In-House Counsel

Dylan’s Rules: Farewell To The Best Of Attorney Bosses, A Rare And Wondrous Breed

An ode to a gifted lawyer who taught Kay Thrace how to be a half-way decent one.

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Today was the day. The day I walked into my office and my boss was gone. Not vacation gone. Not at a meeting gone. Laid off gone. Empty office, never coming back gone. The latest victim of the inevitable culling that transpires when juggernauts merge.

Of course, nobody calls it culling. It upsets the baby bird consultants when you use that term. The preferred verbiage is realignment. Having survived half a dozen of these now, I am intimately familiar with the rules of realignment: VPs and service functions first. VPs suffer from the curse of middle management: big salaries and the perception that their jobs can be done by more junior or senior people. And service functions because when companies merge, no one needs two finance departments or two legal teams.

Given that my boss was both a VP and the head of a service function, I really should have seen this one coming. I didn’t. I somehow thought that maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t fire the most useful guy in the room for a change.

I’ve worked with lots of attorneys over the years and I’ve had lots of bosses. Without hesitation, I have to tell you that attorney bosses are the worst. Attorneys are overworked, impatient, socially awkward creatures who overthink everything and assume the worst. Nothing about that screams candidate for a “Boss of the Year” mug.

And yet, Seamus Dylan wasn’t just a gifted lawyer, who taught me how to be a half-way decent one — he was a great boss (despite being saddled with an Irish name more blarney than what I’m calling him here).

First and foremost, Dylan always took his people’s side and sorted it out later. We all know how the business loves to point fingers. They want scapegoats. They want blood. And they love to blame the lawyer. It would be so easy to cave, to agree with the business person, to mollify them, to placate and promise that the attorney would be dealt with. But not Dylan. Dylan would sit in his office, his face serene, as some irate business partner stormed in to complain that the attorney wasn’t letting them do something. Or their contract wasn’t ready yet. Or it was Tuesday.

Dylan never took the easy way out. He’d wait until the business partner wound down and then ask them what the attorney had said. No matter what the business partner told him, Dylan would nod his head and tell them that sounded like the right plan. And then he’d unceremoniously toss them out of his office.

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As a result, I was never afraid to do my job, to give bad news to a business partner, or to say no when it mattered. I never worried that my boss would swoop in to correct me or use me as a scapegoat. As a manager, it’s an incredible thing to give an employee: the confidence to do her job without fear that someone might step in and erase her credibility.

Dylan also taught me that sometimes the easiest solution is the most elegant one. No, really. I cannot tell you how many times during my first year I walked into his office, draft clutched in my hand with scribbles and highlights and dire comments to myself in the margin about the tragedies that would befall me if I didn’t draft the provision tight enough.

Despite being someone who closed down the office every night, Dylan never glanced at his watch or computer screen. His jaw wouldn’t tighten or show any sign that he was too busy and didn’t have time for me. He would give me his full attention, listen to my concerns as if they weren’t ridiculous, and then make a suggestion or two. A suggestion he asserted that was just good as the one I proposed, maybe just fewer words. And one less “for the avoidance of doubt” and “hereto.” Regardless, he always reinforced the fact that my language was fine the way it was, even if it took me three paragraphs to get there.

Finally, despite being the smartest guy in the room. Dylan never let you know it. He could sit in a negotiation for hours quietly taking notes (or if we’re being honest, Seamus, doodling). He never made anything about him. He didn’t hide behind his title or use it as a battering ram. When things went off track, he’d calmly lift his head, make a blisteringly insightful observation to refocus everyone, and go back to his doodling (I mean, his notetaking). And the man had a poker face that wouldn’t quit. The building and all our plans for the deal could be going up in flames around us, and Dylan’s face never cracked. Though I’ve still much to learn in the fine art of negotiation, Dylan taught me to check my ego at the door and when all else fails, strap on that poker face.

Dylan didn’t just make me a better lawyer. He made me believe I was a better lawyer. And because I believed it, I was. I am. So here’s one last tip of the hat and one last sip of the Irish to Dylan and the attorney bosses out there just like him. We’re lucky to have you.

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Kay Thrace (not her real name) is a harried in-house counsel at a well-known company that everyone loves to hate. When not scuffing dirt on the sacrosanct line between business and the law, Kay enjoys pub trivia domination and eradicating incorrect usage of the Oxford comma. You can contact her by email at KayThraceATL@gmail.com or follow her on Twitter @KayThrace.

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