blind insight

One down.

Today's argument went . . . okay. I arrived at the Utah Supreme Court building (where my panel was holding argument) very early, so that I could test the audio amplification system the court had assured me was available. I had tried to find out exactly what kind of system the court used, but could not get any detailed information.

When the clerk handed me the headset, my heart sank. Not only was it an FM system, which I've found to have much poorer sound quality than infrared, but the only available headset was the kind that flips over the ear, on only one side, with the speaker sitting directly over the opening to the ear. The opening to my ear, as you may recall, is filled with the earmold to my hearing aid. With this headset's design, I couldn't even move the speaker to lie closer to my microphone.

The clerk did a quick test for me, and I was happy to discover that I could, indeed, hear what she was saying into the microphone. A little later, when my opposing counsel arrived, she did another quick test. It was only then, 10 minutes before arguments began, that I realized the sound quality was not simply poor, it was somewhat garbled. The system did a good job of amplifying the sound, but it also created a great deal of interference and hard-consonant distortion.

The judges entered, and I approached the podium. As soon as I started speaking, I could tell that I was going to have a very, very hard time hearing the judges. I apologized and mentioned the problem to them, and they were kind about repeating questions as I needed. I got through the argument OK, and was able to hear my opponent well enough, despite the distortion. Mostly, I was just frustrated to have to call attention to my hearing loss, yet again.

I have argued in front of some of these judges before, in other situations where I've had technical difficulties. I would hate for them to think that I'm using my disability to garner favor or somehow to call attention to myself. I want nothing more than to argue my client's case as effectively as possible, with my hearing loss as a non-issue. I have made every effort to ensure that an accommodation would be available to me, and once again, that accommodation has been less than adequate.

I imagine these systems are not used very often, but surely I am not the only lawyer or spectator who must rely upon them. We have made great progress in the availability of disability accommodations in the courtroom. The next step, though, is to ensure that these accommodation measures actually work.

I'm going over to the other courtroom tomorrow, to try to test the audio system there. If it doesn't work, I may try to have a real-time captioner brought in to assist me at my argument on Thursday. I much prefer audio amplification to real-time, but my client deserves to have an advocate who can hear and address everything the judges and opposing counsel have to say about his case.

Whine, whine, whine.

I smashed my head on the just-below-my-field-of-vision overhead bins in the teeny plane. Twice.

I tried to work on the plane and couldn't keep my eyes open for more than 10 minutes. My head kept bouncing around as I dozed, and now my neck hurts.

I had to wait for half an hour for the free shuttle from my hotel, because my boss won't pay for a cab if there's a free option.

The restaurant in the hotel was, inexplicably (even to the guy who checked me in) closed. The only place that would deliver to my room on a Sunday night was Pizza Hut. I had to order $8.00 worth of food in order for them to deliver. So in addition to the pizza, I ordered a dinner salad and some cinnamon sticks.

The pizza took 90 minutes to get to me. Which meant that it arrived at 9:30 p.m. And the salad? Was a Fresh Express bag of greens and dressing. And the guy didn't bring me a friggin' fork, or a bowl. Of course the hotel didn't have a fork or bowl, either. Because the restaurant is, inexplicably, closed.

The pizza was doughy and greasy. The cinnamon sticks were cloyingly sweet. I really needed some protein and some vegetables. I feel sort of sick.

My room is extremely dark, and I have walked into the corner of the TV armoire three times already. The bathroom is tiny, and the closet is basically IN the bathroom. Weird.

The computer desk doesn't have enough outlets for both my computer and my cell phone charger. It's also too high for me to write comfortably on my laptop. The desk lighting is awful, and it's going to be very, very challenging for me to get much work done in this room. On the plus side, the room does have free high-speed wireless internet.

The TV reception is a little fuzzy. The TV doesn't pull out from the armoire, so it's too far away from the bed or chair for me to see very well. And it doesn't have captions.

I'm standing in front of the mirror, practicing my arguments, and I sound like a dork. My facial expressions look weird, too. And I still don't feel ready to argue tomorrow's case.

I'm really nervous that the audio accommodations in the courtrooms won't work.

This is going to be a long week.

Court week.

On Sunday evening, I will be heading to Salt Lake City. The Tenth Circuit is "riding circuit" and holding court week in SLC, and I have two arguments on the calendar. I'm also planning to meet with a client and some colleagues while I'm in town, and if I'm lucky, I might squeeze in a few runs at Alta.

For a variety of reasons (mostly because, for much 2004 and the first part of 2005, I had a half-dozen or so habeas cases moving at the speed of mud through the district court), I have not had a Tenth Circuit argument for 18 months. You may recall that my last oral argument was presented under challenging circumstances, and that it also resulted in a win.

In the time since I last argued, I have briefed over a dozen appeals, many of which are scheduled for argument this year. I have two cases on the March docket, three up in May (two of those are consolidated for argument purposes), and at least two more that will be argued this fall. Assuming that the infrared systems hold up for me, this is completely awesome. As far as I’m concerned, few aspects of lawyering are more fun (albeit nerve-wracking and challenging) than appellate argument.

Because I’ve had a slew of briefing deadlines in recent weeks, I wasn’t able to turn to my argument preparation in earnest until Monday. The two cases I’m arguing next week are vastly different from one another, and both are complex and confusing. I worked into the wee hours all week long (taking a break only for my standing Wednesday night climbing date), immersing myself in the briefs, records, and research for each case. I found myself toggling back and forth between them, ideas popping into my head for Case A even as I was trying to condense my thoughts on Case B. By the time I finally got home last night, I was feeling drained, distracted, and discouraged (but, apparently, also alliterative!).

Today, two of my colleagues helped me pull it all together. The "mooting" process, in which we pepper one another with questions, and deconstruct the strengths, weaknesses, and policy implications of a case, is an invaluable preparation tool. When a session begins, I inevitably find myself stumbling over my introductory phrases, realizing how long and cumbersome they are, and how bogged down I have gotten in the factual and legal intricacies of my case. But by the time we finish, often hours later, I will have distilled my opening into something clear, sharp and tight enough that I can probably say it all before the judges start questioning me (and, hopefully, draw an immediate question).

The process is not for the thin-skinned, as it reveals all the brilliant points I may have failed to make, or to make adequately, in my briefs. It also highlights the problem areas the judges surely will want me to address. But in no argument yet have the judges hit me with issues my colleagues failed to foresee, and in most cases, the internal questioning turns out to be at least as rigorous and incisive as that during the actual argument.

I have work still to do, but at least I feel excited and confident, rather than frazzled and overwhelmed. Now I can turn to other important tasks, like finding myself a new suit!

WHOOOOOOOOOOOSH!

That there is the audible sigh of relief, emanating from every fiber of my lawyerly being, as I hand off to my secretary for formatting the last of the SEVEN appellate briefs I have drafted and filed in the past four weeks. I have another one to turn to now, a big and complicated and, I think, really interesting one, but I have a few weeks still to focus on it. So, WHEW, for the moment.

In addition to brief writing, time in blindinsightland has been occupied with the following:

• Cooking, cooking, and more cooking. Plus a wee bit of baking. I’ve always been a foodie, but now I’m a foodie armed with AllClad, KitchenAid, Cusinart, Wusthof, and oodles of other brand-name toys and tools that make it all the more delightful to play in the kitchen. I will be taking advantage of Friday’s federal holiday to whip up the very first "real" dinner party of our married life, and am eagerly looking forward to making Ina Garten’s chicken with 40 cloves of garlic (because how can a dish with 40 (!!) cloves of garlic be anything short of heavenly?), among other tasty bits.

• Trying to get over my crushing disappointment with our professional wedding pictures. I still can’t bring myself to communicate directly with the photographer, as I am too hurt and angry over her work product and general lack of professionalism in dealing with us. As I look at the photos, I do see that many of them are great, and we will end up with an album full of terrific photographic memories. But the number of shots we specifically asked her to take that she just . . . didn’t, and her utter failure to take pictures of the vast majority of our wedding guests who were not her friends or people she knew (like my family members, and Steve’s, and our wedding party, for example!), and the number of poor-quality or ruined shots (like the ONLY ONE she took of us exiting up the aisle, which is ruined by front-lighting), and the sheer incompetence of her assistant (who, among other gaffes, didn’t even bother to take pictures of Steve getting ready), have me seething and shaking. I need to move on, but I’m still grieving for the fabulous wedding photos of my dreams. (What? You want to see them? Fine.)

• Realizing that there is no way in hell we can afford to remodel our teeny tiny kitchen quite yet. Or, most likely, for the foreseeable future. This realization, however, has motivated us to impose an austerity budget and more aggressive savings measures, and I feel really, really good about our new not-spending habits. Foremost among our money-saving steps is to avoid eating out, and we both agree that almost everything we’ve been making at home is better (and far, far cheaper) than almost anything we’ve had in a restaurant recently. Steve has also become the Peanut Butter Baron, filling the freezer with sandwiches for us to take for lunch. Yummy!

• Preparing myself to turn 35 two weeks from tomorrow (yep, on Turkey Day). I am quite surprised at how hard 35 seems to be hitting me, as I had expected any "damn I’m old" worries to dissolve in the sweet salve of newlywed bliss. Alas, no. I feel old, tired, washed out, achy, old, and old. My adorable (and young!) husband is doing his part to countermand these silly sentiments, but something about 35 is really kicking my butt. I suppose it’s because the American media treats 35, for women anyway, as some mythical age after which our fertility vanishes, our bodies sag, and our health erodes. Feh. I’m looking forward to The Day After, when 35 will be my new reality, rather than a dark and scary place looming before me.

• Reading, a lot. It’s the best thing about my commute. I am almost finished with Rohinton Mistry’s beautiful, if depressing, A Fine Balance, and am just getting into Anthony Swofford’s gritty and compelling Jarhead. I highly recommend both (though I will be skipping the movie version of Jarhead, based on Salon.com’s negative review).

Response #3: How does my vision loss affect my life as a lawyer?

How does my vision loss affect my life as a lawyer? asks Stacy. My immediate response to the question is this: it doesn’t. I can read and write and see the computer with little difficulty (save for some glare and type-size issues that don’t seem to warrant any special equipment or other accommodation, at least not yet). I can go to court unassisted and see what must be seen in the courtrooms, too.

And yet, this question made me stop and reflect on the impact of my fading sight on my workaday life. In meetings and other interactions with lawyers, judges, and in contact visits with clients, my inability to see a proffered hand when looking for lip-reading purposes at its associated face is awkward and often embarrassing. Around the office, I crash headlong into a coworker (or narrowly avoid a collision), trip over a stack of banker boxes full of case records, or spill coffee on something or someone at least once a week. As a result, at least one office-mate cringes in fear whenever she sees me approaching.

Because I don’t drive, I can't visit my clients (all of whom are in prison, because of the nature of my case-load) without riding along with an investigator. Were I independently mobile, I might bring the investigator along anyway to take notes and provide an independent take on the interview, but I might also make more frequent solo visits to some of my clients, particularly those serving life sentences and those who don’t have local family. Also, client visits usually include long walks up and down stairs, through sometimes-narrow corridors and a series of checkpoints, before reaching dim meeting rooms crowded with chairs and tables. Each stage of this process carries its own visual challenges and opportunities for me to feel foolish and ungainly. Often, too, I am separated from my client by glass or wire mesh, making it significantly more difficult for me to see him, to read his lips and thus to understand him. Because I always have an investigator with me for such visits, the concern is not so much that I will miss important information, but rather that my ability to communicate smoothly and effectively with my client is hindered.

For the most part, though, these are minor and passing annoyances. My hearing, on the other hand, comes into play constantly: in office meetings and casual interactions, in court, in discussions and negotiations with opposing counsel, and especially on the phone.

Oh, the dreaded phone. I spend a measurable portion of my day having phone conversations with clients, with opposing (and collaborating) attorneys, with judges’ chambers, and with lawyers, law students, and prisoners’ family members who call me for habeas advice. Client calls are the most challenging, because prison phone systems uniformly suck (I suspect the poor sound quality has something to do with the number of people listening in to my supposedly privileged conversations), and many of my clients don’t speak English well or clearly, so it is frustrating for all of us when I must ask them to repeat themselves over and over. I regularly instruct my clients to put important information in a letter to me instead of discussing it on the phone, and I sometimes call in an investigator or another lawyer to "translate," but often the subject of the call is fairly minor, and my client simply needs to speak and be heard. I hate not being able to fill that role for them effectively, particularly when so many of their cases are unwinnable, and all I have to offer them is acknowledgment and validation.

In non-client calls, sometimes I hear just fine on the phone, sometimes I don’t, and since the sound quality is almost entirely dependent on the other person’s phone or voice, I have little control over the problem. I can tell when someone is on a headset or speaker-phone, both of which pose problems for my hearing and comprehension, and I usually ask the person instead to use a regular phone handset. I have a couple of cases with opposing counsel who talk reeeeaaaally fast, and I have to constantly ask them to slow down and repeat themselves. One of them is very nice about doing so, the other, I think, deliberately "forgets" just to be obnoxious and to keep a strategic upper hand.

I used to dread court appearances, but the new federal district courthouse here includes excellent infrared systems (and real-time captioning equipment) in every courtroom. The judges also have been uniformly helpful and good-natured about making sure I can hear the courtroom proceedings. The Tenth Circuit recently installed a similar (but, alas, not always functional) infrared system, and previously used a borrowed portable system for my oral arguments. So now, going to court is fun, exciting, and something I eagerly anticipate.

Trying to answer this question made me wonder if I’m ignoring ways in which my vision affects my lawyering life. For the next few months, unless it drives me crazy and makes me even more frustrated about losing my eyesight than I already am, I’m going to try to focus on this issue. I’ll let you know if I identify any impacts of which I was previously unaware.

Response #2: Why I do what I do (and how I got here in the first place)

Womanofthelaw asks, why do I do what I do? What I do, in case you didn't know, is  represent indigent prisoners in habeas corpus cases.

Because few lawyers and even fewer non-lawyers understand the first thing about habeas corpus, I offer you a bit of background. I have three general categories of clients:  (1) state prisoners raising federal constitutional challenges to their convictions; (2) federal prisoners raising constitutional (and, occasionally, other) "collateral" challenges to their convictions and sentences; and (3) federal detainees challenging the fact and duration of their detention (this last category includes federal inmates' challenges to prison disciplinary sanctions).

Habeas corpus is the end of the line for most prisoners' efforts to challenge their conviction or detention. Over the years, Congress has made it more and more difficult for prisoners to file federal habeas corpus petitions and to obtain relief on the merits of their claims. The procedural rules are rigid, complicated, and confusing, and the standard for granting relief seems often impossible to satisfy. For state prisoners, for example, the federal courts will grant habeas relief only if the state court's decision on the constitutional issue was "unreasonably" erroneous. Whatever that means.

Except in death penalty cases, indigent habeas corpus petitioners also have no right to court-appointed counsel. (The Sixth Amendment has been interpreted to require court-appointed counsel only through the direct-appeal stage.) Thus, although habeas corpus practice is one of the most complicated, confusing, and procedurally rigid areas of the law, most prisoners must represent themselves in preparing their petitions and responding to the government's arguments. Only if an indigent petitioner gets lucky, and a law clerk or judge or screening attorney decides that "something" in his case warrants it, will I or another habeas lawyer be appointed. Sometimes I get appointed because the case includes serious, and fairly obvious, constitutional problems, sometimes I get appointed because the court is tired of dealing with my client's pro se rantings, and sometimes, I can't quite figure out why I've been appointed.

So, now that you have some sense of what I do, I can try to explain why I represent convicted murderers, rapists, robbers, and drug dealers in mostly hopeless cases. I do it because I love it, and I love it because it feels, in some small way, that I am keeping the "justice" in the criminal justice system. By holding the cops, prosecutors, and judges to the law, I feel like I’m doing my part to protect the balance of power from shifting even more sharply against poor people and people of color than it already has.

I also love what I do because it allows me to provide high-quality, caring, compassionate advocacy for people who’ve never before had someone fight hard for them. Many of my clients have been long since abandoned by their families and their communities. For many of them, too, their original trial lawyers were overworked, underpaid, burned out, and detached, just trying to clear the case from their dockets as quickly and painlessly as possible. And while many of my clients have committed horrible crimes, just as many have been horribly victimized themselves. I like to believe (perhaps naively) that by working hard to protect their constitutional rights - and when I can't do that, by listening to and caring about them - I might in some small way restore their faith in justice.

Rereading the above, it sounds pithy and contrived, the words of a privileged college sophomore railing against the world’s injustices. But in truth, public defending requires a great deal of idealism (along with a high tolerance for losing). It’s not for everyone, but after four years, it remains my dream job.

So how did I get into law in the first place, WotL also asks. During college and while doing human rights work with my father the year after I graduated, I developed a strong interest in both environmental issues and international human rights. From what I could tell, a law degree would enable me to have a professional involvement in such issues at a fairly high level. So, off to law school I traipsed, sure that I would soon be working for the UNDP someplace exotic.

From the beginning of my law school career, I was involved in things both international and environmental (and international-environmental). I took classes in those areas, worked on relevant journals and projects, and published papers in the field. I even co-founded a student organization that eventually became known as the Global Challenges Network, through which we held an annual conference bringing together fascinating speakers to discuss various multidisciplinary topics. Even my summer jobs tracked my interests: my first summer I worked for a law firm whose managing partner was heavily involved in an international-environmental NGO; my second I split between the environmental torts section of the Department of Justice and the human rights bureau of the State Department Legal Adviser’s Office; my third, I worked for a gimungous D.C. law firm, primarily in the environmental and international practice groups.

And so, when I began my 9^th Circuit clerkship in Seattle, in the fall of ‘96, I felt pretty confident that I would soon be heading back to D.C. to begin work at the State Department or at the big international law firm, both of which had offered me jobs. Then two things happened: one, my D.C.-based boyfriend and I split, and two, I started working on death-penalty cases. Thus began a series of geographic and career moves that eventually led me to where I am today.

Of course, the shortest, and equally accurate answer to both questions is this: my parents are both die-hard liberal activist lawyers.

You can't handle the truth!

I've been meaning to put up something new, but the week has rapidly slipped away from me. Several long-languishing cases have suddenly sprung back to life, and along with a few brand new appeals they are keeping me rather busy. It's an energized sort of busy, which I much prefer over the oppressed and paralyzed kind of busy I'd been feeling for a few months. I have some fascinating and important legal issues to brief and some interesting new clients to get to know. That's the way I like it.

I'm also learning more than I ever imagined I would about military law. The federal civilian courts have jurisdiction over habeas corpus petitions by military personnel convicted by courts martial, and I've been assigned such a case on appeal. Military criminal procedure is a whole new animal, and rather a large and hairy one at that.

Of particular interest to me is the discovery that military criminal defendants enjoy several rights and protections to which civilian defendants are not entitled. For example, a military appellate defense lawyer is required to consult with her client about all possible claims the defendant wants to present to the court of criminal appeals. Even if the lawyer thinks those claims are entirely frivolous, she is required to submit a document identifying them as possible appeal issues her client wishes to bring to the court's attention. Another interesting feature of military procedure is that the appellate court - either the service branch court of criminal appeals or the United States Court of Appeals for the Armed Forces - may on its own initiative or at a party's request order the court martial to hold a factfinding hearing to explore issues such as ineffective assistance of counsel and other matters not fully developed in the trial record. These hearings appear to be routinely conducted, and far less difficult to obtain than an evidentiary hearing in a federal postconviction proceeding. And as best I can gather after considerable research, the military appellate courts have broad powers to address issues of concern even where appellate defense counsel has not identified or briefed them.

At first, it surprised me that military defendants would enjoy stronger protections than do civilians. But as I thought about it more, I decided that it makes sense for many reasons. For one, in many cases the military must continue to pay a soldier who is incarcerated for a military conviction (even though he is no longer earning that pay), so convictions impose a significant financial burden on the armed forces. In addition, the military has an incentive to avoid unnecessary scrutiny by civilian courts of its courts martial procedures and decisions. If it affords greater constitutional protections than the civilian courts require, such outside scrutiny can be minimized. And as a general rule, the military takes a highly paternalistic approach to the lives of its personnel, which apparently extends to its law enforcement activities.

In any event, I'm still sorting out the intricacies of military law and procedure. Maybe I should start watching JAG reruns instead of Law & Order SVU?

I came, I couldn't hear a damn thing, I conquered.

Remember a couple of months ago, when my Tenth Circuit argument was complicated by the failure of the audio amplification system? And I had to struggle through, hoping I heard the judges' questions properly and was responding as needed to my opponent's inaudible-to-me arguments?

I won!

May it please the Court.

Last night, I tossed and turned all night playing over and over in my head the 10th Circuit argument I was scheduled to present today. I must have slept a little, because I woke with a start from a dream in which I'd stood up in front of the court, opened my mouth, and gazed in horror as absolutely nothing came out. When I left for the office this morning at 7:15, I was groggy, bleary-eyed, and frantically practicing my opening.

I arrived at the courthouse and was flattered when the clerk's staff greeted me cheerfully and presented me with the infrared amplification system, supposedly all prepped and ready. Then we went upstairs to test the sytem. Suddenly, I was pinching myself to make sure I was, in fact, awake, dressed (to impress), and standing in the actual courtroom in which I was to actually argue just a few minutes hence. Because nothing - other than some crackling interference - was coming out of the headset.

The court technician immediately brought up a second headset, but this one also failed to produce anything more than a bit of static. He fiddled with the infrared panels up above the judges' bench, but still . . . nothing. With ten minutes to go before the session began, I realized I'd have to argue the case un-amplified.

The court staff was concerned and apologetic. They assured me they would alert the judges to the problem and if I couldn't hear well enough to argue we'd figure out "something." Fortunately, my argument was docketed in the smallest, most acoustic-friendly of the 10th Circuit's four courtrooms, so I figured I'd be able to see and hear the judges well enough to survive. Still, I was nervous, distracted, and fighting back tears as I sat down to await the judges' entrance.

The two arguments preceding mine passed much too quickly, and I began to shake as the time for my appearance drew closer (in the interests of full disclosure, I should admit that I always start shaking a few minutes before oral argument). But when I finally reached the podium, the presiding judge gave me a warm smile, indicating they were aware of and concerned about the accommodations problem. I relaxed a little and started my pitch.

And actually completed my entire opening schpiel, and the next few points, and the point after that - all without a peep from the bench. At this point, I entered a whole new waking nightmare. In addition to being afraid I wouldn't be able to hear the judges' questions, I started to worry that they would never even ask me a question I'd have to try to hear. Finally - FINALLY - one of the judges threw me a helpful bone, and I was able to make a nice little point underscoring the strength of my case. After barely six of my allotted fifteen minutes, I sat down.

Then began the worst part of the experience: because I was facing my opponent's back, I could barely understand a word he said. I'm sure I looked comical leaning halfway over the counsel table, straining to catch the gist of his argument, and I was afraid to blink for fear of missing something crucial. But lucky for me, the panel seemed to be leaning my way, and the judges triple-teamed the government lawyer with one hostile question after another. Because I could see the judges' faces, I was able to understand most of their questions and could anticipate much of what my opponent likely said in reponse.

When I stood back up for rebuttal, I apologized to the judges that I'd been unable to hear most of the appellee's argument, and asked them to let me know if I overlooked a point on which they wanted a response. One of the judges responded that it was the court, not me, who should be apologizing for the technological malfunction. This made me and everyone else in the courtroom laugh, and I certainly appreciated the understanding.

This time around, they had more questions for me (several of which I had to ask them to repeat), and seemed to be engaged in the case and supportive of my position. My colleagues who came to watch said I'd picked up on exactly the points in my opponent's argument that warranted rebuttal, though I had to admit I'd guessed at those based on the panel's questions.

When I finally walked out of the courtroom, I nearly collapsed under the weight of pent-up anxiety. I'd held it together through the argument and managed to stay poised, keep my argument on track, and not get flustered when I couldn't hear, but doing so had taken every available ounce of my physical and mental energy. Coupled with the fatigue flowing from my sleepless night, I was ready to sink into a sleepy pile on the courthouse steps.

Somehow, I made it back to work. Then, rather than diving headfirst into the huge brief I need to finish, I took a long lunch break for yoga, which boosted my energy and helped me release the morning's residual stress. On my return to the office, I found a voice mail from the courtroom deputy apologizing for the technological difficulties and commending me on doing a "fabulous" job despite the problem. I appreciated the message, and I have to hope that my inability to hear didn't compromise my ability to advocate effectively on my client's behalf.

After all, his trial attorney (as was discussed during argument today) was a crackhead who entered inpatient drug rehab just days before the trial. At this stage in the proceedings, he needs and deserves a lawyer who's operating at full strength.

100 minutes seemed a lot longer when I was in law school.

I mentioned a couple of months ago that I would be speaking to a group of law students about federal habeas procedure and wrongful convictions. That much-anticipated presentation rolled around last night, and despite my post-vacation chaos, early-stage wedding-planning obsession, and house-buying-and-selling insanity, I somehow managed to pull together my materials for the class and had a wonderful time presenting.

When I walked into the room, I suddenly realized that it has been nearly a decade since I left law school. Yet I still feel like I'm just getting the hang of my profession, and I often wonder when the mantle of authority and expertise will sit comfortably on my shoulders. By the same token, these students (mostly 3Ls) seemed older, more mature, and more focused than I remember feeling as a law student. Though they were obviously overwhelmed by the procedural intricacies of federal habeas practice, and seemed a bit shellshocked by the realization that the federal courts are not terribly interested in whether or not a state prisoner is factually or legally innocent, they seemed to understand most of what I was saying. In fact, the professor later told me that he only saw one student's eyes glaze over during the 100-minute class session, and he considered this quite an accomplishment on my part.

I was surprised at how much I enjoyed explaining the basics of habeas, and I found it easier than anticipated to find a balance between overgeneralization and excruciating detail. I spoke about some of my favorite cases and clients, and offered some success stories to counter the sense of futility most of them were experiencing. Several students asked excellent questions relating to specific aspects of the cases on which they are assisting, and they all seem to be working diligently to help overturn wrongful convictions.

Steve came along to listen, which was a real treat for me and gave him a better sense of what I do for a living. He absorbed most of the material pretty well, and I assured him that the habeas jargon he found so confusing was equally inaccessible to the vast majority of lawyers and law students. He gave me very helpful (and shockingly positive) feedback on my teaching style, and planted the seeds of an idea that will require further exploration down the road. I also received some great follow-up e-mails from the students, indicating that they actually were listening and paying attention to most of what I had to say.

Such fun. And just what I needed to generate the motivation and focus to crank out a brief, prepare for oral argument, and jump into yet another enormous new case record.