Free Supreme Ambitions by David Lat Page B

CA
    College/Degree/Year: University of Southern California, BA, 2007
    Law School/Degree/Year: Loyola (Los Angeles), JD, 2012
    Other Post Grad/Year: None listed.
    Prior Employment: Krasner Productions; Summer Associate, Gang Tyre Ramer & Brown.
    Hobbies/Interests: Movies, TV.
    Future Plans: Lawyer to the stars.
    Stories/Items of Interest: Yeah, my dad is Jonathan Krasner.
    Â 
    Larry’s bio didn’t give me the ego boost I had hoped for. It showed he belonged here—in California, where he was born and raised, and in these corridors of power, as someone who grew up in Beverly Hills. Sure, it reeked of nepotism—he probably got into USC because his father had given millions to its film school, and his work experience was for his father’s production company and for Gang Tyre, his father’s law firm—but at least it was different and interesting. He certainly was the only law clerk who could claim that his father was a famous film director.
    The day passed in a blur of speeches, tutorials, and panel discussions on topics like habeas corpus law, en banc procedures, and standards of review. I finally got the guidance on immigration law that I was seeking. At a panel on jurisdiction, we were reminded of the importance of double-, triple-, and quadruple-checking whether the court has jurisdiction. Does the court have jurisdiction over the parties? Does the court have jurisdiction over the issues? Was the notice of appeal filed on time?
    In the evening, we gathered at the Sir Francis Drake, a small and stylish hotel in Union Square, for cocktails and dinner. At the reception, my co-clerks and I huddled together in a corner. We hadn’t been great about networking, so we didn’t know a huge number of clerks other thanpeople we had gone to law school with. I looked for Jeremy and watched him working the room, chatting comfortably with one judge after another. My co-clerks were drinking—Larry had a beer, James had a glass of red wine, Amit had some fruity-looking cocktail—but I just nursed a Diet Coke. I had learned from past experience to avoid alcohol before dealing with federal judges.
    Suddenly I felt a chill wind. Had I walked into excessive air conditioning? Actually, no—it was Judge Marta Solís Deleuze, liberal lioness of the Ninth Circuit, heading straight for us. She was short, had no make-up, and wore a hideous orange pantsuit that didn’t flatter her dark skin tone—truth be told, it made her look like a prison inmate.
    â€œI’m Judge Deleuze,” she said, extending her small, bony hand. We introduced ourselves by name and shook hands with her. Her hand was cold, her grip fierce. I suppressed a shudder.
    â€œAnd where are you all clerking?” she asked.
    We all paused, for a few seconds too long, before James stepped up to the plate.
    â€œIn Pasadena,” he said cheerily. “It’s such a beautiful courthouse, the way they did the restoration is just …”
    â€œ For whom are you clerking?”
    â€œFor Judge Stinson,” he mumbled, in the way one might greet an acquaintance whose name you think you know but aren’t sure about.
    Deleuze frowned.
    â€œHave a good year,” she said, before turning on her heel and walking briskly away.
    Larry brayed loudly. I shot him a look of death. Deleuze might be lacking in social graces, but she was still a federal judge.
    â€œWhat’s her problem?” Larry asked.
    I looked around to confirm that Deleuze was out of earshot.
    â€œShe and Judge Stinson are at opposite ends of the Ninth Circuit ideologically,” I whispered. “And for Judge Deleuze, the political is personal.”
    Larry shrugged. “Whatever.”
    A fork clinked against a glass, and the room quieted. Attention turnedtoward the front of the room, where a gray-bearded man with kind eyes was speaking into a microphone.
    â€œGood evening,” he said. “My name is Stanley Runyan, and I’m