“The better you know something, the less you remember about how hard it was to learn. The curse of knowledge is the single best explanation I know of why good people write bad prose.”
—Steven Pinker, The Sense of Style
I practice serious injury and wrongful death plaintiffs’ litigation with my dad and my brother. My dad trained me in plaintiffs’ work. Early in my career, I second-chaired him in trial and helped work up his cases. At the same time, he gave me the freedom to develop and try my own cases with his guidance. I first-chaired many of those cases and learned a great deal. I’ve won more than I’ve lost. But when you lose, you learn.
Recently, my dad gave me the ultimate honor: he second-chaired me in a trial involving a type of nerve injury case he has tried all over the country. That experience meant a lot. We had a lot of fun working together—and we got a record-breaking verdict. The jurors awarded more than I even asked for in closing argument, after a very brief deliberation. When the buzzer rang twice, I’ll be honest—I was worried it was a defense verdict, thinking the jury might not have even reached damages because it was so quick.
One of my dad’s strengths as a mentor is knowing that no one mentor can teach you everything. He’s always encouraged me to read widely and learn from a variety of voices—Gerry Spence, Moe Levine, Rick Friedman, David Ball, Nick Rowley. Each with their own approach, each dedicated to the craft of persuasion and the cause of justice.
When my dad was a young trial lawyer, he took the same approach. He once had a tough case against a school district and had the chutzpa to call Gerry Spence for advice. Spence was already a household name. To my dad’s surprise, he actually returned the call. My dad still remembers the announcement over the office loudspeaker: “Steven, Gerry Spence is on the line for you.” That must have been very cool. Spence, calling from a car phone on his way to a television interview, listened to the facts and offered a few words of wisdom.
I had a similar experience early on. I had been reading Nick Rowley’s books as they were coming out, and as I prepared for my first jury trial, my dad encouraged me to reach out. Nick generously took my call and brainstormed strategy with me. Then he showed up in court to watch me pick the jury. Afterward, he posted about my voir dire on a popular plaintiff’s lawyer listserv. I won the case, exceeding the top offer by a multiple of ten. Nick’s generosity led to a solid working relationship. My dad and I have since brought him in on cases where the damages justified collaboration.
One of those cases involved a first grader who suffered a skull fracture and brain bleed during recess at school. A fourth grader had picked him up and tripped, landing on him. The two age groups weren’t supposed to be mixed, and the tag game they were playing wasn’t allowed, but the rules weren’t being enforced. I had the opportunity to second-chair Nick in that trial against the Los Angeles County Unified School District, and the case resolved for a significant figure during plaintiff’s case-in-chief.
At the time, I had just returned from the Gerry Spence Trial Lawyers College—a three-week intensive on a Wyoming ranch with no cell service and a lot of soul-searching. Spence, then 88, was still teaching. He urged us to know ourselves deeply, to be authentic in the courtroom, and to live in alignment with our values. You can’t fake trust. You earn it by being real.
When I told Gerry how meaningful it had been that he once returned my dad’s call, he smiled and said, in his famous deep cowboy voice, “Say hello to your daddy for me.”
That trip changed me. When I got home, I proposed to my girlfriend. Time away, reflection, and self-examination clarified what I already knew—she was the love of my life. We were engaged during the LAUSD trial. Each morning, my dad, Nick, and I flew into Torrance for court. On the plane, we talked trial strategy—and life.
Naturally, the topic of having kids came up. I wasn’t sure I was ready. It felt like such a huge responsibility. My dad made no secret that he wanted grandkids. Nick, a proud father like my dad, told me something that stuck: “Being a father will make you a better person—and a better lawyer.”
At the time, I didn’t quite get it. But I do now.
Later, I read Clarence Darrow’s autobiography. Early in the book, he voices the same hesitation I had about becoming a father. But by the end, in his seventies, he writes that what he looked forward to most was spending time with his son and family. When I closed the book, I knew I was ready.
Now my wife and I have a beautiful toddler. And I think often about what Nick said. Fatherhood really has made me a better person—and a better lawyer.
It changes your perspective. You love more deeply. You become more instinctively protective. And you watch a young mind develop—first cries, then words, then endless questions. You learn about learning. You remember what it’s like not to know.
Steven Pinker, a Harvard neuroscientist and cognitive psychologist, describes what happens when you know something so well that you can’t imagine not knowing it. He calls it the “curse of knowledge.” That’s why good people often write bad prose: they forget how hard it was to learn. But parenthood teaches you to meet people where they are. You explain things with patience, clarity, and care.
That’s exactly what trial lawyers must do—especially in front of a jury. If you’ve done voir dire right, your panel will consist of people who don’t have strong opinions about the issues. They don’t know the science, the medicine, or the law. If they did, they’d be struck for cause. For example, when I was assisting my dad early on in a case involving a heart valve implant, a prospective juror was excused because he was the CEO of a pharmaceutical company you’ve probably heard of—he knew too much about medical devices to be impartial.
So when you’re in trial, you must teach. You meet jurors where they are—not by talking down to them, but by guiding them. You explain your case in a way that is clear, honest, and accessible. Just like you would with your own child.
Growing up, my dad used to practice his opening statements on my brother and me. If he could make us understand, he could make anyone understand. We admired how hard he worked to make a difference in people’s lives. That clearly influenced us—we both work with him now.
I’m still learning how to practice law—and I hope I always will be. What I’ve come to understand is that trying a case isn’t just about knowing the facts or the law. It’s about showing jurors the truth in a way that resonates. You have to guide them through the story so they not only understand the case, but feel the weight of it—so they care as deeply about the result as you do.
The better you know something—like your case—the more important it is to remember how hard it was to learn, so you can make it that much easier as you explain it. That’s what lets you teach it well. And teaching is persuading.
That’s what makes us better lawyers—and better people.
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About the Author
Justin Effres is a trial lawyer and partner at Effres & Effres in Agoura Hills, where he represents plaintiffs in serious injury and wrongful death cases. He serves as Chair of the Litigation Section of the San Fernando Valley Bar Association and is a member of the American Board of Trial Advocates (ABOTA). He lives in the Valley, close to where he grew up, with his wife, their son, and their 100+ pound dog.
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