Straight out of law school in the early 1970s, a young man seeks a position among the law firms of small-town western Kentucky.
During my final semester at the University of Kentucky College of Law in the fall of 1971, I began sending out letters of inquiry regarding employment to various Louisville law firms, but they elicited little interest. One Louisville lawyer, in a small firm, returned my resume with a scrawled question: How much do you want? I almost answered: More than you are willing to pay!
I have a faint recollection of visiting one Louisville firm. The walk down the hallway of their office provided a chilling glimpse of how lawyers work: each door open, every man dressed in the same dark suit, each head bowed. Not one looked up to acknowledge my presence. I now suspect I only imagined that interview; I’m no longer certain it actually happened. I never had any notion I would end up as a Louisville lawyer. I never imagined myself going off to the big city to practice law, becoming a big-city lawyer. That inconsequential visit to a Louisville law firm may be nothing more than a muddling of old memories.
Then there was the drive to Hodgenville in central Kentucky to talk with a lawyer in a three-man firm. The size of the firm sounded better suited for what I was after, or thought I might be after. As I had grown up on a twenty-acre farm, attended a small rural high school, and elected to go on to law school in my home state, the idea of practicing law in a small firm had its appeal. I knew nothing about the work of Louisville law firms, and not much about the work of small town lawyers like the one I was visiting in Hodgenville. All I knew for certain was that I didn’t want to do title searches! I had the vague notion that I might become a criminal defense lawyer. How that might pan out, I had no idea. The lawyer, in our brief correspondence, hadn’t mentioned criminal work at all.
As for the town of Hodgenville, I knew no more about it than I did about the law firm. All I knew was that Hodgenville was reputedly the birthplace of Abraham Lincoln. The pleasurable prospect of practicing law in Lincoln’s birthplace was a welcome distraction from worrying whether or not my gray-green herringbone sports jacket and subdued tie were appropriate attire for the interview.
Hodgenville felt familiar for a town I had never stepped a foot in. But then, this was what every small town in Kentucky looked like. The lawyer’s office was down-town, a short walk from the courthouse and was not difficult to find. The lawyer was friendly in a folksy sort of way—adept at banter and at holding in abeyance what we both knew we were there to discuss. We talked on about one thing and then another until, in a suddenly sober tone, he advised me that he was involved in local politics. There were no details provided. I knew enough about small-town lawyers of that era to appreciate that there was nothing unusual or out-of-the-way about such a lawyer involving himself in politics. I had dabbled in politics myself in high school (campaigning for Ned Breathitt, governor of Kenucky from ‘63 to ‘67), and during my first year in college. I was neither oblivious nor adverse to the law-politics connection.
Eventually the lawyer came round to the point: Do you mind if I ask you what party you belong to? I told him I was a Democrat. His smile disappeared. Well, you can always change parties. In this little firm we are Republicans. The look on my face told him all he needed to know and the interview came to an abrupt halt. I had made the hour-and-a-half drive from Lexington solely to learn that I would not be practicing law in Hodgenville. I can’t say I was disappointed. The lawyer would continue his search for a new associate. I had intended to visit the Lincoln homeplace on my way out of town, but found I had suddenly lost interest. Maybe, another day.
