Lawyers are known for their stories, some of which are even true. I have generally avoided that habit, but a few stories from my early years of practice are still worth telling. One of them involves a former client named William Porter, a character who, in an earlier era, would certainly have been called a rascal. Mischievous, and likable in spite of it. Perhaps because of it. He was also a contributing cause to the only court-imposed sanction of my career.

William, or “Billy” as everyone called him, had a talent for mocking lawyers while still respecting them. Whenever he called before noon, his greeting began the same way. “Counselor, are you out of your coffin yet?” If he called in the afternoon, the call opened with a lawyer joke. “Do you know what is brown and black and looks good on a lawyer?” Before I could answer, he would supply it. “A Doberman pinscher.” He would laugh. I tried to conceal my smirk. Rascal.

The calls rarely concerned routine matters. Someone had crossed him, or he had crossed someone. A confrontation followed. After recounting his version of events, he would insist that we meet with the allegedly aggrieved party so that I could straighten it out, as if lawyers possessed some kind of ordained power. “I want to see you hop on that conference table and let them hear your big brass balls clang together.”

At that stage of my practice, I took comments like that as encouragement rather than warning.

If Billy’s life had ever been turned into a movie, he might have been played by Woody Harrelson himself in The People vs. Larry Flynt. In one scene, Edward Norton, cast as Flynt’s lawyer, tells his client that he wants to quit as Flynt boards his private plane. Flynt barely pauses. He replies, “You do not want to quit me. I am your dream client. I am the most fun, I am rich, and I am always in trouble.” Billy fit that description perfectly, except for the wealth, which he regarded as temporary. He thrived on conflict, expected his lawyers to stand with him in it, and seemed genuinely amused by the disorder around him.

Billy also had a business partner named Chuck. Rail thin, with a short stubble of gray hair, he wore metal-frame Hunter S. Thompson glasses and had a penchant for Hawaiian shirts, mostly in red. He was probably twenty years Billy’s senior, though he looked closer to a million. His skin was leathery and deeply tanned, the result of long days in the California sun and decades of chain smoking. How he and Billy ever became partners remains a mystery to me. Together, they owned a chain of carpet recycling companies across California, Georgia, and Texas. By the time I became involved, Billy had decided he was finished with Chuck.

On Billy’s behalf, I filed suit to take control of the business. Chuck responded by hiring Herbert “Herb” Malloy. Blocky build. Short-sleeved dress shirts under drab brown suits. He looked more accustomed to loading docks or union halls than the restrained decorum of a civil courtroom.

He filed a countersuit. Tempers flared. Before long, everyone took it personally, including counsel. Settlement was no longer the objective. Each side was spoiling for a fight.

Months of discovery and depositions followed. A trial date was set. As a matter of course, the judge ordered the parties to appear for a pretrial hearing. The purpose was to agree on exhibits, exchange witness lists, and set the ground rules so that the trial itself could proceed with few interruptions.

A few days before the hearing, Chuck’s lawyer, Herb, called. Chuck, he said, had suffered a stroke. Not life threatening, but he was in the hospital. Herb asked whether I would agree to postpone the hearing. It was usually granted without dispute.

I called Billy and relayed the news. He laughed, not with humor but with irritation.

“So what does that mean for us?”

“It means his lawyer will ask the court to reset the hearing a few months out.”

“A few months? Do we have to agree to this?”

“Technically, no. But it is usually done as a matter of courtesy.”

“Did they file anything?”

“Not yet. I am taking their lawyer at his word.”

There was another pause.

“You need to fight it.”

None of it sat well with me, yet it gave us something to argue. At that stage of my career, I still deferred to clients on procedural matters rather than directing them. Against my better judgment, I filed an objection and prepared for court.

The hearing was set for a Tuesday. The court had cleared its docket the day before in anticipation of a lengthy pretrial session. When the bailiff called the case, Chuck’s lawyer asked whether counsel could approach the bench. The judge looked over his glasses and waved us forward.

Herb began. “Your Honor, I filed a motion for continuance. My client is in the hospital after suffering a stroke.” He added that Chuck was expected to recover but would need several weeks before returning.

As he spoke, the judge nodded and reached for his calendar.

That was when I spoke up. “Your Honor, we filed an objection to the continuance.”

The judge paused, his eyes narrowing. “On what basis?”

“Your Honor, opposing counsel has presented no supporting proof. No statement from a doctor. No medical records.”

The judge raised a hand. “Are you telling me that you do not accept the representations of Mr. Malloy?”

“I am not questioning counsel,” I said. “We are asking for verification.”

The judge turned slightly toward Herb. “Mr. Malloy has represented to the court that his client is hospitalized. Are you saying that is not enough?”

Unwilling to concede, I tried again, though less convincingly.

“Your Honor, we are only asking for proof.”

That was when the judge erupted.

“Mr. Malloy is an officer of the court. And you are wasting our time. The motion is granted. I am sanctioning plaintiff’s counsel in the amount of five hundred dollars.”

He leaned forward. “If you come back with an argument like this again, bring a toothbrush. Plan to spend a few nights in jail.”

He signed the order granting the continuance, reset the hearing for a later date, and slid copies across the bench with a curt, “Dismissed.”

I stood there for a moment, absorbing what had just happened. Then I turned on my heel, returned to the counsel table, gathered my briefcase, and stepped through the swinging doors into the gallery. Billy was a few rows back, grinning. He rose and followed me into the hallway.

We had barely cleared the doorway when he slapped me on the back and laughed.

“That was great,” he said. “You took your shot.”

“I have never been sanctioned,” I said.

He shrugged. “Well. Now you have.”

The words landed harder than expected.

He waved a hand. “Do not worry. I will cover the fine.”

Chuck recovered, and the case drifted for another month or two as the hearing was reset. Several months of legal bills softened even Billy’s resolve. When Herb called to discuss settlement, the matter moved quickly. After several calls, we reached an agreement. Chuck would take the California operation. Billy would keep Georgia and Texas.

A week later, the documents were ready. The pleadings to dismiss the case were prepared, along with the documents required to transfer ownership and unwind the partnership. Billy and I met Chuck and his lawyer at Herb’s office to sign the documents.

Herb’s assistant escorted us into a conference room with a table long enough to land a plane on. Stacks of documents were neatly arranged along one side, each flagged where signatures were required. Chuck sat across from us, restless and distracted, waiting for the moment he could step outside for a cigarette. We confirmed the terms of the settlement. Everyone stood and formed a line to sign the documents. Chuck and his counsel began.

As they worked their way down the line, Billy leaned over to me, his voice low and even. He paused.

“Counselor,” he said, “you told me once that whatever I write, so long as I intend it to be my signature, counts as my signature.”

He waited a beat.

“Even if I scribbled an X, it would count. Right?”

I nodded. “Yes. Anything, so long as you intend it as your signature.”

A gleam crossed his eye. I should have known.

“So I can write anything?”

“Yes,” I said. “Legally speaking, that is true.”

Billy picked up the pen and wrote, “William, F*** You, Porter” on the first document. Before I could react, he moved to the next. “William, Eat a Bag of D****, Porter.”

By the third page, I leaned in and whispered, “What. Are. You. Doing?”

“You said I could write anything,” he replied, perfectly calm.

“Please. Do. Not. Do. This.” I said, biting off each word.

He did not pause. “William, You Are a Miserable Bastard, Porter.” Then, “William, I Hope You Choke, Porter.” Each was worse than the last.

Chuck’s lawyer circled back to the first document. He flipped through the pages, his face tightening as he read. When he looked up, he was furious.

Before he could speak, I shrugged. “Take it or leave it. He is not signing again.”

They took it.

Outside the building, I was torn between throttling Billy and laughing. He said nothing. The small smile at the corner of his mouth told me enough. Before I could respond, he was already complaining about the bill that would soon arrive, one he would pay without protest.

As for how he signed that check, let us just say the bank had far less of a sense of humor. ♦