Practicing law involves unintended consequences. I never realized, for instance, that I would have to actively engage in subterfuge. The subterfuge is necessary if I want to get paid.
I must account for whatever I am doing in six-minute increments. The greater the number of six-minute chunks that appear on my timesheet, the more the firm makes, or at least, that is the way it is supposed to work, according to the Vast and Unimpeachable Rule Book of Legal Defense Work, which is somewhere in the attic of the UConn law library, next to Prosser and Keeton on Table Manners, 4th Edition. The method in which my time is recorded matters. It matters to the Legendary Bill Auditors, who live in Darkest New Jersey and are waiting hungrily each month for time sheets with their sharp red pencils, hoping to find something to circle.
