A good lawyer meets you at home or in the hospital; in jail or at the end of a quiet bar. If you visit his office, he brews coffee or tea for you. If he lacks your preferred condiment—half-and-half, say, or honey—he sprints down the sidewalk to borrow some from the cafe. He asks many questions about your case. Then he asks just as many questions about yourself. He is patient, curious, gregarious: he knows that every detail counts; he knows, too, that each meeting presents an opportunity to form a good, sometimes profound, relationship. He doesn’t skimp on research materials; rather, he invests in the finest resources available to him. He doesn’t complain about hours spent at the computer or in the courtroom: he enjoys writing (and has, in fact, devoted decades to the craft) and he enjoys speaking for clients in court (an honor for which he remains humbled). When you leave his office, you feel respected, understood, and, most of all, protected. That’s my ideal for a good lawyer—an ideal toward which I strive.