What’s the difference between a rattlesnake lying dead in the middle of a highway and a lawyer lying dead in the middle of a highway?” He paused. “There are skid marks in front of the snake.”

His bar association audience responded with polite laughter and diplomatic smiles.

“Why did New Jersey get all the toxic waste dumps and California get all the lawyers?” He paused again. “Because New Jersey had first choice.”

Less laughter, fewer smiles, a scattering of nervous coughs: diplomacy was failing fast.

“What do lawyers and sperm have in common?” He did not pause this time. “Both have a one-in-a-million chance of turning out human.”

All efforts at diplomacy had ended. His audience had fallen deathly silent; a sea of stone faces stared back at him. The lawyers on the dais focused on their lunches, embarrassed by their guest speaker’s ill-advised attempt at humor. He looked around the crowded room, as if stunned. He turned his palms up.

“Why aren’t you laughing? Aren’t those jokes funny? The public sure thinks those jokes are funny, damn funny. I can’t go to a cocktail party or the country club without someone telling me a stupid lawyer joke. My friends, we are the butt of America’s favorite jokes!”

He adjusted the microphone so his deep sigh was audible, but he maintained steady eye contact with the audience.

“I don’t think those jokes are funny, either. I didn’t go to law school to be the butt of cruel jokes. I went to law school to be another Atticus Finch. To Kill a Mockingbird was my mother’s favorite book and my bedtime story. She’d read a chapter each night, and when we came to the end, she’d go back to the beginning and start over. ‘Scotty,’ she’d say, ‘be like Atticus. Be a lawyer. Do good.’