Daily Journal- October 27th, 2003

An Insider's Look at the Lives of the Top 100

Daily Journal Extra

Outside, a revolution had occurred. An electorate made passionate by demolition democracy had cast its votes.

The king was dead.

Long live the king.

And so, at 9:03 that morning, the justices of the highest court in the land took their appointed seats. Not to praise their new king, but to decide whether mentally ill individuals could be forcibly medicated. And whether a man should die. And whether a district attorney and a state regulatory agency should be able to concurrently investigate an energy crisis.
The scene was much the same throughout the offices of California's most powerful lawyers the week of Oct. 6. We decided to follow a handful of the state's perennial powerbrokers for a day - permissible stalking, we coined it. We wanted to know what made them tick and set them apart, and to get a look at the grinding gears of the state's legal machine.

What we found was a thoroughly professional group of extraordinarily hardworking individuals who love the game and never, ever get off the phone.

The standard cliché about the friend you would want to have in the foxhole with you? These are the folks who shape the battlefield.

At the same time, there is no other collection of people you would rather spend time with - they are spectacular company, funny, witty, generous in spirit, warm, self-effacing, incredibly well-informed and profoundly interesting. As a group, there also is no one you would less want to tangle with.

And then, there was Gov. Davis. He and members of his administration had been mainstays of this list throughout its six years. And early on, it looked like this year would be no different. But then the Terminator appeared and the world went sideways. The list that resulted is slightly charming for its reflection of an era just passed and slightly aglow with the promise of the future. Time will tell which politicos will emerge in the year ahead to have true power with Gov. Schwarzenegger.

That's a different group, however, than the powerbrokers we feature here. Politicians come and go, but the influence of these eight transcends the vagaries of elections and business cycles. Part of their influence comes from their willingness to take on the orthodoxy of their own camps. They never compromise on the core issues. But if you look at each of their careers, all of them have expanded their power base, often to the vocal opposition of less far-sighted individuals.

They are resilient and amazing, self-effacing, determined.
A day in the lives of the chief justice, two plaintiff lawyers, two defense lawyers, a poverty lawyer, a prosecutor and a studio executive - a case study on the vision from the inside.

Editor's note: This story is a daylong compilation of the work of several Daily Journal reporters over the course of one week. It also is a result of the generosity of the subjects who allowed our reporters access to their daily lives. John Ryan shadowed U.S. Attorney Debra Yang on Monday, Oct. 6 and Tom Girardi on Wednesday, Oct. 8. Los Angeles Daily Journal editor Katrina Dewey followed Chief Justice Ronald George, Liz Valsamis shadowed Warner Bros. general counsel John Schulman, Jason Armstrong followed Tom Malcolm, and Stefanie Knapp tailed Public Counsel President Dan Grunfeld that Wednesday, as well. On Thursday, Oct. 9, Knapp followed litigator Patty Glaser, and on Friday, Oct. 10, Erik Cummins shadowed Joe Cotchett.

***

I arrive at Warner Bros. studios in Burbank an hour before my scheduled interview with John Schulman, executive vice president and general counsel for Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

Never having visited Warner Bros., I'd anticipated traffic on the 134 freeway and had given myself an hour to reach my appointment. Unlike most freeways in Los Angeles, the 134 moved at a good pace, and I reached the studios in under 20 minutes. Being early is better than pissing off Schulman, whom I'd never met, by being late, I figure.

The guard at the campus's entrance directs me to the valet in the executive visitors' parking lot. I drive to the end of the line: a brick paved circular driveway surrounded by impressive buildings. I'm immediately stopped by guards, who tell me to turn around and head back in the direction I've come from. The valet hasn't arrived yet, so I park myself.

I'm left to wander around the campus buildings. I enter Building 3 and poke my head into an occupied office. The man in the office tells me that Schulman is located in Building 2, he thinks. Well, at least I'm close.
To kill the time I continue to explore the campus and stumble across a Starbucks/Jamba Juice/souvenir shop. At 8 o'clock, still half an hour early, I decide I'll head in what I hope is the direction of Building 2.

After wandering down various walkways and long and empty hallways adorned with framed movie posters, I enter a large lobby that actually has people in it. I ask the men at the desk if they can direct me to Schulman, and they tell me to go upstairs, through the double doors, make a left and head to room 218.

I go up the staircase and find two sets of double doors. I'm beginning to feel a little bit like Alice.

I try the doors on my right and enter a large three-room office, most likely that of a Warner Bros. executive. I exit the office and try double door No. 2, which opens onto a long hallway with more movie posters gracing the walls. I head down the hallway, but the office numbers jump from 210 to 250, skipping everything in between.

I panic when I realize that I'm going to be late to my meeting with Schulman.
I remember that there was a hallway going off in the other direction. Hopefully, the right direction. Heading down the second hallway, I give thanks that the numbers are growing in the right order. I stop at 218, the only office on the floor whose doors are wide open and show some sign of life.

I enter the small reception area, which has two desks for assistants. One, Dan Kelly, is present. Before he can greet me, there is a roar from the open door to my right.

" Come in young lady!" OK, this must be Schulman. He seems friendly enough.
Schulman, it turns out, is seated at a large round table stacked high with documents, rather than at his desk.

He has been there since 7:30 a.m. He gets there that time each day, when the labyrinthine Warner Bros. campus is quiet, to prepare for the rush of phone calls, e-mails and office visits that will start by 9:30 a.m. He's already made a few calls to Europe to discuss a fair-use matter involving the company's comic line, DC Comics.
We chitchat for half an hour. I learn that Schulman has two teenage daughters and is the only Warner Bros. executive allowed to have cartoon characters drawn on the walls. Various artists who've visited him over the years have festooned his quarters, including the legendary Chuck Jones, creator of such characters as Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, the Road Runner, Wile E. Coyote, Pepe le Pew and Marvin the Martian.
I explain to Schulman what I'm doing and tell him that another Daily Journal reporter is shadowing Tom Girardi that day. "Thomas V. Girardi?" he asks. He must call Girardi right that second to interrupt the shadowing. Thankfully, Girardi isn't in the office.

***
Tom Girardi strides out the south side of Girardi & Keese's Wilshire Boulevard offices and climbs into the back seat of the town car that whisks him around Southern California. It's 8:32 a.m.
" So this is your second day on the job?" he jokes to José, who's been in charge of his road show for 28 years.
Girardi's work hours are too precious to waste. He gets 60 phone calls a day; it's best to use the back seat as an office.
" The trick," he says, "is to respond, in some way, to every call."
José heads to the Central Civil West branch of Los Angeles Superior Court, a few blocks away.
Girardi likes to get to court early, and he arrives 20 minutes in front of a 9 a.m. status conference on the Rezulin lawsuits. Drug giant Pfizer developed Rezulin to help diabetics, but it turned out to cause serious liver damage in many patients, Girardi explains. The drug is off the market and in courts around the country. Girardi's team has 4,000 clients.
Girardi arrives first in the courtroom but is soon joined by Los Angeles Superior Court Judge Carl West, who is presiding over the cases.
" It's hard to imagine how lucky we are," Girardi says.
" It can always get worse, so I'm happy," West agrees.
Fifteen minutes later, a dozen attorneys clog the room. Girardi and the defense team, headed by Kaye Scholer partner Robert Barnes, iron out a new schedule to finish expert reports. West gives both sides a couple of extra weeks, and life really seems grand.
Girardi gets his second cup of coffee at the little store at the base of the courthouse before heading back to José, engine running. A homeless man spots Girardi and calls out to him.
" How the hell are ya?" Girardi yells back, handing the man a $10 bill.
Girardi doesn't put a lid on his coffee, though he fills to the brim. He doesn't spill either. He looks out the window, thinking about his clients with livers blown straight to hell.
" We have people on waiting lists for liver transplants," he says, then changes gears.
" Let's head up to Chatsworth, José."
At 8:36 a.m., Patty Glaser has been up for four hours and six minutes. Early morning is the only time of day that isn't chaotic, and it's a time when Glaser can get some work done. Typically, she handles tasks she doesn't get to at the office, editing briefs or composing letters.
Today, a court day, she has headed downtown early. The name partner at Christensen, Miller, Fink, Jacobs, Glaser, Weil & Shapiro likes to arrive at court half an hour before her appointed time.
I find Glaser sitting in the hallway outside Dept. 26 in the Stanley Mosk Courthouse. Two male colleagues are on either side of her, planning their appearance. I'm nervous as I stand in front of her, waiting for her to see me. She's one of the most powerful litigators in the state and, because she's a woman, is often tagged a bitch. When she finally looks up after what seems like forever, I introduce myself.
" Of course," she says with a smile. I take a seat on a bench just to the right of hers. After a moment, she comes over and sits next to me, asking me not to release the name of her client. I agree; she smiles and thanks me. A wave of guilt and relief immediately wash over me.
Glaser pulls a briefcase with wheels behind her into the courtroom and sits in the first seat of the first row, waiting for her case to be called. She takes out a three-inch black binder neatly separated with tabs and begins to review some of the documents.

Down in Orange County, Thomas Malcolm has just finished prioritizing his day's workload into "A," "B," and "C" priorities. Malcolm is a commanding presence, towering more than six feet with snow-white hair and a finely tailored suit. His face is lined with years of experience handling courtroom arguments for the most complex cases in Jones Day's Irvine office, and he's racked up a string of multimillion-dollar verdicts to prove his expertise.
" A" is the most important project or appointment. Today, that's a meeting with several of his associates about a client, an optical company, that has been sued by the state attorney general's office for unfair business practices.
The day after Schwarzenegger's victory should be a banner day for Malcolm, who helped pick judges for Gov. Pete Wilson. But he's a creature of habit and is going about business as usual.
He got up shortly after 4 a.m., had breakfast and went to the gym for a cardiovascular workout, then got to the office at 7:30 a.m. He thumbs through his messages in his 11th-floor corner office, checking his e-mail and returning calls as he glances through the long windows that peer out over the 405 Freeway.
His bookshelves betray his passions, with photos of Republican leaders and biographies, mysteries and historical accounts. Tom Clancy's "The Sum of All Fears" flanks "The Brethren" by John Grisham and "D-Day" by Stephen Ambrose.
" Reading is therapeutic for me," Malcolm says. "That's what I do when I get home at night. When I'm in my car, I listen to books on tape, which take me into another world."
We head to a conference room where eight of his associates are assembled around a long table to discuss Priority A: fighting the state's pending motion for summary judgment. Malcolm concentrates intently on the conversation, speaking slowly and methodically while rubbing his eyes and forehead with his hand.

***
At 8:39, Dan Grunfeld gets up from his desk for his second cup of coffee. It's going to be a long day, and he's been up since 6 a.m. to get in a workout and help his 11-year-old son, David, with his homework. He was on the road by 7 a.m., getting in a phone call before arriving at 7:45.
At 8 a.m., he is behind his desk at Public Counsel, the largest, and many say finest, pro bono public interest law firm in the country. He is meeting with volunteer coordinator, Ted Zepeda to establish the heavy calendar of end-of-the-year law firm presentations to encourage more attorneys to volunteer. As they speak and set up dates, Grunfeld looks through his accordionlike calendar. It is about three inches thick and has hundreds of papers stuffed in it.
In the second week of October, Grunfeld already is scheduling into December.
Though Public Counsel has 27 staff attorneys, the organization relies on a network of thousands of volunteers to handle most of its cases. The duo reviews recent articles about volunteers and sets up dates for a volunteer-committee meeting and appreciation event. They are targeting senior attorneys with computer skills.
Zepeda leaves, and Grunfeld begins working the e-mail, taking lots of jabs from the East Coast and inquiries from board members about the Schwarzenegger fallout for Public Counsel clients.
California's Chief Justice, Ronald George, had stayed up until after midnight the night before going through the heavy briefing books for the five arguments scheduled today. He woke up around 6:30 a.m. and skipped his customary 4-mile morning run to meet me before court started.
Court today is at the Ronald Reagan State Office Building sandwiched between L.A.'s Skid Row, redevelopment efforts and the grand markets of Broadway. Although usually their arguments are heard in San Francisco, Los Angeles and Sacramento, the Chief has made a big point of taking the court on the road to other locations, improving its public outreach to its constituents.
I have passed through two sets of metal detectors to reach the Chief, then been greeted and escorted by a phalanx of executives from the court's remarkably professional staff to gain access to his chambers. Fritz Ohlrich, the clerk of the court, waits with me to hand me off to the Chief.
At 8:35 a.m. the Chief swarms in, rolling suitcase in tow, eager for the day. Within moments of entering the room, he notes that one of the justices' spots at the conference table is missing a pad of paper, which he hurriedly finds and puts in place. He settles behind his desk, and we talk for awhile about the massive and secret briefing books that contain color-coded notes and proposed decisions, carefully constructed, for that day's cases. We discuss topics from the sublime to the mundane: the "In Memoriams" the Chief reinstituted to recognize court personnel and judicial officers who have died, along with the thousand or so orders he must sign each week that will provide the metronome of his day on the bench.
We are interrupted by an assistant and a maintenance worker there to check his sink. He asks her to go ahead, but she determines that a more complex job is in order. He takes a call from one of his secretaries who's worried because she is on jury duty and the other has called in sick. Because it's a busy day, he's concerned about leaving his phone untended.
The Chief is increasingly on edge at 8:56, his deep-set and sharp eyes finding their way more frequently to the clock on the far wall. He has anticipated the arrival of a photographer, who is not there. At a few minutes of 9, he dashes to his dressing room and emerges with his robe flying. He fastens it over his red tie and white shirt while padding his sensible black shoes down the hall, all the while explaining to me what is next. A security officer unlocks the door to the secured elevator that takes us to the courtroom floor, where he busks open the door to the enrobing room. I'm allowed only a glimpse "to respect my colleagues' privacy."

At 9:06, Judge James R. Dunn sends Glaser and her opponent to the jury room to seek a compromise after hearing brief argument. Glaser waited through four cases before standing and speaking, her colleagues to her left and a step behind. She listens, arms crossed in front of her, as the judge speaks.
Glaser's case is a construction defect case filed more than a year before. Her client is suing its insurers for not honoring their claims. And Glaser wants a trial date.
" We want to move forward as quickly as possible." She gestures as she speaks.
As defense counsel responds, Glaser shakes her head, placing her hands on the back of her chair and looking at its seat. The defense wants a trial date in 2005.
At 9:15 a.m. Warner Bros. head litigator, Zazi Pope, enters Schulman's office. He asks her to speak in vague language so I won't understand. She gives a hazy appraisal of a deposition from the week before. The debriefing lasts five minutes before the antics begin. Schulman lives up to his reputation as a prankster, and a scene unfolds involving playful jabs and an orange bear.
At 9:20, Schulman's other assistant, Heidi Linn, arrives and takes his calendar away. She tells him that lunch has been scheduled for 12:15 with a Washington D.C.-based company executive, an in-house intellectual property lawyer and the company's No. 2 in its home video section. They will discuss Warner Bros.' concerns over anti-piracy bills.
At 9:30, Gary Simon, a senior vice president, and Janet Grady, vice president and senior litigation counsel, come in to discuss opportunities in China. Simon asks me to leave the room.
At 9:45, Glaser and opposing counsel emerge from the jury room. They sit in the audience while the judge finishes hearing another case. Glaser steps out in the hallway to try to make a cell phone call. She walks up and down the hall trying to get reception. No dice. She goes to the payphone and searches her wallet for change. She finds some and places a call. We talk about the two or three trials she handles each year, how much she values the junior lawyers at her firm, and her enjoyment of the 120-attorney firm she helped found in 1988.
" We don't want to be managers - we want to be lawyers," she says.
***
I'm allowed back into Schulman's office at 9:47. Eight minutes later, he gets a call from one of the lawyers at the network to discuss a piece of litigation that does not involve Warner Bros. Schulman, the dean of studio lawyers, has been there since 1984 and oversees a 125-lawyer department. He says his lawyers are smart enough to call him when they need him and not when they don't.
At 10:01, he calls Mark Gill, the new head, or "poobah," of Warner Independent Pictures, to discuss an amendment to his contract. After the call, he sees that he's received 47 e-mails in the last two hours.
Schulman is to meet with Alan Horn, president and chief operating officer of Warner Bros., at 10:30 to discuss audit issues for the Harry Potter franchise. "Standard stuff," Schulman says.
Standard, but confidential. I head back downtown.
At 10:31, Grunfeld is to give a presentation to O'Melveny & Myers with Carolyn Phillips, the Childcare Project directing attorney.
He throws on a blue tie and brushes his hair as he leaves Public Counsel, stopping to greet participants in an intellectual property seminar being held in the community room. He climbs into his black Jeep Grand Cherokee, and Phillips takes the front passenger seat. I'm riding in back.
His car is not cluttered except for a soda bottle in the front and a bike rack in the very back. Phillips and Grunfeld talk about the state budget on the way and are interrupted by a cell phone.
" Is that me or you?" Grunfeld asks.
Phillips' father wants matinee tickets to The Music Man.
Grunfeld's brother is getting married Sunday, and he is the best man. He should be working on his toast, he says.
We arrive and are shown to a conference room where Grunfeld and Phillips tell nine attorneys there and three by speakerphone about Public Counsel's project to bring six cities into compliance with state child care laws.

***
By 10:32 a.m., Debra Yang, the U.S. attorney for the Central District of California, has been in the office playing catch-up for nearly three hours. It's a slow day, so Yang is handling e-mails and phone calls she missed the previous week. As a member of Attorney General John Ashcroft's advisory committee, Yang spent the first half of the previous week in Washington, D.C. She flew back midweek, arriving at LAX near midnight, and immediately drove up to Yosemite for a prosecutors' conference. She is accustomed to working on little or no sleep.
" I would have made a good soldier in World War II," she confesses.
Already, she's gone through 150 of 466 e-mails that have piled up. She admits to being a great multitasker. For the better part of two hours, she responds to e-mails, many from prosecutors seeking input on big cases, while talking on the phone and re-arranging her schedule with her assistant.
She normally gets up around 6 a.m. and plows through some work before driving the car pool to school for her three young children, whose ages and names she does not disclose for security reasons.
" Thank God for cell phones," she says, explaining that she uses the pre-office part of the day to talk to Justice Department headquarters, getting some important conversations out of the way before sitting down at her desk.
President Bush appointed Yang in May 2002. Before that, she was a Los Angeles Superior Court judge and spent seven years as an assistant U.S. attorney in Los Angeles.
" I love this office," she beams.
Only the U.S. attorney's office in Washington, D.C., is bigger. In many ways, Yang is like the managing partner of a large law firm, supervising 260 attorneys, but with the added stress of tremendous media pressure and public scrutiny. The pressure has grown with the Bush administration's war on terrorism, which has the Justice Department playing a role in preventing terrorist acts in addition to prosecuting the offenders.
" It's a little daunting," Yang says. "We've never done that before."
Yang hardly looks scared - and hardly looks the part, given her surroundings. The federal building in downtown Los Angeles, and Yang's wing in particular, is filled mostly by men in suits with short haircuts and intense demeanors. They all report to Yang, who works from a 12th-floor office, which has a clear view of Chinatown - where Yang spent much of her childhood.
" I haven't gone very far," she says with a laugh, continuing to burn through her e-mails. "I can look out my window and see my elementary school - how weird is that?"
Among the details piling up this week is helping to find a U.S. bankruptcy trustee. As 10:30 passes, she makes a few calls to contacts to find possible recommendations.
She then asks her assistant to type up a friendly contact letter to a number of the prosecutors she met at the Yosemite conference.
" I forgot to bring business cards," she explains to her assistant, "because I'm so much of a dork."

***
I hurriedly enter the courtroom and sit in the audience to hear the "In Memoriam" for Justice David N. Eagleson, who was appointed to the California Supreme Court after Rose Bird and crew were recalled in 1987. The Chief makes introductory remarks that are warm and engaging; Eagleson is memorialized by former Chief Justice Malcolm Lucas, his research attorney Rick Seitz and his daughter. San Diego attorney Beth Eagleson notes her horror when reading an opinion written by her father that extended the "No Sniveling" rule he enforced in their home to the rest of the state.
Ohlrich calls the day's first argument. It is 9:48 a.m. The court must decide the constitutionality of forced medication under the mentally disordered offender law. While the court listens to arguments from two able advocates, a bundle is delivered to Terry Tracy, the Chief's bodyguard from the California Highway Patrol. At 10:17 a.m., Tracy hands the documents over the bench to the Chief.
Difficult and technical questions continue throughout the day against the Chief's silent scrawl. The justices move directly into the second argument at 10:42 a.m. Harry B. Johnson of the Alameda County district attorney's office impresses the spectators with his argument that the district attorney can conduct a concurrent investigation with the Public Utilities Commission.
California had experienced a political earthquake the night before, brought on in part by the energy crisis at the foot of the concurrent investigation arguments. But the name Davis is not uttered.
And I think about the world outside running about, and the dim light coming into the courtroom. Everything is in its proper place and is decided in due course; institutions and wisdom persevere.
There are no dropping cars, there are no porn stars.
The morning session concludes at 11:35 and the justices rush to the Chief's chambers, where they hold a quick conference on the cases they've just heard. At a few minutes past noon, they have disrobed and taken the secure elevator to the waiting cars that will drive them to the Biltmore.

Late in the morning, Malcolm is on a conference call with an associate at the firm's Los Angeles office about a pending arbitration for the Los Angeles Metropolitan Transportation Authority, which is suing an insurance company over the cost of repairing a subway tunnel.
Malcolm is quick to praise Kevin Dorse for his efforts and growth as an attorney.
" It's been fun watching you, Kevin," Malcolm says. "You have done a phenomenal job."
As he speaks, Malcolm rubs his face and chews on a rubber band. He runs quiet and deep. He simultaneously carries on the conversation and hunts and pecks on his keyboard with his middle fingers in reply to an e-mail message.
Attorneys stream in and out of Malcolm's office updating him on cases. And showing how Jones Day's Irvine office became one of its most profitable.
" We have a 45 percent profit margin here," he says. He adds that lawyers in his office average 2,100 billable hours annually. That leaves Malcolm "swamped" with administrative work as head partner.
" I do try to delegate as much as I can," he says. But without his longtime assistant, Michelle M. Blum, he wouldn't survive, he says.

***
We are on our way back from Chatsworth, where we traveled to be present for the 10:30 jury break in the case of Johan Karlsson.
The venerable Girardi is a confident man, but he clearly is nervous about Chatsworth and the 12 jurors who are deciding the case. Karlsson, a paralyzed 12-year-old, was injured in a highway accident seven years ago. The Karlssons blame Johan's paralysis on a faulty seat belt in the family minivan, a 1996 Ford Windstar. The defendant, Ford Motor Co., disagrees.
It's a compelling case. But Chatsworth is a conservative area. Girardi says that many millions will be needed to care for Johan in the decades to come. He wants the jury to pull through.
They've been deliberating for more than a week. Painful.
Wherever he goes, Girardi is peppered with "What's happening in Chatsworth?"
At the courthouse, we've gone to the second floor and met with Girardi & Keese partner David Lira and sole practitioner Marvin Kay, a co-counsel. Agneta Karlsson, Johan's mother, also is there. Girardi hugs and kisses her.
" This is one bitchin' lady," Girardi says.
Girardi and Lira wonder whether several juror questions indicate a leaning to be tight with Ford's purse strings.
Girardi cautions Agneta Karlsson that damages could come in low.
Heading back to Los Angeles, Girardi adds that he never comes to the courthouse for verdicts. Superstition. Nearly 35 years ago, he earned a $1.4 million medical malpractice verdict, then one of the largest of its kind. He wasn't there when the verdict came down, and he hasn't heard one since. (Six days after our trip to Chatsworth, the jury awards Johan $45 million. Girardi isn't in court.)
Heading south on the 101 freeway, Girardi needs to call state Senator John Burton and razz him about the recall. He reaches Burton on his cell.
" Things are going great, eh?" Girardi says to Burton with a bellowing laugh.
Burton's low, angry voice resonates through Girardi's phone. Girardi takes life in stride, but several phone conversations make clear that he is uneasy about the election of Schwarzenegger.
" Most of the budget is statutory," Girardi says after he hangs up. "And now [Schwarzenegger] wants to repeal the car tax hike?"
He is particularly worried about the courts, which already suffer from a lack of funding.
His influence is felt well beyond California, however. Girardi's also a top adviser to Democratic presidential candidate John Edwards, a senator from North Carolina, working on both fundraising and strategic issues. They talk at least once a day. Before entering politics, Edwards was a bigtime plaintiffs' lawyer, which is how he and Girardi became good friends.
" He really could be the last man standing [in the primary]," Girardi suggests.
We get back to the unassuming headquarters of Girardi's multimillion-dollar enterprise by 11:15 a.m., when Los Angeles-area attorney David Affeld, with whom Girardi is handling a whistle-blower case against TRW Inc., steps in. A former employee claims that TRW fired her because she criticized the missile-defense system TRW was developing for the Pentagon.
Girardi tells Affeld not to worry too much about what the defense is saying it might pay to settle the case. Girardi briefly criticizes the "Star Wars" defense system, the fallacy of which would be fun to expose in court.
" These are great challenges," Girardi says.
" You give a great pep talk," Affeld responds.

Up north, legendary trial lawyer Joe Cotchett is catching up after flying in late the night before. He had arguments the previous day in Washington, D.C. He's done a breakfast of local business leaders at 8 a.m. and is working the phones from his Burlingame office by 10:30, returning 50 urgent messages.
Jumbo jets roar overhead every few minutes from San Francisco Airport, just a few minutes to the north. The 20 lawyers of Cotchett, Pitre, Simon & McCarthy make their home in a two-story, nondescript building Cotchett bought in 1986.
The building is decorated to reflect Cotchett's passion for antiques. The lobby has an original Wells Fargo wall clock that stood in the bank's headquarters at Montgomery and California Streets until 1876, among many other treasures. Cotchett's corner office is a who's who of politicos, trial lawyers and mementos from his days as a member of the U.S. Army's Intelligence Service and as a Colonel in the U.S. Army's Judge Advocate General Corps.
We talk about his 200-plus active cases, though most of the conversations today are political. He talks to elected officials, key members of Gov. Gray Davis' quickly dissipating staff, and big-shot lawyers and judges.
He smiles and winks as he stands up behind his desk with the phone to his ear.
" You know how I feel about you," he tells one of his callers. "I'm going to make it happen, my dear friend."
With the governor's race behind him, he tells one caller, "Now you can focus on the mayor's race," referring to the Nov. 7 election to replace San Francisco Mayor Willie Brown. He advises the caller to wish leading mayoral candidate Gavin Newsom a happy birthday.
Cotchett is an investor in Newsom's San Francisco restaurant, PlumpJack. "He's kind of like my son," Cotchett says of the San Francisco supervisor.
The prior day's arguments were before the seven-judge Judicial Panel on Multidistrict Litigation. He does not want the case - in which he represents E&J Gallo Winery in an anti-competitive conduct claim against Encana, a natural gas provider - transferred out of the Eastern District of California to another federal court.
" How can [the defendants] ask seven of you to disqualify every judge in California without any evidence that these judges use or are customers of this natural gas pipeline?" Cotchett asks. "I said it is blatant judge shopping and forum shopping."
***
Glaser is already back from court, where a trial status and case-management conference was set for Nov. 14. She barely missed leaving her briefcase in the courtroom, catching herself halfway down the escalator, pointing to her temple and heading back up. I arrive at her office at 11:42, and she is working the phones.
She looks out onto the Century City Mall from a large desk neatly covered with stacks of papers, binders and files. She talks to one of her colleagues, who tells her the arbitration she conducted the previous week in Philadelphia was successful and that they reached a settlement. "I won't be going back to Philly," Glaser smiles.
She yells out to her secretary, Phyllis, who has been with Glaser for 23 years.
" All this expensive intercom equipment, and we still yell at each other," she says.
She is worried I will be too bored following her about. I find myself taken in by her grace and compassion.
Shortly before noon, Malcolm leads me out of his office to a rental car. His regular car was rear-ended in a parking lot and is in for repairs.
We drive four blocks to an upscale restaurant to meet Ralph J. Cicerone, chancellor of University of California, Irvine. Malcolm orders a lemonade and a chicken salad, and he and Cicerone leap into a colorful exchange about sports: whether Angels manager Mike Scioscia made good tactical decisions on player rotations and how strong Cal's football program is this year.
Malcolm loves to attend games at University of California, Berkeley, where he earned his undergraduate degree.
" My heart goes up when I'm watching the quarterback," he says. "I feel like I'm in the game."
But they can't wait too long before discussing Schwarzenegger's victory. Malcolm is excited and predicts that, because the governor-elect is surrounded by people who can guide him, Schwarzenegger will transition smoothly into the job.
Schwarzenegger has to raise taxes in order to lift California out of debt, he says.
" He'll have to be upfront and say he's going to raise them, and then lower them later. He's got to be a straight shooter," Malcolm says.
Glaser and Grunfeld are working through lunch, as well. Glaser sits in on a deposition being handled by a junior partner until 12:21, when she jams in a few calls before leaving for the litigation partner meeting in conference room 18A. Glaser is co-chair of the litigation section, so she settles in at the head of the table to discuss strategy for an upcoming trial.
Grunfeld, meanwhile, has shed his tie, worked through 21/2 hours of discussions on technology, Web sites and translating a book funded by Southern California Edison into Spanish and Mandarin. At lunch, he is hosting a meeting at Public Counsel with the leaders of other public interest organizations.
***
The Chief is the last to leave the justices' chambers, and we rush down to where the cars are kept. I remark that he seems to love his job and its pace.
" Work hard, play hard," he beams as we reach another locked door. Help comes in moments, and we descend to the garage.
I get in the rear passenger seat behind the Chief. Ohlrich sits behind the Chief's security guard, who drives. The Chief writes some notes for the talk he will give in 25 minutes to the members of the Chancery club, a Los Angeles group of lawyers and judges. He is trying to concentrate, so I try to harness my questions.
We pull up behind the Biltmore and are hustled inside, where the Chief is swarmed by well-wishers. He is led to the front of the room by L.A. Superior Court Judge Lee Edmon, who has organized the day's program. Members come to greet the Chief or talk about the recall as he picks through some salad of greens, blue cheese and pears, before rapidly eating some of the chicken and rice, taking off most of the skin. A practiced public speaker, he quickly eats a few bites of his chocolate dessert, then pushes it away so he is ready to talk when called. A glass of iced tea is served to him in a cocktail tumbler, so he jokes about it being bourbon. When Edmon is served iced tea in a tall glass that is still similar in appearance, the joke is over.
He listens as he is praised in the introduction for making the state's courts more efficient, reducing delays and maintaining funding throughout the budget crisis. In profile, he looks every inch a Daumier bust. One of a character liked by the artist. And then he's on.
" This is the first day after a remarkable transformation," he notes, lauding the "peaceful political transfer." For the third branch of government, he notes, it was just another day.
He gives a polished performance talking about the budget and tough times, the importance of keeping the doors of the courts open. The core function of the judiciary, he says, is to provide fair and accessible justice.
" Next year will be worse than this year," he cautions asking for the bar's help in advocating for court funding. He is particularly worried about legal services, the habeas resource center, complex courts, specialized courts, including drug and domestic violence facilities, electronic access and filing projects and jury improvements. The Judicial Council recently completed publication of its jury instructions for civil cases and expects to publish those for criminal cases in 15 months. He also reports that flaws in this year's budget measures to deal with the shortfall - escalating probate fees and a per-plaintiff complex litigation fee of $500 - will be addressed.
" Courts and the administration of justice are not a luxury," he says, advocating for a dedicated revenue source to fund the courts.
The Chief takes a few questions, then makes his way quickly through the crowd. I lag, caught in a thicket of suits. When I run to catch up, I ask his tips for escaping so quickly. It helps to avoid eye contact, he confides. Back in the car, we drive through downtown L.A. while the Chief picks up messages from his cell phone.
At the court, the Chief goes behind closed doors briefly. I hover, fearing my quarry will escape. The doors spring open, the Chief in full sprint, robe flapping, massive briefing books under his arm. We're on the scurry.
***
It is just after 2 p.m. when Malcolm arrives at Orange Superior Court in Santa Ana to hear Judge Richard O. Frazee's idea for a civil settlement program.
He has just met with Keith Carlson, head of the Republican Lawyers of Orange County, who has briefed Malcolm on Orange County's election returns and told him legal challenges to the race are unlikely because of Schwarzenegger's margin of victory. Orange County is sitting pretty: 73 percent of Orange County voters voted "yes" on the recall, while 20 percent of voters in San Francisco did.
Malcolm hopes for a role helping Schwarzenegger decide judicial appointments. Carlson points out that Wilson, who is a close friend of Malcolm, is also close to Schwarzenegger.
" He should be a bug in [Schwarzenegger's] ear," Carlson says.
Frazee tells Malcolm he wants to start a system in which outside lawyers with complex civil litigation experience initiate settlements in more difficult cases. Malcolm quickly agrees to participate in the program one morning a month.
" I'd be delighted to help you with this," Malcolm says.
The Chief makes it to the enrobing room where his colleagues are assembled. They take their seats for the next marathon sitting. Before them are three Los Angeles area defense lawyers who want the justices to adopt the policy of federal courts toward a defense of sentence manipulation - that police unfairly rigged a sting to produce the maximum sentence. In this case, the Los Angeles Police Department duped three people into robbing $1.5 million in cocaine from an unoccupied house. The house, as these things turn out, was surrounded by a SWAT team and stuffed with a quantity of coke that netted 25-year sentence enhancements.
I have never spent a day experiencing the mind-numbing detail in which the justices need to be conversant. The defense lawyers amble through what appear to be unpersuasive arguments. (So let me get this straight: the undercover cop said you might be able to steal 200 kilos of coke, which was later revised to between 30 and 100, which turned out to be 85 that your clients willingly took, and it's the cops' fault exactly how?)
Among the lawyers is a woman who nervously twirls her hair nearly constantly and a man who appears to have such sweaty palms he rubs his hands throughout the argument. I worry he will have a stroke. And it appears the justices do, as well. They still ask tough questions, but their style modulates. Even that of Justice Joyce Kennard, whose intonation typically leaves the impression of an inquisition (although prolonged exposure to her questioning leaves the realization that is simply how she expresses her curiosity).
Which is not to say they've gone soft.
On rebuttal, a defense lawyer haltingly walks to the podium, shuffling papers. She says she has just one or two minutes.
" You asked for one," says the Chief. "If you want to count the time walking up, that's two."
The court calls the next case, and the justices plunge into the duty owed by a 911 dispatcher and the municipal entity that owns it to a person who calls with an emergency but to whom help is not dispatched.
***
At 2:45 p.m., Girardi has finished a top-secret lunch and gets Sam Chapman, chief of staff to Sen. Barbara Boxer, D-Calif., on the phone. They talk about the nomination of Los Angeles Superior Court Judge Carolyn Kuhl to the federal appellate bench, which Democrats have strongly opposed. Girardi says that he represents "many others" in advocating that Kuhl detractors vote against her if they must, but abandon the idea of a filibuster. That measure is too extreme for such a nominee.
" We could do a lot worse," Girardi says to Chapman. "She's conservative. But she's honest."
Chapman pledges to pass the message on to Boxer, adding that she values Girardi's opinion highly.
" You're a wonderful human being," Girardi says before hanging up and calling JAMS arbitrator Charles Bakaly.
Girardi represents one of the litigants in a partnership dispute, and he wants Bakaly to mediate it. Girardi has handled about 20 partnership battles in his career. He's learned how important it is to tone down the aggression and try to settle these things peacefully, "to save people from themselves."
" I've gotten better at that," Girardi says. "Lawyers left to their own devices will blow this town up."
Arlene Friedman, one of his regular private investigators, walks in with a friendly smile and big glasses, looking more like a librarian than an investigator. Girardi has predicted this.
" Underneath this façade, she's a real alligator," Girardi says.
They turn serious to get to the matter at hand: molestation cases arising from the Masonic home for youth in Covina. Friedman and Girardi discuss how it appears that management at the home failed to take action against alleged abusers of the children, even after complaints.
" Just like the Holy Roman Catholic Church," Girardi, who is Catholic, laments.
Friedman walks out with a hug and kiss, and in walks author and appellate lawyer Alan Wilkerson. Wilkerson, an affable and boisterous man, wants to write a book with Girardi's career and the big cases he's handled.
" I don't want this to be some book about how bitchin' I am," Girardi says. "It's got to be something about how some person was great, how the jurors were great, or how some judge was great."
Wilkerson suggests maybe Girardi's voice would run through the entire book, but the focus would be on brave individuals who turned up at different points of his career.
" The heroes I knew," Girardi thinks aloud. "Judges with courage, clients with courage."
" I'm not modest," Girardi says, with a laugh, "I just don't want a bunch of shit."
Wilkerson exits and Girardi dials up Attorney General Bill Lockyer, a good friend. The two have a humorous conversation about the recall election and pledge to get together soon. With Schwarzenegger taking over, it seems the powers that be among Democratic circles have a lot to talk about.
" OK, sweetheart," Girardi calls out to Lockyer before hanging up.
It is 3:10 when I rejoin Glaser after a confidential conference call with a client. The practice is being harmed by the need for instantaneous response, she says in between phone calls and e-mails. Everyone expects answers immediately, so people don't take time to think before they act.
She talks to a partner whose client has an insurance policy covering legal fees that expires at midnight; all claims under it must be filed by then. Glaser reads the policy, furrows her eyebrows and goes over the issues she sees, including an additional oral claim that they may have. Her partner tries to assure her that they have a 30-day tail to file additional claims.
Glaser cradles the phone between her chin and shoulder so that she can use both hands to flip through documents and write. Voice mail is down, which is bad for Phyllis - but great for Glaser.
Phyllis is also writing letters for Glaser's charities, including the American Friends of the Hebrew University.
She comes into Glaser's office to coordinate dinners and meetings and deal with some paperwork.
" Why are you giving me this?" Glaser asks in an annoyed tone.
Glaser is direct in her responses, with no wasted effort. She asks an associate to search for specific documents. The associate asks when she needs them.
" The client wanted it yesterday, but just make sure you're right."
At 3:45, Yang meets with two assistant U.S. attorneys and office spokesman Thom Mrozek. Her blend of humor and focused direction is on full display.
Yang wants to publicly roll out the efforts of the office's Project Safe Neighborhoods. The project, under way for six months, is an effort by the U.S. attorney's office and local agencies to reduce gun crime. Yang has the attorneys and Mrozek nail down the details of an upcoming press conference and a public service media campaign, which will include billboard ads.
One of the agencies involved in the project suggested that the billboards could include the pictures of the U.S. attorneys who are leading the efforts.
" First there's Angelyne, then there's Deb Yang with the gun thing," Yang says with a laugh. "The official answer is 'no thanks.'"
At 3:47, one of Glaser's colleagues asks if she can spare 30 seconds.
" No, but I will," Glaser says.
She's on hold on a call. He talks as she's on hold, then she gets back on the line. A woman comes into the office with loads of files at 3:52. Thirty-second man sits, waiting to explain further.
Two more people pop their heads in.
Phyllis comes in and takes Glaser's calendar to schedule a meeting.
Thirty-second man leaves.
After a conference call with Justice Trotter about a case he mediated for them, she goes on another call. With each call and colleague, the conversation switches to a different case. Glaser never misses a beat.
A partner comes in and sits at the table across from me. He waits for a few minutes, then writes Glaser a note and slips it onto her desk.
She's on the phone with the client he wants to discuss. Glaser grows visibly agitated at the direction the phone call is taking.
" Tell them to eat shit and die," she says.
She gets off the phone. "I don't like not being treated in a straightforward fashion."

At 4:02, Cotchett convenes a partnership meeting to talk about three things: the cases they're working on, their political activities and their cultural activities.

" The wheel cannot turn without community involvement," he says.
Earlier in the day, he took a dozen of the office's young lawyers to Hong Kong Flower, a local Chinese restaurant. The attorneys make predictions about the San Francisco district attorney's race, the mayor's race and Cotchett's own chances as attorney general in 2006. He hasn't announced, but Cotchett says he's strongly considering a run.

" Some cases are purely about money," he says. "X suing Y over cold hard cash without a moral structure. They don't even have an interesting legal angle."

Cotchett clearly doesn't have time or inclination for such cases. "You can't go through life being a phony," he says.
Cotchett was to have hosted presidential candidate General Wesley Clark at his Hillsborough home this evening, but Clark canceled the visit Thursday night to attend an emergency candidates' meeting of the NAACP.

***

At the start of each day, Girardi reviews a typed list of tasks to complete. If he gets 65 percent done, he says, then it's a good day. By the time 4:40 p.m. rolls around, he's not quite there yet.

" Well, let's get a beer," he says anyway.
Girardi's relaxant this afternoon is red wine, which he sips in the bar room of the Pacific Dining Car, just a few blocks from his office and west of downtown.

This is not happy hour for Girardi, who will work the phones and review cases for a few more hours at least. But he seems at peace. He talks with ease about a dozen different topics, from Rezulin to the recall, from the Kobe Bryant case to the trip he's planning to Cuba for the International Academy of Trial Lawyers. He talks the longest and with the widest smile about his wife, Erika, who, for some reason, doesn't mind going to all these lawyer events and always makes sure her husband wears the right suit.
Girardi enjoys a second glass of wine and repeats something he has said throughout the day when he's had a moment to himself: "It really is a wonderful life."

Following the fifth case of the day, the death penalty appeal of Alredo Valdez, the justices conclude the court session.

None of the seven have arisen once during the six-hour memorial and argument marathon. A security officer notes than in 31/2 years, he has not seen any of them leave the bench during court session. We move en masse, a covey of blackbirds, security officers and reporter, up the elevator and back into the warren. The justices assemble in the Chief's chambers to confer about the arguments.

At 5:45, the Chief emerges with Justice Charles Vogel of the court of appeal. They have been talking about some administrative issues. Vogel follows us to the garage, explaining that the Chief is the best chief justice since at least Phil S. Gibson, who served from 1940 to 1964.
***
It is 6:40, and I am lost following Grunfeld from the Century Plaza Hotel to Beverly Hills.

We have just had drinks with his former McDermott, Will & Emery partner Alan Schare to discuss their work, families and how to increase the firm's pro bono efforts. We set out for the Beverly Hills Hotel, where the Beverly Hills Bar Association is having its annual dinner. Grunfeld has turned the wrong way on Sunset, and we must drive all around the hotel before we figure out how to get in. We pull up to the valet. Grunfeld gives me a high-five.

This is just one of the many social events he'll attend this week. He spent part of the afternoon going through the invitations, organized into packets by day. Amid working with the head of his children's rights project and the head of a nonprofit in San Diego, he tells me the bigger organizations are no-brainers. His business is all about relationships.

Grunfeld chats up the crowd at the Beverly Hills event: Public Counsel board members; David Pasternak, the head of Bet Tzedek's board of directors. Everyone's talking budget.

Grunfeld hugs Steve Rhodde, the incoming president of the Beverly Hills Bar, which is a sponsor of Public Counsel, and Robin Meadow, president of the Los Angeles County Bar, the firm's other major sponsor.

" He's a giant," Meadow says.

Grunfeld works the crowd until the last possible moment, then is seated at Table 9. He is announced as a special guest.

The Chief has worked the crowd at the Italian-American Lawyers Association, talking to David Lash, former head of Bet Tzedek and now at O'Melveny & Myers, as well as reporters from the Los Angeles Times and Daily Journal. He has a cocktail before being seated on the dais. We are at Cardini at the Wilshire Grand hotel, and heavy ravioli in cream sauce and more chicken are on the menu. I'm amazed these guys haven't sprouted wings.

The Chief again jotted some remarks on the way over, before borrowing his guard's cell phone to make a call because he forgot his at the office.
His remarks have the perfect touch of joviality beyond the afternoon presentation, though they circle back to the need for a well-funded court. He accepts a bottle of olive oil from the group's president, which she and her parents have brought back for all the justices from a recent trip to Italy.
The dinner concludes early, and the Chief and I part. His guard will take him directly home, while others in the security detail will drop me at a dark lot by the Reagan building. They stay to make sure I am safely in my car.
The early birds in the group use the evening to grab a few moments of personal time. Glaser finally leaves the office at 7:30 to work out.

" For those of us who aren't geniuses, we have to work a little harder," Glaser says.

Malcolm is back at the office until 7 p.m. after getting a haircut for his son's wedding in Malibu on Sunday, where he will see his ex-wife for the first time in several years. He answers e-mails, signs letters and reviews exhibits to prepare for a deposition in his lawyer-client's malpractice case. At home, he'll retreat to his haven, reading. On tap tonight is the biography of former U.S. Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas, "Wild Bill."
Yang, too, has headed home to spend time with her kids, before putting them to bed around 9. She'll keep working until 1 a.m.

" Otherwise, I wouldn't see my kids much," she says.

Grunfeld checks out at 10:30.

Schulman, meanwhile, is hosting a poker game at his home in Brentwood. Tonight, he's joined by a Warner Bros. Executive, a film producer, a couple television executives, a retired businessman, a tax lawyer and one lawyer who sues them a lot.

***

At 11 p.m., Cotchett, his wife, Victoria, and Martha Whetstone, are strolling down Fillmore Street in San Francisco to grab a cocktail at the Balboa Café. Dinner at PlumpJack Café was wonderful, surpassed only by the discussion of media, politics and great cases. Whetstone took over this year as head of the San Francisco Bar Association and is giving it an amazing kick in the pants, with presidential candidate speakers drawing standing-room crowds.
We stroll down Fillmore for just one quick drink. Cotchett has a 6:30 a.m. flight, and his impossibly beautiful and intelligent wife is concerned about the early-morning wake-up. As we stroll, the manager of the happening club Matrix Fillmore, which is also part of the PlumpJack family, dashes across the street to hail Cotchett.

We slip in the side door of Balboa to a boisterous crowd, young and lubricated enough to keep life interesting. We find our way to a 100-year-old table in the front, where Cotchett holds regular meetings with Barbara Boxer, Nancy Pelosi and other Bay Area politicos. Tonight, though, we're joined by three Chicago Cub fans.

" Cubbies, Cubbies," the three high school pals roar, bashing knuckles and making toasts with Cotchett.

He joins in. "Cubbies!" It becomes our cheer.

Steve, the leader of the high school pals, can detect that Cotchett is a made guy. So he whips out his business card.

" If you ever need better connections," he tells Cotchett, "I'm the guy."

" That's great," Cotchett roars, carefully taking the card. "Cubbies," he
erupts before Victoria ends the evening.

I see Steve the next day at a party his company is hosting to watch the Blue Angels soar over the San Francisco Bay. It is a perfect day. And it is mere hours til the perennial optimists go for it again.

" So that guy was like the don, huh?" Steve asks.

One of 'em, I say.

Definitely.

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