Sharks are Born Swimming

The flash was brief, just a bit of dark movement that almost perfectly blended into the waves. The white of its underbelly was the trigger that re-engaged my brain. Just as the flash appeared and disappeared before my eyes, my brain pulsed the same white and I felt my limbs tingle. Here it was. I was on a bullshit Amazon wakeboard and a shark had graced my presence. Others around me sat down on their boards, pulled their legs up, and sat in quiet terror. I felt shaky and bold.

I had been a “baby lawyer” when I first borrowed the phrase “sharks are born swimming.” It had been a unique victory in my early career to drop that phrase at a wholly fortuitous time. I was riding the Phoenix Light Rail, a deeply overpriced project with limited commute capabilities. I had just been admitted to the bar and was riding the train to go to court in a nice, but still clearance-itemed, suit that I could not afford. I became aware of three men, wearing expensive suits, annoyed at riding the rail, showcasing their old man cologne, deeply indignant at being amongst the people. They reeked of entitlement and misogyny.

Alerted to their presence, I could not help but begin listening. I heard them discussing a legal case. Still a newbie, my ears perked up as I learned their clients’ names and I intentionally shifted down a seat to listen in, curious as to how far they would take this involuntary waiver of privilege. They proceeded to discuss private details of the case, a civil matter they were resisting discovery requests for.

“He’s a dumbass,” one declared of his own client. “If we turn over everything he’s screwed. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t go to prison. That bitch wife needs to shut up.” This drew smiles from his compatriots. “Well at least you’re dealing with McCathy. She’s too green to know what the fuck she’s talking about,” one added. “She’ll sponsor any pro hac vice without vetting them.” A pause to sip on boujie coffee. “Just stall it out. She isn’t tough enough to push for sanctions. They’ll settle and never find out the real shit.”

At this point I knew information about their clients’ names, client communications, and litigation strategy. I chose to sit quiet until...until… “Women are never good litigators.” This was delivered casually and met with such complete agreement that my guard went up to steel myself against utter and complete disappointment.

I reflected for a moment on the profession I was entering. I pulled out my phone and started recording. These were the exact people that needed to leave the profession. The old cronies that will hold onto a bar membership and practice under old tactics that blatantly violate current professional ethics. The people that a state bar will tolerate and accommodate because they are the exact person who will show up spouting some “I’ve been practicing before you were born,” nonsense. True old-boys club.

One stop before the exit to walk over to the courthouse, just after the rail splits to follow the one-way downtown streets, I made my move. I approached the group with my new business cards in hand. They were heavy cardstock, matte black, rounded corners, with a blue foil fingerprint on the front and my information on the back. I had paid a graphic designer out of California to give me options and I also had a foil handcuff version. A bit gaudy, given, but the public liked them. Kudos to my two decades of gig economy work experience to get through my education, only to be discounted for my gigging, gender, and education. I am a complete misfit, I realize, and yet punk enough to tell three old people that ethics actually matter. Ethics are real and they apply to all of us. No one cares how long they’ve been engaged in abusing legal processes and manipulating laypeople. It stops on my watch.

Spiked earrings in tow, I approached the group. “Hi. I wanted to introduce myself. Here’s my card. I’ve been listening while you discussed what would have been attorney-client privileged material in public and you’ve been denigrating females in the legal profession.” I paused to allow processing time.

“We have done no such thing,” one particularly bulbous pustule objected.

“I recorded it,” I responded dryly.

“What do you want?” one asked.

“Nothing,” I responded. “I’ll be submitting this to the state bar under an ethics complaint. You’re about to find out about female lawyers.”

In a grievous miscalculation, the pustule said “You’re just a baby lawyer. You don’t dare.”

I smiled, the 1970’s punk in me telling me to stab him in the ass cheek to get closer to the stage, but the reserved me, attired in a suit purchased on a credit card, held me back. I paused and said, “Sharks are born swimming. Don’t ever forget that. I’ll be submitting this to the state bar and your legacy will be being taken down by a female baby lawyer.”

I sat down and waited for my stop, our stop, while they sat in silence. We all exited and headed toward the Old Courthouse, now joined to other buildings through a series of uneven hallways. I already knew this and wore appropriate shoes for the graduated hallways. I passed the fashionista whatevers struggling as I went. Sharks are born swimming. A phrase originally stolen from a comedy movie. Deeply appropriate. So much of comedy is valued for its underlying truth and is ultimately funny for that very reason.

Flashing forward to the present, here I was, on a stupid wakeboard contraption, face-to-face with a real shark, fully accepting of what it was. I saw the flash of white and, after my brain finished its primitive panic, I realized how beautiful this creature was. Deep camouflage with flashes of a soft underside. A uniquely balanced creature. It is what it is. Beautifully dangerous. Sharks are born swimming.