21st March, 2025
- Black Lawyer
- Mar 25
- 3 min read
Updated: Mar 25
Legal Drama with a Side of Pettiness
Highlights of the Day:
• Opposing Counsel mistook bluster for brilliance
• A grown man wept over Legos
• I remained undefeated—and, of course, thoroughly moisturized
Dearest Diary,
Upon the morn of yesterday, I was regaled with a tale so delightfully absurd, I very nearly spilled my expresso upon the ledger.
A dear colleague—sharp of wit, steadfast of manner, and attired in courtroom couture that whispered competence with a side of retribution—had convened a deposition within the distinguished walls of our office. She had come to engage the opposing party with questions of legal merit. Instead, she bore witness to a most unfortunate spectacle: a display of masculine bluster so theatrical, one might assume Shakespeare himself had penned it.
The source of the commotion?
An older gentleman—by age, not acumen—who appeared to believe he was auditioning for the role of Lord Supreme of Condescension.
He interrupted her with reckless abandon.
He answered queries intended for his client.
And, with the entitlement of one who believes all rooms ought to tilt in his direction, referred to her as “young lady”—a title she had long since outgrown, along with any tolerance for such nonsense.
He misquoted legal rules with the confidence of a man who had not read them since the Carter administration.
He cited irrelevant statutes, some of which, I believe, may have been lifted from the Magna Carta.
At one point, he was so disoriented by her calm authority, he referenced California family code. In Texas, no less.
His legal reasoning had the structural integrity of wet toast.
And how did she respond? With measured grace befitting a duchess:
“Would you prefer to conduct this deposition yourself, or shall I resume my questioning?”
A silence fell upon the room—a silence so pregnant with tension it could have filed for child support.
Even the witness began to fidget.
The court reporter ceased her typing momentarily, and, with barely a tilt of her head, delivered a side-eye so refined, it may well have been passed down through generations.
By the close of proceedings, Opposing Counsel resembled a man who had arrived to a duel with a soup spoon—only to find his opponent both better read and better armed.
Which reminds me, dear Diary, of a moment from my own practice.
An informal settlement conference.
Two parties. A marriage dissolved but not yet declared dead. Emotions simmering quietly under the varnished surface.
My client, a 67-year-old gentleman of the old school—ex-military, white, dignified, the kind of man who polishes his shoes before court and says “ma’am” even to women half his age—sat across from his soon-to-be ex-wife.
And then, with a voice calm enough to shatter mountains, she uttered:
“I’d like the Lego collection.”
Time itself paused.
He blinked.
Twice.
Then the floodgates opened.
Not misty-eyed decorum. Not a discreet wipe of the cheek.
No, dear Diary—this was weeping. The kind of sobbing reserved for war memorials and Pixar films.
A single Lego brick slipped from his leather satchel and struck the floor with a delicate clink—a sound that echoed like a verdict in marble halls.
Opposing counsel froze.
I, ever the professional, placed a hand upon his trembling shoulder and whispered, “Shall we take five?”
For it was never merely about the Legos.
It was about what they represented: structure, solace, something he had built when all else was crumbling.
A fortress of tiny coloured bricks that had never left him.
Later, I overheard the wife murmur to her solicitor:
“I didn’t want the Legos. I simply needed to know he still cared about something.”
We reached a resolution shortly after.
He kept the Legos.
She kept her quiet power.
And I… kept the story.
Because in our line of work, it is never simply about statutes or division of assets. It is about the tender, often absurd truths buried beneath pride. The things we hold, the things we break, and the things we cry over when we believe no one will notice.
I remain, as ever—
Grateful. Grounded. Unbothered.
Shiraya Genea Jackson, Esq.
Disclaimer: This diary entry is a delicate marriage of truth and tasteful fiction. Some names have been changed, some moments embellished, and some Lego-related tears may be metaphorical. As with any fine British import, consider it “historically adjacent.” Like The Great on Hulu—but with depositions and better wigs.
Tag someone who has ever dismantled arrogance with grace—and knows what Legos really mean.
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