system of priorities organized and to learn to deal with all these strong-willed and redoubtable individuals. (The legal profession seems to have the effect of first enlarging egos and then setting them permanently in concrete.)
Everyone wanted his request for information dealt with instanter, and initially I was overwhelmed; but, after observing the snail's speed unravelling of most of the litigation handled by TORT, I came to realize that there are two kinds of time. One has sixty minutes to an hour, twenty-four hours to a day, moving along at a brisk clip. And then there is legal time, oozing so sluggishly that movement can scarcely be noted.
When a business executive says, 'I'll get that letter off to you tomorrow,' he usually means tomorrow, or in a few days, or a week at the most. When a lawyer says, 'I'll get that letter off to you tomorrow,' he usually means in six weeks, next November, or never. Always, in the practice of law, is the unspoken admonition: 'What's the rush?'
Shakespeare wrote of 'the law's delay', everyone is aware of the lethargy of the courts, and even the youngest, brightest, most vigorous attorney, fresh from law school, soon adjusts to tardiness as a way of life. The law, sir, is a glacier. Attempting to hurry it usually proves counterproductive.
Once I had recognized that central truth, I was able to relax, realize that very few requests involved a crisis, and devote all my energy and wit to mastering the techniques of my new profession. In all modesty, I do not believe I 22
functioned too badly. At least, my salary rose to $12,500 at the end of my first year as Chief Investigator, and to $15,000 at the completion of my second. Surely this was proof that TORT was well satisfied with my performance.
The increase enabled me to move from the YMCA into my own apartment, replenish my wardrobe, and invite Miss Yetta Apatoff to a dinner that included a small bottle of French wine. She did not, however, invite me onto her lap in return.
Not everything was cotton candy. I made mistakes, of course. Not mistakes, perhaps, so much as failures to foresee a possible course of events. For instance, I was assigned to pick up a supposedly friendly witness in a personal liability case and insure his presence in the courtroom at the required time. When I showed up at his Bronx apartment, he simply refused to accompany me.
He was a loutish, overbearing individual, wearing a stained undershirt and chomping a soggy cigar.
'But you've got to come,' I said.
' Got to?' he said, snorting. 'I got to do nuttin.'
'But you promised,' I pleaded desperately.
'I changed my mind,' he said casually.
'I insist you come with me,' I said. I'm afraid my voice became slightly shrill.
'You insist? ' he said. He laughed heartily. 'What are you going to do — drag me down there, you little shit?'
I had to report my failure to the TORT attorney handling the case. Fortunately, he accepted my inefficiency philosophically, the witness's testimony was not crucial, a subpoena was not warranted, and he soon forgot the incident. But I did not; it rankled.
The next time I did my homework and learned all I could about the potential witness, even to the extent of following him for a few days and making notes of his activities.
As I anticipated, he also said he had changed his mind and refused to testify.
23
'Please change it back,' I said. 'I don't wish to inform your wife where you spent three hours yesterday afternoon.'
He put on his coat.
He, too, said, 'You little shit!'
So I learned to cope with those rare instances in which lack of physical bulk made my job more difficult. I was not a licensed private investigator, of course, and I had no desire to attempt to obtain a permit to carry a firearm. I felt I could handle all the demands of my job without resorting to violence.
But generally, those first two years as Chief Investigator of Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum went swimmingly. I learned
Everyone wanted his request for information dealt with instanter, and initially I was overwhelmed; but, after observing the snail's speed unravelling of most of the litigation handled by TORT, I came to realize that there are two kinds of time. One has sixty minutes to an hour, twenty-four hours to a day, moving along at a brisk clip. And then there is legal time, oozing so sluggishly that movement can scarcely be noted.
When a business executive says, 'I'll get that letter off to you tomorrow,' he usually means tomorrow, or in a few days, or a week at the most. When a lawyer says, 'I'll get that letter off to you tomorrow,' he usually means in six weeks, next November, or never. Always, in the practice of law, is the unspoken admonition: 'What's the rush?'
Shakespeare wrote of 'the law's delay', everyone is aware of the lethargy of the courts, and even the youngest, brightest, most vigorous attorney, fresh from law school, soon adjusts to tardiness as a way of life. The law, sir, is a glacier. Attempting to hurry it usually proves counterproductive.
Once I had recognized that central truth, I was able to relax, realize that very few requests involved a crisis, and devote all my energy and wit to mastering the techniques of my new profession. In all modesty, I do not believe I 22
functioned too badly. At least, my salary rose to $12,500 at the end of my first year as Chief Investigator, and to $15,000 at the completion of my second. Surely this was proof that TORT was well satisfied with my performance.
The increase enabled me to move from the YMCA into my own apartment, replenish my wardrobe, and invite Miss Yetta Apatoff to a dinner that included a small bottle of French wine. She did not, however, invite me onto her lap in return.
Not everything was cotton candy. I made mistakes, of course. Not mistakes, perhaps, so much as failures to foresee a possible course of events. For instance, I was assigned to pick up a supposedly friendly witness in a personal liability case and insure his presence in the courtroom at the required time. When I showed up at his Bronx apartment, he simply refused to accompany me.
He was a loutish, overbearing individual, wearing a stained undershirt and chomping a soggy cigar.
'But you've got to come,' I said.
' Got to?' he said, snorting. 'I got to do nuttin.'
'But you promised,' I pleaded desperately.
'I changed my mind,' he said casually.
'I insist you come with me,' I said. I'm afraid my voice became slightly shrill.
'You insist? ' he said. He laughed heartily. 'What are you going to do — drag me down there, you little shit?'
I had to report my failure to the TORT attorney handling the case. Fortunately, he accepted my inefficiency philosophically, the witness's testimony was not crucial, a subpoena was not warranted, and he soon forgot the incident. But I did not; it rankled.
The next time I did my homework and learned all I could about the potential witness, even to the extent of following him for a few days and making notes of his activities.
As I anticipated, he also said he had changed his mind and refused to testify.
23
'Please change it back,' I said. 'I don't wish to inform your wife where you spent three hours yesterday afternoon.'
He put on his coat.
He, too, said, 'You little shit!'
So I learned to cope with those rare instances in which lack of physical bulk made my job more difficult. I was not a licensed private investigator, of course, and I had no desire to attempt to obtain a permit to carry a firearm. I felt I could handle all the demands of my job without resorting to violence.
But generally, those first two years as Chief Investigator of Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum went swimmingly. I learned
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