Early in my career, I was assigned to represent a woman named Teresa.
She had been arrested for stealing a cheap blue fountain pen from a department store.
It seemed like a minor case, but when I spoke with her, I learned why she had taken it.
Her ten-year-old son loved drawing and writing stories, and she had promised him a “real grown-up pen” for his birthday.
Then her hours were cut at work.
Rent came first.
Food came second.
The birthday gift disappeared from the budget.
She made one terrible decision.
In court, I explained her circumstances and asked the judge for leniency.
Teresa received community service instead of jail.
Before leaving, she thanked me and said, “Someday my son will understand that someone gave us a chance.”
I never saw her again.
Twenty-five years later, I owned a small law firm.
One morning, I was interviewing candidates for a junior attorney position.
A young man walked into my office, introduced himself as Marcus, and sat across from me.
Then he placed a blue fountain pen on the desk.
I stared at it.
“My mother kept this story alive my entire childhood,” he said.
Teresa was his mother.
She had told him about the lawyer who had helped her when she had almost ruined both their lives over one desperate mistake.
Marcus had become an attorney because of it.
He didn’t ask for special treatment.
And I didn’t give him any.
He earned the position on his own.
But when I called to offer him the job, I added one thing.
“Bring the blue pen.”
He laughed.
“I already planned to.”
