Learning on the Clock

I never miss an excuse to turn work into time spent learning.

When I attended Columbia as an undergrad, the campus featured a number of Jewish students and not a single encampment. In my first year, a Humanities professor assigned us a paper based on “the Book of Genesis.” I wrote a paper on middah k’neged middah and mostly just summarized Chumash and Rashi.

I got an A+. The professor wrote on the paper, “Your use of Rashi is impressive!” Well, maybe for a third grader.

He wasn’t done. He had me present the report to the class, “In the original Rashi!”

Everyone was very impressed, except for the other two yeshivah guys in the class, who gave me the why didn’t we think of that? look from the back of the room.

A few years later, in law school, our final exam in Contracts was another opportunity. The professor included an excerpt in English of the sale of the bechorah of Eisav to Yaakov, and he asked us to write the rights and liabilities of the parties.

A couple of months before that, I had learned the Rogatchover Gaon’s sefer on this topic, so I wrote it over and got an A.

Many years later, I was invited to give a continuing legal education lecture at the Nassau County Bar Association. They made the mistake of letting me choose the topic, so naturally, I spoke about issues that come up when you’re representing your Orthodox Jewish client. I covered ribbis and gittin and the requirements of being erlich within our society.

The audience wasn’t Jewish, but they were fascinated at the minutiae of the everyday frum experience. The entire talk was very well-received.

When it was over, one of the attendees came over to me. “That was fantastic,” he said. “You really got into it. So well-researched and in-depth!”

“Thank you.” I didn’t mention that these concepts are rudimentary for many yeshivah bochurim.

He leaned forward. “I have to ask you — do you think you’d consider giving more of these lectures? I’m Irish Catholic, and I’d love to have one of these about what it’s like to represent your Catholic client!”

I struggled to keep a straight face. “Sorry, I think that one’s not my specialty.”

The Rabbi Will See You Now

IT was a busy day at the office, a hectic rush from clients to cases, and my boss was even more rushed than I was. He summoned me from my office and brought me to a conference room where a father and son, two new clients, were waiting.

“Gentlemen,” my boss said, “I have to step into a different conference room right now, but the rabbi here is going to sit with you. You tell him what your issues are, and maybe he can give you some guidance. I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes.”

I sat down. The clients were in the automotive business in Indiana, and they had a number of questions.

It went on and on. I perused their papers, answered their questions, and asked some of my own. Eventually, I had a recommendation for their next move, but I explained, “You’ll have to do it in Indiana. Our firm doesn’t practice law there, so you’ll have to go find a local lawyer. But let me walk you through exactly what you should ask from him.”

They jotted down notes, very enthusiastic and encouraged by the advice.

Finally, my boss returned to the office. “So, how are we doing?”

“The rabbi is a genius!” the father said. “He knows so much! He had such great ideas.” They settled in to discuss their notes, and I got up and headed out.

As I opened the door, the father added, “You should really consider going to law school.”

Underwriters Under Oath

I once received a phone call from a significant insurance company that I had done some work for years before. They wanted to fax over a document that they couldn’t understand. “We aren’t even sure if we’re holding it right-side up,” admitted the caller. “But we thought you might be able to help.”

What they knew about the document: It looked like Hebrew. What they knew about me: I had a yarmulke and a beard.

Turned out, the document was a summons to beis din. The defendant was an attorney with legal malpractice insurance, so the company had been pulled into it. “Well, we’re not going,” the caller said. “That’s crazy. We go to regular court.”

“Not so fast,” I cautioned them. “In a rabbinical court, you’ll have a trial in a few weeks. It would be very inexpensive for you, and you might win.”

They were intrigued. “Well, how would we know?”

“I’ll have to look into the case a little more, but if you want to retain me, I’ll be happy to represent your client in beis din,” I offered.

And for the first time ever in New York State, an insurance company voluntarily agreed to the jurisdiction of a beis din. And as it turned out, there was a very strong defense in halachah that didn’t exist in secular law in the state!

We had the trial about two weeks later. I won’t bore you with the details of the actual case. Tachlis, I got to spend paid time researching in the beis medrash, which was a highlight of the case for me. And when I got to the beis din, I pointed out that the entire claim was absurd, because even if the plaintiff was correct, he couldn’t halachically recover anything from my client.

The case was dismissed. The insurance company sent me a bottle of kosher champagne and resolved to send all their cases to beis din from then on. (They did not.)

Your Jew, My Jew

I was once an associate at a large law firm, and my boss was an Italian-American. He was on the phone with a new client who had been assigned to us, a man named Rosen. I was listening on speakerphone, taking notes.

In the middle of the discussion, Mr. Rosen suddenly said, “Look, I just want you to understand the guy who’s suing us. This is, like, a Jewish guy. You’ve got to be careful. He’s cutthroat — he can’t be trusted.”

And on he went, three or four times, ripping on this other lawyer. My boss was looking more and more uncomfortable. Finally, he said, “Well, I don’t know. It sounds from your name, sir, that you might be Jewish, too?”

“No,” Mr. Rosen scoffed. “I’m a Sunday morning bagel-and-lox Jew. This guy wears a yarmulke. He’s an Orthodox Jew. He’s the worst of the worst.”

I was very distraught over the chillul Hashem, and even my boss was very uneasy. We agreed to meet the client in his office in Manhattan the next day, and after the call was over, my boss asked me, “What is it with your people that you can’t get along? Is it because you used to be tribes in the wilderness?”

“Absolutely not,” I shot back. “It’s actually your fault. Your Roman ancestors brought us into this exile and perpetuated it for way too long, and now, it’s just really hard for us to see the light.”

My boss leaned back. “Fair enough,” he said. “Well, I want you to represent us at the meeting tomorrow. That’ll teach Rosen a lesson.”

So there I was, my head on the chopping block. I headed out to Manhattan the next day, prepared for the worst. I was shown into Rosen’s office. “There’s a lawyer for you? A Mr. Weishaut?”

Mr. Rosen looked up. I braced myself for an outburst like the ones from the day before, the vitriol and the sheer hatred of frum Jews. I was ready to be kicked out of there, to be informed that I’d lost the client for my firm, to watch this vindictive man singlehandedly tear down my entire career.

Instead, his eyes lit up. He jumped to his feet. “You’re Weishaut?”

I nodded, baffled.

“This is great. This is fantastic.” He beamed at me and pumped my hand with sheer enthusiasm. “We leveled the playing field. I’ve got my own Orthodox Jew now!”

Tefillin Detour

IN a New York law firm, you tend to encounter clients of all stripes of Judaism. I’ve also had chiloni Israeli clients who liked to call on Friday mornings, my time. Once, I said, “Okay, we can’t work on these papers anymore. It’s almost Shabbos.”

The client sounded puzzled. “I’m not shomer Shabbat.”

“Right, but I am.”

“But it’s seven hours earlier where you are.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I pointed out. “It’s Shabbat where you are. We have to stop.”

“Well, what’s the difference?” he demanded. “Why do you care?”

I told him, “I care about you.” He would argue with me from then on, making a point to call every Friday morning and try to push it until Shabbos. We would end every call with a fight.

You win some, you lose some.

On another occasion, I had to go to a jail to get a client to sign some papers unrelated to my case. He was Iranian-Jewish, but not frum, so I decided to bring a pair of tefillin for him. I doubted that he put on tefillin on any regular basis, but I wanted to give him that opportunity.

When I got there, the guards brought him to a side room to sign the papers. I said casually, “By the way, I brought you tefillin. You know what these are?”

He laughed. “Yeah, I’m not putting on tefillin.”

I didn’t know why he sounded so vehement. “What’s the problem with taking the tefillin?”

“Rabbi, most people here assume I’m an Arab,” he admitted. “They leave me alone because they’re afraid of me. I don’t want to blow my cover. If they find out I’m a Jew, I’ll be in trouble.” I couldn’t persuade him to take the tefillin.

But as I was walking out of the room, a young man with all the markings of a gang member, walked up and said, “Is that tefillin? I’m Jewish — can I put them on?”

You never know why exactly Hashem brings you to a specific place. “Of course.” I’d brought an extra yarmulke, and I gave it to him. He put the tefillin on and made the brachah without my help.

“I used to be in yeshivah, you know,” he said suddenly. “A long time ago. It’s been so many years since I last put on tefillin.” He cradled those tefillin, teary-eyed as he looked at them, and I knew they’d found their place.

Making Returns

Aman once called to hire me. “I loaned fifty thousand dollars to my neighbor five years ago,” he explained. “He hasn’t finished paying me back, and that’s okay, but I’ve noticed that he’s come into some money. I see he’s been going away for Pesach and spending money on his house, and he still hasn’t paid me back, so I’d like to be secured.”

My client had noticed that the man’s wife wore a lot of expensive jewelry, and he wanted it to be used as collateral for the loan, and for me to write up the agreement.

He sent over the necessary documents, and I reviewed them and found a glaring issue. “Your neighbor’s a frum guy, right? A Jewish guy?”

“Yeah.”

“This note says that you’re collecting six percent interest.”

“Yeah.”

I blinked at the paper. “I assume he’s not paying interest?”

The man was quick to assure me, “Oh, no, he pays the interest every month. He’s at sixteen thousand four hundred fifty dollars.”

“Right. So that’s ribbis,” I said. “It’s assur. Not only is the way that you have it written up assur, you actually have to credit everything he’s paid you over the last five years against the principal.”

My client did not sound thrilled. “I didn’t come to you as my rav. I came to you as my lawyer.”

“I can wear two hats, but I’ve only got the one head,” I pointed out. “It makes no difference. It would be an issur for me to document this note. You have to remake the loan with a heter iska or cancel the interest provision, but you’re still going to have to credit him sixteen thousand four hundred fifty dollars.”

Naturally, he fired me. “You know what? I’ll get someone else to do this. Thanks a lot.”

He must have found someone else, because he didn’t come back about it. But three years later, he returned with a new problem. “My daughter was supposed to get married next week, but the wedding is off. Can you help me try to get some money back? I gave deposits to a number of vendors, but I’m not making a wedding now.”

I called the vendors. The caterer was easy to deal with — he hadn’t bought any of the food yet, so he fargined the loss of the date and just kept part of the deposit. The photographer and the musicians were happy to return most of the deposit, assuming that there would be another wedding to cover in the future.

But the hall wasn’t willing to refund anything, and they had taken 50 percent down. “Look, we can’t bend on this,” they said. “We booked a really good date for him. We have a massive waiting list. Now, we’re losing the business for the date. We’re going to keep the deposit.”

After a lot of negotiating, they were willing to return 20 percent of the deposit.

In the end, when I tallied it all, the man was out exactly $16,450.

A Visit on Tenterhooks

Years ago, a member of my kehillah got into trouble. He had developed a gambling problem that was out of control, and he was borrowing money to stay afloat. But deep in debt and without any other options, he had turned to the soft underbelly of society.

They were some nice people who were… shall we say… unconcerned with ribbis and well-acquainted with the average baseball bat.

“You’re long overdue,” one of them warned him. “If we don’t get our money, there’s going to be trouble.”

The man panicked. “I just need some time.” He thought fast. “Look, do you think you could meet with my rabbi?”

Nonplussed, the thug said, “Yeah, okay.”

And that’s how I found myself sitting in shul, absorbed in preparing a shiur, when there was a loud knock at the door and a big, Italian man strode in. He was dressed for the occasion — he had put on a suit and tie, and he was even wearing a little yarmulke on top of his head. He was your standard Italian Catholic, with a healthy respect for religious figures.

I shook his hand and dropped my bomb. “I’m not just a rabbi,” I admitted. “I’m also a lawyer.”

The thug’s hand tightened on mine. His eyes narrowed. I was pretty sure I was about to meet that baseball bat, too. I hastened to add, “We can work this debt out on a payment plan, and we can make it legally enforceable. I can prepare the documents for free.”

His hand relaxed. “Well,” he said. “You’re a man of the cloth?”

I nodded.

“I think we can work something out.”

He stood over me, arms folded, as I laid out my plan, one that didn’t involve any more exorbitant interest rates. Several times, I saw his eyes flit over to the seforim and the aron, as though to reassure himself that I really was who I said I was. After a few minutes of this, my balabos frozen behind me and my own body rigid with wariness, he sat down.

He was very gracious from then on, and he agreed to my terms without any protest. “I trust you, Rabbi,” he assured me. “If you say that this is going to get me my money, then it’s going to get me my money.”

I won’t say I wasn’t a little stressed about the potential chillul Hashem — or potential additional visits to the shul — but we did get the debt paid off on schedule, baruch Hashem, and the shul stayed mafia-free from then on.

I even got the guy to donate $100 to our maos chittim fund that year.

The Judge’s Note

There was a woman I’d helped through a tumultuous divorce. There were children involved, and, as a rav, I had arbitrated various issues between the husband and wife.

A few months later, she asked to speak to me. This time, it wasn’t concerning her ex-husband. Not exactly. She had met someone, and she wanted me to meet him. “I’m considering getting engaged,” she told me privately. “But I still don’t have my civil divorce.”

All the paperwork was already done. The arbitration had been successful. The only thing that they were still waiting on was a judge to sign off on it. “Isn’t there someone you know who can move this along?” she pleaded with me.

I actually did not have anyone in that county who might owe me a favor, and I explained that to her. “Look, sometimes you just have to wait.” If nothing else, I thought that this might slow her down a little. She hadn’t consulted me on her potential chassan, but it was very soon, and I had seen far too many divorced men and women panic and rush into new relationships as soon as possible.

But the woman was obstinate. “I’m sure of this,” she said. “I just need your help.”

What could I do? A week later, I was in that county courthouse, and I made my way to the judge’s chambers. “I’m not really coming to you as a lawyer, but as a rabbi. I have this woman who very much wants to get remarried, and she’s been waiting for many months to get her divorce decree signed. I certainly don’t want to tell Your Honor how to do his business—”

He cut me off curtly. “Look, we have a lot of work. Everybody’s waiting, everybody’s anxious. You just have to be patient.”

Two days later, the judge had tracked down the decree and signed it. When he sent it to the woman’s attorney, he added a sticky note on top of the decree with a handwritten message “to the rabbi.”

It said, I heard your plea, but sometimes, as you know, G-d has His own plans.

I called the woman. “The decree is signed, but you shouldn’t take this as a sign from Shamayim that you should go forward with the engagement.”

She hesitated. In the end, she didn’t go through with the engagement, which was a wise decision. It wouldn’t have been a good marriage. Instead, she later remarried someone else, and she is still happily married today.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 981)