I recently heard that my adopted state of New Jersey — where I am admitted but, thankfully, don’t practice — is beefing up its continuing legal education (CLE) requirements. This news wrenched me back to my own most recent scramble to get mandatory CLE credits in New York. Ah, yes, fond memories of spending four hours every other week or so in an overcrowded, overheated hotel nibbling stale pastries and quaffing terrible coffee.

I recall my last session topping off my 24 credits. It included the most important criteria for CLE: It was held on a Friday afternoon, in the hotel across the street from Penn Station, and it ended at 4 p.m. — meaning I could catch the 4:09 train back to the 'burbs for an early start to a weekend.  

On this particular day, like most other CLE slogs, the only thing worse than the java was the program. I won’t name the program, because it was not the fault of the sponsor or the presenters, who were at least getting triple credit for giving talks most of them had obviously given many times before. It was the fault of the Office of Court Administration (OCA), which has turned CLE from a periodically useful way to expand your professional knowledge into the biggest joke in the profession. It is an enormous waste of time and money. The mandatory CLE requirement is to professional development what the subway bag searches are to security: a useless effort designed mostly to insure the public that the authorities are “doing something.”

My class that day was typical. From my seat, I had a clear view of about two dozen of the 170 or so attendees. Not a single one was taking notes. Few people even pretended to pay attention, with that number getting perilously close to zero as the afternoon wore on. Several nodded off at various points (including yours truly). The guy next to me finished several crossword puzzles; the woman in front of him was doing sudoko. Across the aisle, a woman was writing letters. Several people read the newspaper; one guy was engrossed in a novel. Many of the avid legal learners were engaged in emailing frenzies on their Blackberries, which at least allowed them to get some real work done as the panel droned on.  And, as the range of electronic gadget expands, so too does the range of CLE distractions: one woman spent the second half of the session cataloging the photos on her iPod.

The comic highlight of the afternoon occurred during a break in the men’s room where an ever-enterprising attorney proposed a betting pool. What was the earliest we could sneak out of the program and still get the full four hours of credit? The smart money seemed to be on 3:35, the assumption being that it was essential to show your face for that last half hour.  It was a good bet, as that is almost exactly when the exodus began, starting at a trickle and reaching roaring brook by 3:45. Me, I only needed to catch the 4:09, so I made it to the bitter end, along with, maybe, a third of my CLE classmates.   

The substance of the session exemplified another problem with mandatory CLE: It has fallen victim to "lowest-common-denominator disease." Because every lawyer must take CLE, the pool of attendees has expanded exponentially. Sessions feature baby-faced rookies and septuagenarian veterans. But, to reach the full audience, the instructors pitched their presentation to the most inexperienced in the room, spending time explaining even the most rudimentary concepts.

Of course, we don’t have to suffer through the drudgery of CLE with our fellow attorneys; OCA gives us the option of suffering alone, via actual, verbatim CLE sessions on tape or DVD. What a thrill. You think those inane question-and-answer periods (you know, the ones where a couple people ask ridiculously detailed questions about their particular cases) are bad in person? You should try listening on headphones on the 6:39 train into Penn Station. I can’t wait until OCA gets the bright idea of making these available as podcasts on iTunes.

Of course, the steepest price we pay for CLE-on-tape is being treated like a bunch of fourth-graders taking a federally mandated standardized test. To get our credits, we have to make a note of the “secret code” buried somewhere in the monotony of the seemingly endless presentation — a sort of virtual proctor. But, once, the joke was on OCA. I purchased a DVD of a three-hour ethics seminar and, when I went to the table of contents, voila: “secret code.” I kid you not. One click, and there it was, the Holy Grail. As my real-life fourth grader would say, “sweet.”

CLE has become a laughingstock because the arbitrary, across-the-board 24-hour requirement bears no relationship to the way lawyers actually learn or how they could improve. I have been in practice for more than 20 years, the last ten as a solo. Like most lawyers today, I specialize — in my case, tenant-side litigation. Not be to too self-aggrandizing, but I don’t need to take much, if any, CLE in my area of specialty. I stay on top of it myself. If I didn’t know my stuff, I wouldn’t be successful. The same is true of most of my colleagues, and I suspect it is true of lawyers in most other areas. And, for those who don’t make an effort to stay informed, snoozing their way through a haphazardly organized four-hour CLE taught by instructors whose main objective is to get bonus credits for teaching is not going to transform them into John Roberts or Lawrence Tribe.

Even if I did take landlord-tenant CLE classes, I would be hard-pressed to accumulate 24 hours without taking multiple sessions covering overlapping topics. That leaves me with the option of filling up my CLE credits on topics of little or no value to me. Thus, I have had classes on entertainment law, business formation, collection of judgments, even civility in the courtroom. The materials are all gathering dust on my bookshelf. Some might say that I am squandering the opportunity to learn and grow as an attorney. Poppycock. Sitting around listening to people tell you things you already know or talk about topics of utter irrelevance to your practice does not represent meaningful professional development no matter how you spin it.  

And then, there is the final insult: the cost. As a member of the sponsoring association, I paid less than $100 for that day’s session. But I also sacrificed $1500 in billable time. Every two years, the 24 hours of CLE results in the loss of $8400 in billable time at my current rate, not including travel. This makes CLE a very expensive proposition, and that is yet another reason it is reviled by most small firm and solo practitioners. We bear the full — and true — cost of CLE. The big firms and institutions (e.g., Legal Aid, government agencies) can “self-CLE.” They just turn their training programs into CLE programs. While everyone loses time to CLE, for the government and Legal Aid it is not billable time, i.e., money. Big firms are in a position to absorb the cost. But for us small guys, it all comes right out of our pockets with little, if anything, in return.

In addition to being cynical about CLE, I have also become resigned: It is not going away. None of the reigning powers in the profession have any interest in reforming it. Obviously, OCA is pleased with its public relations product. The bar associations are now way too invested in CLE. I figure the association that sponsored my Friday afternoon session grossed at least $13,000, even if all attendees paid the lower member fee. They have no interest in stopping this gravy train.

Even if the CLE emperor has no clothes, he is still marching down the center of the street. So, every two years I continue my frantic quest to get 24 credits before my registration due date. Anybody know any good CLE classes coming up on admiralty? That’s one I haven’t tried yet.