“Big Law” Series: What does the "end" of DEI mean for students and "big law" job prospects? (Part III)

See Part I and Part II.

DEI and Big Law: Benefits of DEI initiatives 

In some ways, the elimination of law firm DEI programs will not significantly impact first-gen students' abilities to get "big law" jobs. Sure, these programs offer students a high-paying job and scholarship. But grades, achievements, and fit have and will continue to take precedence in hiring decisions. As a 2009 LCLD scholar states in his LinkedIn post, “[m]ost employers aren’t really in the business of hiring people who can’t do the work.” However, the elimination of law firm-DEI programs will influence accessibility and retention. 

For example, fewer first-generation students may be encouraged to apply for these spots because they do not hear about potential positions as firms cut their marketing budgets. Even for students who are not selected to participate in these prestigious programs, they get a competitive advantage by talking to law firm recruiters early in the process. Eliminating incentives to apply––like a hefty scholarship––may mean fewer first-gen applicants. Demand for "big law" jobs is also increasing as the Trump administration has eliminated the DOJ Honors program and other government work opportunities. 

Retention measures may also be at risk. Affinity organizations––groups which underrepresented minority individuals can join within firms––often help associates transition into big-law life. Advantages like meeting coworkers your first year versus second, learning the culture of the workplace, or understanding the structure of a law firm are exponentially beneficial to students who are the “first and onlys” in their families; they are, perhaps, lost on illegible students who come from a long line of attorneys or working professionals who can give them the same mentorship they would gain from an extra summer of work. 

First-gen law students will have to overcome many barriers, obstacles, and unknowns to get to law school, let alone to succeed in “big law:” taking the LSAT, completing several law school applications, purchasing suits, participating in "OCI," getting good grades, attending networking events, and more. Accessibility, in my opinion, is not defined as whether the application "door" is open. Accessibility connotes whether interested students are given equal opportunities to set goals; participate meaningfully in school- and workplace-culture; or control their careers.

Law schools should continue to use holistic measures to create a more diverse student population. This diversity is not limited to ethnic or socioeconomic diversity, though. It should be, as Justice O’Connor noted in the majority opinion of Grutter, “focus[ed] on academic ability coupled with a flexible assessment of applicants’ talents, experiences, and potential ‘to contribute to the learning of those around them.’” Id. at 315. The legal field––which, according to the ABA, has long been dominated by white (78% of the profession, 2024), straight (approx. 93% of the profession, 2023), able-bodied (approx. 98% of the profession, 2023) lawyers––is thus served by instituting these diversity measures. As long as financial and informational disparities exist, these DEI programs are justified.

“Big Law” Series: What does the "end" of DEI mean for students and "big law" job prospects? (Part II)

Context: DEI initiatives and Equal Protection

Several of my law school courses have explored whether DEI initiatives are legal under the 14th Amendment––the Constitutional requirement to treat all individuals equal. Even if they are legal, do DEI initiatives propel marginalized individuals forward? Or is “‘[d]iversity,’ for all of its devotees, is more a fashionable catchphrase than it is a useful term, especially when something as serious as racial discrimination is at issue,'" as Justice Thomas posed in his concurrence in the 2003 Supreme Court case, Grutter v. Bollinger?

The job market in an evolving “Equal Protection” landscape

President Trump’s cabinet asserts that DEI initiatives are not legal. Several “big law” firms have been the subjects of Executive Orders commanding them to halt their DEI practices, forgo certain pro bono projects, and end relationships with partisan clients. What do the orders mean for first-generation students applying for post-bar jobs? Although many “big law” firms recognize value in these DEI initiatives and are fighting to keep them in place, a growing contingent of big law firms have acquiesced. To avoid an Executive Order, the capitulating firms have promised the Trump administration hundreds of "pro bono" hours worth millions of dollars. Other large law firms have (thus far) remained silent.

Big Law "Spine Index"

As a law student, my news feed is filled with reactions against those firms bowing down to the Trump administration: open letters by associates threatening resignation; "big law" partners initiating focus groups for other partners to act; or data suggesting 1L students applying to jobs are avoiding those firms. The American Bar Association, law school deans, and various law school faculty have also issued statements against the Trump administration's actions. These entities, or members of the entities, also recognize value in recruiting diverse, first-generation students to their firms. They also observe a sizable risk to that goal in eliminating these programs.

So, how does this affect first-generation law students seeking admissions at law schools?

This year is the most competitive year in history for getting into law school. Law school admissions offices often consider a variety of factors––such as GPA, LSAT (law school admissions test) score, undergraduate institution and area of study, and reasons for attending law school––when determining which students to admit and how much financial aid to award them. With DEI programs coming to an end, will law school admissions be impacted? 

In my opinion, they will not be impacted significantly, if at all. Law schools have been afforded wide leeway to institute holistic review of applicants in the admissions process. See Grutter, 539 U.S. at 346. Programs which DEI initiatives may have been useful to “counteract”––like college admission legacy programs––have been largely dismantled. 

In Grutter, then-Chief Justice Rehnquist (joined by Justices Scalia, Kennedy, and Thomas) asserted that the University of Michigan Law School’s DEI admissions statistics do not support its stated DEI goals. Id. at 380-84 (Rehnquist, J., dissenting). They argued that “the Law School’s disparate admissions practices with respect to these minority groups demonstrate that its alleged goal . . . is simply a sham.” Id. at 383.  Maybe, as Rehnquist asserted,  DEI programs are "dishonest and dangerous activity . . . [that has] undermin[ed] democratic . . . process[es]." 

Perhaps Rehnquist is right––that the end of these programs means less gaming by prospective law students or “big law” associates who feel invalidated by DEI application questions. There may be less stigma associated with vulnerable students; who are racial or ethnic minorities or low-income, and who may be cloaked with a feeling of unreservedness, a lingering question of: “Was it what I achieved despite my adversity or my diverse perspective that gained me admissions? Or am I merely an ‘aesthetic [that shapes] the Law School[‘s] certain appearance, from the shape of the desks and tables in its classrooms to the color of the students sitting at them[?]’” Grutter, 539 U.S. at n. 3 (Thomas, J., concurring in part); see also an Op-Ed in The Atlantic about this sensation (reflecting on the autobiography Reflections of an Affirmative Action Baby).  

I will delve further into this debate in Part III, which will address whether this may affect first-generation students breaking into “big law” as a first-generation law student at a “big law” firm. 

“Big Law” Series: Why do students want "Big Law" jobs? (Part I)

Firms are increasingly pushing the on-campus interview process ("OCI") earlier and earlier. Many DEI-eligible students have had a competitive advantage by applying to the 1L Leadership Council on Legal Diversity ("LCLD") or diversity programs offered by “big law” firms. But the existence of these programs raises the question:  why would students participate in stressful, opaque processes just to work in “big law”? What are the benefits of these programs? Why should firms solicit diverse, first-generation students to apply to their early-access programs? This post will explore what “Big Law” is and why first-generation, and particularly low-income, students might be interested in jobs at a big law firm. Subsequent blog entries will discuss President Trump’s executive orders against law firms and why these orders may be relevant to first-generation or diverse students interested in entering the legal field. 

What is “big law”?

Jobs in "big law"––the colloquial name for the top 100-200 law firms as ranked by American Lawyer––are highly coveted due to the type of work lawyers get to do (often representing titans in a field) and the enormous salary they earn (most "big law" firms have starting salaries of >$200,000). The financial stability, work, and prestige make competition for these jobs intense. I’ll unpack some of the details of what these firms offer in the sections that follow.

A. Financial Stability

For many first-generation students, these jobs are not just prestigious, they promise financial stability, which many first-gen students have not previously enjoyed. 

Law school tuition can be extremely expensive, averaging about $151,000 over three years at ABA accredited schools. Many students go into debt to pay for law school, on top of the debt they have accumulated for  college. A big law salary is typically the most efficient means to pay this debt off.

In addition, as a soon-to-be graduate, I have unveiled many "hidden fees" to becoming a licensed attorney: registration with the California State Bar ($150), registration to take the MPRE (ethics exam) ($160), registration to take the California State Bar Exam ($1,082), California Bar Exam prep course (>$2,800), moral character investigation (>$700), and more. These are all expenses for which my "big law” firm is reimbursing me and, in some cases, fronting. 

B. Work Opportunity & Resources 

Another reason why these jobs are so coveted is that they often provide a strong training ground for students to explore many different types of corporate/transactional law or civil litigation projects. As big law firms often have high billing requirements (e.g., minimum of 1900-2100 billable hours/year, often ~60-80 hours of work a week), they require that associates have strong work ethics. The "high-stakes" training ground signals that lawyers at these firms are detail-oriented, quick witted, and less inclined to make mistakes. This sets the lawyers up for opportunities to lateral into other careers in the future. 

C. Prestige

When I started law school, I was unaware that the legal field wielded prestige to impose and maintain hierarchy. There seem to be myriad ways for law students to be "ranked": judicial clerkships, T-14 law schools, Law Review, Order of the Coif, and Order of the Barristers. Yet, data shows that fewer first-gen students are involved in these activities than are their continuing-generation counterparts.

A lawyer’s career can be shaped by how they excelled or the times they did not excel. The legal field can be extremely unforgiving. This puts heightened pressure on students––especially first-generation students––who are unaware of what criteria will be used to evaluate them. As discussed, if first-generation student can break into a “big law” firm, such an opportunity can yield fruitful career opportunities. However, President Trump’s Executive Orders may reduce such opportunities for first-generation students, as will be discussed in Parts II and III. 

Lucky girl syndrome

Image Description: Photo taken at UC Merced. Rancho Campana High School took students on a "college road trip" across the state annually. 

"Lucky girl syndrome" is a recent pop culture phenomenon. The phrase refers to the belief, or rather manifestation, that things will work out for you. As a first-generation law student, I can't help but wonder whether my success is a result of my hard work or of chance. Am I a lucky girl?

It has become increasingly clear that the primary and secondary schools you attend can have a large impact on the colleges to which you are admitted. A school's course offerings, state test scores, and extracurricular opportunities all influence the way a university might view applicants, despite the fact that students have little to no control over those details.

Advantages of magnet schools include specialized curriculum, improved educational opportunities, and valuing of diversity. They have an interesting history and mission of diversity, initially emerging as a desegregation response in the United States, aiming to encourage integration by drawing in students from different neighborhoods and addressing their academic needs.

Magnet schools typically prepare students for college, offering smaller class sizes for individualized attention, utilizing a hands-on approach, and allowing students the ability to focus curriculum on their particular curricular interests.

My K-12 educational background is not that of a typical first-generation student, or even one of a non-first generation student. In third grade, my family moved across the state of California and I began attending school in Ventura County. The school I attended wasn't great, but fifth grade was particularly bad. That year, I learned nothing, and I truly mean nothing. One vivid memory I have is when my teacher spent three days (yes, three) talking on the phone to her friend on speakerphone in front of the class. I also remember coming home and telling my mom about this. She was livid. 

The next week, Mom put my name in the "lottery" for a spot in a local magnet school. By the end of the month, we heard back that my name was selected. I won the lottery, literally.

And just like that, the next school year I was a magnet school student commuting thirty minutes every day to the "rich" part of town. My classmates had star-studded affiliations, lived in mansions, and participated in after-school activities like fencing and equestrianism. Class sizes were small, each student was given a school-issued laptop to take home, and the principal knew each one of us by name. It was very different from what I was used to.

I got lucky again in high school. A new school opened five minutes from my parents' house. It wasn't a magnet school, but a "STEAM" public school with three different academies students could tailor their studies to: the Academy of Arts and Entertainment, the Academy of Engineering, and the Academy of Health and Medical Sciences. Because attendance was in high demand, this school also implemented a lottery system. Once again, my mom put my name in the running, and I was selected. I won the lottery, again.

At Rancho Campana High school, all my classes were geared towards medicine, the field I thought I was going to pursue. It was the most beautiful public high school campus I had ever seen. Better still, by the end of my four years I had a padded resume. In addition to my participation in typical athletics and clubs, this school afforded me the ability to be a certified EMT. I took the equivalent of 6 years of science classes, did a hospital internship, and had cultivated strong, individualized relationships with faculty who could write my letters of recommendation. Furthermore, the classes were academically rigorous, and students performed well on the state's standardized tests. 

Rancho Campana High School is currently ranked 179th in the state. Comparing this ranking to the school I would have attended had my mom not put my name in the lottery is jarring--that school is 1,078th.

(To be clear, not everything was perfect. Instead of US History I took a "US Medical History" class. As a law student, I can say regular U.S. History would have been very, very helpful for Con Law classes.)

The luxury of the education I got from sixth to twelfth grade got me into my dream college, UC Davis. Looking back, I can't help but wonder if the outcome would have changed had I not won those two student lotteries.

As one student wrote, it sometimes seems as if our futures are dictated by our circumstances. Although I like to believe that my own agency, grit, and determination got me to where I am today, I get the sneaking feeling that I had a lot of luck on my side. That makes me wonder if that luck means that I'm taking up space I didn't earn.

It's hard for me to reconcile these conflicting thoughts. I think the only thing I can do is acknowledge how lucky I have been and recognize that those advantages have led me to King Hall. The combination of who I am and the forces beyond my control got me to where I am today. A little bit of luck helped me get to where I am today, and in my opinion there's nothing wrong with that. Maybe I am a lucky girl, but I'm also a lot of other things. 

"Should I just get a real lawyer?" and the un-prestigious life of a public defender

In You've Heard of Berkeley. Is Merced the Future of the University of California, Jennifer Medina discusses UC Merced's emergence as a home for Latino students, which is a contrast from the other University of California campuses. The article depicts a welcoming campus where brown students look around and see people who look like them, hear the music they listen to with their families, and even enjoy school-provided snacks that are special to their cultures. Even with all of these upsides, is the underlying message that stuck out to me was that UC Merced is not a prestigious institution. Medina states that UC Merced does not hold a similar nationwide reputation of academic excellence like other UC schools, it has a much higher acceptance rate, and it does not have a "star faculty" like other UC campuses.  

This article hit home for me in a lot of ways--one of which literal because I am a Merced native. Beyond this, it made me confront my own ideas about prestige and how they have changed overtime. The dictionary definition of prestige is, "widespread respect and admiration felt for someone or something on the basis of a perception of their achievements or quality." Growing up, I don't think I was obsessed with prestige but my decision to attend UCLA was undoubtedly influenced by its prestige.

Fast forward to today: I have thankfully moved on from chasing prestige. Ironically, I am faced with the reality that I have chosen what is probably the least prestigious job in the legal profession: public defense. As I write this I can't help but laugh at the hilarious experience of a public defender. As a disclaimer, I hope no one who reads this feels bad for us because every PD I know laughs at it all, too.

A public defender is respected by virtually no one. As a law student, when you tell your classmates you are doing public defense work, their responses range from backhanded compliments about not having to worry about grades to weird projections about unlivable salaries and massive student loans (They say this even though we live in California and public defender salaries start at over six figures; plus, we are eligible for public service loan forgiveness after ten years).

In media, public defenders are absolutely brutalized. The image of the coffee-stained, disheveled public defender rushing into court with an ill-fitting suit and seventy-three files belonging to people whose names he can't even keep straight is common. Rapper Plies has a song titled 100 Years, where he very passionately critiques the racist criminal justice system. Within his critiques he states, "A public defender don't get you shit but a long trip," and "You ain't got a paid lawyer, then don't go to trial." The Night Of is an incredible show about a Pakistani college student from New York, Naz Khan, who is on trial for a brutal sexual assault and murder. When his lawyer, John Stone, is negotiating a fee agreement with Naz's parents, he warns them of the dangers of trusting a public defender by describing:

A legal-aid lawyer. And here's what you get for your money. It's a guy who starts his day in court, fishing a half a dozen random case files out of a wire basket, meets with his clients for a half hour before going in front of the judge, takes the first deal offered, goes around the corner to Starbucks, comes back with his latte, opens up the next file, and does the exact same things six times a day, every day.

These are just two of the hundreds of digs at public defenders in music and tv shows. I nevertheless truly love both this song and this show. They are masterpieces in their own ways and incredibly brave and honest looks at very serious issues that I care about deeply. But embedded within all of that pop culture goodness is the direct insult to my beloved career and life aspirations.

Media and classmates are not the worst of it. Most of the disrespect happens in the courtroom, coming from prosecutors, private attorneys, and even judges. All of these situations are incomparable to the highest offenders of disrespect. The worst, the absolute worst, of all of the ridicule comes from the very people for whom we do this job for: our clients. Before I move on, I want to make clear that I know I am not the victim in this dynamic! Our clients are in unbelievably stressful and horrific situations and it is my job to help them in any way, no matter how they respond to my efforts. Moreover, win, lose, or draw in every case, I get to go home and sleep in my bed and cash the biggest paychecks I have ever seen. The clients are the ones whose freedom, future, and lives are on the line--not mine. That being said, after all we do for them, and all we endure from everyone else on their behalf, the ever-repeating question of almost every client is always, without fail: "Should I just get a real lawyer?" It. Is. Maddening. The betrayal! We are supposed to be a family! It is you and me versus everybody! But many clients don't seem to know this. 

Until I worked as a public defender I didn't understand how hard the work was. When I worked in a public defender office in Monterey County this past summer, my days started at 5:00 AM. On days I had calendar calls, I went to the jail to talk to my clients before our calendar began at 8:15 AM. This gave us some privacy and more time to discuss the details of their cases. Then I was in court from 8:15-12 PM. During this time I argued motions, negotiated deals, communicated everything happening with clients and their families, prepped for trials, and most importantly tried to keep as many people out of jail as possible. 

I was then typically released until 1:30 PM. I usually spent that time going back to the jail to meet with more clients in custody, eating something on the way. I was back in court at 1:30 where the longer motions were set to be argued and any remaining calendar calls were run through. Then, I would go back to the office and start calling everyone on the calendar the next day to prepare them for whatever I expected was to come. In between all of this, and especially the one day a week I wasn't scheduled for court, I was investigating cases, interviewing and finding witnesses, finding experts, prepping testimonies, reading police reports, watching whatever footage we could find of incidents, calling families, going back to the jail, and the list goes on and on. It was the hardest I have ever worked in my life. And I really, really do love it. But even with all of this effort, I was still met with, "What do you think, should I just get a real lawyer?" 

Ultimately, the Jennifer Medina article made me reflect on how my life has done a 180 since my undergrad days and how I was never supposed to be prestigious or do prestigious work in the traditional sense. Just like the university I was born ten minutes away from, I was built to serve what I feel is a much more important purpose than upholding prestige. I can't imagine a UC deserving a higher form of widespread respect and admiration than the one that is welcoming and serving a demographic group that has been neglected by the rest of the UC system since its inception. I also can't imagine a more respectable legal career than one serving the most vulnerable and most voiceless members of society, even if they treat me like I'm a fake lawyer.

In Reflecting on the Institutional Process for College Success: The Experiences of Four Chicanos in the Context of Inequality, Gilberto Conchas tells a beautiful story about his navigation through his sociology studies and how his dad would remind him to make sure he is doing work "para la raza" aka for their people. This really touched me because my family and friends are the exact same way. I don't think there is a more prestigious job to those around me than one where I am using my intelligence, talents, and charisma to tackle the criminal justice system that has caused so much hurt to so many people, especially those in the community that raised me.

When I think of prestige I think of my mom reposting every article she sees on Facebook that mentions a public defender with a caption along the lines of, "A public defender just like my baby!" I think of the conversation my boyfriend had with his friend a couple weeks ago when I explained my future plans and his friend tried convincing me to go work for a certain corporation because of how much they pay. My boyfriend responded, "Riki would never do no shit like that. She has too much heart. That's why I respect her." I also think of the one client who called me a "public pretender" in the middle of court this past summer. He eventually apologized to me, saying, "You're not a public pretender. I can tell you will be a great attorney because you really care."

I hope all the students of the great UC Merced find their own version of prestige in a place where they are surrounded by their own people. I hope the university focuses on expanding and nurturing its current diverse student demographic and doesn't ruin itself by chasing after whatever prestige is.