I met Lilla, my lawyer at the San Francisco courthouse at 8:30 this morning. She had warned me the day before that she had another trial that day, and that I should be prepared to spend hours waiting if she had to attend to other (apparently more lucrative) business. But I was still surprised to find when I arrived that the judge had four cases scheduled for 8:30am. His schedule was similarly full from 8:45 on. I surmise Hizonner Larry Quan is a very busy man. I’m not sure, because I never got to meet him.

The closest I got to the courtroom was the comfortable bench in the hall outside. The opposing counsel was only a few minutes late, but I never saw her, either. I saw precious little of my own lawyer; she’d run by in heels, occasionally stopping to tell me that ‘things are going well’, that ‘they were agreeing to everything she wanted’. In the mean time, since I deemed it unseemly to pull out my new powerbook and type away at my disability hearing, I eavesdropped on the Justice dripping down the walls and running along the floors, files in hand and midprice suits nicely tailored.

I was one of only two or three clients in the hallway; most stayed in the waiting room outside, like customers at the butcher shop who prefer to order their sausage by the link rather than watching the process in person. Uninhibited by their charges, the sleeves were rolled up and the lawyerly crowd got straight down to the business of dispensing justice.

Across the hallway:
“You want ten and my doc says twenty, I figure we’ll just split it and [finger snap]… “

To my right:
“Ever since I did him a favor on a PI auto case, he hasn’t talked to me. Backstabs me every chance he gets - he told that judge the client had lied to him before. Can you believe it?”

Then Lilla is at my elbow. “I got them to agree to 21 per cent. I wanted twenty, so this is great. Do you have any of those other receipts? I’ll be back in a minute.” And she disappears, off to stuff more 8.5 × 14 documents into little fleshy tubes.

I’m left examining a photocopied document covered with scrawlings and paragraphs crossed out that details the settlement being offered. In an hour or two, Lilla and the opposing council for The Hartford have worked out what I spent trying to accomplish for a year and a half of unreturned phone calls, lies, and evasions. I could be amazed at the efficiency Lilla has managed. She cracks the whip of righteousness and The Hartford jumps into line. But how can I believe that’s what happened?

All around me I can hear what passes for justice, and I wouldn’t eat it fried up next to an omelette. It’s all plastic smiles and favor-swapping. I’m unsurprised when Lilla advises that we not pursue the penalties we were seeking for The Hartford’s failure to cover my medical expenses and wilfull delays through my case. “It’s only a few thousand dollars, and it’ll just drag it out.”

Perhaps Lilla was acting in my best interests with this comment. But I wonder where that extra one percent come from? Did Lilla take her heels off and threaten The Hartford’s lawyer to get me everything she could? Or did Lilla’s last case against Annie Jew get 19%?

I agree with Lilla, and tell her to bring me the paperwork. The last thing we want to do is drag this out. We might get some justice on us, and our dry cleaning bills are high enough as it is.