What I Learnt About Being a Lawyer From the Set of Suits
My partner and I are in the middle of a high profile divorce settlement. We are having a heated whisper-discussion on the best legal approach to the dissolution of this crumbling but lucrative matrimony.
“We need to respect the boundaries of their terms,” I whisper to him. “But frankly I don’t think our client is going to get the yacht.”
He looks me in the eye and nods slowly, ponderously. “Indeed,” he whispers back. “Quite the dilemma. I’ve often found with law that the best approach is rhubarb. Rhuuuuuubarb. Rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb?”
I narrow my eyes. “Is the law a joke to you? That yacht is pure gold!” I try to play it straight but my upper lip twitches in a half-grin.
My partner’s eyes widen and his lips squeeze shut in an attempt to prevent imminent giggles. He exhales sharply out his nose. “You cheeky arse,” he whispers out of the side of his mouth and looks down at his yellow legal pad to regain his composure. He’s British so I take his wimpy insult in stride, but, I admit, we are playing a dangerous game with our nonsensical legalese. Once the giggles start, they are infectious and hard to control.
We’ve both been hired as extras on the set of Suits. I’ve been given the role of Upscale Lawyer #2. Part of the reason I took this job, and probably a large part of why I was hired, was the fact that I would be attending law school in a couple months. I figured it might be a good taste of what being a lawyer would be like. Before we are called on, I attempt a little foray into method acting, clicking around the wood-paneled floor in heels and pearls, rustling the papers in my arms every now and then, looking at my watch with my brow slightly furrowed and mouth a grim line, imitating what I imagine someone important would do if they had somewhere important to be.
The scene is one in which Mike Ross and Harvey Spector stand before a judge and debate an issue probably integral to the plot of the show, but I’ve never seen it so I couldn’t tell you.
What I can tell you is this:
-The scene lasts all of thirty seconds, but the extras are there for a total of eight hours.
-Coffee and sugar are provided.
These two key components mean the extras are bored out of their minds, but also wired like eels. It’s a dangerous combination.
We are given leather bound folders with silver clasps and told to wave them about emphatically as we walk towards the front of the courtroom, where we are to take our seats. Mike and Harvey will then enter and mutter things to one another and then to a judge, and then to some other characters on the show whose relationships to one another I only vaguely understand. Our role is to ensure a permanent stream of lawyerly-type behavior goes on in the background. We are not told what this type of behavior entails.
My partner and I have been positioned on the bench right behind Harvey and Mike, a prospect which excites the both of us greatly since it means we will be in the camera’s sight. The money for extra work isn’t bad but it’s the great and secret dream of every extra, I learn, to have the camera pay attention to them. My partner regales me with a tale of once upon a time, when the camera panned to his face and stayed there for two whole seconds as he exited a high rise complex. He has lived the extra dream. But, my partner tells me, you cannot force the camera to recognize you. If you seek the camera out, the directors will yell at you. They will not call you back on set. You will get a reputation in the extra circuit as a camera hog and your lucrative career will be over. My partner and I have been given a fortuitous opportunity here, and we can’t mess this up. We cannot, under any circumstances, be caught giggling, daydreaming, squirming, making origami, or other such things a lawyer would clearly never do.
After our close call re: the near-giggling, my partner and I agree to speak no actual words, only mouth them. It’s safer this way. I spend the rest of the time while the camera is rolling deciding what it is that constitutes lawyerly behavior, so as to directly apply it to my present acting abilities and to my future career in law.
I learnt this:
The amount and degree of folder-waving maps directly on to legal authority, in such a way that you know a man with ten folders whirlwinding around is a man you want to take your business to. The fact that this correlation also means octopuses would make good lawyers is a fruitless train of thought. In the eyes of the public, the best lawyers are not the ones who can apply sage legal analysis, but rather the ones with delicious smelling hair and strong slamming-fist-on-table game. The essential ingredients of success in the legal profession include: wild gesticulating, mouthing nonsense, and strutting to and fro past a fake set of courtroom doors. I am clearly born to do this.
I begin to feel much more confident about the looming prospect of law school. I don’t have an eidetic memory or perfectly coiffed hair, but if I can project legal authority enough to convince 3 million viewers that I am an upscale lawyer, simply by sketching Mike Ross’ face with an octopus’ body on a yellow legal pad while nodding thoughtfully as my fake legal partner whispers rhubarb in my ear, how hard can law school be?