Lawyer Storytelling: A Sacred Craft

Here, law professor Mark Cooney, with both substantial experience in personal-injury cases and many fiction and non-fiction publications, uses a client-intake setting to illustrate the extraordinary imagination and sensitivities of the best practitioners.

She got on tiptoe to inspect his face, absently twining a mousy lock.

“That’s Nick Lidstrom,” I said. “Best d-man ever.”

“Her daddy likes hockey,” said her mother.

“Do you like hockey?” I asked. But the knick-knacked shelves wouldn’t share her attention.

“Be polite, baby,” said her mother.

“Oh, she’s fine,” I said. “That stuff mesmerized me, too, at her age.”

“Looks like it still does.”

We watched, anticipating. Sure enough, her curiosity won out, and her unsure fingertips stammered down until she touched the top, barely, as if afraid of getting burned. A slight movement registered. She tapped again, now with purpose. Nick Lidstrom’s ceramic head began to quiver and shake.

She hopped and shook her hands, yet her face betrayed no delight, her profile like a coin’s dour president.

“Be careful with that, baby.”

“Impressive bobble,” I said.

Her mother smiled.

“Will she be comfortable listening?”

“Oh, yeah. Nobody talks about anything but.”

“Can you give me a sense of what happened?”

“Pretty much, it was a dog. She wanted to pet it.”

“Your neighbor’s?”

“Right next door. Never had any trouble.”

“Did you see?”

“No. I heard Ellie shouting, and she brought Beck straight over. Crying. Both crying.”

I nodded.

“She felt horrible. Ellie, I mean.”

“What about Becky?”

“Some blood, but not a ton. I didn’t know if it was bad at first, you know?”

I nodded and turned to look at her again. She was still entranced by the shelf dwellers, having shifted to Charlie Brown―a gift from my own daughter, not much older.

“My daughter thinks I look like Charlie Brown. What do you think?”

She jumped and hopped again, with a quick little clap. But her face kept its sour curl.

“We got her in the car and drove over to Munson. Don’t know why we didn’t call an ambulance. We just went. Got going and kept going.”

“Where exactly is it? The worst, I mean.”

“You see it there? Sort of pokes there, with a jagged little line?”

“On this side?”

“Yes, facing us.”

“So those puncture marks?”

“Yes.”

“Anything on the other side?”

“Nope. Just this. That’s what happened. Mostly punctures. He didn’t tear at her so much. But the bigger teeth got deep enough.”

I watched.

“You don’t think it looks bad?”

“Well, I’ve seen a lot in this line of work. It’s significant, certainly.”

“But the scar isn’t the thing.”

“Nerves, you said?”

“See it?”

“I haven’t, but we’ve been talking.”

She picked up Nick Lidstrom and began shaking him with some violence.

“Careful with poor Nick,” I said, with all the good nature I could muster. “He’s more of a finesse guy.”

She turned to face me now, beaming, and I felt a sharp blow to my stomach.

“See?”

I sat up. “Yes,” I said, with more breath than voice.

“The doctor said people think you can just fix it up like rewiring a radio. Not so,” she said, clearing her throat. Then she lifted her chin and smiled a mother’s smile.

Nick Lidstrom was back on the shelf and steady, but Charlie Brown was now bushwhacking through a flower-put jungle. “Haha!”

I saw again, felt it hit me.

“She won’t be able to smile on that side. Her lips and cheek sort of stay where they are. Droop a little. You really only notice when she smiles. It’s like someone combined those happy and sad theater masks into one, split right down the middle. That’s what my father said. He likes the theater.”

“Yes.” I nodded slightly.

“Maybe she should just stay unhappy her whole life,” said her mother, weakly.

She hopped in a circle now, lost in weightless thoughts. Three now. Almost four. But she began to age before me. I saw her in kindergarten, laughing with classmates. Then in middle school. Life less carefree. Children not so childlike. Then high school. A football game. A dance. So many new faces now―faces new to hers. So many first reactions, unspoken words.

Unhappy, yes. Don’t let slip a smile.

“I said are you there? Still home?”

“Oh, yes, I beg your pardon.”

“What else do you need today?”

“Some photos, please. For the insurer.”

“I e-mailed them to you, like Jan asked.”

“Ah, right. Let me pull those up.”

I clicked until she was looking at me through the screen―her face in two dimensions. Smiles cut in half. A dozen or so. And then more in my mind’s eye. Arcade photos beside a true friend. Yearbook photos. Senior photos. Engagement photos. Wedding photos. I saw photos of her with her own daughter. A thousand photos now, and my own daughter in each.

A small figure brushed my elbow, and I glanced over to catch her first peek at the monitor. “Me!” she burst, thrilling at her on-screen persona.

Full joy. Full love of life.

She turned and smiled up at me.

I smiled back.