Source: https://lawprofessors.typepad.com/appellate_advocacy/legal-writing/
Timestamp: 2019-04-22 22:28:08+00:00

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Writing a good statement of the case is a lot like walking a tightrope in the wind. There is such a fine balance involved in providing the court with an understanding of how a case arrived before it, explaining what happened, ethically disclosing all relevant information, and zealously advocating for your position. A statement of the case includes both the procedural history of the case itself, and the factual history forming the basis of the legal issues before the court. And, herein, lies the beginning of the balancing act. I certainly adhere to ideas that we lead with our most affirmative statements, that readers remember the first and last things they read, and that we can minimize the impact of unfavorable facts simply by tucking them in the middle of a sentence or a paragraph. I advocate strongly for the purposeful use of passive voice to further distance yourself from negative facts. I have read briefs where every sentence, and every paragraph, has been drafted with maximum persuasive impact in mind. I certainly applaud the diligence of the authors of these briefs, and understand the desire to take advantage of every opportunity to persuade. I also note that reading such statements of the case can be exhausting.
To me, reading such briefs is like riding a bicycle uphill… all the time. I need to coast from time to time. A well-balanced statement of facts allows for both the emotional appeal, and the opportunity to coast through basic information. For instance, that a complaint was filed or even when it was filed may be presented fairly neutrally without undermining the general persuasiveness of the statement. In addition, I often suggest to my students that they separate descriptions of places, things, and sometimes people, from the story itself. These descriptive paragraphs help to orient the reader and can give the reader a moment to coast before embarking on what will hopefully become a very compelling journey. I believe that such information can be shared in a fairly neutral fashion without undermining persuasive impact.
I also, however, offer words of caution. Do not begin a story, and then abruptly stop the telling in order to describe a person, place, or thing. Just as you have your reader picturing the car stuck on the train track, and hearing the train whistle approaching, do not interrupt the reader in order to describe the town in which the impending collision is likely to occur, or the restaurant in which the lone witness sat. Describe the town first, so the reader better pictures the events happening. Bolster testimony, after you’ve completed the story, by showing the reader what a great vantage point the witness had. By being mindful of where you place the descriptions, you protect the reader from jarring interruptions.
By separating descriptions from the story itself, and by relegating mundane information to its rightful neutral place, you will vary the cadence of story itself. This variety will make your statement of the case more persuasive as you give your reader an opportunity to relax and absorb the impact of the story itself.
I encountered my first “battle of the rules” when writing a brief for a moot court competition in law school. Initially, the issue intimidated me because it felt different from the analysis I had been taught. As I encountered more “battle of the rules” issues in practice and teaching, I developed some pointers for how to wage, and hopefully win, the battle.
Battle Strategy #1: Help the Court Understand Its Options.
You may be tempted to begin your argument by describing all the reasons why the court should adopt the rule you prefer. These arguments could be confusing if the court does not appreciate that this is a “battle of the rules” issue. It is better to start by explaining that there is no binding precedent on the issue. Then, provide a brief description of the different rules available based on persuasive precedent. Educate the court on rule A and rule B, even if you want the court to adopt rule B.
Battle Strategy #2: Explain Why the Rule You Prefer Is the Best.
To sway a court toward your preferred rule, rule B, explain why it is the best rule for society in general and your jurisdiction in particular. Focus on the impact of the rule. Rule B may be more easily applied by law enforcement officers in the field. Rule B may align with policies foundational to the area of the law, such as torts or contracts. Also, argue why the other rule, rule A, is not a good choice. Rule A may open the floodgates to litigation and clog court dockets. Rule A may place an onerous burden on a segment of the population. The reasons you provide in favor of your rule and against the other rule should be supported by authority, as explained in my next point.
Battle Strategy #3: Anchor Your Argument in Authority.
When asking a court to wade into uncharted waters, provide the security of authority. Cite to courts that have adopted the preferred rule. Courts may be persuaded to adopt a rule if most jurisdictions have done so or if it appears to be the current trend. If some states have enacted statutes or regulations similar to the preferred rule, cite to them. It is particularly persuasive if you cite cases or legislation from sister jurisdictions. Alternatively, you may be able to analogize your “battle of the rules” issue to an issue with settled law. For example, argue that a court should recognize a constitutional right by drawing a parallel to other well-established constitutional rights. Finally, secondary sources may lend support for your arguments. Law review articles, model codes, or restatements can be helpful additions to the legal authority you provide.
Battle Strategy #4: Use CRAC to Organize.
Use the traditional organizational scheme of conclusion, rule, application, and conclusion (CRAC) to set forth your “battle of the rules” argument.
Second, discuss the rule options. Begin by explaining that there is no binding precedent for the issue. Then, help the court understand the rules it could adopt. Cite to authority for all rule options.
Third, describe the impact of applying the preferred rule. Argue that the preferred rule will be better for society. Respond to your opponent’s arguments as to why another rule is better. Cite to authority to support these arguments.
Finally, restate your conclusion and reiterate the rule you want the court to adopt.
Battle Strategy #5: Study the Great Fights.
When you encounter a “battle of the rules” issue in practice, observe how the attorneys argued it and the court decided it. Collect effective arguments in your quiver so you are ready for your own battle. I give my students an excellent example of a “battle of the rules” argument from a brief written by one of my former colleagues at the Pennsylvania Office of Attorney General. You may access the brief, and the “battle of the rules” argument on pages 14–24, by clicking here.
As appellate writers, we are painfully aware of the fact that our readers aren’t terribly fond of our work product. Judges tell us that our briefs are simply tools, and that they are tired of trudging to chambers with boxes (or ipads) full of briefs that are too wordy, too obscure, and just too painful to read to be of much use. Judges, meanwhile, are accused of writing opinions that are too wordy, too obscure, and inaccessible to anyone but other attorneys.
It is understandable, then, that legal writers both on and off the bench try to liven things up. Like Ralphie in A Christmas Story, lawyers dream of turning in a piece of writing that, through shear skill, will temporarily lift our readers from their depression and convince them to joyfully deliver us our (client’s) wishes.
The use of literary allusion can help us make our writing more lively and informative. Allusions can build our credibility, illustrate the rightness of our position, and make our writing more accessible. But it is a two-edge sword: If used poorly, it can cause the reader to lose what little interest they had in our argument and even obscure our meaning.
Literary allusions can be very effective tools in legal writing.
The use of literary allusions is not universally praised. Indeed, Judge Posner, in his articles and book on the subject, Law and Literature, considers literature of little use to jurists, other than to serve as examples of good writing style. Nevertheless, most persuasive writing experts would argue that there are good rhetorical reasons to use literary allusions.
Aristotle identified three prongs of persuasion: ethos (credibility), pathos (emotional appeal), and logos (logical reasoning). Reference to literary allusion can assist with all three.
First, reference to “great” works can enhance the moral authority of the writer. Merely referencing Homer, Shakespeare, or a religious work such as the Bible, can confer some of the moral authority and weight of those works to the author. It can also demonstrate that the author is well read, and thus all the more to be trusted.
Second, quotations from literature can tie the emotion of the quoted work to the legal argument, invoking pathos. We are all taught to write narratively, because we are all storytellers and listeners by nature. Tying our characters to those of a great work ties the emotions inherent in those works to our characters.
Finally, allusion can help tie together a legal argument by way of illustration. There some general propositions that are difficult to state under stare decisis, but which seem immediately right when viewed through the eyes of literature. Thus, Aristotle invoked Sophocles’ Antigone to support his argument that respect for the dead is a universal law, as did Justice Kennedy, over 2000 years later. See Nat’l Archives & Records Admin. v. Favish, 541 U.S. 157, 168 (2004).
Make sure the allusion agrees with the law.
Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote in his famous essay, The Path of the Law, “[t]he law is full of phraseology drawn from morals, and by the mere force of language continually invites us to pass from one domain to the other without perceiving it, as we are sure to do unless we have the boundary constantly before our minds.” 10 Harvard L. Rev. 457, 469 (1897). These boundaries have often been made apparent when allusions to moral works conflict with statutory sentencing schemes.
For instance, the Fifth Circuit had to step in and correct a criminal defendant’s sentencing when it was based on reference to Dante’s circles of hell rather than the sentencing guidelines. See U.S. v. Andrews, 390 F.3d 840, 850 n.23 (5th Cir. 2004) (“The district court seems more comfortable with sentencing Andrews based on Dante’s levels of hell, but such a sentencing scheme has not been accepted as the law in this or any other federal circuit.”). Dante’s opinions notwithstanding, it was the duty of the court to apply the law, not literature.
Nevertheless, there are times when literature can inform the sense of justice upon which the law is built. Thus, the Seventh Circuit permitted a judge to rely (in part) on Dante’s Inferno in refusing a federal prosecutor’s recommendation to depart downward from sentencing guidelines because, even though the refusal to depart was stated to be based, in part, on literature rather than law, this was merely a reflection of the discretion vested in the trial judge by the guidelines. See U.S. v. Winters, 117 F.3d 346, 348, 350 (7th Cir. 1997).
The lesson? Literary allusions can lend force to a legal argument, but they should not supplant it.
Let the reader discover the allusion.
It is often best to let the reader discover the answer themselves. This is particular true with allusions. A quotation often will have less force than the sudden recognition that you are inviting the reader into the argument based on their own experiences.
Bryan Garner, in his A Dictionary of Modern Legal Usage, gives an excellent of example of subtle allusions in legal writing. He cites to the dissent of Justice Robert W. Hansen of the Wisconsin Supreme Court, in Jones v. Fisher, 166 N.W.2d 175 (Wis. 1969) where he wrote: “The road that has brought us to the present state of affairs in regard to punitive damages in Wisconsin courts is a long one, paved with good intentions.” Id. at 182. As Garner notes, this formulations subtly suggests that the line of authority is a road to hell, allowing the reader to reach that conclusion themselves. Had Justice Hansen stated the aphorism directly, it would have been less effective.
Be sure the reader will recognize the allusion, or can understand the point if not.
When we communicate with someone, there is much more being communicated than the words we choose. We are also communicating through filters, and those filters include our shared experiences. Literary allusions, at their best, add to our communications through reference to the experiences writer and reader share in having read the same works.
In using allusions, then, we need to be careful not to obscure the text for the reader who is not familiar with the work. That was the conclusion of the late, great, Charles Alan Wright, when he concluded that it was safe to use allusions in briefs and other legal writings only so long as the text is intelligible even if the reference is not understood. See Literary Allusion in Legal Writing: The Haynsworth-Wright Letters, 1 Scribes J. Legal Writing 1 (1990).
Wright’s example leading to this conclusion is instructive. Wright was taken by the use of Justice Friendly of a reference to a “legal Lohengrin,” because it captured the essence of his legal argument so well by comparing an obscure statute to the character from a Wagnerian opera who depended on the obscurity of his own identity. Judge Haynsworth responded, however, by noting that the reference was itself obscure, and asked: “Should a judge write for the Charlie Wrights or for young law clerks preparing legal memoranda for the use of junior partners in advising clients?” Id.
We should keep the same question in mind. Particularly in a multi-cultural world with changing educational standards. Feel free to use allusions, but err on the side of caution when it comes to obscure ones, and be sure to sufficiently explain yourself to those who do not share the same reading experience.
No man can serve two masters. If you are negotiating a contract, a lawyer does not represent both clients. That is all that is involved here.
NLRB v. Health Care & Ret. Corp. of Am., 511 U.S. 571, 595 n.14 (1994).
Finally, I leave you with an allusion born from kindness. There are times when an appellate court has to note a clear mistake made by the lower court, or, worse, an appellate attorney must point out an error made in the law that seems apparent in retrospect. Let me introduce you to a literary allusion that can help you make such a point while actually complimenting the party that made the mistake.
Now, telling someone they made an obvious error is a delicate task. Comparing them to one of the most famous authors of all time while doing so, however, draws the sting a bit.
When one of the cases of this consolidated appeal was before us seven years ago, we set out some guidance on the law, which the district court [sic] either misinterpreted or missed. If the latter, such forgetfulness is understandable because we know that even Homer nodded.
Brooklyn Legal Servs. Corp. v. Legal Servs. Corp., 462 F.3d 219, 219 (2nd Cir. 2006).
While some judges might disagree about the effectiveness of literary allusion, I doubt anyone would complain about being corrected in this gentle manner.
(The author wishes to credit John M. DeStafano III, On Literature as Legal Authority, 49 Ariz. L. Rev. 521 (Sept. 2007) for inspiring this article. Image credit: Matt Buck / CC-BY-SA-4.0).
Do you over write your brief or over train for oral argument? Is there such a thing as too much of a good thing? I have asked myself these questions many times in the past, and fairly frequently these days as I prepare my students for moot court competitions and, ultimately, the practice of law. In this week’s post, I am pulled back in time to my first real-world appellate brief.
I will admit to being a tad overly zealous when I first began practicing. In the first brief I filed, my table of authorities was more than two pages. Opposing counsel had cited 6 cases. She said I needed to have my caffeine taken away. She was right. I am not saying that my brief was bad. I didn’t think it was bad then, and I still don’t. It was just too long; the amount of briefing I did was unnecessary.
It is easy to be lulled into believing that you need an elephant gun to kill a house fly. That gun, however, will do far more damage to the house than to the fly. In fact, you might miss the fly altogether. Writing too much can (1) lead your reader to believe you lack confidence in your case, yourself, or your reader; (2) cause you to potentially say something that is better left unsaid, and (3) bore your reader. None of these options is persuasive.
In that first, real-world, appellate brief, I managed not to say something that was detrimental to my argument. And, although I won, I have to credit the correctness of the legal issue rather than my stellar advocacy skills. As I wrote my brief, I was confident … and I wanted the world to know how right I was. I imagine that my reader was not persuaded by my confidence, or that the reader saw any confidence in my writing. While I set out the rules, and where they came from, and described the many ways in which the courts had applied the rules, and compared our facts to the facts of every case I had relied on, repeating and repeating myself, my opponent said only what was necessary. She articulated the legal issues, explained only what needed to be explained, and alluded to arguments that were tangentially related to the main argument, but said no more. I, on the other hand, went after every point with the same enthusiasm my dog exudes when he chases tennis balls. And, just like my dog, as soon as I set my teeth fully into one point, I dropped it to chase after another. Each point was fully made, but just barely, and the reader had to be exhausted trying to keep up.
By using the same level of enthusiasm for every point, I left the reader wondering if I knew what my strongest argument was, or if I understood my opposing counsel’s strongest argument. The reader was likely bored reading pages upon pages about a fairly simple legal issue, and wondering whether I would ever get to the point.
I cringe when I think that the reader, who was reading my brief for work rather than for pleasure, had to read every one of those pages. After all, the reader couldn’t just skip to the end, lest I had hidden a treasured moment of wisdom somewhere deep inside. My lack of discernment regarding what should be included and what could be left out diminished any trust the reader had that I was correct.
As my career developed, I became a better writer. My writing became direct and straight to the point, allowing logic to guide persuasion, making more of the important points and presenting -- without fanfare -- the foundational points that set the stage for main act. Later, when I became the reader, I valued the simplicity of a well-organized, logical argument.
The title of this post is misleading, as it implies a court is threatening to sanction an attorney for a creative submission. While this title may get the reader's attention, the complaint in the form of a screenplay is the least of this attorney's problem.
Ilya Liviz, a Massachusetts attorney, has had several ongoing disputes with the state court about filing procures and requirements. He was seeking to have the federal court hear his constitutional due process claims in these state court dismissals, and this last screenplay filing was enough for Judge Indira Talwani. Judge Talwani warned the lawyer that if he kept filing insufficient complaints, after being given fair notice, sanctions would be imposed under FRCP Rule 11. The screenplay format was mentioned by the judge but it was only a problem because it lacked the necessary substance under FRCP Rule 8.
“Normal sunny day, people are smiling as they are going in and out, of the local store,” the complaint said under an “Act 1” heading. Liviz goes on to describe how Grandma pulls up to the store with her husband, her husband gets out to shop, and Grandma puts the car in reverse to pull away and do her own shopping elsewhere. “All of a sudden she hears the police siren and red and blue lights,” the Act 1 summary said.
A “theme” subhead in Liviz’s complaint said his client is seeking an injunction against the state high court for a constitutional violation of due process access to the courts because of rejected appeals and a refusal to waive filings fees.
That passage is exactly the same as it appears in the filing. The rest of the document is slightly better, but it keeps a mocking tone and has little logical progression. Therefore, it would not be hard to understand why the court felt it necessary to remind Liviz about sanctions.
Liviz said he filed the original complaint as a screenplay because he couldn't get anyone to pay attention to him.
Liviz told the ABA Journal on Dec. 11 that he filed the complaint in the form of a screenplay because he needed to draw some attention to his client’s plight. “If I had filed it regular, not a screenplay, would you have called me?” he asked.
If there is to be creativity of this sort involved in official court documents, it usually comes from the bench side. Some judges have written their opinions like a story, or like a poem, and have used pictures to illustrate their points. These opinions are often paying up lighthearted points in the cases. In this instance, the lawyer decided to inject some uniqueness to his otherwise dry case. Because he has a history of what appears to be redundant suits, it's hard to say whether a screenplay, if done well, would be at all persuasive. It's certainly out-of-the-box, but probably a little too far to be taken seriously. It runs the risk of insulting the court, which in this case, it likely did. All things considered, I won't be recommending this structural form to my students.

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