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想读法学院,从此人生辉煌的,先读读这个
[版面:律师事务所][首篇作者:czjd] , 2018年01月11日16:23:45 ,821次阅读,0次回复
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发信人: czjd (加州律师), 信区: Law
标  题: 想读法学院,从此人生辉煌的,先读读这个
发信站: BBS 未名空间站 (Thu Jan 11 16:23:45 2018, 美东)

如果去的法学院不是 Top-14,甚至不是 Top 50,没有很强的 patent 背景,希望你们
能避免弯路。下面的故事读起来像小说,但是我可以告诉你们,非常现实。


http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1905801&forum_id=2#20761498

In a couple short weeks, a new wave of hapless lemmings will crack open the
shrinkwrap on those heinously overpriced casebooks, boot up their laptops
for some heated note-taking, and commence their voyage down the road of
America’s most overrated, miserable, and saturated industry: the practice
of law. A pompous, overpaid professor will saunter in and begin blathering
and bullying them about some obscure case, reveling in her power like a
college calculus student picking on the 4th grade arithmetic class. So
begins another bumper crop in this endless harvest of shame.

Remember those days? The boundless excitement at joining an “elite”
profession, envisioning oneself captivating jurors with soaring oratory and
seating “surprise’ witnesses like Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird?
Or maybe flexing those legal muscles as a powerful DA a la Jack McCoy,
cruising around crime scenes and picking up spent shell casings with a
pencil tip? Sending rapists and murdering scum up the river and then meeting
“the boys” for a well-earned victory beer before firing up the Ferrari to
head home?

Sadly, for most incoming One L’s that isn’t how this dreadful mistake will
play out, despite propaganda to the contrary in those glossy admissions
brochures. Instead, most will cold-send bales of resumes into a dead chasm
of silence, eventually scrounging for document review temp-work at rates
lower than a truck driver, bricklayer, or garbage man earns. Or there’s the
“networking” farce, where you print reams of resumes on that creamy,
ivory cotton-weave Staples resume paper and shove them in the face of every
gray-haired loser at an alumni cocktail reception. I attended one of these
once, and the first older-looking guy on the scene was gang-rushed and sent
to the hospital as a horde of recent grads bum-rushed him with an avalanche
of cover letters! I believe he was pronounced dead shortly thereafter,
having choked on a peel-and-eat shrimp during the melee. I later learned he
wasn’t even a lawyer, but instead a catering director merely there to
inspect the buffet. Such are the risks one runs when overseeing events for
desperate law school grads. Just posting a craigslist ad for an entry-level
lawyer is like strolling into Ethiopia with a box of Dunkin’ Dounuts and
saying: “Hey, anyone here got the munchies?”

In NYC as I write, the rates for most temp projects are $28 an hour straight
time for admitted attorneys, with no health benefits, no paid leave, and
zero opportunity for advancement. Packed elbow to elbow in stifling broom
closets and windowless backrooms, these “losers” (many of whom are laid-
off graduates of so-called “elite” schools) stare into the alkaline glow
of their monitors and click thru reams of the dullest, driest, most
pointless shitpaper mankind has ever produced. Many arrive home at night
with their eyes weeping blood. The fun quickly wears off after the twelfth
hour of scanning a Global Broker-Dealer Bilateral Sub-Agreement to see if
Paragraph 14(b)9vii contains the word “if” as opposed to “shall.”
Picking fly shit out of black pepper would be a more intellectually
stimulating (and probably better paying) job.

Juvenile and petty rules, often arbitrarily applied, dominate these projects
. Internet access is strictly forbidden, with most case managers disabling
the web browsers. Cell phone use and textingare limited to emergencies only.
Of late, even talking to one’s neighbor is taboo, since clients are
getting more cost-conscious and every second of billable time is haggled
over and hard fought. The desks are littered with rotting Chinese take-out
containers, festering cups of day old instant coffee, Ramen noodle
styrofoams, and the other sundry cuisines of the dirt-poor.

Most law grads are little more than over-leveraged liberal arts losers, who
compounded the mistake of a worthless bachelor’s degree withan equally
worthless (and much more expensive) JD. Often paying half (or more) of their
after-tax income in student loans, I’ve witnessed the utter desperation
and hopelessness that many are suffering: single moms stealing milk from the
coffee fridge to take home for their children, working 80 to 90 hours a
week when bone-tired to make the rent on a shithole studio in Queens,
enduring endless degradation and abuse by the sociopathic, greed-fueled scum
who operate these modern day sweatshops, and the occasional outburst of
pent-up anger that ends in security escorting one off the property. The
project’s over- for you! Quickly replaced, there is an endless supply of
desperately indebted losers just dying to take these miserable jobs, since
no alternatives exist.

Hell, even craigslist ads for paralegals and secretaries are now expressly
stating “No JD’s need apply.” Gee whiz, Wally, why would a lawyer apply
for a paralegal job? Here’s a hint: how many nurse or paramedic ads do you
see that state “no licensed physicians please?” How many stewardess jobs
warn “no pilots need apply?” The AMA and other legitimate professions are
experts on the iron laws of supply and demand, and regulate their
professions accordingly.

Bad as they are, these temp jobs (even with the recent plunge in rates and
overtime) still pay far better than small ambulance-chaser firms, many of
whom have cut salaries into the low 30s (annually) in this gruesome bear
market. The supply of lawyers outstrips the number of available jobs by an
absurd ratio, and this problem continues unabated since the ABA will
accredit anyone who opens up a lawschool in the spare bay of his garage. Did
you hear about Philly’s new “Drexel School of Law?” What the hell is a
“Drexel,” anyway? Wasn’t he the younger brother of Screech on Saved by
the Bell? And then there’s the infamous Thomas M. Cooley Law School in
Michigan, who received accreditation for having more “O’s” in their name
than any existing law school. But I digress.

At Paul Weiss, for example, they crammed 120 people into a basement room
that NYC fire code rated for 80. This was in 2005. Like steerage passengers
on the Titanic, we labored in the bowels of the building, right alongside
the boilers and HVAC equipment. Lacking air conditioning and adequate
ventilation, many came down with colds that went untreated due to the lack
of health insurance. A cockroach problem soon erupted due to the crumbs and
food garbage strewn about the cellar floor, which was treated with multiple
Raid roach fogger bombs. The morning after the exterminators finished, dead
roaches littered our keyboards and even crawled, stunted but still living,
from the floppy drives and servers!

We were paid $21 an hour, straight time, and required to work from 9 am to
11 pm seven days a week. Forbidden to use the firm’s lavish upstairs
restrooms, they had all 120 of us split a pair of airplane sized-bathrooms
that were on the Concourse level under the Rock Center, open to the public
and a favorite bathing spot for the homeless. One affable homeless chap
named “Bones” would use the lone toilet in there as a foot bidet, rinsing
his diabetic ulcer in the excrement-caked shitpot and yelling “I’m in here
motherfucker!”every time one of us coders needed to relieve himself. Most
of us just went next door and used the Heartland Brewery’s bathroom (did I
mention that restroom breaks of over six minutes had to be deducted from one
’s timesheet? As a coder, bowel movements can quickly cut into the bottom
line).

Paul Weiss also blocked the fire exits with box upon box of the corporate
shit-paper that arrived daily by the truckload like grist to a mill. Had a
fire broken out, we would no doubt have burned to death in a modern day
Triangle Shirtwaist incident, engulfed in flames while helplessly beating on
box-blocked doorways. To work there was to truly feel expendable, utterly
worthless and really just downright sub-human. The partners should all be
ashamed of themselves.

As an aside, the few partners we met were decidedly unimpressive. An
assortment of combed-over, potbellied schmucks and used-up old broads with
skin like an alligator’s neck, they’d occasionally summon us coders
upstairs for an ass-reaming. The “gals” were mostly snarling old chain
smokers; voices like sandpaper of a single-digit grit. Nicotine oozed from
their iron-gray hair. The men were milquetoast and gutless, too socially
inept for sales and clearly too stupid for a serious profession like
medicine. Most probably never spoke to a woman without first forking over
their credit card number (did I mention Eliot Spitzer once worked here?
Enough said). Hence they masqueraded as “elitists” in the also-ran world
of make-work paper pushing that is law. One used-up old partner who looked
like that guy from Jake & the Fatman once read to us verbatim for 3.5 hours
straight from the training manual, probably assuming that as second-tier
grads we were all functionally illiterate. His breath smelled like hot
garbage.

To be sure, there were some good times down in the gulag. Romances bloomed,
and occasionally one would enter the box-stacks to find sweaty limbs tangled
in flagrante delicto. Working 14 hour days, it wasn’t long before many
donned the “coder goggles” and began to pile-fuck people they wouldn’t
havemade eyes with in the outside world. There were also some fascinating
characters who this temp will never forget. One coder whom I’ll call “J”.
soon earned the affectionate nickname “fade out.” A 40-something Yale Law
grad, he had apparently suffered some kind of nervous breakdown at another
Biglaw shop, and shortly found himself broke, blacklisted, and eternally
condemned to the doc review circuit with the rest of us losers. He was
eccentrically intelligent, speaking in bizarre philosopher jive like Jack
Kerouac coming off a hard bender on acid. He’d launch into some long-winded
dissertation and then, realizing that his audience (as it were) had long
since departed, would simply mumble “right, right, that’s right” while
nodding incoherently and returning to face his monitor. Hence the nickname
“fade out:” like a song without a proper ending, he wound down as if an
engineer simply lowered his volume until he’d exhausted his supply of words
. This would happen like 20 times a day. I often wondered whatever became of
the poor bastard. The last time we spoke he was washing his tube socks in
the break-room sink and saying that “Big Cotton” was solely responsible
for the assassination of JFK.

The next stop on my vagabond coding career was Sullivan & Cromwell, that
whitest of the white shoe firms. This dump has three levels of sunless,
underground bunkers where the temp attorneys and their documents are
warehoused, far away from the skyline corner offices where the serious
shitpaper gets pushed. It’s like those alternative communities of urban
legend that one reads about online: the subway’s “mole people” and such.
You are instructed by your temp agency pimp to meet in the lobby of 125
Broad Street at 9 am sharp, where you assemble as a group to be marched
upstairs and “processed” like that busload of inmates from The Shawshank
Redemption. Told to dress in a “suit and tie” for the first day, they soon
march you downstairs to the dungeon where the “coders for life” toil in
pajamas and sweatpants, chanting “new fish, fresh fish, we got new fish
today” at the suit –clad newbies who are starting the first day of the
rest of their lives. Many start openly weeping into their spiffy leather
Perry Ellis portfolios, some even freshly monogrammed as recent law school
graduation gifts. Many start bleating mindlessly for the mothers, returning
to an infantile state as the overwhelming sadness and abject disappointment
slowly seeps in. As I said, welcome ye to the first day of the rest of your
life!

It’s not too bad there, after you get “on the beam,” as they say in
prison. Sullivan is to disorganization, chaos, and complete systemic
dysfunction what Elvis was to rock n’ roll: the original master. It’s a
bit like that old Cold War joke: An American and a Russian are killed
together and both go to Hell. The devil greets them fiendishly and says “
Gentlemen, you have two choices. You can either go to American hell or
Russian hell.” Curious, the American asks the Devil what the difference is.
“In American hell,” says the Devil “you have to eat one shovel full of
shit each day.”

“What about the Russian hell?,’ queries the Russian in his thick accent..
The Devil replies, “Comrade, in the Russian hell you have to eat two
shovelfuls of shit each day.”

The American naturally chooses the American hell; yet tellingly, the Russian
opts for the Russian hell. Two years later, they cross paths and begin
sharing their experiences in eternal damnation.

“Comrade, you really screwed up big-time,” says the American. “In my hell
I eat my shovel of shit first thing each morning, and do whatever I want to
the rest of the day.” Satisfied, he gloats and scoffs at the hapless
Ruskie, who replies: “My dear friend, it is you who choose poorly. In our
Russian hell, half the time there’s no shovel, and the other half the time
there’s no shit!”

So goes a document review project at Sullivan. Due to their colossal
ineptitude, complete lack of common sense, and probably outright billing
fraud, squads of coders arrive for the mandatory 14 hour “workdays” only
to be kept idly waiting for hour upon endless hour as documents are loaded,
clarifications are sought, software is configured, the moon rises in Taurus
and Capricorn descends into autumn, etc. It’s rare to squeeze more than 45
minutes of actual coding time into a 14 hour day. Not knowing the Sullivan
drill, many newbie coders turn down Sullivan gigs because the long mandatory
hours rightly terrify them. But us veterans know the old “Clownshop” (as
the temps call it) all too well. The waiting coders nap, play cards,
vandalize the workstations and so on while waiting for documents and
instructions that rarely arrive. Some even operate wire fraud scams and
lotteries on the S&C computers, thus “double dipping” and making real bank
. A cool Nigerian coder even once used the break-room hot plate to cook us
all an authentic African ox-tail stew, which ended with a dessert course
provided by raiding the partner’s pantry freezer and ripping off a case of
ice-cream sandwiches that were meant for some lame Merrill Lynch client
meeting or whatever.

Of course, the clients are billed regardless, since firms of this caliber
are as immune to the ethics rules as Typhoid Mary was to disease. It’s
always some solo ambulance chaser who ends up disbarred for screwing up a $
1500 fender bender whiplash case, while Sullivan and the other white-shoe
thieves rip off Fortune 500 client’s cash by the wheelbarrow load with time
-wasting make-work and pointless re-reviews of the same irrelevant documents
. A few weeks at this place really removes any doubt about what the “
practice of law” has devolved into circa 2009: a soulless, money-grubbing
scam that is socially toxic, utterly pointless, and rife with insecurity and
adolescent pettiness. Did I mention that licensed attorneys below the
associate level are not even referred to as “attorneys” by the insecure
dolts who run this glorified sewer? The sub-associate level lawyers are
called “case analysts” and are essentially perma-temps, installed to
babysit the coders and squeal on them like the “straw bosses” of
19thcentury coal mines. Chosen more for their ass-kissing and willingness to
rat out slackers than any legal ability, some of these folks are notorious
on temp message boards, like the dreaded geek “Clovester” and well-fed “
Big Mama.” Keep an eye out for them. Another SullCromscam is to fill the
temp ranks with minority lawyers, thus tooting the “diversity” trumpet and
looking good on paper to their corporate, hand-wringing whore-masters.
Naturally, the partner-level ranks are as white as a wedding dress soaked in
Clorox.

The true gutter “temps” pimped there by the staffing agencies are
officially called “JD Temporary Document Coders” and you are warned at S&C
’s orientation that it’s strictly forbidden to list the firm’s name on
your resume. Instead, you must write only the name of your pimp-daddy temp
agency and the term “Temporary JD Document Coder” even if you’re admitted
to the New York State Bar. Name, rank and coder number! God forbid some
hapless future shitlaw employer would mistakenly think that a Tier 2 grad
was actually an “associate” at the Sullivan & Cromwell! The horror!

Our corporate “laws” are written by almost exclusively by ex-Biglaw
partners, and purposely “drafted” as byzantine, ungrammatical, ill-
considered and generally downright incomprehensible as possible, hence
maximizing Biglaw billable hours. It’s a bit like a dentist handing out
saltwater taffy and boxes of Bubble-Yum to drum up root canal business. (By
the way, I’ve always loved the pompous word “drafted” when referring to
legal cut n’ paste shitpaper, as if this stilted dreck was akin to naval
architecture or some other worthwhile feat of engineering). If the oafish
dolts at the NY Times and other media whores saw the true breadth and depth
of the Biglaw farce the way the coders do, barrels of ink would be spilled
writing about it and “blowing the whistle.” New York’s also-ran diploma
mills like Brooklyn, Cardozo (called Car-Bozo by employers), Pace, St. John
’s, Hofstra, Touro, and the infamous New York Law School (whose motto is a
chagrined “no, we’re not NYU”), are essentially fathering a new breed of
white-collar underclass: heavily indebted, sporadically employed, poorly
paid, bereft of health insurance and stuck in dead-end temp jobs that pay
lower hourly rates (after student loans are deducted from salary) than many
unskilled day laborers earn. These “schools” charge Lamborghini prices for
a clapped-out Yugo with 4 flat tires and sawdust in the gearbox. Talk about
cash for clunkers! When you push these “jalopy” JD’s into the traffic of
this employment market, be prepared to get run off the road.

Ah, how I tire. Age. Do we die all at once, or a little each day? The clock
creeps all too slowly on these temp projects, though. Crawls. It’s
sometimes as if time itself were submerged underwater, with minutes dragging
on for days as if mired in quicksand. After all, we’re doomed to tedious
and mindless make-work akin to Sisyphus of yore rolling his boulder up the
perpetual hill. The terminally ill, I’ve often argued, could easily add “
phantom” years to their doomed lives just by showing up on a document
review gig, where an hour of “coding time” equals approximately four
decades in the “outside world.” A three-week project would to them equal a
virtual second life.

Of course, it’s pointless to point this unvarnished state of affairs out to
the bright eyed lemmings who in two weeks will be enthralled by Pierson v.
Post (that old fox-chase chestnut), and the other antiquated dreck that
constitute the overpriced, pseudo-intellectual farce that is American law
school. On a forum called Top Law Schools there are children entering
Cardozo’s class of 2012 and already trying to decide whether to go right
into Skadden Arps or stop off at a Second Circuit clerkship first! Decisions
, decisions!
--
※ 来源:·WWW 未名空间站 网址:mitbbs.com 移动:在应用商店搜索未名空间·[FROM: 73.]

 
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