Today I conducted the deposition of a very sweet 19-year-old plaintiff who nearly died in a horrific car accident ( seriously. until I saw the photographs of this accident, I didn't think that phrase "wrapped his car around a tree" actually meant that a vehicle was capable of bending itself into a circle practically around a tree. awful.) It was highly unpleasant. Not because she was so unpleasant, herself. Actually, I didn't hate her -- which is saying something, because the hatred of plaintiffs is, I suppose, in the blood of defense lawyers. I felt really badly for her, and if I had just met her in a social situation, we would have had a lovely conversation, and I would have been blown away by the recovery she made, by her attitude, by how bravely she seemed to have handled the incredible misfortune that resulted from taking a ride in the car of a hot senior boy. But, since I wasn't in a social situation, I had to pick apart everything -- basically, I had to be blunt and suspicious and question the motives and actions of someone who had to struggle for three years just to put her life back together. Basically, I was making her life harder, I was trying to make her think she was being histrionic. It was appalling.
Generally, I don't feel too badly about what I do, since it's pretty rare that there's a face attached to the case I'm working on for me. But this time -- I don't know.
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