Who Needs Lawyers?

By Amanda Ripley/Orlando

Eugenia Wajdenfeld stood last week in the foul-smelling hallway of a New York City courthouse, clutching her purse in one hand and a bulging green file in the other. She was immaculately dressed and polite, in contrast to most of the people she had dealt with that day. When her husband of 25 years asked for a divorce in 1998, Wajdenfeld hired a lawyer. But "he didn't do nothing," she says in a clipped Polish accent. So in January, she made a calculation that more and more Americans are making: she could do better representing herself. Though Wajdenfeld, a former jewelry-store owner, has no legal experience, she says she considered hers "a very clear case. I thought, 'I don't need a lawyer.' I don't trust lawyers."

Despite the axiom that anyone who represents himself in court has a fool for a client, self-representation is booming--especially in family court. Cities that keep track say 60% to 90% of their divorce, custody and abuse cases include at least one party without a lawyer. In some places, that's an increase of about 50% over the past decade.

Most people who file pro se--Latin for "in one's own behalf"--do so because they can't afford a lawyer, and the rest just don't want one. "They think it's kind of cool to say, 'I don't need a stupid lawyer,'" says attorney Gay Conroy, who counsels pro se filers in Ventura, Calif. TV shows like Judge Judy and legal websites like Ed Koch's TheLaw.com may embolden people by demystifying the courthouse. And antilawyer sentiment remains as potent as ever. "This is an era of do-it-yourself," says Kathleen Sampson of the American Judicature Society, an organization of judges and lawyers. "It's the Home Depot approach."

Except that homeowners who botch their deck repairs don't usually end up clogging the whole neighborhood with their debris. In the courts, while some pro se filers are very effective, many more wreak havoc and delay. "They don't know how to get the forms. They don't know how to fill them out," says Lisa Kahn, a circuit-court judge in Viera, Fla. Some pro se litigants drag out hearings to punish their spouse. They call women judges by their first name. They turn in forms blotched with suspicious stains. And God help them if their opponent has a lawyer who knows how to use the rules of evidence and procedure against them. Says Orange County (Fla.) chief judge Ted Coleman: "I don't know how many people have, in effect, told me, when I suggested getting a lawyer, 'I can do it myself. How do I do it?'"

Recently some courts have surrendered to the pro se trend. In January, Ventura County, Calif., started sending a Winnebago through rural towns, giving out forms and guidance. The New Britain, Conn., superior court offers free use of phones, computers and a "do-it-yourself divorce guide" translated into Spanish. Florida has a pro se help desk in each of its 20 circuit courts. Two weeks ago, 130 judges, court administrators and lawyers met in Orlando to discuss what else they could do to help pro se litigants--without encouraging more people to join them.

Last year 71% of those who divorced in Orange County, Fla., did so pro se. That's up 22% from 1998. The court's help desk serves 100 walk-ins a day and still gets complaints from people who can't get through on the phone.

To truly open the courthouse to people who can't afford a lawyer, proponents say, courts must simplify and standardize legal forms across jurisdictions, and more lawyers should "unbundle" their services--offering limited advice for lower fees.

For now, even in Florida, whose courts are more open than most, the protocols still overwhelm people. Two weeks ago, courier Lee Johnson, 42, went to the Orange County courthouse to ask for custody of his sons. Before Judge Jeffords Miller, Johnson and his estranged wife awkwardly presented their arguments. The judge played referee, offering well-meaning platitudes such as "It takes two to make a fight."

Ultimately, Miller denied Johnson's request. While Johnson had brought his notes and past paperwork, he had not known he would need evidence, such as a third party's assessment of his sons' situation. The judge offered to order the couple into counseling--if Johnson gave him an order. "Is it one piece of paper? Who drafts it?" Johnson asked the judge, who was by then shooing the couple out. "You do," Miller said. "I'm not your secretary." After they left, the judge said, "There's only so much I can do. Eventually, I think they'll have to get a lawyer."

That's the reluctant conclusion that Eugenia Wajdenfeld has also reached, after five months on her own. "It's been hell," she says, recounting the times she's been misled or baffled by the court's procedures. With two days until her next hearing, she's desperately in search of a professional.