In 2013, a crime novel called The Cuckoo’s Calling landed at bookstores in the U.K. An unknown author named Robert Galbraith, whom the publisher described as a former British military police investigator, had apparently decided to try his hand at writing. The book received solid reviews, especially for a debut release. But sales were modest. It was hardly a hit.
Then an anonymous Twitter user contacted a columnist at The Sunday Times of London with a bold claim—that Robert Galbraith was in fact J.K. Rowling. When the newspaper commissioned a forensic analysis that compared Rowling’s writing style with Galbraith’s, it found striking similarities. It took the evidence to Rowling’s publisher, which confirmed that The Cuckoo’s Calling and Harry Potter were indeed written by the same author. The truth promptly came out. Sales of the book surged.
The mysterious tip to the Times might look like a clever marketing ploy. It turned out, however, that a lawyer at Russells Solicitors, the law firm that represented Rowling, had secretly disclosed Galbraith’s true identity to his wife’s friend. That’s who was behind the leak. Ultimately, the lawyer’s name came out, and he faced regulatory discipline. Rowling also pursued legal action against the firm, which issued a public apology, reimbursed the author’s legal fees and made a donation to a veteran-support charity as part of the resolution. It was a total fiasco.
When the scandal broke, I was a very junior lawyer. My first thought was one of utter disbelief: How could a lawyer representing one of the biggest authors of all time do such a thing? What was he thinking? Then I started to feel a little nervous. Like anyone else, I talked about my job with friends and family. A quick succession of thoughts arose in my mind: Had I crossed a line at some point? Did I ever say more than I should have? If so, would my mistake get back to a client? What would that mean for me and my firm?
For a period, I didn’t know who I could speak to or what I could say about work. When I told lawyer friends about my concern, I discovered that I wasn’t alone. Far from it. One person confessed that he saw every work-related conversation as a “minefield.” He worried that, at any moment, he might slip up and inadvertently disclose confidential information.
I’ve also noticed, over the years, that some senior lawyers inflame this culture of anxiety by refusing to engage in even idle workplace chitchat. I remember bumping into a former colleague who I’d worked with on a file for about two years. Innocently, I asked how the matter turned out. “It’s done,” she said tersely. That likely meant it had settled on confidential terms, but the tone of the reply suggested that it was inappropriate to have inquired at all. Earlier in my career, I tried to make casual conversation with a senior lawyer who was heading out of town for the weekend. “Where are you off to,” I said, “if you don’t mind my asking?” He answered, “I do mind, actually,” and made it clear that I should be more respectful.
Other veteran lawyers, by contrast, talk openly about casework in a manner that’s downright shocking. I was once at a mediation, across the table from a prominent lawyer as the opposing counsel. During a break, he started telling someone in the hallway about the matter, revealing not only sensitive details but client names. It was an obvious professional breach. But it’s not the only time I’ve heard someone so senior divulge privileged information with impunity.
The cumulative effect of observing such contradictory behaviour—one lawyer’s unwillingness to discuss an objectively anodyne subject, another lawyer’s careless disclosure of confidential information—is enough to drive someone mad. What on earth, you might wonder, is the accepted etiquette on how lawyers should talk about work?
After more than 15 years in law, I’ve learned to follow a handful of simple rules. To start, it’s never okay to act like the loudmouth opposing counsel I described above, the one who shared sensitive case details in the hallway. It’s true that he got away with his reckless conduct, as do other members of the profession. But we need to comply with our obligations and protect our clients. That’s non-negotiable.
At the same time, you don’t have to constantly worry about what you can and can’t say. Maybe you’re working on a thrilling deal or prepping for a major trial. Naturally, you’ll want to talk about it with friends and family. There’s nothing wrong with that. Certain facts have to remain private—the details of transactions, settlement terms, client names not listed on the public record—but you can generally describe what you’re up to at the office, at least in broad strokes. We’re not working at the Pentagon or spying for foreign governments. We are allowed to talk about our jobs.
When in doubt, there’s a fairly reliable way to evaluate whether a work-related anecdote is safe to share: does the person you’re speaking with have to keep it a secret? If the answer is yes, keep your mouth shut. Expecting a friend to safeguard private information on your behalf is the mistake that unmasked Robert Galbraith as J.K. Rowling. You don’t want to trigger a similar crisis that harms your client or employer.
Let’s pivot, now, to the tricky topic of office politics. Some senior lawyers believe the legal workplace has a rigid hierarchy and try to impose strict limits on what those beneath them can say when it comes to life and work. Personally, I wish no one held that view—it’s not like we’re in the military, under a chain of command—but it’s still a part of legal culture. My advice is to wait until you get to know your senior colleagues before acting overly friendly, asking about their personal lives or chatting casually about casework. Let those relationships develop naturally over time.
A brief note, in conclusion, to the leading members of the bar. Inevitably, a junior lawyer on your team will commit some sort of social blunder—perhaps by talking too noisily about casework at a restaurant, while other diners sit nearby within earshot. Correct that person in the nicest way possible. Unless the mistake is egregious, explain the situation gently so it doesn’t happen again.
The practice of law is stressful enough. Many of us work in high-stakes environments under intense pressure. We shouldn’t add to people’s anxiety by making them feel perpetually nervous about whether it’s okay to have a casual chat or talk broadly about a file. I’ve found that the healthiest workplaces encourage chatting, humour and idle banter. That’s a much better way to live.
Daniel Waldman is a partner at Dickinson Wright LLP. He writes about career satisfaction and business development for Precedent.