Strictly Personal: Did Adam Schefter really have to break the Andrew Luck story Saturday night?

The whole family was over Saturday evening. The older grandkids were grumbling that the TV was tuned to the Bears game (such as it was), with sidetrips only for the Sox game (fewer and fewer as the evening wore on) and the University of Miami vs. University of Florida tussle on ESPN.

It was while watching the college game that we first saw news of Adam Schefter's tweet about Andrew Luck's retirement. My sons and sons-in-law had their phones out in an instant -- they all follow Schefter -- and instantly confirmed that Schefter had made this report. "He'd better be right," said one. "If he misses on this one, it's a possible career-ender."

"Well, he just doubled down," said another, reading Schefter's latest tweet.

(I had my phone out, too, but I seemed to only have tweets from Popehat's Ken White. Nothing about Indianapolis quarterbacks at all.)

We flipped back to the Bears game, where Schefter's tweets were under discussion by the broadcasters -- and, apparently, by many of the fans. There was quite a bit of exaggerated gesticulation going on in the stands that appeared unrelated to any action on the field.

"Try NFL Network," someone suggested, and we flipped over there next, but a different, though equally meaningless preseason game was unfolding there.

Millennials flip channels way too fast for me, but somewhere in the back and forth, supplemented by phone data, it was determined that Luck would address the media following the Bears game. And that Luck was booed by the fans in the Lucas Oil Stadium stands as he left the field for perhaps the last time.

One of my sons-in-law is an Indianapolis native. It would be too much to say that he was actually distraught, but he was a bit in shock. "They're not booing Luck necessarily," he finally said. "They're angry at the team for squandering Luck's talent. For failing to get a capable offensive line. The Colts ruined him."

I don't think they quite made it to halftime of the meaningless game on the NFL Network before the network cut away to show young Mr. Luck, choking up at the podium. They did a split screen for a minute or two, then just put Luck up full frame.

This wasn't how he wanted to go out at all.

He had talked to management about his decision to retire before the game. He wanted to break it to the team after the game, then have a press conference to explain it to the world on Sunday.

Obviously, somebody blabbed. A family member, perhaps. A team employee. Whoever the blabber was no doubt thought that he or she had extracted a promise from the blabee not to spread the news further.

Thus illustrating the old Ben Franklin maxim, "Two people can keep a secret so long as one of them is dead."

But why did Schefter have to tell the world so quickly?

Who would have been hurt by sitting on the news for an hour or so? That would have given Luck time to tell his teammates. It was evident, watching Luck's premature press conference, that he was devastated that he was not permitted to tell the team his news his way.

The Vegas bookies had to quickly recalibrate the odds of Indy getting to the Superbowl. Someone on Twitter posted a receipt from a sports book in Iowa -- do they really have sports books in Iowa? -- allegedly showing a wager made on Indianapolis to go to the Super Bowl made not five minutes before Schefter's first tweet.

But did we all really have to know Luck was going right then? The good people who bought Colts season tickets in reliance on Andrew Luck's return had already done so.

It was hardly a matter of life or death. I guess revealing the information when he did burnished Schefter's reputation as a knowledgeable insider.

I think it would have been better for all concerned, however, better even for Mr. Schefter, if the news had been withheld until after Luck had the chance to tell his locker room.

I guess I would never have made it in journalism.

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Andrew Luck photo obtained here.

Thankfully, the practice of law does not always involve fighting for justice

This is what is known as a "hot take" headline.

But now that you've taken the clickbait, let me explain.

I was at a birthday party for one of my granddaughters recently. My daughter must have told one of her guests, one of her neighbors, that I am a lawyer. He approached me in the kitchen as I was fetching something, or putting something away, and introduced his daughter. Like my granddaughter, she'd just turned five, he told me, adding, "I think she's going to be a lawyer, too, someday. She's always telling me that she wants to fight for justice."

Well. To my ear that sounded more like the little girl was thinking more of being a superhero than a lawyer. Very young children don't know that some career ambitions are not really attainable -- Meghan Markle notwithstanding, there can only be so many new princesses. And the otherwise admirable Doc McStuffins does not really explain to its young viewers that there are very limited opportunities for toy doctors. But you know what? There's plenty of time to find that stuff out. If five-year olds want to be princesses, or unicorn herders, or princesses who herd unicorns, or dragon tamers, or superheros -- I say, good for them.

But this was a party. I did not challenge the proud father's perceptions. Instead I said, "That's wonderful! I'm sure she'll be a great one." And the kid found another handful of chips and all was well with the world.

A few months before, though, I was part of a panel discussion for pre-law students at a local college. There were several distinguished practitioners, from various backgrounds -- and then there was me. I was a last-minute substitute for a much more distinguished practitioner who had to cancel because of a work-related emergency.

At the end of the discussion there was a little meet-and-greet in the lobby of the auditorium, where the students could talk one-on-one to the presenters. As a bitter, crusty solo, I did not expect to deal with a lot of questioners, and I was not disappointed. But I was surprised to see that the former prosecutor turned white-collar criminal defense attorney and the commercial real estate attorney who had made deals for skyscrapers were nearly as lonely as I was. The attorney who was championing voting rights causes attracted all the attention.

I am pretty certain that the eager young men and women who crowded around the public interest lawyer no longer believed in unicorns or dragons or superheros -- but they all wanted to "fight for justice."

But lawyers don't really fight for justice. At least, except in the broadest sense, we don't fight for justice all the time.

I don't mean to suggest that lawyers fight against justice, although some do. ARDC will always be with us.

Rather, all of us, whatever our role, even crusty solos, are part of the justice system. And our system of laws and justice is part of the glue that binds our increasingly fractured society. Sometimes it seems like the law is all we have left holding us together.

Still, we're not fighting for justice every day. We represent our clients, zealously, but within the bounds of professional ethics. We handle specific cases, not causes.

When I was just out of law school, I handled an inordinate number of property damage subrogation cases -- car hits garage, car hits fence -- that sort of thing. And I'd have to deal with the other side raising affirmative defenses like contributory fault. Wait a minute! Are you saying the garage moved? Oh, I was fighting, alright, but I'm not sure it counted as "fighting for justice."

Some lawyers help make bigger profits for giant corporations. When they do this in accordance with their ethical obligations, they are as much helping to do justice as the lawyers who might be arrayed against them in a given case. Even the lawyers who help evict widows and orphans or who try to collect debts from persons who are broke are doing justice in the broadest sense, as long as they do their work according to our profession's ethical standards, although those pre-law students I saw earlier this year might not think so. The persons who defend the vilest criminal fiends are also doing justice in the broad sense, protecting our rights as well as the rights of their clients, just as the persons who try and incarcerate those same persons are likewise doing justice. Mostly what we do as lawyers is help our clients -- some who are good people, or good companies, some who most definitely are not -- get a better deal, or avoid a worse one, than they might get without our assistance.

There's a reason why the motto of the Illinois Supreme Court is Audi Alteram Partem (Hear the Other Side). And, no, the reason is not because all the good mottoes had already been claimed.

The real reason is that there almost always is another side.

Rare indeed is the case where all the facts, all the law, and all the equities point only one way.

I have had such cases, or I thought I did at one time, and these have always made me unfailingly miserable.

When you are all that stands between your client and rank injustice, it feels as if the whole weight of the world is on your shoulders.

You expect the other side to realize the hopelessness of his case, to graciously acquiesce to your righteousness. Or you expect opposing counsel to at least withdraw if her evil client will not fold.

But this does not always happen.

OK, this never happens.

It may be because the lawyer on the other side is not interested in doing justice, but in milking his client, or fleecing yours, or both. ARDC caught up with one of my opponents from one of these awful cases some years back -- years, unfortunately, after my case with this person had concluded (although, in the case that led to his disbarment, he was doing the same stuff he did in my case -- I got some satisfaction from that). There are still a couple of more names I expect to see someday in the Supreme Court's disciplinary orders.

But... you know what? It may be that the other side doesn't see things the way you do because there is another side. Puny, weak, and pitiful perhaps, but maybe just the barest gossamer thread of good faith. And sometimes, possibly, just a wee bit more substantial than you understand.

But let's say, for argument's sake, that your opponent is bereft of morals and decency and ethics, and his or her client is worse, and you are 1,000% in the right. Surely the judge will immediately grasp the virtue of your cause and swiftly see that justice prevails?

Uh, no.

This does not mean that the judge is a political hack, or corrupt, or ignorant of the law, or uncaring, or any of the other things you may mutter, hopefully to yourself, as you head back down the elevator from another status hearing where the scales did not fall from the judicial eyes.

He or she may be all of these things and more -- and you and your client got the fuzzy end of the lollipop once again.

But... there is some belief among psychologists that indigenous persons, looking from the shore for the first time at the large wood and canvass ships of European explorers, did not actually see them. Or, at least, they did not see them until the ships anchored and the longboats came ashore and their reality could no longer be denied.

Why? Because the indigenous person had no experience of ocean-going vessels. He could not process what he was looking at. She had no frame of reference with which to understand what she was seeing.

So it may be also with judges. You have the perfect case; you have the moon, the stars, the planets, the laws, the ethics, and the equities all lined up in your favor. But the judge, who sees thousands, or tens of thousands, of cases where each side has something to legitimately talk about, can not instantly recognize your case as so fundamentally different, even though the judge is truly learned, and wise, and caring, and empathetic, and all the other judicial virtues personified. She doesn't see it. Or he sees it and cannot process what it is.

Now, in such a case, you really are fighting for justice.

And it is a lonely, miserable, even frightening place to be. You can't grab the judge by the front of his or her robe and shout sense into the judicial noggin. You can't hit opposing counsel smack across the head with your righteous file. (For you non-lawyers out there, whatever you may have seen in movies or on TV, you really, really can't do these things.) Instead, you must somehow recapture your sense of professional detachment and find a way to lead the court to its own discovery of the truth you hold so desperately dear.

And that's hard. Really hard.

And that is why I say thank goodness we don't have to fight for justice in every case, although I hope we do justice always.