Kate, a forty-three-year-old single mother of three, is trying not to panic. As she hobbles down the street to the courthouse in her new high heels, she quickly realizes that law school has done nothing to prepare her for the real world of practicing l

Balancing Act

By Diane Tupper

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Diane Tupper
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4697-5308-9

Chapter One

September Peters v. Peters

Anxious not to be late for my first day as an articling student, I arrived at the front door of the law firm of McWilliams Cameron at 7:30 a.m., before anyone else and without a key or an umbrella.

In the hour I waited for someone else to arrive, I had plenty of time to reflect on the year on which I was about to embark.

Articling is the year you spend after graduating from law school during which you are a lawyer in training; it is the year that will determine whether or not you will become a "real" lawyer. It is a year in which you work at least 12-hour days, study at night for the bar exams, and, in my case, hope that you have some time and energy left for your children.

Hoping I would make it through the upcoming year, the last remnant of the feudal system, I tried to look like I had a reason to be hanging out on the street corner. It had just recently been vacated by Amanda, who, I subsequently learned, was 20 years younger than I, had a grade-nine education, and made about four times as much money in her chosen profession as I would make that year in mine.

This I learned on my second day on the job, after I had been given a key and been advised that I was expected to start work most days by 6:30 a.m., the time that Amanda was usually heading home.

Once Amanda realized that I was not trying to take over her corner, a supposition I found strangely flattering, she and I would occasionally vent our frustrations concerning our respective professions and clientele.

After I'd been standing on the corner for about an hour, getting progressively wetter, John McWilliams, the senior partner, finally arrived and ushered me into the building where I would begin my year of articles, without doubt the longest, most nerve-racking year of my life.

As soon as we were inside the building, John, who I later learned was manic-depressive and who was clearly in a manic stage, greeted me by shouting out that I must be the new "baby lawyer!" As I had graduated from law school at age 43 and was a single mother of three children, I was both taken aback and flattered to be called any name that sounded youthful rather than old; I was euphemistically known as the most "mature" student in my class.

John then proceeded to give me his version of an orientation, during which he dashed around the office moving files for no apparent reason and, at one point, threw all of his telephone messages in the garbage, explaining that they were so old there was no reason to return the calls. Over the next few days, I learned that John seldom returned calls but rather ignored them despite his secretary's pleas. It soon became one of my jobs to return his calls, and I was put in the position of trying to soothe irate clients and assure them that their case, about which in some instances I knew little or nothing, was going well.

Within 10 minutes of entering the office, I learned that it was being renovated and that there was not an office, a secretary, or even a desk for me. According to John, everyone who worked for him, including the renovators, was incompetent. He informed me immediately after this speech that I was to go to court in about one hour to get something called "short leave" on the Peters file. This was the sum total of my orientation.

When I spoke to some of my fellow articling students in the coming weeks, I discovered that they had had orientation weeks in which they were slowly and methodically introduced to the practice of law. They were given tours of their offices and the courthouse and introduced to the personnel in their firms and had the opportunity to observe client interviews and court cases. No one I spoke to was sent off to court the first day of his or her articling year, and many never went to court on their own all year.

After my "orientation," John dashed off, leaving me in the reception area. He reappeared in a few minutes and presented me with three boxes, which contained the Peters file. He then started up the stairs to his office shouting over his shoulder that I was to get short leave for an application for Mr. Peters to have access to his children.

As I sat in the reception area surrounded by the Peters file, various members of the firm began to arrive, along with other individuals who were obviously the incompetent renovators. Only the receptionist acknowledged my presence; she advised me that I would have to move, as the reception area was for clients only.

Trying not to panic, I took stock of my situation: I was soaking wet and being stared down by an intimidating receptionist; I had three large boxes, no time to read the files, no office, no desk, no idea what short leave was, and only a vague idea where the courthouse was located. Clearly, I needed help.

Out of sheer necessity, I somehow found the courage to approach the receptionist, who grudgingly pointed out John's secretary, Caroline.

Carrying two boxes, wishing as I would do many times in that year that I had taken a weight-lifting course, and assuring the receptionist I would be back for the third box, I made my way to Caroline's desk, which was already piled high with files, all of which were covered with a coating of drywall dust courtesy of the renovators, who were working on the ceiling directly over her head.

Caroline was a lifesaver that day, as she would be on many other occasions. Once I had explained my orders from John, she calmly brushed the debris from her hair, found the documents I needed to take to court, and explained that a short leave application was an application to have a matter heard sooner than the rules of court allowed. To be successful, one had to persuade the judge that the matter was urgent.

In this case, Caroline advised me, Mr. Peters wanted to take his children to Disneyland and had, in fact, bought the plane tickets. Mrs. Peters, who was outraged that she had been replaced by a younger version of herself, was taking the position that Mr. Peters could never see the children, especially if Debbie, the new love of his life, was also going on the trip.

It occurred to me as Caroline was outlining the foregoing that perhaps I could bring an application for an order that my former husband, who very seldom saw our three children, be forced to have access. As the year progressed, I encountered a surprising number of women who did not want their children's father to have access to them, usually to get back at him for ending the marriage. This I never understood. How are you punishing someone by taking on the sole responsibility of raising your children? Although I loved my children dearly, there were a fair number of occasions when I would have considered giving them to a total stranger for a day or two.

As it turned out, the courthouse was only about two blocks from my new place of employment, so I bravely headed down the street with the portion of the Peters file that I thought I needed but had had no time to read.

By the time I arrived at the courthouse, I was thoroughly intimidated and very cold and wet, since I had left my soggy coat at the office. Finding the building was not difficult, as it took up a whole city block. Finding where to go once I got in there was another matter. I wandered aimlessly for a few minutes, trying to appear as if I knew where I was going and what I was doing, but at five minutes to 10:00, the time I had been told that court began, I again realized that I needed help fast.

There was a sheriff standing outside one of the...