Lawyers are known for their stories — some of which are even true. While I have tried to avoid falling into that habit, there are a few tales from my days of practicing law that still bring a smile to my face. One such story involves a man I will call William Porter — a character who, in an earlier era, would have been called a “rascal.”

William, or really “Bill,” had a talent for poking fun at lawyers while still, somehow, showing them respect. Whenever he called before noon, his greeting was always the same: “Counselor, are you out of your coffin yet?” And if he needed me to attend a meeting, it was never a straightforward request. By then, he had already tangled with someone and was ready for battle. He would say, “I want to see you hop on that big conference table and let them hear your balls clang together.” He reminded me of a line from a movie The People vs. Larry Flynt: “I am your dream client. I am the most fun. I am rich, and I am always in trouble” — which was true, except for the rich part, though he was working on that.

Bill had a business partner: Chuck. Thin as a rail, perpetually smoking, and with an unwavering preference for Hawaiian shirts, Chuck was an enigma. How he and Bill ever became partners remains a mystery to me. Together, they had built a series of carpet recycling companies across California, Georgia, and Texas. But by the time I entered the picture, Bill had decided he was finished with Chuck — and that is where I came in.

On Bill’s behalf, I filed a lawsuit against Chuck to take control of the business. Chuck countersued, and as the case wore on, their animosity only hardened. Soon, even the lawyers became as determined as their clients, each side pushing with equal fervor. But eventually — perhaps softened by a few rounds of hefty legal bills — the business minds prevailed, and a settlement was reached. Chuck would take California, while Bill would keep Georgia and Texas.

The day arrived to sign the settlement documents. Bill and I went down to Chuck’s lawyer’s office. The conference table was long enough to land a plane, with neat stacks of documents waiting for signatures.

Chuck, clearly jonesing for his next cigarette, took the first pass, quietly signing his name on each document. Meanwhile, Bill leaned over to me, and in a tone that should have made me suspicious, asked, “Counselor, did you not once tell me that whatever I write, as long as I intend for it to be my signature, counts as my signature? I could scribble an ‘X’ if I wanted, and it would still be legally binding?”

I nodded, “Yes, that is correct. Legally, you can write anything, as long as it is intended as your signature.”

A gleam in his eye — one I should have recognized as trouble — he asked, “So, I can write anything?”

I confirmed, “Yes, legally speaking, that is true.”

And that was all he needed. Bill began by writing “William, F** You, Porter” on the first document. Before I could stop him, he moved on to the next: “William, Eat a Bag of D**, Porter.”

By the time he got to the third, I leaned in and whispered, “What. Are. You. Doing?” — biting off each word.

“You said I could write anything,” he replied with perfect innocence.

I begged him to stop. “Please, do not do this.”

But he was already moving on. His creativity flourished with each signature:

“William, You are a Miserable Bastard, Porter.” “William, I Hope You Choke, Porter.”

And with each document, it only got worse. His phrases grew bolder and more offensive.

By this point, Chuck’s lawyer had circled back to the first document and was flipping through the signatures, his face growing redder with each one. Finally, he looked up, his expression a storm of indignation.

Before he could get a word out, I shrugged and said, “Well, take it or leave it. He is not signing again.”

They took it.

As we walked outside, I found myself torn between throttling Bill and laughing at his audacity. And Bill? Though he would never admit it, I could see by the wry smile tugging at his mouth that he was pleased. Before I could say anything, he turned to me, already grumbling about the bill that would soon arrive — one he would, of course, pay, knowing he would be back in trouble soon enough.

As for how he signed that check? Let us just say the bank had far less of a sense of humor. ♦