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:—With apologies to Mike Tyson}}
:—With apologies to Mike Tyson}}


Given as he is to making social science up on the hoof, JC is working on a theory that when we buy the services of a commercial law firm — and, specifically, when we buy them to make [[contract]]s for us — we are not buying ''words'', nor even the underlying ''legal content'' that they carry, but a more general, beatific ''peace of mind'' that comes from paying ''serious people'' to do sober things for us.  
{{drop|[[But no-one reads this, do they?|G]]|iven as he}} is to making social science up on the hoof, JC is working on a theory that when we buy the services of a commercial law firm — and, specifically, when we buy them to make [[contract]]s for us — we are not buying ''words'', nor even the underlying ''legal content'' that words carry, but a more general, beatific ''peace of mind'' that comes from paying ''serious people'' to do sober things for us.  That involve words.


We don’t ''need'' to understand these words or content, because our sober agents have done this for us and, by their simple presence (the agentsʼ as much as their words), intimated — but to be clear, not ''told'' you in so many words — that ''everything will be okay''.  
To its principals, the contract preparation process is a sombre mystery. They are not ''meant'' to understand the actual words, and may cause themselves trouble if they try. It is better just to take generalised comfort that there are a ''lot'' of words, they seem legally sonorous, they are strung together in carefully constructed, if forbiddingly unbroken, slabs and the battalions of advisors who have gathered at the banquet on either side to pick them over will, by the time the busboys are serving coffee and warming up the disco, have {{strike|maximised their chargeables|made peace with the legal content}}.  


This comforting illusion lasts as long afterwards as no one casts an eye across the documents. The moment anyone does — and look: no one reads legal agreements for the hell of it, so assume she is being paid to pick holes in them — the illusion tartly vanishes.  
They don’t ''need'' to understand the words, because their agents have done this for them. By their very existence, their agents intimate that ''everything will be okay''.  


Crucial operators — words like “not” —  will, without explanation, be absent when needed or present when not. Square brackets, [[blob]]s and placeholders will impotently stand in for pivotal passages and vital variables. Forms you now dearly wish were signed, dated and legibly filled-out won’t be. Critical terms will be subject to non-existent subclauses. Carelessly lobbed [[boilerplate]] will ram-raid painstakingly crafted rights.<ref>Our old friends the [[no oral modification]] clause and the [[Contracts (Rights of Third Parties) Act 1999]] exclusion are often causes for deep regret.</ref>
This illusion lasts as long as no one subsequently casts an eye across the documents. The moment anyone does — and, look: no one reads legal agreements for the hell of it so assume she is doing so, for money, to pick holes in them — the illusion tartly vanishes.  


And that is where the parties ''have'' kept their original deal continuously in mind. But life is rarely as mundane as that: invariably, since upon signing they bid their legal teams a fond farewell fifteen years ago, ''neither'' side has paid these terms the blindest bit of attention. They may not know where they now are or, if enough time has passed, even if there ''are'' any such terms.  
Crucial operators — words like “not” —  will, without explanation, be absent where needed or present where not. Square brackets, [[blob]]s and placeholders will impotently stand in for pivotal passages and vital variables. Forms you now dearly wish were signed, dated and legibly filled-out won’t be. Critical terms will be conditional upon non-existent subclauses, whose only remaining trace in the document comes in the form of a forlorn [[double full stop]]. Carelessly lobbed [[boilerplate]] will ram-raid painstakingly crafted rights.<ref>Our old friends the [[no oral modification]] clause and the [[Contracts (Rights of Third Parties) Act 1999]] exclusion are often causes for deep regret.</ref>


''Why would they?'' However hotly they once were argued for, no one since has insisted on, performed, or adverted to those covenants and termination. No-one who was present at their ordination is now around: he last was made redundant in 2008. By their consensual behaviour the parties have systematically contradicted key tenets of the contract for years.  
And that is when the parties ''have'' kept their original deal in mind. But commercial life is rarely as mundane as that: invariably, since they bade their legal teams a fond farewell fifteen years ago, ''neither'' side has paid these terms the blindest bit of attention. They may not now know where they are. If enough time has passed, they may not even know that there ''are'' any such terms.  


None of this matters in the slightest unless the relationship hits the skids. Suddenly each side seeks legal advice, their new counsel, rejoicing in a fresh licence to create mayhem, comb the contract, poring over minor details, hunting for clinchers in a babbling, confused, inchoate hellscape of random words that it is now impossible, except by coincidence, to map to any coherent course of behaviour — let alone the partiesʼ ''actual'' dealings with each other.  
''Why would they?'' Though once hotly contested, no one since has insisted upon, performed, or cared less about these windy covenants. No-one present at their ordination remains: the last bade his sad, redundant farewell in 2009.


This is because the parties delegated this performative act — you know, “doing the legals” — to [[legal eagle|lab coated specialists]] with a threadbare grasp of the commercials even at the time of their engagement who, not having been involved since, have no grasp of it now, and who hardly can be blamed for failing to predict how the relationship would  develop in between times.  
In any case: by consensual behaviour, the parties have systematically contradicted these key tenets for years.  


Commissioning legal contracts in this way is to pay good money to buy (or, for all you know, ''sell'') a lucky dip of random [[put]]s and [[call]]s. What you pulled out of the barrel on signing day is then buried in peat, only to be revealed, if at all, a long time later upon the advent of [[tail event|catastrophe]]. Your best hope, therefore, is that ''no such catastrophe visits'", your relationship continues to flourish and no one ever looks at the contract again.  
None of this matters unless the relationship hits the skids. It will only be then that, having sought legal advice, each side will rekindle an interest in that contract. Their new counsel comb it, poring over minor details, hunting for clinchers in a babbling, confused, inchoate hellscape of random words that it is now impossible, except by coincidence, to map to any coherent course of behaviour — let alone the partiesʼ ''actual'' dealings with one another.  


Which begs the question: ''what are you paying for?''
This is because the [[performative]] act of “doing the legals” all those years ago was delegated to “[[legal eagle|specialist]]” professionals with but a flimsy grasp of the commercials at the time of their engagement and, obviously, none thereafter, and who thus can hardly be blamed for not predicting how things would pan out in ensuing decades.


The ugly secret of professional practice is that much work product is like that because, for the most part, ''it doesnʼt matter if it is not''.  
Commissioning legal contracts in this way is to buy (or, for all you know, ''sell'') a lucky dip of random [[put]]s and [[call]]s. Whatever comes out of the sawdust on signing day you must then rebury for an indeterminate period, only to be revealed, if at all, upon the eve of some distant [[tail event|catastrophe]].  


A vanishingly small percentage of contracts are ever litigated. This is ''not'' because they are good contracts: it is because their parties donʼt fall out. ''Almost all contracts expire untested.''
The principals’ best hope, of course, is that catastrophe never visits, their relationship continues to flourish and ''no one looks at the contract again. ''


To its principals, the contract preparation process is a sombre mystery. You are not even ''meant'' to understand the actual words they send you, and you may cause yourself trouble if you try. It is better just to take generalised comfort that there are a ''lot'' of words, they seem legally sonorous, they are strung together in carefully constructed, if forbiddingly unbroken, slabs and the battalions of advisors who have gathered at the banquet on either side to pick them over will, by the time the busboys are serving coffee and warming up the disco, have {{strike|maximised their chargeables|made peace with the legal content}}.
But this rather begs the question: what good, in the first place, is a contract that for your own wellbeing you must never again consult?


All that skirmishing and sniping must, after all, ''do'' something — ''mustnʼt it''? It must advance what the respective advisors take to be their clientsʼ interests, however imperfectly they understand them?
The reality of professional practice is that much work product gets away with being like that because, for the most part, ''it doesnʼt matter if it is not''. A vanishingly small percentage of contracts are ever litigated. This is ''not'' because they are “good contracts”, but because they describe good relationships: the parties donʼt fall out. ''Almost all contracts expire untested.'' <ref>{{maxim|If you have to read the contract, you have already lost}}.</ref> 


In the same way trenches and battle fronts thrust and counterthrust, the lines move back and forth. Since the people who wrangle these textual monoliths are part of an educated elite, a kind of emergent wisdom settles upon the project. Its net effect — even if you cannot fathom how or why — will be a comforting conviction that everything will generally be ''okay''.
All that skirmishing and sniping must surely ''do'' something, no? Must it not advance what these agents take to be their clientsʼ best interests?


But what if this assumption was — ''wrong''?
In the same way that forward lines thrust and counterthrust, the trenches in a negotiation move back and forth. The wranglers of these textual monoliths are an educated elite, so an [[emergent]] wisdom settles upon the project whose net effect — even if we cannot fathom how or why — is the principals’ comforting conviction that everything will generally be ''okay''.


To be clear, the question is not merely “I wonder whether commercial principals — should I say “[[agency problem|agents]]” — hire law firms to cover their backsides?”
It calls not for craft, elegance, design or architectural panache. The clear expression of commercial intention is not the point: that is for the principals to see to; it lives its life through their every interaction. Those who do not understand each other will not be in business for long.


Of ''course'' they do. Everyone knows that.  
This is the magnificent horror of the [[attorney work product]]: it is hard to do business with it, but impossible without it: it is a ticket to ride, but your enduring hope when you hop aboard is that you will not need to show it to anyone; that you can reach your destination without an inspector.


I was getting at the fact that the Big Law work product, when you do read it, is dismal. This is because *it is not designed to be read*.  
On this view, legal prose just occupies space. It is a trace: a calling card; a curled little pavement offering that says “''a lawyer was here”''.  


It is designed to just occupy space. It is like that expanding polystyrene stuff they spray inside internal partition walls for soundproofing.
It is not the customerʼs business. It is ''lawyerʼs ''business''.''


There is just no craft, no elegance, no design, no architectural panache, no basic economy. It is just this tortured, brutalised, monstrous torrent of dreck, from end to end.
====Reader feedback ====
This seems to have struck a chord. With readers. {{plainlink|https://www.linkedin.com/in/richardmoorhead|Professor Moorhead}} recommends Gulati and Scott’s ''{{plainlink|https://press.uchicago.edu/ucp/books/book/chicago/T/bo14365624.html|The Three and a Half Minute Transaction}}'' for similar anecdotes about associates with no idea of the provenance or meaning of apparently vital, inviolate terms. This has been a feature of JCʼs solitary inhouse crusade:
{{quote |''SCENE: A room in the [[legal department]]. Filled with reforming zeal, JC encounters a bizzare term in a standard form. He enquires of the responsible lawyer, an uninquisitive veteran of ten or more years:


These people are meant to be wizards of language, after all. They should deliver the most beautiful, clear, elegant product.
{{script|JC}}: What does this do?<br>
{{script|Legal eagle}}: Donʼt know.<br>
{{script|JC}}: What does it even mean?<br>
{{script|Legal eagle}}: Donʼt know.<br>
{{script|JC}}: Can we take it out?<br>
{{script|Legal eagle}}: [''horrified''] Absolutely not. [[Chip]] put that in.<br>
{{script|JC}}: Who is [[Chip]]?<br>
{{script|Legal eagle}}: Donʼt know.


That they don’t is a kind of final triumph of form over substance.
''NARRATOR: Chip was the GC, three GCs ago. He left before the merger. Which happened in 1998.''
 
Exeunt}}

Latest revision as of 16:53, 22 March 2024

Herculio: Ay, drafted, is ’t;
But to my mind, though eagle-tuned
And to the manner born, this Condition is
More honour’d in the breach than the performance.
This heavy-handed sheaf of windy guff
Doth impose a weighty tax upon our distant aspirations;
These ticket-clippers with their malty turns of phrase
Soil our accord with oily additions. Who wouldst draw
Not the heaving strokes of palpitating consensus
But this wicker frame of ghoulish aspect
Post-dated with the odds of shouty misadventure?

—Otto Büchstein, Die Schweizer Heulsuse

Everyone has a contract until they get punched in the mouth

—With apologies to Mike Tyson

Given as he is to making social science up on the hoof, JC is working on a theory that when we buy the services of a commercial law firm — and, specifically, when we buy them to make contracts for us — we are not buying words, nor even the underlying legal content that words carry, but a more general, beatific peace of mind that comes from paying serious people to do sober things for us. That involve words.

To its principals, the contract preparation process is a sombre mystery. They are not meant to understand the actual words, and may cause themselves trouble if they try. It is better just to take generalised comfort that there are a lot of words, they seem legally sonorous, they are strung together in carefully constructed, if forbiddingly unbroken, slabs and the battalions of advisors who have gathered at the banquet on either side to pick them over will, by the time the busboys are serving coffee and warming up the disco, have maximised their chargeables made peace with the legal content.

They don’t need to understand the words, because their agents have done this for them. By their very existence, their agents intimate that everything will be okay.

This illusion lasts as long as no one subsequently casts an eye across the documents. The moment anyone does — and, look: no one reads legal agreements for the hell of it so assume she is doing so, for money, to pick holes in them — the illusion tartly vanishes.

Crucial operators — words like “not” — will, without explanation, be absent where needed or present where not. Square brackets, blobs and placeholders will impotently stand in for pivotal passages and vital variables. Forms you now dearly wish were signed, dated and legibly filled-out won’t be. Critical terms will be conditional upon non-existent subclauses, whose only remaining trace in the document comes in the form of a forlorn double full stop. Carelessly lobbed boilerplate will ram-raid painstakingly crafted rights.[1]

And that is when the parties have kept their original deal in mind. But commercial life is rarely as mundane as that: invariably, since they bade their legal teams a fond farewell fifteen years ago, neither side has paid these terms the blindest bit of attention. They may not now know where they are. If enough time has passed, they may not even know that there are any such terms.

Why would they? Though once hotly contested, no one since has insisted upon, performed, or cared less about these windy covenants. No-one present at their ordination remains: the last bade his sad, redundant farewell in 2009.

In any case: by consensual behaviour, the parties have systematically contradicted these key tenets for years.

None of this matters unless the relationship hits the skids. It will only be then that, having sought legal advice, each side will rekindle an interest in that contract. Their new counsel comb it, poring over minor details, hunting for clinchers in a babbling, confused, inchoate hellscape of random words that it is now impossible, except by coincidence, to map to any coherent course of behaviour — let alone the partiesʼ actual dealings with one another.

This is because the performative act of “doing the legals” all those years ago was delegated to “specialist” professionals with but a flimsy grasp of the commercials at the time of their engagement and, obviously, none thereafter, and who thus can hardly be blamed for not predicting how things would pan out in ensuing decades.

Commissioning legal contracts in this way is to buy (or, for all you know, sell) a lucky dip of random puts and calls. Whatever comes out of the sawdust on signing day you must then rebury for an indeterminate period, only to be revealed, if at all, upon the eve of some distant catastrophe.

The principals’ best hope, of course, is that catastrophe never visits, their relationship continues to flourish and no one looks at the contract again.

But this rather begs the question: what good, in the first place, is a contract that for your own wellbeing you must never again consult?

The reality of professional practice is that much work product gets away with being like that because, for the most part, it doesnʼt matter if it is not. A vanishingly small percentage of contracts are ever litigated. This is not because they are “good contracts”, but because they describe good relationships: the parties donʼt fall out. Almost all contracts expire untested. [2]

All that skirmishing and sniping must surely do something, no? Must it not advance what these agents take to be their clientsʼ best interests?

In the same way that forward lines thrust and counterthrust, the trenches in a negotiation move back and forth. The wranglers of these textual monoliths are an educated elite, so an emergent wisdom settles upon the project whose net effect — even if we cannot fathom how or why — is the principals’ comforting conviction that everything will generally be okay.

It calls not for craft, elegance, design or architectural panache. The clear expression of commercial intention is not the point: that is for the principals to see to; it lives its life through their every interaction. Those who do not understand each other will not be in business for long.

This is the magnificent horror of the attorney work product: it is hard to do business with it, but impossible without it: it is a ticket to ride, but your enduring hope when you hop aboard is that you will not need to show it to anyone; that you can reach your destination without an inspector.

On this view, legal prose just occupies space. It is a trace: a calling card; a curled little pavement offering that says “a lawyer was here”.

It is not the customerʼs business. It is lawyerʼs business.

Reader feedback

This seems to have struck a chord. With readers. Professor Moorhead recommends Gulati and Scott’s The Three and a Half Minute Transaction for similar anecdotes about associates with no idea of the provenance or meaning of apparently vital, inviolate terms. This has been a feature of JCʼs solitary inhouse crusade:

SCENE: A room in the legal department. Filled with reforming zeal, JC encounters a bizzare term in a standard form. He enquires of the responsible lawyer, an uninquisitive veteran of ten or more years:

JC: What does this do?
Legal eagle: Donʼt know.
JC: What does it even mean?
Legal eagle: Donʼt know.
JC: Can we take it out?
Legal eagle: [horrified] Absolutely not. Chip put that in.
JC: Who is Chip?
Legal eagle: Donʼt know.

NARRATOR: Chip was the GC, three GCs ago. He left before the merger. Which happened in 1998.

Exeunt

  1. ↑ Our old friends the no oral modification clause and the Contracts (Rights of Third Parties) Act 1999 exclusion are often causes for deep regret.
  2. ↑ If you have to read the contract, you have already lost.
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