Supreme Ambitions (3 page)

I introduced myself to the pleasingly plump, conspicuously chipper woman behind the desk. She rose out of her chair to shake my hand.

“Audrey, it's wonderful to meet you. I'm Brenda Lindsey, Judge Stinson's judicial assistant. Welcome to Pasadena!”

She gestured, mock-grandly, by raising both of her arms. But given the beauty of the courthouse, the gardens, and the chambers, claims to grandeur had a basis.

“Thank you,” I said. “It's great to be here.”

“Please, have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”

“I'm fine, thank you.”

“The judge is in the middle of an interview, but she should be done very soon. Just make yourself comfortable.”

Brenda's warmth allayed my jitters—slightly. I perched myself on the edge of a supremely comfortable beige couch, which was built into the wall like a banquette. Everything was so beautiful and expensive-looking, I felt like I was disturbing the space with my presence.

A door shut. A harried young brunette in a black pantsuit emerged into the waiting room from somewhere deeper within chambers. She scanned the room; our eyes met. She looked at me with an impolitic intensity, for a few seconds too long, almost hungrily. Was she trying to intimidate me?

She must be from Harvard Law School, where they learn the dark arts of cutthroat competition that we were never taught at kinder, gentler Yale. She had the grim aggressiveness of an HLS student, as well as the
lack of fashion sense. (Sorry to disappoint you, but
Legally Blonde
was just a movie.)

Harvard Girl's botched pixie cut made her look mannish, as did her poorly fitting pantsuit. The color black, while interview-safe, was uninspired.

I smiled a half-smile and raised my hand in tentative greeting at Harvard Girl. I was about to stand up and introduce myself, the polite thing to do—but before I could say or do anything, Harvard Girl pulled a BlackBerry out of her pocket, checked the time, and strode out of the room.

I wasn't sure what to do with myself while waiting to see Judge Stinson—normally I'd check email on my iPhone, but that seemed vaguely disrespectful—so I turned my attention to the offerings on the coffee table. There was a reprint of an article by Judge Stinson from the
Virginia Law Review
, “The Role of the Federal Judge in Our Constitutional System,” which was odd coffee-table fare. I had already read it, so I set it aside in favor of a book of California country-style houses. Feeling my typical pre-interview anxiety, I welcomed the distraction of “seaside estates, canyon villas, and courtyard bungalows.”

I began by admiring the ocean views from the terrace of a Malibu mansion. Then I lost myself in the architectural ingenuity of an ultra-modern barn-style house in the Russian River Valley.

“You're reading my favorite book, I see!”

I startled and looked up. Standing in front of me, looking amused, was a petite, stunningly attractive Eurasian woman: the Honorable Cristina Wong Stinson. With her ambiguously exotic good looks, she looked like a shorter Catherine Zeta-Jones.

I scrambled to my feet. The book, still open to the Malibu estate, dropped with a thud on the table—I had forgotten I was holding it! Did I just damage federal property?

What to do first: shut the book and restore it to its proper place, or shake hands with the judge? I went with people over property.

“Judge Stinson, it's an honor to meet you,” I gushed, flustered. “I'm
Audrey Coyne.”

“And I'm Judge Stinson,” she said, smiling and extending her hand. “But you already knew that.”

I shook her hand and chuckled at her quip. The one thing I remembered from Trial Practice class was to always laugh at a judicial joke (or anything resembling one).

Then I remembered the book, splayed out helplessly on the coffee table. I imagined the spine creasing from where I had left it open. Every time she saw that crease, the judge would think of me.

“Your Honor, I'm so sorry about your book,” I said, rushing to close the book, with exaggerated delicacy, and replacing it on the table. “I forgot I was holding it, you see, and then when I stood up …”

“Don't worry about it,” she said. “I have a dozen copies at home. I wasn't joking about that being my favorite book—my house is featured in it, and the author gave me plenty of courtesy copies.”

“Well, Judge, if your house is as beautiful as your chambers …”

“That's very kind of you, Audrey, but let's be honest—this old place? I did the best I could. Unfortunately, the people at GSA—the General Services Administration, they manage government property—have all of these restrictions. And they didn't give me much of a budget. I had to, well, supplement it …”

She smiled, and I smiled back. Perhaps what they said about Californians was true: everyone I had met so far, from Pervez to Brenda to the judge, was so affable.

“Did Brenda offer you something to drink?” Judge Stinson asked. This made me feel like a client at her husband's talent agency. The judge was married to Robert Stinson, one of Hollywood's most powerful agents—and the reason she lived in a mansion fit for a coffee-table book, despite earning a federal judge's relatively modest salary. They met as associates at Gibson Dunn & Crutcher, before he left for the entertainment world and she made partner.

“I'm fine, thank you,” I replied. “I had something at the airport.”

“Very well. Let's get started, shall we?”

Judge Stinson led me down a short, wainscoted hallway. Tokens of power and prestige adorned the walls: a group portrait of all the Ninth Circuit judges; a group portrait of all the judges of the Central District of California, back when Judge Stinson was a trial judge; a glass-encased commendation from a women's bar association, given to her when she was an up-and-coming litigation partner at Gibson Dunn; and, most impressive of all, a photograph of Judge Stinson and her husband with President George W. Bush, who had appointed her to the bench, and Laura Bush. Trailing a few diplomatic steps behind the judge, I admired how the cut of her pearl-gray knit suit flattered her body—a body that, despite the judge being almost old enough to join the AARP, didn't need much flattering.

I suppressed a gasp upon entering Judge Stinson's private office. It was flooded with sunlight, thanks to a bank of windows that offered spectacular views of a high-arched bridge that spanned a deep ravine. The room's overall aesthetic could still be described as modern California, but with Asian accents: a handmade Oriental rug, faded enough to be antique; two blue-and-white vases, made of Chinese porcelain, that were the size of small children; and red lacquered end tables, flanking a tan couch. Judge Stinson directed me to the couch—which was, like the one in the anteroom, far more comfortable than it looked—and seated herself in a round tufted club chair.

Intimidated by such surroundings, I would have picked at my cuticles, had my manicure left me anything to pick. But Judge Stinson quickly put me at ease. Going over my résumé, she asked me standard questions—how I liked Harvard for college, what were my favorite classes in law school, what articles I was currently editing for the law review—and I gave standard, enthusiastic answers. Having been through such interviews during the law firm hiring process, I knew the drill.

As an Asian (or part-Asian) woman of a certain age, with a warm and chatty manner, Judge Stinson reminded me of my mother—except with better hair, an unlined face (Botox?), and unaccented English. And, of course, an intricate knowledge of the legal profession's elaborate hier-
archies. She nodded approvingly upon seeing that I had summered at Cravath, murmured “very nice” upon seeing that I had made the finals of the moot court competition in the spring of my 2L year, and raised her eyebrows (in a good way) at my membership on the articles committee of the law review.

“I noticed your impressive grades,” Judge Stinson said, without even fishing out my transcript from the pile of materials on her lap. “But we receive, through diversity jurisdiction, a fair number of complex commercial cases here in the Ninth Circuit. Your mediocre grade in Business Organizations jumped out at me. How can I be confident that you'd handle these cases competently?”

“Well, Judge Stinson,” I said, “I don't know that I'd call a Pass a ‘mediocre' grade. It wasn't a Low Pass …”

Yale Law School has grades, contrary to popular belief, but the scale is spare: Honors, Pass, Low Pass, Fail. My single grade of Pass, on a transcript otherwise filled with Honors, was Business Organizations—“Corporations” at most other schools—with the fast-talking, hard-grading Regina Ranieri.

“Audrey, you're cute,” said Judge Stinson, smiling. “But don't get cute with me. You're in your third year of law school. Have you heard of any of your classmates receiving a Low Pass?”

“No …”

“I've seen dozens of Yale transcripts over the years. How many Low Passes do you think I've seen in total?”

“Ten?”

“One,” she said, pointing a single, meticulously manicured fingernail toward the ceiling. “I was so amazed, I called the professor. The student was living in San Francisco that semester, working on a startup, and showed up twice—for the first class, and for the exam. And he got a Low Pass, not a Fail.”

I shifted on the couch. I felt the blueberry muffin in the pit of my stomach. I noticed the nails of my right hand digging into a throw pillow.

“So,” Judge Stinson said, sitting back in the club chair, “why don't you tell me about your Business Organizations grade?”

I remembered what I had learned while preparing for the moot court finals: take a moment to collect your thoughts before answering a judge's question. So I did.

“Biz Org was actually one of my favorite classes,” I said. “I learned a tremendous amount. My grade on the final resulted mainly from an error I made on a question regarding hedge fund regulation. So this past summer, at Cravath, I sought out a partner who practices in this area, worked on a fund formation with him, and helped him write a law review article. And this semester I'm taking Regulation of Financial Instruments with Professor Ranieri. I'm working very hard and hope to redeem myself with a better grade this time around.”

Judge Stinson nodded intently, a hint of a smile playing across her lips. I felt like an Olympic gymnast who had just nailed a landing. Having covered my résumé and transcript, which Judge Stinson set down on one of the end tables, we turned to more substantive matters.

“I am not, shall we say, the typical Ninth Circuit judge,” she said. “I assume you are familiar with my judicial philosophy?”

“Absolutely, Judge Stinson. You stand out on the Ninth Circuit for your commitment to judicial restraint, set forth very powerfully in your opinions—
Grant
, for example, where your theory of harmless-error analysis was eventually adopted by the Supreme Court. And your dissent from the denial of rehearing in
Upton
, a major qualified-immunity case, where you were once again vindicated by the high court …”

“Audrey, you flatter me!” Judge Stinson chuckled. “Please continue.”

I felt the beginnings of a blush in my cheeks—yes, I was being sycophantic—but I wanted this job very badly. And the judge seemed not to object. I had learned when interviewing for law firm jobs to tell the difference between interviewers who hated suck-ups and interviewers who enjoyed compliments, and I could see that Judge Stinson fell into the second camp.

“I also admire your academic writing,” I said. “Your
Virginia Law
Review
piece on the role of judges in our constitutional system—it takes the familiar subject of judicial restraint and makes it fresh, infusing it with your practical insights as a sitting judge.”

I was glad to sneak in mention of the UVA article. That way Judge Stinson would know I was reading a coffee-table book instead of her law review piece because I had already read the latter.

“Again, that's very nice of you. But my own feeling is that it's not my best work, despite its excellent placement. I prefer my article in the
Harvard Journal of Law and Public Policy
, about jurisdiction as a limit on judges' power. People tend to see jurisdiction as a series of dry, technical questions. What is the legal basis for jurisdiction? Is it federal question jurisdiction, under section 1331? Is it diversity jurisdiction, under section 1332? Is it supplemental jurisdiction, under section 1367? Was the case filed in the trial court within the statute of limitations? Was the notice of appeal timely filed, to create proper appellate jurisdiction?”

Some might have found this recitation pedantic, but I was impressed. Some judges become removed from the details of judicial craft after they've been on the bench for a while, but Judge Stinson struck me as someone still very much in touch with the finer points of the law.

“But jurisdictional limits are not mere technicalities,” she continued. “Constraints on the power of judges are an important and valuable thing. Don't get me wrong, I love having power”—here she smiled wide, and I admired her teeth—“but I'm unelected, here for life, and not very accountable to the people. And that's not necessarily a good thing.”

“Judge, I wouldn't mind having you as a benevolent dictator!”

“Ha! Tell that to my husband. Or my kids. I can't get them to do anything!”

I laughed—and this time it was genuine. We went back and forth about judicial restraint for a few more minutes. Judge Stinson cited Justice Frankfurter's dissent in
West Virginia v. Barnette
, arguing that a judge's personal opinion about the wisdom or evil of a law is irrelevant when he is deciding a case. I cited a
Harvard Law Review
article by Justice Holmes, in which he famously wrote, “We do not inquire what the
legislature meant; we ask only what the statutes mean.” She in turn quoted Chief Justice Marshall from
Marbury v. Madison
: “it is emphatically the province and duty of the judicial department to say what the law is”—what it “is,” not “should be.”