Monday, April 8, 2019
While many people may be swearing on April 15 because they forgot to do their taxes, the Supreme Court will have swearing on its mind for another reason. Iancu v. Brunetti poses the very interesting question of whether, under the First Amendment, the government may refuse to register trademarks it deems "immoral" or "scandalous." Mr. Brunetti was denied a trademark for his clothing brand FUCT (Friends U Can't Trust). The Federal Circuit ruled in Brunetti's favor, and now the Supreme Court will hear the case.
Just two years ago, the Supreme Court ruled in Matal v. Tam, that the "disparagement clause" in the Latham Act is incompatible with the First Amendment. I think that is likely that Brunetti will succeed too in his trademark quest.
But, the merits of the case isn't want I wanted to blog about. What is quite interesting in the case are the numerous examples in Brunetti's brief of trademarked and rejected words that could be deemed "immoral" or "scandalous." National Law Journal, in its Supreme Court Brief email, noted that the briefs are "most assuredly not suitable for minors." According to NLJ, the brief lists "34 words that might sound scandalous, only three of which have been handled consistently. [The trademark office] has allowed FCUK, FWORD, and WTF IS UP WITH MY LOVE LIFE? Again, those are mild compared to other unmentionable words and phrases in the brief." If you would like to read all of the bad words in Brunetti's brief, you can find it here. The juicy part starts on p. 11.
Despite the bad words in the brief, Brunetti's attorney told the Court in a footnote that he didn't expect it would be "necessary to refer to vulgar terms during argument. If it should be necessary, the discussion will be purely clinical, analogous to when medical terms are discussed." That decision was probably for the best. The NLJ article mentions Carter Phillips, who was called twice by the Court and advised not to use bad words in oral argument when he argued the FCC v. Fox case.
I think that the subject of how litigants and the Court use profane language is fascinating. Should the word be spelled out? Should one use asterisks? And, if you dare spell it out, can you then say it out loud at argument? Dare the justices say the word when announcing the opinion? According to a 2012 New York Times article, when Justice Harlan announced the opinion of the Court in the Cohen case, he was instructed by Chief Justice Burger not to "'use that word' because 'it would be the end of the court' if he did." You may recall from constitutional law that Mr. Cohen was prosecuted for wearing a jacket that contained words that, according to his attorney attorney, were "'not actually advocating sexual intercourse with the Selective Service.'" Despite the Court's reticence to hear the word out loud, in many cases, especially in a case like Brunetti's, it is important to see the word in context.
I plan on listening to Brunetti's attorney's argument if I get a chance to see if he holds true to his word.
Wednesday, March 20, 2019
I've blogged here about laughter at the Supreme Court. And I've blogged about the fascinating empirical work of Tonja Jacobi and Matthew Sag. So I'm thrilled that Professors Jacobi and Sag have trained their analytical lens on laughter in oral arguments at the United States Supreme Court.
Their new piece is Taking Laughter Seriously at the Supreme Court, forthcoming in the Vanderbilt Law Review; they summarize it in two recent posts (here and here) on their must-read blog, SCOTUS OA. This is not the first scholarly effort to track laughter at the Supreme Court: Jay Wexler, for funsies, has been cataloging SCOTUS laughter since 2005, and rhetoric researcher Ryan Malphurs has dug into the communicative function of humor at oral argument (pdf). But Professors Jacobi and Sag take the scholarship of laughter at SCOTUS—and, more generally, the scholarship of oral argument—to entirely new, deeply serious places. They leverage a remarkable dataset: a database of every SCOTUS oral argument transcript from the 1955 through 2017 terms. In the 1.7 million speech events by justices and advocates in 6,864 cases, 9,378 triggered a [laughter] notation in the transcript; about two-thirds of the laughter events were prompted by something a justice said. Jacobi and Sag supplement their text-mining quantitative analysis with old-school qualitative analysis: they read and cataloged all 1,061 episodes of justice-induced laughter from 2010 to 2017.
Their conclusion: laughter at SCOTUS isn't much about fun and frivolity; it's mostly about the modern blood sport of judicial advocacy.
The piece builds on and reinforces Jacobi and Sag's prior work about shifts in the dynamics of SCOTUS oral argument. In an era of sharpening division and partisanship, justices have increasingly used oral argument to advocate rather than inquire. And the justices' use of humor at oral argument is of a piece. Just as justices' use of oral argument time to comment and advocate has increased dramatically in the modern era, so too has the [laughter]. In the 1950s and 60s, laughs were few and far between, and they were prompted nearly as often by advocates as by the justices. This mostly continued into the 1980s. But then, in the late 1980s and again in the mid-1990s, the pace of justice-triggered laughter escalated sharply. And it has stayed high.
There's more: at the same time, the patterns of justice-provoked laughter shifted significantly. Justices tend to draw more laughter during arguments with which they ultimately disagree. Put bluntly, they make jokes at the expense of advocates they oppose. This has mostly been true for most justices since 1955. But the "laughter gap" increased significantly in the mid-1980s and again in the mid-1990s. This too is consistent with the broader trends Jacobi and Sag have identified regarding the rise of judicial advocacy in SCOTUS oral argument. The justices also increasingly use humor as a signal of an advocate's weakness: they direct humor at advocates who are losing. This pattern too deepened in the mid-1980s and again in the mid-1990s. And the justices' use of humor reinforces hierarchy on another dimension: it is directly most often at novice advocates, particularly ones on the losing side. And when one looks at the quips that inspire laughter, the data make sense: a massive share of SCOTUS jokes involve putting advocates in their place. One example, from United States v. Kebodeaux:
So humor in the contemporary Supreme Court is a sharp and serious tool. And Profs Jacobi and Sag have done sharp and serious work.
Wednesday, March 6, 2019
Like a lot of advocacy professors, I'm an avid consumer of social-science literature on persuasion, decision-making, and pedagogy. And I'm a fan of efforts by law professors to apply this literature to what advocates do. Sure, we've got to be humble and cautious: I and many of the law professors with interest in this area aren't trained scientists or statisticians, and stuff like the Social Sciences Replication Project and the hubbub over power posing offer healthy reminders that it's possible (even easy, sometimes) for folks trained in the right disciplines to get out over their skies. As Ted Becker points out, we in the persuasion business don't really know much about what really persuades judges. But much of the good, humble, cautious work helps us at least start down the path of sorting out techniques that work from techniques that we adopt just because they're the way we do things. There is a wealth of interesting work being done in this area related to persuasive writing and legal reasoning: Kathy Stanchi's body of work on psychology and persuasion is remarkable; Lucy Jewel's piece on old-school rhetoric and new-school cognitive science is a revelation; Steven Winter's work broke fascinating ground in knitting together cognitive science and legal reasoning. I could mention dozens of other scholars here: exciting things are happening.
We don't have a similar volume, as yet, of scholarship linking social science to oral advocacy. Still: I'd like to devote a few posts to highlighting a couple of pieces that I find particularly useful in refining the advice I give to advocates and in polishing my own performances.
I think it's fair to call the first a classic in the field: Michael Higdon's Oral Argument and Impression Management: Harnessing the Power of Nonverbal Persuasion for a Judicial Audience, published in the Kansas Law Review in 2009. Professor Higdon offers a rich, comprehensive overview of research into the seven basic codes of nonverbal communication: (1) kinesics (i.e., what speakers do with their bodies); (2) physical appearance (i.e., what speakers look like); (3) vocalics (i.e., what speakers sound like); (4) haptics (i.e., how speakers physically touch an audience member); (5) proxemics (i.e., how speakers use physical space); (6) environment and artifacts (i.e., how speakers use instruments and their environment); and (7) chronemics (i.e., how speakers manages time). And he thoughtfully applies that research to what lawyers do in appellate oral argument.
I find Higdon's piece particularly useful in sorting out advice on things like the use of gestures. Quite often, beginning appellate advocates will do stuff with their hands that distracts judges. So they'll get categorical advice: don't talk with your hands. And they take that advice ... and promptly get told by the next set of judges not to be so stiff and nervous. Higdon's piece details research spanning several decades that makes it clear that any "don't use your hands" advice is flatly wrong: gestures are essential to effective in-person communication generally, and they're especially vital to persuasion. But there's a catch: only those gestures that are "synchronized with and supportive of the vocal/verbal stream" enhance comprehension and persuasion. The lesson that emerges: advocates should use purposeful gestures that match and support the points they make verbally, but avoid gestures that simply accompany the verbal stream. So use the hands to help you make a point, but don't let your hands flap around randomly to accompany your talk.
Higdon's points on speed of delivery (somewhat fast is actually good, so long as it doesn't flatten out a speaker's pitch and tone) and on managing the judges' dominance are similarly illuminating. If it is read as widely as it should be, the generations of appellate advocates will tilt their heads eight degrees to the right (see p. 643). And win.
Monday, February 25, 2019
Moot Court season is upon us. Law students from around the country are headed off to compete in a mock appellate arguments on a wide range of topics. This past weekend students competed at the Jeffrey G. Miller National Environmental Law Moot Court Competition (more commonly known as Pace). Students also competed at the San Francisco and Portland regionals for the National Appellate Advocacy Competition put on by the ABA. (Congrats to the teams from my school that both made it to the round of 5 at the San Francisco regional).
This coming weekend Boston and Philadelphia host their NAAC regional competitions. And, my school hosts the National Native American Law Student Association Moot Court Competition. We are looking forward to hosting 40+ teams from across the country to argue a difficult, but fascinating, Indian Law problem.
The University of Houston has already started tabulating the top moot court programs for its rankings. This year the current top 5 is Texas heavy:
- Loyola University
- South Texas
- University of Georgia
- University of Houston
I really love moot court. I love coaching, I love judging, and I love seeing students develop over the course of the weeks that they work on the problem. Moot court has many benefits for students. While it certainly teaches them teamwork, it also teaches them to be problem solvers and work independently. For most moot court competitions, students cannot receive any outside help on their briefs. For some competitions, they can't even receive substantive help during their oral advocacy practices. Moot court also teaches time management. Some of the major competitions, like the NAAC and the NNALSA, require students to brief over the winter holidays. Finally, moot court helps students learn to become excellent public speakers. I have heard that the number one fear that people have is public speaking. As a person who formerly hated public speaking, I know that the only thing that has helped me improve is practice, practice, practice. Moot court does that for law students.
Moot court has benefits for the local legal community too. Volunteering to judge provides you with more than a few free CLE credits, it allows you to think about and discuss an interesting area of law. Moot court problems are often centered around an interesting and unsettled area of the law--the kind of question your least favorite professor might put on a law school exam. It can be fun to get back into law school mode and ponder these questions (especially when you are asking the questions, rather than the other way around). I also think that moot court gives us hope for the next generation of lawyers. They can, and will, do great things. That is exciting.
But, despite the excitement, moot court isn't perfect. It isn't perfect because we all know that the briefs are way more important than the arguments in real life. It also isn't perfect because, just like in real life, gender stereotypes can rear their ugly heads. I was reminded of that this week when I saw an article on Law.com announcing that the first female appellate law clerk had passed away at the age of 94. Carmel Ebb, who graduated first in her class at Columbia Law in 1945, is believed by most to be the first woman to clerk for a federal appellate court judge. She clerked for Judge Jerome Frank on the Second Circuit. She interviewed for a Supreme Court Clerkship but, according to her obituary, “Her hopes were dashed when the justice concluded their conversation by saying he had no doubt she would be a fine clerk, but that his wife would never allow him to work in such close proximity to a woman.” Ms. Ebb went on to have a successful career, including making partner at a New York firm.
So how do gender stereotypes play a role in moot court? Next post I will look at an article on this topic.
Saturday, February 16, 2019
Recently, Tessa wrote about useful tools for scoping out the court. In her post, Tessa discussed resources for learning more about your audience, so you can effectively tailor your brief and argument.
In this post, I'll address some strategies for those times when learning more about your audience just isn't possible. For instance, if you're arguing to a panel of the Fourth Circuit, you'll have no idea who's been pouring over your brilliant brief until it's show time. Similarly, if your audience is a state supreme court, it's unlikely that any specific tidbit is going to save you. Consider the odds. In North Carolina, where I practice, you'd be left trying to anticipate the desires of seven justices, each with a different background.
So what's the advocate to do? Use your brief not only to argue but also to educate.
Here's some background. Recently, I heard North Carolina's Senior Associate Justice, Paul Newby, speak at a CLE. Justice Newby was tasked with explaining the Supreme Court of North Carolina's mandatory appellate jurisdiction in complex business cases.
The Justice made the point that too often the nuance of a complex business case may be lost on his colleagues. Each of them has a different background, and only one -- himself -- had a history of litigating business disputes, like shareholder derivative actions.
The problem isn't that the justices don't approach each case carefully. Quite the opposite. It's that they're spending too much time trying to grasp the foundational principles, which the attorneys didn't explain sufficiently, and thus don't have enough time to digest the arguments.
That got me thinking. Lawyers get tunnel vision. We know our case -- the ins, the outs, the twists, the turns. Sometimes, we've lived with it for months or maybe even years. We've done the legal research and read all the pertinent authorities.
Being so caught up may not be such a bad thing. If you were involved before the appeal, you have an intimate knowledge of the case that an appellate lawyer will try her best to recreate. But being so caught up also has its downsides. It's easy to become too comfortable with a set of facts, or with a legal principle.
But skimping on the basics can keep your reader from buying what you're selling. If a judge has to read your argument multiple times to get a basic grasp on the issues, you're losing ground. The time that a judge spends re-reading your brief, pouring over the record, or, worst of all, doing background legal research is time that he or she is not spending thinking critically about your case. Chief Justice John Roberts said as much in a 2007 interview with Brian Garner. (Read the whole thing, but especially check page 28 of the PDF).
So what can we do about it? Like all good legal problems, the answer depends. The answer depends on whether the wrinkle in your case is factual or legal.
If the complicated issue is factual, consider a tactic that a partner of mine calls "putting on the white hat." Take the opportunity to explain, as honestly as you can, not only the facts behind your case but also the context. Why are the parties fighting? What are their motivations?
I know, I know. That sounds more like a mediation statement than an appellate brief. But the reader will appreciate it. By putting the case in context, you'll have gained two advantages. First, you will have explained the case in a way that helps the judge or her law clerk understand it. It's likely your opponent won't, which also means you'll get a chance to present your case's human factors. And that leads to the second point. By explaining the human factors motivating your case from your client's perspective, you'll gain a subjective advantage. You'll humanize your client.
Sometimes, putting your facts in context is as simple as an extra sentence, or an extra phrase. For instance, if you're in an employer-union ERISA dispute, consider telling your reader what the employer does. Likewise, consider telling your reader who the union represents. Sure, these facts have nothing to do with the nuance of the ERISA plan in dispute, and you probably won't reference them anywhere in the brief. But this type of stuff is important if you want your brief to do more than recite facts; it helps your brief tell a story.
In any case, if the complicated issue is legal, then the best approach is to keep it simple. Remember, judges are generalists. While you might live and breathe environmental or bankruptcy or intellectual property law, that doesn't mean that your judge does. So think twice before you start using terms of art without first describing them in plain English. Slow the pace of your brief, educate your reader, and then explain why you should win.
I recognize that it might be frustrating to go back to basics. But there's yet another benefit. You have the chance to teach the judge the applicable law as you see it. It's another chance for advocacy, no matter how subtle.
To conclude, I'll leave you with this thought, which, to some extent, ties these points together. Be creative about how you structure your brief. For instance, if you're arguing about a novel issue of statutory interpretation or a complex statutory scheme, the court will likely be less interested in the facts of your case than with an overview of the statute. Lead with it. Embrace it. You can take a lot of approaches when writing your brief and, fortunately, very few are wrong. But more on that in my next post.
Wednesday, February 13, 2019
As a follow up to my last post, I ask: Have you perfected your oral argument skills to the point where you have lost the very essence of the practice itself? Have you adopted a style that is not truly your own, but that you have seen successfully wielded by others? There are guidelines that should be followed, but they seem to be contradictory. For example, consider the following rules: Don’t just rehash your brief, but don’t raise anything new. Don’t be too comfortable, but remember to be conversational. Stand up straight, but don’t be stiff. Bring your notes to the podium, but don’t read them. I can imagine why, if you have seen someone do it well, you would be tempted to adopt that person’s style.
Here is the downfall to mimicry: it isn’t genuine, and your listener can tell. You get hung up on the act of giving the argument, and the performance of it all, as opposed to getting hung up on “having” the argument. We all “give” arguments from time to time. At its essence giving an argument is what we do when we “say our piece.” It is more of a soliloquy than anything else. It doesn’t invite give and take, nor does it want to be questioned. At work, we give arguments when we give presentations, or lectures. We are happy to take questions … but, please, hold them until the end.
When you are truly having an argument with someone, there is give and take … in the moment. If one must wait to ask questions, the question itself loses its meaning. The answers are even farther removed, and they lose their power. Answers draw strength from context. Why would you ever want to disembody your answer by removing it from its contextual location?
If your argument is too perfect, or too unnatural for you, it will become a presentation. An argument that is too tight does not invite questions. In creating the perfect argument, you give off the aura that to disagree with you is to be wrong. Or it appears that you are so right in your position, your authority is not to be questioned. Your panel will follow along, but there will be no opportune moment to interrupt such a presentation. It will feel like interrupting, which is not conducive to conversation.
The best advocates are comfortable in their own skin. If they are nervous, it may show at first, but as the argument progresses and the conversation begins, even the most nervous of advocates settle into the conversation. Settle into the confidence of the argument itself. Your argument doesn’t have to be perfect, although it should be legally sound and logically organized; it merely needs to be inviting. With all the formality of the brief, you have already detailed a step-by-step approach to solving the problem before the court. Your argument is the time to explore the problem, and explain why your position is preferable to any alternative. Feel free to look down one rabbit trail or another, but confident enough to explain to the court why it does not want to, or should wait to, follow that trail. The more welcoming you are to questioning, the more confident your position will seem, and that is the key to a winning argument.
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
Last night, I watched On the Basis of Sex with first-year law students. Munching on popcorn and candy, the students learned about Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg and her first gender-discrimination case, Moritz v. Commissioner of Internal Revenue, 469 F.2d 466 (10th Cir. 1972). Moritz challenged section 214(a) of the Internal Revenue Code, 26 U.S.C. § 214(a) (1954), because it precluded him, as an unmarried man, from claiming a caregiver deduction despite caring for his elderly mother.
On the Basis of Sex provides 1Ls with an excellent introduction to appellate advocacy. The movie begins with Ginsberg’s first day of law school, then chronicles her writing her first brief and delivering her first oral argument. After the movie, I discussed with the first-year students how the movie compares with what they will do when they receive their first appellate problem in a few weeks. Below are some of the lessons learned.
Appellate Practice Is a Lot of Work
Most of the movie occurs outside the courtroom. Students saw Ginsberg meet with Moritz to discuss taking an appeal. They saw her strategize with other attorneys about arguments. She works with her husband, a tax attorney, and her staff and students at Rutgers Law School. She researches, writes, and rewrites the appellant’s brief. When appellee’s brief arrives with an appendix of over six hundred federal laws that distinguish between men and women, Ginsberg and her team look up and discuss each one. She takes a settlement offer to her client. Before oral argument, Ginsberg practices before a moot court and then before a mirror. Ginsberg works hard. The process takes a long time.
Oral Argument Is a Little Scary
The climax of the movie is during the final minutes when the parties argue before the Tenth Circuit. Students noted how different oral argument looks from the trials they had seen on TV. There is no jury. A lone attorney stands before a panel of three judges. They remarked how Ginsberg was nervous and awkward at first. The judges directed the course of the argument. They interrupted with questions.
The students began to imagine what it will be like when they argue in April. We discussed how preparation goes a long way toward easing nerves. I shared that they will have the opportunity to practice before moot courts organized by our Moot Court Honor Society. I encouraged them to practice in front of a mirror like Ginsberg. I shared that it is normal to be nervous, especially for your first argument.
One Case Can Be Two Different Stories
The underlying dispute in Moritz involved the denial of a tax deduction because the taxpayer did not meet the qualifications in the tax code. The law was clear. Mr. Moritz did not qualify for the caregiver deduction because he was an unmarried man. Had he been a woman, divorced, or a widower, he would have been eligible for the deduction.
The students observed how the lawyers (arguing for the IRS) and Ginsberg (arguing for Mr. Moritz) told two different stories based on the same case. The IRS portrayed Mr. Moritz as a tax cheat. Ginsberg held him up as a loving and devoted son. The IRS, armed with one hundred years of precedent, argued that the Tenth Circuit should protect society by maintaining the status quo on gender. Ginsberg advocated for new law because precedent had failed to keep up with society’s evolving views on gender.
During oral argument, the IRS argued that “radical social change” is something to be feared and must be stopped. Ginsberg picked up on this point during her rebuttal. She argued that “radical social change” had already happened and the Tenth Circuit should bring the law into alignment with that change. Students were struck by this exchange. Each side used the same words to make two very different points.
At the end of the evening, students left our gathering excited, inspired, and a little nervous. I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to introduce them to appellate advocacy in such a fun way. Ginsberg remarks at one point during the film that by teaching law students she hoped to inspire the next generation of lawyers. Through this movie, Justice Ginsberg is still doing just that.
Friday, January 25, 2019
Each week, the Appellate Advocacy Blog Weekly Roundup presents a few tidbits of news and Twitter posts from the past week concerning appellate advocacy. As always, if you see something during the week that you think we should be sure to include, feel free to send Dan Real a quick email atDReal@Creighton.edu or a message on Twitter (@Daniel_L_Real). You can also send emails to Danny Leavitt at Danny@tsalerno-law.com or a message on twitter @Danny_C_Leavitt.
Supreme Court News and Opinions:
The Supreme Court is out of session for a few weeks, now that the January sitting is over, although this week saw the issuance of some orders and decisions from last week's conference.
The Washington Post reported earlier this week about how the Court has maintained a relatively "low-key term," delaying taking up a variety of divisive issues such as immigration, abortion, and sexual orientation and gender identity, while also signaling some interest in other controversial topics like transgender service in the military and the Second Amendment. CNN had a similar story.
Earlier this week, over the objection of the four more liberal members of the Court, the Justices allowed the Trump Administration's ban on transgender members serving in the military to go into effect while the issue is litigated in lower courts. MSNBC had a report. CNN also reported, noting the impact the Court might have upon the 2020 Presidential election.
On Tuesday, the Court granted cert in a case involving a challenge to New York City's limits on transporting personal firearms, bringing an opportunity for the Court to provide clarity on its Second Amendment jurisprudence. With the shifting makeup of the Court now leaning more conservative, there is speculation that the Court will create a test for handgun restrictions that invalidates many local laws. The case is New York State Rifle & Pistol Association Inc. v. City of New York. More about the case and what the eventual ruling might mean for the Second Amendment and gun regulations from the Atlantic and National Review.
Federal Appellate Court News and Opinions:
The Eighth Circuit Court of Appeals recently issued a decision in a case that provided some discussion of interest to appellate advocates concerning the procedural distinction between an appeal from a decision granting summary judgment and a decision denying a motion for reconsideration and the respective standards of review. The case is SPV-LS, LLC v. Transamerica Life Insurance Company. Thanks to reader Ben Rand of Harris Beach for the tip about this opinion. According to Rand (quoting one of the firm's attorneys): "The court focused procedurally on the appellant's efforts to conflate [the decision granting summary judgment and the decision denying reconsideration and the respective standards of review], and the Eighth Circuit carefully distinguished between the separate and distinct standards of review. If there were doubts in the Eighth Circuit regarding these concepts and related standards of review, the Eighth Circuit laid them to rest in this decision."
State Appellate Court News and Opinions:
The Arizona Supreme Court was scheduled this week to hear arguments in a case concerning how far business owners can go in refusing to serve customers because of their sexual orientation. The case presents the question of whether the owners of a business can refuse to use their talents to design custom wedding invitations and other materials if the couple is of the same gender or whether they are required to serve the couple under a city of Phoenix ordinance barring places of public accommodation from sexual orientation discrimination. More from Tucson.com.
Appellate Job Postings:
The California Office of the Attorney General has a posting for a Solicitor General position.
Thursday, December 20, 2018
Margaret Hannon, guest blogger, Clinical Assistant Professor of Law, University of Michigan Law School
Distraction is not the first thing that comes to mind when thinking about effective persuasion. Isn’t the aim of persuasion—and advocacy more generally—to try to avoid distraction? To the contrary, Professor Melissa H. Weresh argues that distraction and redirection are persuasive techniques that advocates can use effectively to influence results. In her article, “Wait, What? Harness the Power of Distraction or Redirection in Persuasion,” recently published in Legal Communication & Rhetoric: JALWD, Professor Weresh “studies how distraction influences results and whether there is therefore a potential for the intentional use of distraction, or redirection, in advocacy.” As a baseline, Professor Weresh defines distraction, misdirection, and redirection as “deliberately redirecting the attention of the listener with persuasive intent in mind.”
Professor Weresh connects the use of redirection in advocacy to principles from storytelling and psychology. All three hinge on the innate human desire for “equilibrium, or resolving uncertainty.” When redirection techniques are used to disorient the listener and shock her out of her equilibrium, a solution can then be offered that resolves the uncertainty and allows the listener to regain her control, leading to a solution that the storyteller wanted all along.
Professor Weresh argues that advocates are already using redirection techniques, even if they are not explicitly described as such. As advocates, lawyers use redirection by making choices “as to what to reveal or emphasize” to “orient the reader’s focus or attention,” which then “redirect[s] the attention to a persuasive result.” For example, criminal defense lawyers have multiple redirection strategies at their disposal. They can use explicit misdirection to create doubt about bad facts and law by “keeping relevant material out of consideration, confusing witnesses, or redirecting the flow of the argument.” With this strategy, the lawyer tries to “undermine the plausibility of the story offered by the prosecution and therefore to interfere with the coherence of the story offered by the prosecutor.” Criminal defense lawyers can also use more implicit redirection strategies, such as using closing arguments to recast the role of the jury as the protagonist. But the use of redirection is not limited to the criminal defense context. Professor Weresh also presents other redirection strategies that can be used more generally. For example, advocates may frame or reframe an issue to invoke the decisionmaker’s fear (“the reptile strategy”). When used by plaintiffs, it “seeks to pit the [decisionmaker] against the defendants by making the [decisionmaker] feel that the defendants’ actions and products threaten themselves, their families, and their societies.”
Redirection strategies, of course, raise ethical concerns. If lawyers are expected to be truthful, then how can they engage in misdirection? There is no bright line between true and false; instead, there is a continuum—some middle ground between absolute truth and deliberate misleading or misrepresentation. Ultimately, advocates must use their own judgment when considering how they can effectively, and ethically, use redirection techniques in their practice.
Professor Weresh’s article pushes readers to consider how redirection could supplement approaches to advocacy and, more generally, to persuasive storytelling.
Special thanks to Alison Doyle for her help with this blog post.
Wednesday, October 10, 2018
If you're looking to gin up controversy in moot court circles, here's one way: raise the topic of arguing without notes. If the moot-court whisper network and this Reddit thread are to be believed, some faculty coaches insist that their student advocates argue without notes. And, whether coaches insist on it or not, quite a few moot court advocates (including a bunch from my school) compete notes free. Hence the controversy. A lot of folks, like Reddit Person, don't see much genuine benefit to arguing sans notes. Sure, it might intimidate opponents or wow easily-impressed judges. But beyond that? Not much.
I would agree that going notes free probably doesn't offer many benefits in the actual oral argument performance. As the notoriously notes-free Paul Clement explains on page 16 of this article, well-prepared advocates mostly bring notes to the podium. And they mostly don't use them. Of course, as the Supreme Court's Guide to Counsel admonishes, "under no circumstances should you read your argument from a prepared script." But having notes to provide security, especially about key statutory language or sharp bits from the record, and making nondistracting use of them on occasion ... often a good thing, and rarely a bad thing.
But I think going notes-free is incontrovertibly great in one context: practice. Why? Science. As I've argued before on this blog, oral argument is a tremendous tool for learning. And doing it without notes can deepen learning. In a study published a few months ago in Applied Cognitive Psychology, researchers built upon a substantial body of literature showing that teaching material to others enhances the teacher's own learning of the materials. They attempted to figure out why. So they split research subjects—a group of undergraduate students—into four learning groups, all of which were given time to study and prepare to teach a lesson on the Doppler effect. Then two groups actually taught the lesson. One group taught from a script; the second taught without notes. A third group didn't teach, and instead took a free-recall test about the Doppler effect. The forth group—the control—simply did arithmetic problems.
One week later, the subjects were tested on their knowledge of the Doppler effect. And the subjects who taught without a script outperformed those who taught from a script.
The reason: teaching without notes forced subjects to engage in retrieval practice. The experiment suggests that teachers learn by teaching largely because—and when—they are required to extract, with effort, information from their brains. So it isn't the act of teaching per se that boosts learning, but the act of retrieving the information that does the trick. Hence this result: the no-notes teaching group performed as well on the test as the group that engaged in retrieval practices without teaching. And the scripted teaching group barely outperformed the control group.
As I've said here before: prepared oral advocates learn, deeply, then teach, and learn more deeply for having taught.
Pull the notes, and the learning is richer and deeper.
Thursday, September 27, 2018
Margaret Hannon, guest blogger, Clinical Assistant Professor of Law, University of Michigan Law School
Storytelling is an integral part of a lawyer’s work, particularly for appellate lawyers. One critical aspect of effective storytelling is structure—and when it comes to structuring an effective story, lawyers can learn a little something from screenwriters.
In Teresa Bruce’s forthcoming article in the Journal of Legal Writing Institute, The Architecture of Drama: How Lawyers Can Use Screenwriting Techniques to Tell More Compelling Stories, Professor Bruce proposes that “lawyers build their stories in the same way Hollywood writers do.” Just as screenwriters follow a formula, lawyers should do the same: as IRAC is to argument sections, SCOR is to fact sections.
Professor Bruce’s article builds on existing storytelling literature, which approaches narrative theory from several different perspectives. The structural perspective uses a pragmatic or pedagogical approach, arguing that “[a] large part of telling an effective story is the order in which the reader presents information.”[i] Scholars in this area argue that an effective story structure helps judges and juries understand and remember information, and the story that flows most logically will be the story that seems most probable. As a result, good story structure can increase a client’s chance of winning.
Professor Bruce’s article takes the structural approach to narrative theory a step further by introducing the SCOR structure. Many lawyers will be familiar with the writing stages identified by Professor Betty Flowers: Madman, Architect, Carpenter, Judge. The Architect stage is where writers focus on “large, organizational, paragraph-level thinking.” The SCOR template gives writers a “flexible, generally applicable template they can use each time they tackle a new case.” This enables “lawyers to skip the Architecture stage entirely when writing a facts section (as IRAC enables them to do when writing an argument section).” Ultimately, Professor Bruce’s hope is that using SCOR will make it easier for lawyers to write their clients’ stories more coherently, which will result in clearer, more compelling, and more convincing stories.
So, what is SCOR? To explain SCOR, Professor Bruce begins with the classic three-act story structure, “the basis of Western storytelling.” Act I, the Setup, establishes the protagonist’s “status quo.” Act II, the Confrontation, breaks the status quo and takes the protagonist on a journey to a point of climax. Act III, the Resolution, introduces the protagonist’s “new normal” and resolves any unanswered questions. Taking this basic story structure a step further, advanced story structure builds additional milestones into each act to create an overarching “story arc” that provides “rising tension throughout the first and second acts and falling tension during the third.” Professor Bruce illustrates both the basic and advanced story structure through a classic movie, The Wizard of Oz.
Professor Bruce then translates this traditional formula into legal writing: Setup, Confrontation, Outcome, Resolution, or SCOR. As in advanced screenwriting, within each act, additional milestones help to give the story added structure and keep audience members engaged.
First, the Setup, Act I, humanizes the client by establishing the client’s life and status quo before the “bad event” of the litigation. Second, the Confrontation, Act II, is the “meat” of the story—it introduces the client’s antagonist and sets out the pivotal (i.e. outcome-determinative) facts. While the opposing party will often be the antagonist, for some clients, the antagonist will be subtler. For example, for less-sympathetic clients, the antagonist might be “mental-health problems, addiction, childhood trauma, or poverty.”
The third and fourth components of the story are the Outcome and the Resolution, Act III. The Outcome is “the end of the protagonist’s quest,” while the Resolution is “where the audience gets closure.” This is the most difficult section for legal writers because a “lawyer cannot simply resolve her client’s story . . . the way a screenwriter can.” Instead, the lawyer may invite closure by inviting “the judge or the jury to resolve the storyline in a way that favors the client.”
To illustrate how this structure works and why it is effective, Professor Bruce uses the statement of facts in the Petition for Certiorari in Miranda v. Arizona. This statement of facts helps illustrate the SCOR structure, but also shows how the structure “can work even for a largely unsympathetic defendant, one who has been convicted of a violent crime.” In addition, Professor Bruce points out that other landmark briefs use a similar story structure.
I encourage practitioners, legal writing professors, and law students to read Professor Bruce’s article. In the article, she provides a more in-depth discussion of advanced storytelling structure, including the milestones within each act. SCOR provides a practical, accessible, and memorable way to help lawyers incorporate storytelling into their legal writing. And if lawyers can make their clients’ stories more accessible to their audiences, those stories will hopefully also be clearer, more compelling, and more convincing.
Special thanks to Alison Doyle for her help with this blog post.
[i] Brian J. Foley & Ruth Anne Robbins, Fiction 101: A Primer for Lawyers on How to Use Fiction Writing Techniques to Write Persuasive Fact Sections, 32 Rutgers L.J. 459, 475 (2001).
September 27, 2018 in Appellate Advocacy, Appellate Practice, Federal Appeals Courts, Film, Law School, Legal Profession, Legal Writing, Moot Court, Oral Argument, State Appeals Courts, Television, United States Supreme Court | Permalink | Comments (0)
Wednesday, September 12, 2018
As First Monday approaches, SCOTUS watchers would do well to follow SCOTUS OA, a blog launched in August by Tonja Jacobi of Northwestern Pritzker School of Law and Matthew Sag of Loyola University Chicago School of Law. Simply put: Professors Jacobi and Sag are doing fascinating things with a remarkable dataset built around the text of every SCOTUS oral argument since 1955.
Their most recent post, on Judge Kavanaugh and the polarized Court, delves into a topic they explore more deeply in a forthcoming article in the Notre Dame Law Review: the change in the dynamics of SCOTUS oral arguments in the last two decades. As veteran advocates and Court watchers have often observed, oral argument has changed over the last few decades: justices increasingly have dominated, advocates have less opportunity to unspool their arguments free from interruption, justices are engaging with advocates less to gather information and more to persuade their colleagues, and so on. Empirical work comparing oral argument dynamics in the 1960s and 2000s -- this piece by Barry Sullivan and Megan Canty and this by James Carter and Edward Phillips -- has confirmed this. But observation, anecdotes, and well-analyzed slices don't tell a comprehensive story of when and how things changed. And they can't tell us much about why.
Enter the work of Professors Jacobi and Sag. They analyze (as a starting point) more than 1.4 million speech episodes in over 6,000 cases over the last 55 years. And yes: oral argument at SCOTUS has changed. Justices are more active. More judicial advocacy, less judicial inquiry. OK: we know that. But the story the data tell is deep and rich, far more interesting than "Scalia's the reason" or "Breyer started asking a question in 1995 and hasn't finished it yet." For example: the number of questions justices ask per case hasn't varied much from 1960 to 2015. But the justices are saying about twice as many words per argument in the last couple of decades, taking up about 13 minutes more per sixty-minute argument than they used to (and, no, it's not all Breyer). So what's going on? In short: judicial advocacy. Less inquiry, more commentary. Jacobi and Sag develop the point brilliantly. And they demonstrate that the shift in dynamic wasn't simply a gradual evolution or one that can be tied to a change in Court personnel. It happened, they show, in 1995. In happened because, they argue, of political polarization embodied in and brought on by the Contract-with-American Congress.
The SCOTUS OA team updates the blog on Monday mornings. I'll be hitting refresh as they do.
Thursday, June 21, 2018
As the Supreme Court's term finishes with a flurry, this is a great time to glue yourself to Adam Feldman's data dives on his outstanding blog, Empirical SCOTUS (cross-posted since March at SCOTUSblog.com). The site is a treasure trove for Court watchers, and Feldman is terrific at collecting, presenting, and analyzing data about an endlessly fascinating institution.
In a recent post, Don't Cite Me Like That, Feldman touches (tentatively, and appropriately so) on issues that keep a lot of us entertained: Does oral argument change outcomes? If so, how? And how can we tell? This debate was raised afresh late last week in the wake of the Court's decision in Minnesota Voters Alliance v. Mansky, a challenge under the First Amendment to Minnesota's ban on political apparel at polling places. Because polling places are nonpublic fora, governments have considerable latitude to impose even content-based restrictions on speech; those restrictions simply must reasonable and viewpoint-neutral. Writing for a seven-justice majority, Chief Justice Roberts concluded that the ban was unreasonable because the state failed to draw sufficiently sharp lines between permitted and banned political messaging; that is, the Chief says, "a serious matter when the whole point of the exercise is to prohibit the expression of political views."
To illustrate the state's difficulty in drawing lines, the Chief Justice cites to segments of the argument where counsel for the state, like, struggled to draw lines. The key questions came from Justice Alito; Mark Joseph Stern describes the most damning colloquy and provides an audio cut in this piece for Slate. Justice Alito relentlessly presents a chain of hypothetical questions about how a reasonable polling official would apply various bits of expressive apparel: a Colin Kaepernick jersey, shirts displaying rainbow flags or various messages, and so on. Counsel for the state's struggle was real (and understandable). It was also, according to the chief, telling:
My intuition is that justices will most often cite to oral argument for the reasons the Chief did here: to oppose the position of the advocate presenting the argument. My sense, too, is that a major subset of such uses would be to expose overbreadth and faulty tailoring by highlighting awkward responses to scope-testing hypotheticals. Characteristically, Feldman doesn't rely on intuition: he pulls the data. This term, justices have cited to oral arguments 69 distinct times in 26 cases (both numbers went up this morning; the justices dropped cites to oral argument in this morning's opinions in Pereira v. Sessions and Lucia v. SEC). And yes: this term, justices' most common purpose for citing oral argument has been to undercut a party's position, either by using the transcript to "create a straw man argument that the authoring justice later deconstructs" or, as in Mansky, to "more directly oppose a party's position" by detailing "miscalculated or erroneous answers," often to questions about hypothetical applications. To be sure, justices use oral argument transcripts for other purposes, and Feldman breaks down and explains those well. This strikes me as a rich area for further study.
Cycling back to the initial question: did the state's struggles in the Mansky oral argument effect the outcome? Obviously, we can't know with the information we have, and given the marginal, late-in-the-game impact of oral argument, a good hypothesis in almost any case would be no. But, as Feldman cautiously explains, Mansky might be different. Justices Kennedy, Ginsburg, and Kagan sided with the majority. But their questioning patterns at oral argument (and, to some degree, the substance of their questions, particularly those of Justices Kennedy and Ginsburg) would suggest that they might have been inclined to rule the other way. And Justice Sotomayor's position in dissent—certify the case to the Minnesota Supreme Court for a possible saving construction—was a modest one. And yet: 7-2, with the oral argument transcript cited six times in the majority opinion (the Court also cited twice to oral arguments in Burson v. Freeman, a 1992 case addressing campaigning restrictions near polling places; see footnote 1 of the Mansky slip opinion).
So perhaps oral argument really mattered here.
Mostly, though, just add Empirical SCOTUS to your must-read list if you haven't already.
Wednesday, June 6, 2018
Over the last few weeks, I've worked with a young lawyer as he prepared for his first appellate oral argument in an important federal case. And I experienced what is, at this point in my career as a teacher of advocacy skills, the familiar thrill of watching a good lawyer quickly get better. I hope the oral arguments in the case lead to better results than we'd see in whatever outcome and reasoning the panel would have reached based on the briefing alone. But I know this: preparing for and presenting the argument has made my colleague better.
In the last two posts on this blog, Tessa and Dan discuss recent pieces in the New York Law Journal and the National Law Journal on the steep quantitative decline of oral argument in the federal circuit courts. This decline is, perhaps, inevitable in an era of expanding dockets and technological advances that make briefs relatively cheap to generate and consume (I said relatively; don't @ me). But my reflex is to bemoan the lack of betterment that must accompany this decline. I'm not talking so much about the betterment of case outcomes or of society more generally. The hit to that species of betterment is, no doubt, real and worthy of discussion. And it has been discussed, well and often, on this blog and elsewhere. See, for example, pieces by Jennifer and Tessa discussing a report from the American Academy of Appellate Lawyers on why the decline matters; see also this piece by David Cleveland and Steven Wisotsky. But the benefits of oral argument in bettering outcomes and society are marginal and difficult to quantify; perhaps they're mostly not worth the cost. I don't know.
I'm concerned about the betterment of lawyers. It's not just that, as oral argument rates decline, fewer emerging lawyers will develop experience in the art of oral advocacy. After all, if the need for oral argument artisans declines, then bemoaning the loss of opportunities to practice the craft would be like getting upset over the scantiness of job listings for haberdashers.
It's that doing oral argument makes one a better lawyer. Preparing for oral argument makes one a better lawyer. Deeply. Quickly.
If one prepares properly, appellate oral argument is a nearly perfect pedagogical tool. One basically can't prepare for and present an oral argument without working through virtually all of the techniques recommended by learning scientists (summarized nicely in the book Make It Stick: The Science of Successful Learning). Oral argument is an intricate, dynamic exercise in retrieval practice; as such, it leverages the testing effect. It demands elaboration: advocates must explain complex subjects clearly and vividly, show connections, relate the abstract to the concrete, and so on. It requires one to construct and use a network of mental models. As advocates move though disparate bits of the argument, they interleave material. Particularly because advocates naturally spend much of their time at the podium getting tested, through interrogation, about the most challenging aspects of their theory of the case, oral argument produces desirable difficulty. Judges' reactions provide real-time feedback. Post-moot periods promote reflection, a key component of sophisticated learning and skill development. The dynamic of oral argument lends itself to spaced practice. And anyone who has had to perform in oral argument learns quickly that our usual, misguided ways of "learning" material -- reading and cramming, with little retrieval or performative practice -- don't help much. Prepared oral advocates learn, deeply, then teach, and learn more deeply for having taught. The expertise sticks.
Let's say I'm right that doing and preparing for oral argument is an especially powerful way for lawyers to develop expertise and skill. And let's say that oral argument skeptics and realists are correct that oral arguments only rarely affect outcomes in cases and most often aren't worth the cost. Maybe we can agree on this: let's push more oral arguments down to junior attorneys. That'll drop the costs. Maximize the benefit. Make a lot of forward-thinking courts happy.
Monday, June 4, 2018
Over the past two weeks there have been a few prominent stories on oral arguments. These stories were featured in the Weekly Roundup, but I wanted to elaborate on them a bit more.
The first story concerns the D.C. Circuit's decision to live-stream the audio of oral arguments. Danny noted the D.C. Circuit's announcement in the May 25 Weekly Roundup. In short, the D.C. Circuit has provided recordings of oral arguments since September 2013. However, now they will live-stream arguments (barring any sort of "classified or sealed matters."). This is great news! Honestly, the federal courts are way behind on live-streaming. Nearly two years ago I blogged on state efforts to live-stream arguments. Many states live-stream more than just audio--they include video as well. As a teacher of appellate advocacy, having my students watch oral arguments is a great teaching tool. Those arguments don't always have to be live, but it does add a nice element. For practitioners, the ability to listen or watch an argument from the office, rather than heading down to the courthouse, saves those precious billable hours. Kudos to Chief Judge Garland for making this happen!
The second story, which Dan mentioned in the June 1 Weekly Roundup, is a story from the National Law Journal on the decline of oral arguments in the circuits. While I wasn't able to pull up the NLJ article, on May 31 the New York Law Journal posted an article on the same subject. According to the article:
The most recent year statistics available from the Administrative Office of the U.S. Courts—the 12-month period ending Sep., 30, 2017—had just 6,913 arguments out of the 34,561 appeals decided on the merits. That 20 percent is a far cry from the 27.3 percent of all cases a decade ago (8,662 arguments heard), and an even more steep decline from the 40.1 percent of cases (10,357 arguments heard) just 20 years ago—when oral argument data became available from the Administrative Office.
The article does a nice job of highlighting the arguments for and against oral argument. In a nutshell--oral argument is expensive, time consuming, and not always helpful. On the other, oral argument is an important bench/bar relationship and can help clarify judicial misperceptions in a case.
It will be fascinating to see if argument numbers continue to decline.
Thursday, March 15, 2018
Ruth Anne Robbins, Distinguished Clinical Professor of Law, Rutgers Law School
Faulty reasoning undermines the substances of a legal argument as well as the credibility of the advocate. After a quick search of the online briefs available on Westlaw and Lexis, I can safely tell you that several thousand appellate briefs reference logical fallacies—typically as a precursor to a direct refutation of an opposing party’s argument. How many of us these days know our logical fallacies as well as we should?
Beyond calling out opposing counsel for these errors, the wise attorney also tests their own writing to see if they have relied on fallacious thinking. In most logical fallacies, something has gone wrong with the legal syllogism. In a sense, the major premise of a syllogism is a rule, while the minor premise is a fact. The conclusion flows from the application of the rule to the fact. Here is a simple example.
Major premise: The speed limit where defendant was arrested is 45 MPH.
Minor Premise: The working-perfectly radar gun clocked defendant at 63 MPH.
Conclusion: Defendant was speeding
In most logical fallacies, some part of the syllogism fails. There are four major categories of logical fallacies in law. Today’s blog entry goes through the first two groups of common fallacies: the non-sequitur fallacies and the insufficient evidence fallacies. The next Thinking Thursday blog entry will discuss two other categories: shallow thinking and avoidance fallacies.
1.1 The correlation equals causation fallacy commonly appears with statistical analyses. The arguer claims that because A and B appear together A must have caused B. The argument that the MMR vaccine causes babies to develop autism is a classic example of this type of fallacy. This amusing site shows these fallacies taken to the extreme.
1.2 The post hoc fallacy is closely related to the correlation/causation fallacy. The arguer claims that because A occurrence is followed by B occurrence, A’s occurrence must have caused B to occur. For example, after I ate an apple, I won an award—ergo, eating the apple caused me to win the award. In law, this sometimes shows up this way: When Pat drinks, Pat becomes violent. Therefore, Pat’s violence is caused by alcohol. That is a logical fallacy. Alcohol may lower inhibitions but does not cause violence by itself.
2. Insufficient evidence fallacies contain faulty minor premises—faulty because they are false or based in inadequate material. There are three major types of these.
2.1 The hasty generalization fallacy happens when lawyers draw big and general conclusions from too small a sample size or from unrelated evidence. “Climate change has been solved because this winter New Jersey saw frigid temperatures in late December and early January, and because it saw two nor’easter storms in March.” In that example, the weather from one three-month period is being used to argue that a decades-old phenomenon is over or never existed. To show this syllogistically:
Major premise: Climate change is making things warmer
Minor premise (flawed): weather over a three-month period matters to climate change
Conclusion (faulty): Climate change is over or solved.
2.2 The anecdotal evidence fallacy is related to the hasty generalization fallacy. The anecdotal evidence fallacy occurs when there is simply inadequate evidence to support the minor premise.
Major premise: Some cities offer Segway tours of tourist areas.
Minor premise (flawed): I have never seen people on a Segway tour of Philadelphia.
Conclusion (faulty): Philadelphia does not have Segway tours.
2.3 Finally, shallow legal research can lead to the Texas sharpshooter fallacy. As a classic example, a person shoots an arrow at a barn wall, and then draws a bullseye around the arrow in the wall. That’s a logical fallacy and happens in the minor premise—i.e. “this is a target with a bullseye.” A Texas sharpshooter fallacy happens when someone builds legal analysis and argumentation around incomplete legal research. Think of this fallacy as related to a confirmation bias—when the legal researcher stops researching when they find a result that demonstrates the governing rule that they want for their client, versus what the rule might actually be.
It is easy enough these days to practice spotting logical fallacies simply by watching television. Many advertisements use fallacious reasoning in the marketing. Politicians will sometimes fall into the logical fallacy trap as well—watching the news for a week or two should net you a few examples. But, most importantly, review your own advocacy for these common errors.
] Thank you to Professor Ken Chestek (Wyoming) and Professor Steve Johansen (Lewis & Clark) for these examples. They come from the upcoming second edition of our co-authored textbook, Your Client’s Story: Persuasive Legal Writing (2d ed. Wolters Kluwer, expected publication date of later this year).
March 15, 2018 in Appellate Advocacy, Appellate Practice, Appellate Procedure, Federal Appeals Courts, Law School, Legal Ethics, Legal Profession, Legal Writing, Moot Court, Oral Argument, Rhetoric, State Appeals Courts | Permalink | Comments (1)
Thursday, February 15, 2018
Presidents’ Weekend is upon us. Ten score and nine years ago, one of our most eloquent American writers was born. Per Professor Julie Oseid, it’s hard to pin down President Lincoln’s prowess to just one attribute. He was adept at many skills, “including alliteration, rhyme, contrast, balance, and metaphor.” (From her new book, Communicators-in-Chief) In her chapter on Lincoln, however, Oseid focuses on his ability to express a great deal in an economy of words. He developed that style during his 25 years as a trial attorney riding circuit. Collecting his legal writing became a quest for historians, and as a result Lincoln is now the most documented lawyer that we may ever have. You can see some of the work of The Lincoln Legal Papers project online. Oseid summarizes Lincoln’s strategy as not to waste arguments or words, but to use “just the necessary number of those words for essential matters.”
So many of our presidents are known for their rhetorical style that Oseid is able to build a body of work about the takeaways that we, as legal writers, can learn from our bygone leaders. Essays have appeared in Volumes 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10 of Legal Communication & Rhetoric: JALWD. Her new book brings together the rhetorical lessons from these five presidents and does so in a way that is very readable in the gestalt.
Lincoln worked hard for his brevity, pondering and editing mercilessly. He was driven by a need for universal comprehension—something every trial lawyer learns to do. His famous second inaugural address was delivered in six minutes. In 701 words he developed a timeless message of reconciliation—and 505 of the words he used were only one syllable long. His notes of his speech showed emphasis on five words, all verbs.
I asked Professor Oseid, and she agreed that Lincoln would have used Twitter masterfully and eloquently. It is interesting to pause for a few minutes and wonder how he would have used the medium. From what we know of his other writings, I strongly believe that he would have lifted it up, and us up in the process. Lincoln keenly understood that intelligent and powerful communications do not depend on vocabulary, but on conveying a theme with precision and organization.
As I celebrate my favorite presidents this weekend, I will be thinking about those legal writing lessons I can learn from them.
Ruth Anne Robbins, Distinguished Clinical Professor of Law, Rutgers Law School
Thursday, January 18, 2018
Appellate attorneys must choose not only the right arguments, but also the right moment for the argument. By that, I mean the right time in the world, and the right time in the brief. The idea of opportune moments draws upon a less-taught rhetorical concept, that of kairos.
In Greek myth, two spirits represented different aspects of time: Chronos and Kairos. Chronos, often depicted as an aged man, was the spirit representing the sequential and linear passage of time. Kairos, the spirit of opportune moments—of possibilities—is shown as a young man, floating on air in a circuitous path.  His wings and the long hair growing only out of his face and not on the top or back of his head, symbolizes the need for people to seize him as he approaches, but not after he passed by. In his whirling travel patterns, Kairos—unlike Chronos—may come around again. Thus, the concept of kairos in rhetoric centers on the “opportune moment.” It is the difference between “being in the right time and place” versus the idea that people cannot go backwards in time.
The “opportune moment” concept of kairos has been part of rhetoric since the time of Aristotle, who took the view that the moment in time in which an argument was delivered dictated the type of rhetorical devices that would be most effective. The sophists took a different view: Kairos is something to be manipulated by the presenter as part of adapting the audience’s interpretation of the current situation. Kairos assists in molding the persuasive message the speaker is communicating. Modern rhetoricians hold a middle view—that a presenter must be inventive and fluid because there can never be more than a contingent management of a present opportunity.
The Greek word kairos and its translation “opportune moment” embody two distinct concepts communicated through metaphors. The first concept, the derivation of the “right moment” half of the definition, is temporal. Greek mythology concentrated the spirit on the temporal. That is, the right time in the history of the world. For lawyers, that is important to know when making a policy argument. Is this the right moment in the trajectory of chronological time to make a particular policy argument. Will it persuade? Appellate attorneys who write civil rights and other impact-topic briefs will immediately understand what I am talking about. There is a right moment in history to make an argument. Some of the most important cases decided by the U.S. Supreme Court depended on the timing of the case—the kairos.
In an article about creating kairos at the Supreme Court, and published in the Journal of Appellate Practice and Process, Professor Linda Berger has written about the idea of kairos and suggests that temporal metaphors are still useful, because they help explain why today’s dissent in an opinion may become tomorrow’s majority decision. In her analysis, she demonstrates that what may look like a missed or lost opportunity to persuade may still have an impact. A snagged thread in the fabric of the law, which, at an opportune later time, can be pulled to unravel the existing fabric of the legal sky when the opportune moment comes around again.
But, the second half of the kairos definition—the opportunity—deals with the spatial. To seize the opportunity at the right time requires one to communicate in the right place and under the right circumstances. Rhetoricians commonly use visualizations of the penetrable openings needed for both the successful passage of the arrows of archery through loopholes in solid walls, and the productive shuttles of weaving through the warp yarns in fabric, as a way to describe the spatial aspect of kairos. Modern rhetoric takes these metaphors and elaborates, defining kairos as “a passing instant when an opening appears which must be driven through with force if success is to be achieved.”The idea is one of force and power.
For appellate attorneys, this represents the “where” an argument is placed in the internal whole of the document. The kairos of the legal writing. That depends, of course, on the overall narrative structure of the argument, the positions of emphasis in the beginnings and closings of sections and paragraphs, and the lasting imagery the writer wants the readers to walk away remembering. It is, as Professor Scott Fraley has noted in his Primer on Essential Classical Rhetoric for Practicing Attorneys, the idea that the writer understands the right moments “at which particular facts or arguments are inserted into the argument or presentation of the case.” He calls kairos, “the art of knowing when . . . to make the winning argument.” In other words, the strategic advocate spends time thinking about the persuasion of time.
 Some of this entry relies on language I wrote in an article on a different topic. Ruth Anne Robbins, Three 3Ls, Kairos, and the Civil Right to Counsel in Domestic Violence Cases, 2015 Mich. L. Rev. 1359 (2015). For the background on Kairos and kairos, I rely on these works: Carolyn R. Miller, Kairos in the Rhetoric of Science, in A Rhetoric of Doing: Essays on Written Discourse in Honor of James L. Kinneavy 310, 312–13 (Stephen P. Witte, Neil Nakadate & Roger D. Cherry eds., 1992); James Kinneavy & Catherine Eskin, Kairos in Aristotle’s Rhetoric, 17 Written Comm. 432, 436–38 (2000); and Eric Charles White, Kaironomia: on the Will-to-Invent 13–15 (1987).
 Francesco Salviati, Kairos (1552-1554) (fresco); picture courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3AFrancesco_Salviati_005-contrast-detail.jpg
Monday, October 23, 2017
Yes, at least according to a recent study by the American Academy of Appellate Lawyers. Jennifer posted an excellent summary of the report last Thursday. I won't repeat her discussion, but I wanted to focus on a few other points.
The Academy, concerned with both the decline in cases listed for oral argument and the time allotted for oral argument in federal appellate courts, sent their report to Chief Justice John G. Roberts, Jr., and the chief judges of the federal appellate courts. As Academy member James Martin told the National Law Journal, more oral argument could shed light on the role of judges: "Oral argument is a very unique piece of the civics lesson and one that I personally believe puts the courts in a very good light and is its own almost best explanation of what the third branch does and is all about."
According to the report, there are four federal circuits with oral argument rates in the teens. The Fourth Circuit is the lowest, with only 11% of cases being scheduled for oral argument. The D.C. Circuit, with 55% of cases being scheduled for argument, has the highest rate of oral argument. According to the research I did along with my co-author for the third edition of Winning on Appeal, only 18.6% of federal appellate cases were scheduled for argument in 2015. In 1990, 44.8% of cases received oral argument, with the Second Circuit granting argument in 76.4% of cases. And, as we noted in Winning on Appeal, these numbers don't take into consideration the litigants who do not ask for oral argument in circuits that require such a request. So why the decline?
Some of the decline can be attributed to the rise in cases appealed. In 1969 the federal appellate courts terminated 9,014 appeals. In 2015, that number was 52,881, or an increase of 586%. It would be incredibly difficult for judges to hear argument in every case given the large number of appeals. Furthermore, in surveying judges for Winning on Appeal, we found that most judges found the briefs to play a highly significant, if not dispositive, role in helping them resolve the appeal.
Still, oral argument has its purposes. In chapter 3 of Winning on Appeal, we set out some of these purposes. For judges, oral argument allows them to (1) question the legal and factual positions in the briefs, (2) clarify the issues, (3) consider the impact of the positions taken, (4) lobby other members of their court, and, at times, (5) help the advocate present the case. For attorneys, on the other hand, oral argument allows them to (1) face the decision makers, (2) emphasize or simplify positions in the brief, (3) address the issues that trouble the court, (4) correct misimpressions, and (5) show the logical soundness of their position. In observing oral arguments, I have found that many attorneys fail to capitalize on these opportunities. While, as Mr. Martin noted, oral argument puts judges in "a very good light," it doesn't always do the same for attorneys. Perhaps the answer to more oral argument is to ensure that the quality of oral argument is excellent and beneficial to judges and the disposition of cases.
Wednesday, October 18, 2017
My law school was fortunate to welcome Elena Kagan earlier this week. (The artist's rendering above is the work of Professor Evelyn Brody.) During a delightfully wide-ranging conversation with Professor Carolyn Shapiro, Justice Kagan took a firm stand on one point: her former boss Thurgood Marshall was "the greatest lawyer of the twentieth century."
No one argued with that.
As Justice Kagan noted, we mostly remember Thurgood Marshall, attorney at law, as an appellate advocate, though that might change with the release of the film Marshall, which focuses on his trial work. He is, of course, most celebrated for his work in the Brown v. Board of Education cases. And his advocacy led to key victories in the decade-plus before Brown: in Murray v. Pearson, a groundbreaking Maryland desegregation case; in Shelley v. Kraemer, a landmark case striking down racial covenants; in the Brown precursors Sweatt v. Painter and McLaurin v. Oklahoma State Regents; in dozens of other cases.
To spell out the obvious: there is substance to Marshall's legend. The records of his appellate oral arguments provide ready confirmation of this. It's worth reading in full the transcripts of his oral arguments in Briggs v. Elliott, one of the consolidated Brown cases. In the original 1952 argument and rebuttal (pdfs), Marshall elegantly handles active questioning from skeptical justices (Reed and CJ Vinson, who reportedly favored upholding the school boards' practices) and genuinely torn justices (Frankfurter and Jackson, who were sympathetic to the claimants but true believers in judicial restraint). In the 1953 reargument, Marshall offers a rich oral treatise on the Fourteenth Amendment. And his rebuttal is a remarkable closing argument. I won't paste an excerpt here because an excerpt won't do it justice. Trust me: click here; scroll to page 20; start reading the paragraph at the bottom of the page that begins "[t]he argument of judicial restraint has no application in this case"; keep going until you hit "[t]hank you, sir." Ethos, logos, pathos.
I'd also recommend listening to Solicitor General Marshall's oral argument in United States v. Price, the Mississippi Burning case. Unlike in Briggs/Brown, he's not addressing skeptical or torn justices: he draws only two soft questions from a Court that ultimately ruled unanimously in his favor. So he generates his own momentum: in key segments of his argument, he serves as his own interlocutor, asking sharply-composed questions and offering sharply-composed answers. It works remarkably well; his assurance and comfort in his own skin are a palpable force.