My path to law. Choice and Fate
| Author | Vanessa Williams |
| Pages | 10-15 |
Inter Alia | INTERSECTION
library as well as a room set up like a
normal apartment for family visitation,
complete with a crib.
Guards are tasked with getting to
know and understand each inmate,
which helps with risk assessment and
averting violence on the front end. They
carry personal alarms in case of emer-
gency. Some have nonlethal weapons
like pepper spray or batons, and they
are trained in martial arts. Violence
against staff members occurs perhaps
once a year, according to Erkek, and
ghts between inmates are rare. Prison
administrators keep problem groups
and gangs separated within the facility,
with a limit of 20 inmates in each ward.
With a 1:1 staff-to-inmate ratio, se-
curity at Swedish prisons like Österåker
is the polar opposite of comparable
penitentiaries in the U.S. By way of
comparison, the understaffed and no-
torious South Mississippi Correctional
Institution in Leakesville has an inmate-
to-guard ratio of 23 to 1.
Still, many Swedes are frustrated
with police response as the level of
violent crime has increased in recent
years. Some consider the prisons to be
too cushy and think that as a result,
criminals don’t fear going to jail.
Skeptics complain that prison amenities
are a waste of government funds, while
proponents say normalizing life is im-
portant to ensure inmates leave prisons
as functioning members of society.
“The prison is not the punishment,”
Jarl says. “The sentence is the punish-
ment, and we are really working for a
humane process.”
Cruel and unusual
Incarceration ostensibly has four main
goals: retribution, incapacitation, deter-
rence and rehabilitation. U.S. prisons
pass the rst two with ying colors, but
they fail abysmally on deterrence and
rehabilitation.
Instead, imprisonment in the U.S.
usually involves barbaric living con-
ditions, deprivation, pain and even
death—whether it’s state-sanctioned
or the collateral damage of violent life
behind bars and/or lack of adequate
health care.
It sounds grim, and when you
consider that many people behind bars
are nonviolent criminals, it also sounds
hard to justify. Research indicates that
lengthy sentences don’t increase public
safety, and innocence projects have
shown that an alarming number of the
incarcerated are in fact not guilty of the
crimes charged.
As an American journalist, my frame
of reference is a carceral state that has
packed prisoners into facilities with
subhuman conditions, destroyed com-
munities and created a crisis of mass
incarceration—so it’s difcult to cri-
tique any system that’s taking a kinder,
gentler approach.
“I heard there’s a lot of rape in U.S.
jails,” an inmate at Österåker asked me
at a 12-step meeting I attended. It was
awkward. “Yes, sometimes,” I said.
“I heard that people are getting con-
stantly raped, all the time—that’s what
I heard.” He and the others stared at me
for conrmation.
“There are a lot of bad things that
can happen in U.S. prisons, yes.”
False sense of security
In the New York Times’ 1619 Project,
which observes the 400th anniversary
of the beginning of American slavery,
Bryan Stevenson argued that the coun-
try’s brutal legacy of slavery and Jim
Crow has given America the taste for
the violent punishment that denes our
current criminal justice system: “Too
many Americans are willing spectators
to horrifying acts, as long as we’re as-
sured they’re in the interest of maintain-
ing order,” he wrote.
But this security promise is a
dog-whistle fallacy, and it’s slowly
dawning on policymakers that more
prisons and more cruelty are not public
safety solutions—instead, they are often
the opposite, and they are also draining
public resources. There is a growing
bipartisan consensus that the pendulum
has swung too far, and reformers are
working to dial back America’s multi-
billion-dollar prison-industrial complex.
It’s a stretch to think the U.S. would
duplicate Sweden’s system, but there
certainly is a lot to learn. Q
MY PATH TO LAW
Choice
and Fate
BY VANESSA WILLIAMS
#MyPathToLaw is a guest column
that celebrates the diversity of the
legal profession through attorneys’
rst-person stories detailing their
unique and inspiring trajectories. Read
more #mypathtolaw stories on Twitter.
From the age of 10 until I was
about 21, I dreamt of being a
journalist. That was even with
six months of law school under
my belt. Attending law school was a
way to avoid getting a job right after
college. However, I didn’t think through
the fact that I’d borrow more than three
times the cost of my undergraduate
studies to attend law school.
I also hadn’t given much thought to
what it meant to be a law student. I did
not nd law school enjoyable. It was
not a continuation of my undergraduate
life at Alabama—working at The Crim-
son White, sorority meet-ups to watch
A Different World and a 1992 national
college football championship. The life
of a William & Mary law student was
all about laminated study aids, case
outlines and seeing who could identify
torts happening around us rst.
I chose William & Mary Law School
because of the Institute of Bill of Rights
Law. I had an offer of a full scholarship
to the University of Alabama School of
Law and acceptances into law schools
ranked higher than William & Mary.
However, I based my decision on my
desire to work in the media and what
I thought was a need to be well-versed
in constitutional law. (Spoiler alert: In
24 years of practicing law, I’ve had only
one First Amendment case.) I didn’t
have any lawyers in my family or in
my circle, so I did not get any caution-
ary tales about law school rankings or
the impact of law school debt. I was a
ABA JOURNAL | FEBRUARY–MARCH 2020
10
Inter Alia | MY PATH TO LAW
law rm and the Federal Communica-
tions Commission. But because of U.S.
government budget issues, a job at the
FCC—my top choice—did not happen.
A ray of hope
I moved to Michigan to take the bar
exam and began searching for law rm
jobs. I nally got a job offer from a
solo practitioner after the bar exam.
Super-excited to just be among the em-
ployed, I prepared to go home to Ala-
bama for a short visit. Two days before
my ight, the job was rescinded. “What
the what?” I hadn’t done anything
wrong, but I wondered if maybe he had.
With no closure, I grabbed my
suitcase and took a sad journey home
to Alabama. Upon my return, I was
granted an interview with the Detroit
ofce of Plunkett Cooney, at the time
an 80-plus-person law rm with ofces
in several states within the Midwest. I
was a litigation associate for Plunkett
Cooney over the next ve years, doing
insurance defense, municipal liabil-
ity and employment discrimination
litigation.
As luck would have it, we represent-
ed a corporate client in a case led by
the solo practitioner who rescinded my
job offer. I was completing my rst year
at the rm and getting considerable lit-
igation experience. I could not wait for
the rst motion hearing or deposition
so I could let him know that I ended up
with a great job.
When I nally had the opportuni-
ty to encounter the attorney, he ap-
proached me rst, stating something
like: “I am glad to see that you landed
with Plunkett Cooney, it’s a really good
rm. I withdrew the offer because you
deserved a job like this and needed to
wait for it to come along.”
I was humbled by his sincere re-
marks, just nodding and withholding
the retort I’d practiced all night.
After starting a family, I left Plunkett
Cooney to work as staff counsel for
a property insurance carrier. While at
Plunkett Cooney, I had been encouraged
to take on leadership roles in local bar
associations and then sought appoint-
ments in the ABA’s Tort Trial & Insur-
ance Practice Section. I would eventu-
ally become the editor-in-chief of The
Brief (employing my love for journal-
ism) and chair of the ABA’s Commission
on Youth at Risk, where I continued to
advocate on behalf of foster kids. Short-
ly after the birth of my second child,
I decided that I didn’t want to litigate
any longer. I went back to school to get
an MBA and ultimately landed a job as
in-house corporate counsel.
I have been in-house at IHS Markit
for more than 13 years, and I continue
to advocate for at-risk youth, primar-
ily through my involvement with Jack
and Jill of America. I absolutely love
what I do every day at work and in the
community. As division general counsel
for transportation, I collaborate with
business leaders on legal and business
issues. My responsibilities include legal
and operational teams, which adds
variety beyond commercial transac-
tions. There are also those occasional
times when we have issues before the
FCC and life seems to have come full
circle. It’s conrmation I made the right
choice—and I am glad my rst job offer
was rescinded! Q
Vanessa Williams is vice president and
division general counsel for transporta-
tion for IHS Markit and lives in Detroit.
rst-generation college graduate, and
I entered the law school admissions
process without true goals for the type
of work I would do upon graduation.
Luckily, William & Mary Law School
turned out to be a great choice for me.
The rst semester of law school
was challenging. My age was one of
the many things that made me uneasy
about my choice of the law. I was only
20 years old. I didn’t have work or
many other life experiences. All of my
classmates were older and seemed to
have law school all gured out. Many
of them worked before law school or
had a parent or family friend who was
a lawyer who could offer sound advice
about thriving as a 1L. I wasn’t looking
to thrive; I just wanted to survive.
By the end of the rst semester, I
was leaning toward not using my law
degree. I thought I’d be a court beat
reporter or television legal analyst.
Then Maria Shriver visited our consti-
tutional law class. I had the opportunity
to speak with her afterward, and she
offered me a compelling rationale for
becoming a practicing attorney: After
all the effort and hard work to nish
law school, I should use my degree. It
was then I decided to gure out what a
career in law could offer me.
The summer between my rst and
second years of law school changed
my life. I decided that I could suffer
through law school since practicing
law could give me the opportunity to
change the world, one child at a time.
I received a Public Service Fund grant
from the law school, which allowed me
to work for the American Civil Liber-
ties Union of Alabama. Along with a
law student from the University of San
Diego and a lawyer from the National
Institute of Mental Health, I spent the
summer working with the ACLU to
improve the Alabama foster care sys-
tem. This became a passion that I have
continued to pursue over my career.
As I prepared for law school grad-
uation in the spring of 1995, I was
still without a job offer. My pursuit of
public service as a full-time career was
not materializing. The summer before
my third year, I worked for a small
Vanessa Williams
Photo courtesy of Vanessa Williams
ABA JOURNAL | FEBRUARY–MARCH 2020
11
He says that public defenders and
criminal defense lawyers are at risk
for vicarious trauma because “we see
a multitude of trauma in icted on our
clients and their families by the criminal
punishment bureaucracy.”
These lawyers frequently see their
clients lose their jobs, housing and
support when they are not able to post
bond; they watch innocent clients take
plea deals; they see clients with mental
illness and substance abuse disorders
not being able to get the treatment
they need.
These lawyers are surrounded by
trauma, and they’re underresourced.
They are juggling heavy caseloads
while struggling to pay the bills. “In my
career, I’ve seen dozens of public de-
fenders suffer from anxiety, depression,
substance abuse disorders and even
commit suicide,” Sherr says.
Many lawyers shared that it’s not
necessarily the type of case but rather
the trauma the clients are experiencing
that is so painful to deal with.
Setting boundaries
As a Florida-based personal injury
attorney, Chelsie M. Lamie often rep-
resents victims of crime in civil law-
suits against the businesses that fail to
protect them from crime occurring on
their property.
Dealing with these sorts of cases
contributes to vicarious trauma. Lamie
has learned to cope by setting healthy
boundaries with her clients and remind-
ing herself that “I am walking with
them through the case for a relatively
ON WELL-BEING
Taking
on Client
Suff ering
When caring costs you:
Lawyers can experience
vicarious trauma from work
BY JEENA CHO
One thing
they
don’t
teach
in law school is
how to cope with
trauma associated
with legal work.
One such unintended consequence is
vicarious trauma.
In my work as a bankruptcy lawyer,
I meet a lot of clients who are in deep
distress.
Often, clients end up in my of ce due
to some life trauma—divorce, death,
extended illness and so on. We know
from research that rst responders
are at risk for vicarious trauma when
they’re helping those in crisis. Lawyers
are similarly at risk.
Jan Newman, a psychologist and
mindset coach in Charlotte, North
Carolina, says that vicarious trauma
occurs when a professional experi-
ences the signs and symptoms that
mimic post-traumatic stress disorder
in connection with traumatic mate-
rial presented by the client. Newman
says these signs and symptoms can
include intrusive or persistent negative
thoughts, avoidance and withdrawal,
hyperarousal and hypervigilance, or
sleep disturbance.
Clients experiencing trauma put their
lawyers at a higher risk for vicarious
trauma, says Jeff Sherr, training direc-
tor for the National Association for
Public Defense .
Inter Alia ON WELL-BEING
short time.” She reminds herself that she
can be empathetic to her clients but that
it is important to separate herself from
the case for her own well-being. “I also
take a lot of time for self-care, includ-
ing time away from the of ce, like spa
days and travel with my husband and
children.”
According to Newman, people who
have their own unresolved trauma
may be at greater risk for vicarious
trauma. Andrea Vacca, a collaborative
divorce attorney and mediator in New
York City, recalls hearing her female
divorce clients describing their mar-
riages and thinking, “That sounds like
my boyfriend.” She would then imag-
ine her own relationship in 10 years.
In hindsight, she can see that she was
“purposely picking the wrong men so
that I wouldn’t have to commit.” After
a few years of therapy, Vacca was able
to commit to a healthy and drama-free
relationship.
Vacca says domestic relations law-
yers are at risk for vicarious trauma be-
cause “in litigation, I was encouraging
my clients to rehash all of the terrible
things that their spouse did during the
marriage. This leads to the clients seeing
themselves as a victim.”
The lawyer may then start to
personalize—and internalize—the cli-
ent’s stories.
Rachel Regenold worked as a public
defender for 11 years. In 2015, after
being named attorney of the year by
the Public Defenders Association of
Iowa , she resigned to enroll in massage
school and teach yoga. She has since
“In litigation, I was encouraging
my clients to rehash all of the
terrible things that their spouse
did during the marriage. This
leads to the clients seeing them-
selves as a victim.”
—Andrea Vacca
Photo courtesy of JC Law Group; Photo by Jennifer Vacca
ABA JOURNAL | FEBRUARY–MARCH 2020
12
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