The Case That Cost Nothing and Everything: What BigLaw Doesn’t Tell You About Pro Bono

There’s a file in my old BigLaw email archive that I can’t bring myself to delete, even though I left the firm 21 years ago. I never billed a single hour to it, but I’ve thought about it more than the $50 million securities fraud case I worked on at the same time.

It was a guardianship petition. Pro bono. Should have been 20 hours, tops.

Petitioner: Carlos Herrera, 19 years old, worked nights stocking shelves at a Key Food in Washington Heights, wanted to become the legal guardian of his 13-year-old brother, Miguel.

Reason: Their mother, Luz Maria Herrera, was killed by a stray bullet in gang crossfire three blocks from their apartment. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong city to be poor in.

Alternative: Miguel is placed in foster care.

My job, the one I wasn’t being paid for, was to prove Carlos was fit to raise his brother.

My other job, the one that kept me at the office until 3 AM, was reviewing 40,000 pages of email discovery to prove our client’s CFO didn’t knowingly misrepresent EBITDA projections to institutional investors.

Both cases were about someone trying not to lose everything.

Only one of them truly changed lives.

The Industry vs. The Practice

BigLaw pro bono isn't charity. It's calculated self-interest dressed as social responsibility, making it clear where true priorities lie.

Start with this: BigLaw pro bono saves lives but can also cost careers. This is what BigLaw pro bono actually is:

• Marketing material for law school recruiting (“We care about public service!”)
• Tax benefits and good press for the firm
• Resume padding for associates who want to look well-rounded.
• A way to meet billable hour requirements when client work is slow
• Something partners mention at cocktail parties to feel better about defending pharmaceutical companies.

Here’s what BigLaw pro bono is NOT:

• Adequately resourced
• Properly supervised
• Treated as equally important to paying work
• Compensated in any meaningful way for the associate doing it
• Designed to actually help people

I took Carlos’s case during my second year at a Top Ten Law Firm. The firm sent an email: “Pro Bono Opportunity - Family Court Guardianship - Reasonable Time Commitment.”

Low time commitment. That should have been my first clue.

In BigLaw, 'reasonable time commitment' really means it’s not important enough to warrant proper resources, so it's handed to overworked juniors with no experience.

I took it anyway. Because I was 26 years old and still believed in things.

Case Study: How BigLaw Measures Value

Let me show you what my life looked like the week I met Carlos.

Monday: As I stepped into the office at the crack of dawn, the artificial chill from the overhead fluorescents greeted me, a reminder of the approaching long hours. The quiet hum of the lights was punctuated only by my footsteps as I passed the break room, the hiss of the espresso machine breaking the stillness, preparing me for another high-paced day.

• 7 AM - 11 PM: Review discovery for securities case, draft memo on SEC disclosure requirements
• 11:30 PM: Partner emails: “Need this redlined by tomorrow morning.”
• 11:30 PM - 2 AM: Redline 80-page complaint
• Billable hours: 14.5
• Pro bono hours: 0

Tuesday:

• 7 AM: Back at the office
• A Busy Tuesday Morning:
• 9 AM - 6 PM: Associates meeting, client call, more discovery review
• Triage Tuesday Evening:
• 6:30 PM: Finally, remember I have a pro bono case
• 6:30 - 7:30 PM: Read Carlos’s intake forms, realize guardianship hearing is in THREE DAYS. 7:30 PM: Partner sees me working on 'something else' and reminds me we're 'in the middle of a major litigation.'
• 7:30 PM - midnight: Back to securities case
• 7:30 PM - midnight: Back to securities case
• Billable hours: 13
• Pro bono hours: 1

Wednesday:

• Call Carlos during lunch (12:15 - 12:47 PM, because lunch at BigLaw means “eating at your desk while working”)
• Carlos can’t talk long; he’s on his break at Key Food.
• I ask the intake questions I should have asked a week ago.
• I realize I have absolutely no idea how to do this case.
• Partner walks by my office: “You coming to the war room? We’re strategizing for the deposition.”
• Billable hours: 15
• Pro bono hours: 0.5

Thursday:

• The guardianship hearing is tomorrow.
• I have written exactly zero pages of the brief.
• I also have a securities brief due Monday that’s currently 3 pages of an expected 40
• 6 AM: Come in early to work on guardianship
• 6:15 AM: Partner emails asking for “quick turnaround” on discovery response
• “Quick turnaround” takes until 2 PM.
• 2 PM - 7 PM: Finally work on guardianship brief
• 7 PM: Dinner arrives (Seamless, billed to client, eaten while working)
• 7 PM - 3 AM: Securities brief
• Sleep on the office couch.
• Billable hours: 17
• Pro bono hours: 5

Friday:

• 9 AM: Guardianship hearing
• 8:30 AM: Partner calls my cell: “Where are you? We need you for client prep.”
• “I have a court appearance.”
• “For what?”
• “Pro bono case.”
• Long pause.
• “How long?”
• “Maybe two hours?”
• “Fine. But we need you back by noon.”
• Billable hours: 8 (so far)
• Pro bono hours: TBD

Total week: 67.5 billable hours, 6.5 pro bono hours

What the firm celebrated: My billable hours

What actually mattered: Those 6.5 hours

What Happens When You Practice Law on Borrowed Time

I met Carlos and Miguel at the family court at 8:45 AM. I was wearing a $2,000 suit, carrying a briefcase that cost more than Carlos made in a month, running on 90 minutes of sleep and three espressos.

Carlos was wearing his Key Food vest. He’d come straight from his shift.

Miguel sat next to him in a hoodie, headphones on, staring at nothing.

“You’re my lawyer?” Carlos asked.

“Yes. From Top Ten Law Firm.”

He had no idea what that meant. Why would he?

“Did you get my documents?” he asked.

Documents. I’d asked him to send pay stubs, a lease agreement, and school records. I’d been so buried in securities work that I hadn’t checked my pro bono email in three days.

"I… let me check."

At that moment, a question flashed through my mind: Whose life was I prioritizing? I pulled out my phone. Scrolled through 300 unread emails. Found his—sent Tuesday, with everything I’d asked for.

I hadn’t read it.

“Sorry, yes. Got them. Everything looks good.”

It didn’t look good. I hadn’t done what was most important: understanding my client’s reality.

This was someone’s entire life. His brother’s entire future. And I was showing up unprepared because I’d spent the week proving that a CFO properly disclosed revenue recognition policies in accordance with GAAP.

One case was worth $800/hour to the firm.

One case was worth everything to the client.

Guess which one I’d actually prepared for?

The Hearing Where the Industry Shows Its Hand

Family court isn’t like federal court. There’s no mahogany paneling, no sense of gravitas, no $800/hour adversaries citing Chevron deference.

It’s fluorescent lights, crying babies, overwhelmed public defenders, and a judge with 40 cases on the docket who needs to move things along.

The city’s attorney went first. She was competent and experienced, and she was carrying a file that suggested she actually knew this case.

“Your Honor, while we acknowledge Mr. Herrera’s intentions are good, our assessment shows insufficient income to support a minor, inadequate supervision due to night shift work, and no identified backup care plan. We recommend foster placement with the possibility of reunification pending demonstration of stability.”

She’d said some version of this a thousand times. This was routine for her.

For Carlos, this was whether his family survived.

The judge looked at me. “Counsel?”

I stood up. Opened my laptop. Looked at the brief I’d finished at 2:47 AM.

And then I looked at Carlos and Miguel.

Miguel had taken his headphones off. He was gripping Carlos’s arm. Carlos was trying not to cry.

These were just hours to me. To Carlos and Miguel, this was everything. Their family’s future was being decided.

I started reading from my brief. The arguments I’d crafted in the language of legal memoranda, citing precedents, applying factors, building a case the way BigLaw had trained me to build cases. And one precedent clearly stood out: 'In re Gault,' which, in simple terms, means kids could stay with their siblings rather than be separated. The judge stopped me 30 seconds in.

“Counsel, I’ve read your brief. It’s very thorough. But I want to hear from your client.”

I sat down. Carlos stood up.

And that’s when everything I’d been taught at BigLaw suddenly felt useless.

What Happens When the Real World Meets BigLaw Training

Carlos didn’t cite precedents. He didn’t apply multi-factor tests. He didn’t analogize to other circuits.

He just told the truth.

“Your Honor, I've been taking care of Miguel since he was born. Our mom worked two jobs. I got him ready for school. I made sure he ate. I kept him safe. That was before she died. Now you’re asking me to prove I can do what I already been doing? I work full-time. I pay rent. I keep Miguel in school. I’m not asking the court to raise him. I’m asking the court to let me keep doing what I been doing—taking care of my brother.”

Miguel stood up next to him. “I’m not going to foster care. I’m staying with Carlos.”

The judge looked at them for a long time.

Then she looked at me. “Counselor, chambers.”

What Happens When You Can’t Bill Your Way Out

In chambers, the judge was direct.

“Your client has insufficient income. No backup care. No support system identified. Under our guidelines, this doesn’t meet minimum standards for guardianship.”

The city’s attorney nodded. This was the expected outcome.

I opened my mouth to argue—to cite cases, to distinguish facts, to do the thing BigLaw had trained me to do.

But then I thought about my week. About the 67.5 hours I’d billed to the securities case. About the client who was paying BigLaw $1,200/hour to defend allegations they probably violated.

About Carlos, who was paying me nothing to defend his right to keep his family. I realized BigLaw values are built for their world, not for the real world my clients live in. I had brought firm priorities to a life-or-death fight for a family.

“Your Honor,” I said. “You’re right. Under the standards, Carlos doesn’t qualify. His income is insufficient. His housing is inadequate. His supervision plan has gaps.”

The city’s attorney looked satisfied.

“But those standards were written for a world where Carlos has options. He doesn’t. The question isn’t whether Carlos meets your standards. The question is: Compared to what?”

The judge leaned back.

“Compared to foster care? Where Miguel gets placed with strangers, changes schools, loses his support system, gets processed through a system we all know fails kids like him constantly? Compared to that, Carlos—who works 60 hours a week, who’s kept Miguel in school, who’s the only family this kid has left—Carlos is the better option. By a lot.”

The city’s attorney started to object. The judge raised her hand.

“You’re from a Top Ten Law Firm, correct?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“BigLaw pro bono?”

“Yes.”

“How many hours have you billed to this case?”

I did the math in my head. “Six and a half hours.”

“And how many hours would you bill on a typical commercial case?”

I knew where this was going. “Significantly more, Your Honor.”

“So Carlos is getting about six hours of a BigLaw associate’s time to determine whether he keeps his brother or loses him to the foster system?”

Silence.

“Your Honor—” the city’s attorney tried.

“And how many hours are you spending on this case?” the judge asked her.

“I… I have 60 active files, Judge. I do my best.”

The judge looked at both of us. "So we've got an overwhelmed city attorney working from a checklist and a BigLaw associate squeezing this between billable hours. And we're deciding a child's future." She paused, then continued, "I've seen too many cases like this. Just last month, a similar case, where a child was placed into the foster system due to similar inefficiencies and lack of support, ended tragically. The child was separated from their sibling, and the impact was devastating. This isn’t just paperwork; it's real lives at stake. We cannot keep letting this system fail those who need it most."

More silence.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” the judge said. “Conditional guardianship. Carlos gets six months to demonstrate stability. Monthly check-ins. Housing assistance application filed immediately. Counselor,” she looked at me, “your firm has resources. Use them. Get Carlos connected to supportive services. Not as a lawyer. As a human being who works at a place with money and connections.”

What Happened When I Went Back to My Top Ten Law Firm

I got back to the office at 11:47 AM. The partner was waiting.

“How’d it go?”

“Good. We got guardianship.”

“Great. Listen, we need you on a call at noon, and then we’re doing deposition prep all afternoon.”

“Actually, I need to work on the pro bono case for a bit. The judge ordered—”

“How much more time does it need?”

“I need to connect the client with social services, housing assistance, maybe find—”

“How many hours are we talking?”

And there it was. The question that revealed everything.

“I don’t know. Maybe another ten or fifteen hours?”

The partner’s face changed. “That’s a lot for pro bono. You’re already below your billable target for the month.” In a future where firms balance impact hours alongside billables, this conversation might not just be about meeting targets, but about realigning priorities to measure meaningful legal contributions.

“The judge specifically said—”

“I’m sure she did. And it’s great that you got a good outcome. But you have paying clients who need you. The pro bono is done. You got the guardianship. Someone else can handle the follow-up.”

“There is no one else.”

“Then he’ll figure it out. He’s made it this far.”

I stood there in my $2,000 suit in my midtown office with my $190,000 salary and realized:

The industry and the practice weren’t just different; they were distinct. They were enemies.

The Case Study No One Teaches

Here’s what BigLaw case studies about pro bono actually look like:

“Associate Successfully Secures Asylum for Refugee Family”

(Billable hours that month: 280. Pro bono hours: 12. Asylum client met once.)

“Firm Wins Groundbreaking Civil Rights Case”

(Partner got the credit. Three associates did all the work while also billing 70-hour weeks on commercial litigation.)

“Pro Bono Program Recognized by Legal Aid Society”

(The firm donated $50,000 and counted every associate’s forced attendance at the charity dinner as “pro bono” hours.)

Here’s the case study they don’t publish:

“BigLaw Associate Spends Six Hours on Family’s Entire Future While Billing 67 Hours to Help Corporation Avoid Securities Liability”

Because that case study would require admitting something the industry can’t afford to admit:

Pro bono in BigLaw isn’t about helping people. It’s about managing the cognitive dissonance of associates who went to law school to make a difference and ended up making rich people richer.

What I Actually Did (And What It Cost Me)

I didn’t let it go.

I spent another 30 hours on Carlos’s case. Unpaid. Unbilled. Hidden in the margins of my “available” time.

I called every housing assistance program in Manhattan. Got Carlos on the wait lists. Connected him with a social worker who actually gave a shit. Found a community organization that could provide after-school support for Miguel.

I did it at 6 AM before partners arrived. During lunch. After midnight, when I’d finished my billable work. On Sundays.

I treated it like it mattered. Because it did.

And you know what happened?

My billable hours dropped. I went from 280 hours/month to 240. I missed my target.

My review that year: “Strong legal skills, but needs to improve time management and prioritization. Sometimes appears distracted or unavailable during peak periods.”

Translation: I cared about the wrong case.

The partner pulled me aside after the review. “Look, the pro bono thing is great. It really is. But you need to remember what you’re here to do. We have paying clients who need you performing at 100%. Pro bono can’t be a distraction.”

It was called a distraction.

Carlos is working 60 hours a week to keep his brother, which distracts him from helping a CFO avoid the consequences of maybe lying to investors.

Why I Left BigLaw

People assume I left because of the hours. Or the work. Or because somewhere deep inside I wanted to write.

That’s not why I left.

I left because BigLaw taught me to value things that don’t matter and devalue things that do. Ask yourself: "Which of my current metrics undermines my mission?" It’s an essential question for any lawyer who feels torn between what the profession says matters and what they came into this field to achieve. This reflective inquiry could illuminate where personal values diverge from firm expectations, urging a re-examination of what truly counts.

A securities case worth $800/hour? That’s important. Drop everything. Work all night. Cancel plans. Bill, until you bleed.

A 19-year-old trying to keep his family together? That’s “reasonable time commitment.” Do it if you have time. Don’t let it affect your numbers.

And I realized: The industry wasn’t just wrong about what matters. It was designed to make sure I’d eventually agree with it.

Stay long enough, bill enough hours, make enough money, and eventually you stop seeing the difference.

Carlos becomes the distraction. The securities fraud becomes the real work.

You don’t leave because you’re disillusioned. You leave because you can feel yourself becoming the person who thinks billable hours measure value.

Where They Are Now (And Where I Am)

I don’t know where Carlos and Miguel are. I left my Top Ten Law Firm six months after their case. Started writing. Tried to figure out how to tell stories about people like Carlos in a world that doesn’t value people like Carlos.

But I think about them constantly.

I think about Carlos stocking shelves at 2 AM. About Miguel doing homework alone. About both of them surviving in a system that measured everything except what mattered.

And I think about all the other Carloses who got six hours of a BigLaw associate’s distracted attention instead of the representation they deserved.

All the cases marked “reasonable time commitment” imply that some people’s lives matter less than others.

All the associates who meant well but were too busy billing to help.

All the firms that put “pro bono” in their recruiting materials and “billable hours” in their reviews.

All the people we failed because we were too busy not failing our paying clients.

The Article BigLaw Doesn’t Want Written

BigLaw loves pro bono case studies when they make the firm look good:

“Top Ten Firm Celebrates 150,000 Pro Bono Hours Firmwide”

What they don’t celebrate:

• Those 150,000 hours were spread across 800 associates, averaging 187 hours per associate per year (less than 9% of the 2,000-hour billable requirement)
• That most of those hours were logged in slow months when client work was light
• Associates who exceeded pro bono targets were told to “balance better.”
• The firm made $1.8 billion in revenue that year while spending maybe $15 million equivalent on pro bono (less than 1%)

You want the real case study?

BigLaw pro bono is a $190,000/year associate spending six hours deciding whether a 13-year-old keeps his brother while spending 67 hours that same week defending a corporation’s disclosure practices.

And being told the six hours was the distraction.

The hourglass is ticking. Every BigLaw associate gets to decide: Are you practicing law, or are you billing hours?

Most don’t decide. They just keep billing until they can’t remember why they went to law school.

I decided. And I left. But change can happen. For instance, a prominent law firm recently restructured its approach to pro bono credit, allowing significant hours spent on such cases to be counted toward billable targets. This demonstrated both a commitment to social impact and recognition of the intrinsic value beyond billable metrics. It shows that even within the demanding structure of BigLaw, there is hope for aligning professional efforts with personal values. Best decision I ever made.

Second-best? Writing about it, so maybe the next associate in that $2,000 suit will realize: Carlos mattered more than the securities case. He always did. As you move on to your next billable hour, consider whom it truly serves. The industry just trained you not to see it.