Most lawyers choose this profession. I was born in it, molded by it.

Growing up, my mom and dad ran a small law firm in mid-City Wilshire in Los Angeles.  As a young kid, it was not unusual to find me poking around at the office during afterschool hours.  There, I used to watch different people from all walks of life come in and out of the doors.  My dad was also a pro tem judge.  He would often take me to court with him where he would let me sit in the front row of the gallery to watch.  The lawyers, who were dressed up in fancy suits and ties, would use strange words that didn’t make sense.  They seemed oblivious to their clients who sat next to them quietly at counsel table.  It was a big, scary place where people were so formal – even my dad looked intimidating wearing a jet-black robe.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but the courtroom he introduced me to at such a young age, would later become home.

One day, when I was about 8 or 9 years old, I watched the conference room door open.  A middle-aged man walked out.  He had a kind looking, but weather-beaten face.  My dad followed shortly after him and gave him a grin.  “Congratulations, I am happy for you”, my dad said.  The man’s eyes looked wet.  “Thank you” he whispered back.  He hesitated like he wanted to give my dad a hug, but as if his better judgment got the best of him, he awkwardly stuck his hand out instead.  The two shook hands and parted ways.  When the man left, I went into the conference room by myself.  Inside, there was a box of pears and an envelope with $50 inside.  I asked my mom what had happened and all she explained to me was that the man had come to pay what he could. Since mom and dad were okay with it, I didn’t think anything of it.

Twenty years later, I went to law school. Besides learning the black letter law, law school impressed upon me a desire for power: you would never be a big successful attorney unless you got one of the highly coveted jobs working for the rich and powerful. But the story of the man who had paid my parents with a box of pears and fifty bucks had stuck with me. I remember thinking how my mom and dad had gotten it wrong. How could you devote your life to representing poor, weak people? There was no respect – no glory or honor in that. I told myself that I was not going to make that same mistake.

After law school, I got my first job representing a wealthy and powerful Fortune 50 company. My friends would introduce me as a “corporate attorney” and I noticed that people treated me differently. I liked the new feeling of power and respect. I remember sometimes thinking that, unlike my mom and dad, I had made it.

My dad passed away unexpectedly and suddenly in 2014 at only 62 years old. The funeral was packed. The pews were filled, attendees lined the walls, and even poured out onto the sidewalks outside the church we attended. The church was overflowing with people whose lives had been touched by my dad. As I stood there and looked at all of the different faces, most of whom I had never seen before, I realized at that moment that I had gotten it all wrong. Mom and dad had been right all along: real strength and power are yielded by those who are willing to stand up for the voiceless when no one else will – regardless of whether they only have pears and fifty bucks to offer. I quickly quit my job representing the rich and powerful.

Integrity. Grit. Compassion. Advocacy.

These were the core values my mom and dad imprinted on my two brothers and me – and which I hope to imprint on my three children.  These are also the same values that I take with me as both a sword and a shield, whenever I go to battle for a client.  My love of the courtroom was what brought me to the practice of law nearly a decade ago, but doing right by people is something that is woven into my DNA.