I came home from court irritated last week. My wife saw it on my face and asked who was responsible. I told her about my opponent’s tactics that I thought were foul.

She then asked if this attorney was my age or younger. That didn’t help my mood. I didn’t like the implication that I was an ageist, but was more irked that she assumed there are no lawyers who are older than I am. In my defense there are several, albeit fewer each year.

I got to hang out with some age appropriate lawyers recently, in one of the last pubs on Earth that still allows smoking. I secondhand-smoked at least half a pack of cigarettes and one obnoxious pipe. It is rare that I can go into any establishment and feel like the healthiest person in the room. I smiled about that when I left later that night, hacking and coughing and blowing smoke rings. I will have to burn the suit I was wearing, but it smells burnt anyway.

As always happens when trial lawyers get together, stories flowed. I used to relish hearing my mentor and his peers talk about the good old days, and now I was with my peers recounting our good old days. These stories weren’t all about walking to court uphill both ways in the snow. But mostly.

Every lawyer at the table had a mean judge story. We all encountered mean judges in the early days of our careers. It is more likely than not that what we called mean judge actions were the justified reactions of an older lawyer to young lawyer antics and ignorance.

Everyone had a story about a judge whose name I can’t say because it makes the scar on my forehead hurt. He was notoriously ornery. I’d seen him shut the door in a lawyer’s face when he was holding a settlement conference in chambers and that lawyer announced that they wouldn’t be contributing anything to settlement. He once berated me for settling a case before he could dismiss it. We recently saw him at a Bar function and I got a little nervous when he approached out of habit. He was no longer the imposing figure he had been on the bench, instead stooped over and shuffling. It has been a long time since he retired, and none of us held any grudges. We wished him well.

I miss mean judges. Not the mercurial ones who caused lawyers to hold their breath until the day’s mood showed itself, but the ones who were hard on unprepared or green lawyers. They intended to teach us as much as castigate us. I think.

My friends and I came from a sink or swim age. I got sworn in by a local judge rather than attending the statewide Bar admission ceremony because I needed to attend a deposition and couldn’t wait for the bigger event. Perhaps it would have been nice to have been coddled. As it was I never made the same mistake twice. Fortunately there were always new and bigger mistakes to make. “Mean” judges (and opposing counsel) made me a better lawyer.

Speaking of smoking, it used to be allowed in court. My mentor once recounted a story about a lawyer who had a cigar at counsel table throughout trial. During closing arguments, the jury didn’t pay any attention to his opponent. They couldn’t take their eyes off his cigar as the ash end grew to several inches but never fell. The cigar remained intact throughout, defying gravity. He had stuck a wire inside the tobacco which invisibly held the burnt ash in place. Not all trial tactics are advocacy.

My opponent today hadn’t done anything as sneaky as wiring a cigar. In retrospect, his actions were more like a punch after the bell than one in the back of the head. I almost felt bad for spilling my coffee into his briefcase. Almost.

©2025 With All Due Respect. Spencer Farris is the founding partner of The S.E. Farris Law Firm in St Louis, Missouri. He wouldn’t even smoke if he caught fire but has dipped a can of snuff or two. Comments or criticisms about this column may be sent c/o this publication or directly to him via email at farris@farrislaw.net.