As published in The Chicago Daily Law Bulletin.
My exasperated family is used to it. I just hate a movie that ends poorly.
For eight seasons of Game Of Thrones, I was glued to the suspense-packed, gory and maddeningly paced struggle for the Iron Throne. The winner was abruptly picked in a goofy, hugely disappointing five-minute tea-party. Breaking Bad veered off into a pretty bad break. Big Little Lies turned out not to have any real lie. I never understood why Sally suddenly got so mad at Harry.
My exasperated family is used to it. I just hate a movie that ends poorly.
For eight seasons of Game Of Thrones, I was glued to the suspense-packed, gory and maddeningly paced struggle for the Iron Throne. The winner was abruptly picked in a goofy, hugely disappointing five-minute tea-party. Breaking Bad veered off into a pretty bad break. Big Little Lies turned out not to have any real lie. I never understood why Sally suddenly got so mad at Harry.
A bad ending reveals that the writers didn’t really know what their stories were about. Had they figured out the real story, every step and twist would have been a progression leading to a satisfying and inevitable conclusion.
People often say it’s about the journey. In our business though, an engaging journey that ends up nowhere isn’t going to make anyone happy.
In telling the story of a case, the ending should follow naturally from everything leading to it. Every witness, every question, every objection, every argument, every exhibit should all point to the one true ending the decision maker has to accept.
How do you distill a giant maze of complex facts and data to find the essence of your case—leading to that really satisfying ending? You have volumes of testimony and evidence. Could you possibly summarize your case in a few pages? How about just one page? One paragraph? How about just a few words? The whole case.
Katherine James and Alan Blumenfeld teach trial lawyers how to figure out the essence of their cases by using a ten-word telegram. No matter how complex, no matter how many claims, boil your case down to just ten words, however punctuated. End with a call to action. Once done, it becomes easy to figure out what does and what doesn’t get you the right ending. What witnesses, what evidence, what argument. You quickly learn what to develop and what to cut.
I got the chance to practice with James and Blumenfeld on several occasions and found it incredibly helpful. It teaches focus on the single consistent message you want your jurors to get beyond all else. It gives you the basic structure of your story.
Writing the telegram is part of it. They also teach how to practice delivering your telegram. Imagine looking each juror in the eye one at a time and shaking their hands as you say each word of your “telegram. The delivery teaches eye contact and the human connection that is going to get people to listen to you.
As an example, take the trial of the notorious burglar known as “Goldilocks”, who so famously broke into and ransacked the home of the “Three Bears”. Her defense telegram might be, “Terrified. Lost. Hungry. Mercifully, found door that opened! Acquit, please!” Ten words.
But, some say, even ten words is too many. You should be able to tell your story in six.
If you think your case is too big and complex, consider that six words have been plenty for people to tell entire life stories.
“Legend has it that Ernest Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in six words. Papa
came back swinging with, ‘For sale: baby shoes, never worn.’ Some say he called it his best work.” So opens, Not Quite What I Was Planning, Six-word Memoirs From Writers Famous and Obscure,”, first in a series of books by the editors of a storytelling magazine called SMITH. All of the following quotes come from Six-Word Memoir books which give their attribution.
“You made me stronger. Thanks, rapist.”
“Paralyzed at fifty, Life still nifty.”
“Girlfriend is pregnant. My husband said.”
“Give up.” “Never”. “You’ll die.” “Maybe.” (Jak Mandela)
“Honeymooned in California divorce court.”
“Daughter, wife, mother, divorcee, widow, ‘Gama.’”
“Hung myself. Sister found me. Alive.”
“My scars: Everybody stares. Nobody asks.”
“My mom had my boyfriend deported.”
“Trains, planes, thumb; then children come.”
“Mom left. Returned! Left. Reconciliation! Cancer.”
“Barrister, barista, what’s the diff, Mom?”
“Tombstone won’t say, ‘had health insurance.’”
“Polio gave me my happy life.”
“Accidents cause people. Son is wonderful.”
“Jury believed me. Prison awaits him.”
“Send to all… No, wait. Shit!”
“Vietnam protests. Equality protests. Disability protests.”
“Full life; impossible to summarize in”
“Walking the green mile. Finally free.”
A trial might have tens of thousands of words. Can you imagine how many of those words add nothing to the story? What if your transcript were a script for a play? How many thousands and thousands of words would you edit out? What if you could write that script before the trial started? You can’t, of course, but you can exercise significant control over what is and isn’t going to be in that transcript by making sure you present only what you need.
A ten-word telegram or six-word memo is a great way to extract your real case from all the ambient stuff. Working backward from there, you can build the rest of the case. Once you have the closing, your listener will be primed and ready for a great ending.
People often say it’s about the journey. In our business though, an engaging journey that ends up nowhere isn’t going to make anyone happy.
In telling the story of a case, the ending should follow naturally from everything leading to it. Every witness, every question, every objection, every argument, every exhibit should all point to the one true ending the decision maker has to accept.
How do you distill a giant maze of complex facts and data to find the essence of your case—leading to that really satisfying ending? You have volumes of testimony and evidence. Could you possibly summarize your case in a few pages? How about just one page? One paragraph? How about just a few words? The whole case.
Katherine James and Alan Blumenfeld teach trial lawyers how to figure out the essence of their cases by using a ten-word telegram. No matter how complex, no matter how many claims, boil your case down to just ten words, however punctuated. End with a call to action. Once done, it becomes easy to figure out what does and what doesn’t get you the right ending. What witnesses, what evidence, what argument. You quickly learn what to develop and what to cut.
I got the chance to practice with James and Blumenfeld on several occasions and found it incredibly helpful. It teaches focus on the single consistent message you want your jurors to get beyond all else. It gives you the basic structure of your story.
Writing the telegram is part of it. They also teach how to practice delivering your telegram. Imagine looking each juror in the eye one at a time and shaking their hands as you say each word of your “telegram. The delivery teaches eye contact and the human connection that is going to get people to listen to you.
As an example, take the trial of the notorious burglar known as “Goldilocks”, who so famously broke into and ransacked the home of the “Three Bears”. Her defense telegram might be, “Terrified. Lost. Hungry. Mercifully, found door that opened! Acquit, please!” Ten words.
But, some say, even ten words is too many. You should be able to tell your story in six.
If you think your case is too big and complex, consider that six words have been plenty for people to tell entire life stories.
“Legend has it that Ernest Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in six words. Papa
came back swinging with, ‘For sale: baby shoes, never worn.’ Some say he called it his best work.” So opens, Not Quite What I Was Planning, Six-word Memoirs From Writers Famous and Obscure,”, first in a series of books by the editors of a storytelling magazine called SMITH. All of the following quotes come from Six-Word Memoir books which give their attribution.
“You made me stronger. Thanks, rapist.”
“Paralyzed at fifty, Life still nifty.”
“Girlfriend is pregnant. My husband said.”
“Give up.” “Never”. “You’ll die.” “Maybe.” (Jak Mandela)
“Honeymooned in California divorce court.”
“Daughter, wife, mother, divorcee, widow, ‘Gama.’”
“Hung myself. Sister found me. Alive.”
“My scars: Everybody stares. Nobody asks.”
“My mom had my boyfriend deported.”
“Trains, planes, thumb; then children come.”
“Mom left. Returned! Left. Reconciliation! Cancer.”
“Barrister, barista, what’s the diff, Mom?”
“Tombstone won’t say, ‘had health insurance.’”
“Polio gave me my happy life.”
“Accidents cause people. Son is wonderful.”
“Jury believed me. Prison awaits him.”
“Send to all… No, wait. Shit!”
“Vietnam protests. Equality protests. Disability protests.”
“Full life; impossible to summarize in”
“Walking the green mile. Finally free.”
A trial might have tens of thousands of words. Can you imagine how many of those words add nothing to the story? What if your transcript were a script for a play? How many thousands and thousands of words would you edit out? What if you could write that script before the trial started? You can’t, of course, but you can exercise significant control over what is and isn’t going to be in that transcript by making sure you present only what you need.
A ten-word telegram or six-word memo is a great way to extract your real case from all the ambient stuff. Working backward from there, you can build the rest of the case. Once you have the closing, your listener will be primed and ready for a great ending.