Supreme Ambitions by David Lat

what Judge Stinson had told me last week when we reviewed Hamadani : judging is not easy work. I believed that ruling against Pervez’s cousin was the right decision under the law, but I now felt more uneasy about the possible practical consequences. I would need to get over such feelings if I wanted to be a successful law clerk; as the judge had told me, we don’t decide cases based on sympathy.
    After a quick stop in chambers to drop off my bag and grab a legal pad and pen, I headed down to the courtroom for the oral arguments. They took place in what everyone called the “Spanish Room,” a little cave of a courtroom that got its name from an abundance of dark carved wood and elaborate cast-iron ceiling grilles, both done in Spanish colonial style.
    The courtroom, small and low-ceilinged by courtroom standards, did not have a jury box or any other space in the well of court for law clerks, so we had to sit in the gallery with the public, mostly lawyers whose cases had not been called yet. The gallery was packed when I arrived—Amit must have arrived early, since he had a prime spot in the first row—so I headed for a middle pew where Jeremy and James were sitting. Jeremy was speaking just a little too loudly for the room, which was suffused with a prehearing hush, and telling James a story that for some reason required Jeremy to put his hand on James’s knee.
    Jeremy looked up when I arrived and removed his hand from James’s knee.
    â€œHello, Miss Audrey, nice of you to join us,” Jeremy said, looking athis vintage gold Rolex.
    â€œIt’s only 9:25. Court doesn’t start for five minutes.”
    â€œTell that to Amit,” James said. “I think he got here before nine.”
    A few minutes later, the grandfather clock near the entrance to the courtroom hit 9:30. The courtroom deputy cried out, “All rise! The judges of the United States Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit.”
    I felt a chill go through me as I stood along with everyone else for the entrance of the three judges. It felt like the start of Mass. Important things were about to happen. After the judges filed in, the courtroom deputy banged a gavel and declared, “The United States Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit is now in session.”
    â€œGood morning,” said Judge Gottlieb, Jeremy’s boss, as he sat down in the center of the bench. “Please be seated.”
    Everyone in the gallery sat down. After waiting for the room to quiet, Judge Gottlieb spoke again, in a deep, growling voice—fitting given his status as the Ninth Circuit’s liberal lion, I thought.
    â€œWe will now hear argument in case number 11-72333, Hamadani versus the Attorney General.”
    A young, trim lawyer approached the podium. We could see him only from behind; he held himself with confidence. Remaining at counsel table was a dark-haired man I guessed to be Ahmed Hamadani.
    â€œMr. Soloway,” said Judge Gottlieb, “you may proceed.”
    Hamadani’s lawyer uttered barely a few sentences—his introduction of himself to the court, his reservation of time for rebuttal—before Judge Stinson interrupted him. People new to the world of appellate advocacy might have found this rude, but I knew from both my reading and from my moot court experience that this was standard.
    â€œCounselor,” she said, “didn’t the Board of Immigration Appeals find numerous inconsistencies in your client’s application for asylum?”
    â€œNo, Your Honor,” he said with impressive calm, “I would not call them ‘numerous.’ And they are not, upon closer inspection, true inconsistencies. The board identified a few purported inconsistencies, but all can be explained. First, there was confusion over the identity of a journalist who was murdered in March 2009 and that journalist’s relationship to my client. The board concluded …”
    As he proceeded