ONCE MORE A tired lawyer falls into a deep sleep and dreams. He finds himself on the steps of a courthouse, hardly recognizable as the Hillsborough North Superior Court, what with the additions, the security clearance rooms and the hallway full of individual carrels—each holding a large-size keyboard, touch pad, and readable screen, along with two chairs and a list of instructions posted on the wall.

An elderly woman and her equally elderly husband approach the courthouse with some trepidation, clinging to each other as if they were one unit. The wife clutches a piece of paper in her hand. They are granted admittance into the building and make their way through the now-common security systems which include full body scans, pocketbook and briefcase x-rays, and occasional pat-down searches. His hip joints show up on the scanner, but that’s routine. The screener rolls his eyes and pushes the security clearance pass through the bullet-proof window. All the old people have metal in their hips—this one was no different.

The man accepts the pass, and says, "Thank you. Can you tell us where to go to talk to someone about a mess we’re in?" The screener doesn’t bother to get any additional information. He waves them toward the kiosks; they look at him, confused. He points more specifically and says through the glass, "Just go over there and follow directions." Still leaning on one another, they exit the security room. The screener notifies the bailiff patrolling the corridors, "Look out, Andrea, a couple of boomers headed your way."

The couple moves toward the first empty carrel, but just before they start to sit down, a young mother, baby on her hip and a small child trailing behind, interrupts them. "Excuse me," she says, "I need this more than you do. Why don’t you go to the next one?" They don’t argue. She’s probably right; they look at each other and remember when they, too, had young children. They move on.

Just before the husband is about to look for a bench to sit on, the bailiff approaches—she walks them to an empty carrel and they sit gingerly in the chairs, peering at the screen. The wife has the better eyesight. She brings her hand to the screen, tracing the words with her finger and reading the instructions aloud. They consult with one another about the right button to touch—she presses on the big round button appearing in the middle of the screen, but nothing happens. "Well, I don’t know what to do, father," she says, touching the screen again and again, trying different locations, to no avail. She’s holding his hand with her free hand; their intermingled fingers form a landscape of bone and blue.

He points to the keyboard and asks, "Is there something there?" She examines it for clues. Finally, she hits a button that says, "Enter" and the screen whirs to life. A nice, young woman appears on the screen and reviews the options available. Neither one of them can hear her. "What’s she saying?" he asks in frustration. His wife shrugs her shoulders.

The bailiff walks over. "You folks have a problem?"

"Yes, we can’t hear her," the wife explains. The bailiff wordlessly reaches down and presses a button with an up-arrow and the volume increases. "Thank you, dear," says the wife, as she leans forward to listen. The nice woman is discussing different kinds of problems and explaining what button to push for information on each one. She talks too fast, and they consult with one another, guessing at the right selection. Two attempts fail to bring up any information about their problem.

"Well, what should we do, mother?"

"I don’t know. Didn’t that sheriff who came to our home tell us to come down here to get help?"

"Yes, but I thought we could talk to someone. I want to go home. I’m tired."

The wife begins to cry. "If we don’t get help, we won’t have a home to go to anymore."

They leave the carrel, too distracted to notice that they have left the piece of paper behind. The watching lawyer leans forward, into the dreamscape—the paper is a writ of summons and petition to attach seeking unspecified damages for work performed on the old couple’s house. An easy case to defend, from the looks of the writ. If only one knew how to defend it.

The scene shifts. A young lawyer is at her desk, reviewing the day’s files and correspondence, scrolling through her calendar. "Oh, I see we’re past the response date in that construction case. Great, now I can move for a default judgment." She looks out the window; her stomach is churning. She knows the defendants. The wife has called her up once, to tell her that they couldn’t pay any money on this bill and that the man who did the work had never come back to fix all the problems with the roof. She’d told them to get a lawyer. The wife had asked her how to do that when they had no extra money and the lawyer couldn’t answer.

She remembers that there used to be a program for volunteer lawyers, some kind of clearinghouse to match willing lawyers to needy clients, but that has since faded away.

The lawyer thought about her own mother—at least her mother had a lawyer to look out for her! Nowadays, all legal advice and information was given out in the courthouses through highly developed programs completely accessible to anyone. There wasn’t any real reason to worry about these people; they could just go to the courthouse and learn all they needed to know about the defense of a lawsuit. Couldn’t they?

The dreaming lawyer shakes off the sense of foreboding brought about by watching the elderly couple and the predicament of his fellow attorney. How could this be? How could the system have gone so wrong? How could the generation that promised change have failed so miserably? Most importantly, what could be done, now, while they, the boomers, were still a force to be reckoned with? "I don’t want my generation to fade," the lawyer thought. "What we accomplished—it has to be preserved—there has to be a way."

Thus ends our odyssey into the future of the Pro Bono program. Without the continued strong mentoring that each generation of older lawyers provides, new members of the Bar do not learn that law is a calling, not just a business.

If billable hours, receivables, and realization rates are the sole measures of success, over time we will lose the best and the brightest to other professions where the alleviation of human suffering remains a key component. Who will want to lawyer, when lawyering is about entering data into a system and submitting arguments over the Internet?

Where will the impassioned and gifted speakers, writers and real thinkers find themselves in 20 or 30 years? We owe it to our generation and to the generations coming up to leave a lasting impression, not just of peace and love and rock and roll, but of commitment to systems that provide access to justice and fair treatment for all. It’s the least we can do, and we should do it now.

It’s Not Too Late!

The Pro Bono Program has not succumbed yet...Consider taking a Pro Bono case, or, if you’re not in a position to take on direct representation, ask how else you might be able to help the Bar’s Pro Bono program leverage NH lawyers’ volunteer time to assist low-income families with urgent civil legal needs. Contact Ginny Martin, NHBA Associate Executive Director for Legal Services at gmartin@nhbar.org or 224-6942.

Home | About the Bar | For Members | For the Public | Legal Links | Publications | Online Store
Lawyer Referral Service | Law-Related Education | NHBA•CLE | NHBA Insurance Agency | NHMCLE
Search | Calendar

New Hampshire Bar Association
2 Pillsbury Street, Suite 300, Concord NH 03301
phone: (603) 224-6942 fax: (603) 224-2910
email: NHBAinfo@nhbar.org
© NH Bar Association Disclaimer