Real times

An era ended not long after the summer solstice. After 95 years of life and 52-plus years on the bench, Judge Manuel L. Real has a new assignment, this one permanent.

The real Judge Real was a confirmed gentleman when the robe came off, and I was lucky enough to meet that gentleman. With several other panelists, he and I had dinner together, once, at a conference in San Diego where we were both speakers. He was charming. He cared about how I was faring in my superior court assignment. He gave me pointers that made sense.

Two decades earlier, the one time I had a matter before him, I followed a senior lawyer's advice: The less you say the better. I made my appearance, Judge Real granted the government's injunction, and I said, "Thank you Your Honor." I'm aware of his on-the-bench reputation, yet during the cases he called before mine, he displayed good judicial temperament. Counsel had come to court prepared.

We'd met briefly before, in November 1972, when I was clerking at 312 North Spring Street, freshly admitted to the bar, tooling around a much more whimsy Los Angeles in my blue Pontiac Le Mans Sport Coupe and taking my dates to dinner at The Source. Judge Real's law clerk didn't cruise that much. Daily he had to drive his boss to and from court, 24 miles from the judge's San Pedro home.

Sometimes my co-clerks and I drove to El Tepeyac to split a Manuel's Special Burrito. It weighed five pounds and was named after another Manuel, the owner, but that didn't matter. The moniker inspired Judge Real stories.

In December 1973, I entered practice. Lawyers acted nicer back then. A phone call confirmed an extension. Once a month partners and associates traipsed from Century City along Santa Monica Boulevard to the Beverly Hilton for badinage at the bar lunch. During the holiday season, the Los Angeles County Bar put on the annual Hi-Jinks. Watergate was its 1973 theme, with songs lifted from the musical "Cabaret" and lyrics like, "Need a good lawyer? They're all in the clink, so come have another drink." The audience laughed and clapped along, enjoying the fun. The program concluded with Judge Jerry Pacht singing a piece that incorporated almost every major firm in town. "Raise a glass by the fires at O'Melveny and Myers, and Tuttle and Taylor, too." On it went, with no New York law firms in the lyrics, just our local shops to which most of us felt loyal.

Speaking of drinks, Friday evenings my firm repaired to The Cellar, the watering hole in our Century City high-rise, and watched our managing partner toss peanuts at everyone. He expected us to work hard, that is, bill 120 hours a month. "I want you all to be prepared," he said, "just like Judge Real expects you to be."

By the early 1980s, I'd struck out on my own, and a lawyer down the hall asked me to handle an appearance in federal court. I said yes, but the trouble was, despite my repeated phone calls, he neglected to give me the file. Finally, the morning of the hearing, his secretary passed it through my car window when I stopped by her apartment en route to court. I read it while the judge called the calendar. A discovery motion -- my principal had not opposed it. A status conference -- my principal had filed nothing. The judge was not amused after I'd answered "no" to his question, "Did Mr. ___ tell you that I ordered him to personally come to court today?"

The judge dismissed the case. As I left the courtroom, I wondered how Judge Real would have handled this disaster. That's the moment a man in a prison jumpsuit came barreling down the hall, toward me. Seconds later, when the marshals caught him and asked why he'd been so stupid -- "Now you have an escape attempt against you" -- the man said, "I just drew 25 years from Real. Why shouldn't I try?" Good question, maybe, but one thing was certain. Judge Real had thought long and hard before sentencing that man. He cared about the parties who appeared before him.

Judges on our federal and state benches have mellowed since then. One reason, I'm sure, is that governors, presidents and their committees have become more reluctant to appoint people prone to temper tantrums. But many lawyers, I fear, are headed straight the other way. "I'm going to lay about 300 interrogatories on him," said one bright young associate during the early 1980s, before the Discovery Act was changed. "Run him ragged," I heard a partner order an associate. And it's only gotten worse. Space prevents me from detailing all the occasions I've read emails and deposition transcripts in which counsel used profanity, called each other names, or threatened to sue each other. I've had two attorneys break down in tears and tell me they couldn't stand the abuse any longer. After I described one shouting match, a colleague in the lunchroom asked, "Can you imagine what Judge Real would do to him?" (It's almost always a him.) "Put him in jail," someone said. Others gave a more accurate answer: that wouldn't happen in Judge Real's court. He insisted on civility. As Judge William Fahey said, "He had an effect, mostly positive, on every lawyer who appeared before him." He also had an effect on the rest of us judges. He kept us humble.

The changes Judge Real lived through are breathtaking. We're a kinder, gentler judiciary. But now lawyers have to confirm their extensions in writing and put fingerprints in their notaries' journals. They hopscotch through law firms, and too many poach on each other's clients.

Eventually the "Judge Real stories" will fade as memories dim, but when a meltdown occurs in my courtroom, I'll continue to wonder: What would Manny do? 