Katyal
(Courtesy
photo)
Ed.
note:
The
Rainmaker
is
a
new
Above
the
Law
series
highlighting
attorneys
who
have
built
distinguished
practices
by
excelling
not
only
in
the
courtroom
and
at
the
negotiating
table,
but
also
in
business
development,
mentorship,
and
leadership.
Each
installment
will
feature
candid
reflections
on
what
it
takes
to
succeed
as
a
rainmaker
in
today’s
legal
industry.
Our
first
featured
rainmaker
is
Neal
Katyal.
About
20
years
ago,
I
wrote
a
piece
for
Legal
Times
arguing
that
law
schools
fail
to
teach
what
matters
most:
how
to
work
in
groups.
Fresh
from
the
Justice
Department,
I
had
learned
the
hard
way
that
brilliant
legal
arguments
mean
nothing
if
you
can’t
bring
people
along
with
you.
I
thought
I
understood
that
lesson.
I
was
wrong.
Understanding
it
intellectually
and
living
it
daily
are
entirely
different
things.
Here’s
the
paradox
of
building
a
thriving
Supreme
Court
practice:
you
succeed
not
by
being
the
smartest
person
in
the
room,
but
by
making
everyone
else
in
the
room
smarter.
Supreme
Court
lawyers
aren’t
exactly
known
for
their
humility—we’ve
built
our
reputations
arguing
before
nine
justices
who
can
eviscerate
your
reasoning
with
a
single
question.
Yet
the
rainmakers
I’ve
observed,
and
the
practice
I’ve
tried
to
build,
succeeds
precisely
because
it
inverts
that
stereotype.
The
Improv
Principle
For
years,
I’ve
been
studying
improv
comedy,
and
it’s
transformed
how
I
think
about
legal
practice.
The
cardinal
rule
of
improv
is
“yes,
and”—you
accept
what
your
scene
partners
offer
and
build
on
it.
You
don’t
say
“no”
or
shut
down
their
contribution.
You
make
your
partners
look
good,
and
in
turn
they
make
you
look
good.
This
sounds
soft.
It’s
not.
It’s
the
hardest
discipline
I
know.
In
a
meeting,
when
an
associate
offers
an
idea
that
seems
off-base,
the
instinct
is
to
correct
them,
to
show
why
you’re
the
experienced
lead
counsel.
The
improv
instinct
is
different:
find
what’s
valuable
in
their
contribution
and
build
on
it.
“Yes,
and
we
could
take
that
framework
and
apply
it
to
the
jurisdictional
question.”
Suddenly,
the
associate
isn’t
embarrassed—they’re
energized.
They’ve
contributed
something
real.
They’ll
work
twice
as
hard
for
you,
and
next
time,
their
idea
might
be
the
one
that
wins
the
case.
This
isn’t
artificial,
it’s
definitely
not
about
giving
false
praise.
A
smart
associate,
after
all,
will
see
through
that
in
a
second.
It’s
rather
about
trying
to
find
the
diamond
in
the
rough,
the
insight
that
the
associate
has
and
that
can
be
built
upon.
I
kind
of
stumbled
upon
that
idea
when
I
did
my
first
case,
challenging
Guantanamo.
At
my
side
were
a
dozen
law
students
–
and
they
would
all
have
various
writing
assignments
and
my
duty
was
to
sort
through
all
their
insights
and
build
a
coherent
product
out
of
it.
Many
were
off-the-wall,
to
be
sure,
but
many
were
brilliant,
too. It
just
took
work
to
find
those
flashes
of
brilliance
and
to
build
upon
them.
That
kind
of
“bottom-up”
strategy
is
one
I
have
taken
to
heart
–
so
much
so
that
today
I
routinely
take
advice
on
crafting
arguments
from
my
Researcher
at
Milbank.
My
Researcher
is
someone
who
has
graduated
from
college
and
yet
has
not
attended
law
school.
This
isn’t
just
about
associates
or
your
internal
team,
it’s
just
as
much
about
clients.
When
a
client
pushes
back
on
your
strategy,
you
could
dig
in
and
explain
why
you’re
right.
Or
you
could
listen—really
listen—to
what’s
driving
their
concern.
Usually,
they’re
telling
you
something
important
about
their
business
reality,
their
risk
tolerance,
or
their
board
dynamics.
“Yes,
and
given
that
constraint,
what
if
we
structured
the
argument
this
way?”
Now
you’re
not
just
their
lawyer;
you’re
their
partner.
Why
Clients
Return
Twenty-three
years
ago
when
I
wrote
that
piece,
I
thought
clients
hired
you
for
your
legal
brilliance.
They
don’t.
They
hire
you
because
you
make
their
problems
smaller,
not
bigger.
I’ve
represented
the
same
clients
through
multiple
Supreme
Court
cases,
not
because
I
won
every
time
(I
haven’t),
but
because
they
trust
that
I’ll
listen
to
what
they
actually
need.
Sometimes
what
they
need
is
an
aggressive
cert
petition.
Sometimes
what
they
need
is
someone
to
tell
them
that
the
case
isn’t
worth
the
institutional
risk
of
taking
to
the
Court.
The
clients
who
keep
coming
back
are
the
ones
who
know
you’ll
give
them
the
second
answer
when
it’s
true,
even
though
it
costs
you
a
major
case
and
significant
fees.
This
requires
a
specific
kind
of
humility:
the
humility
to
know
that
the
client
understands
their
business
better
than
you
do,
and
that
your
legal
judgment
is
in
service
of
their
goals,
not
the
other
way
around.
Supreme
Court
lawyers
can
struggle
with
this
because
we’re
trained
to
think
about
doctrinal
purity
and
legal
architecture.
But
clients
don’t
care
about
your
elegant
theory
of
administrative
law.
They
care
about
whether
they
can
build
the
project,
launch
the
product,
or
avoid
the
devastating
liability.
The
best
piece
of
advice
I
ever
received
came
from
Eric
Holder,
who
mentored
me
at
the
Justice
Department
in
my
first
stint
there,
right
after
my
clerkships.
He
watched
me
fail
to
persuade
senior
officials
of
a
position
that
I
was
absolutely
certain
was
right.
Afterward,
he
pulled
me
aside.
“Your
analysis
was
perfect,”
he
said.
“But
you
didn’t
listen
to
their
concerns.
You
tried
to
convince
them
you
were
right
instead
of
understanding
why
they
were
worried.
Next
time,
start
by
understanding
their
perspective.”
That
lesson
echoes
through
every
client
relationship,
every
oral
argument,
every
brief.
Start
by
understanding
their
perspective.
Building
a
Team
The
legal
market
is
full
of
brilliant
lawyers.
What’s
scarce
is
brilliant
lawyers
who
other
brilliant
lawyers
want
to
work
with.
I’ve
been
fortunate
to
attract
extraordinary
talent
to
our
practice
at
Milbank,
and
I’ve
spent
a
lot
of
time
thinking
about
why.
It’s
not
compensation—plenty
of
firms
pay
well.
It’s
not
just
interesting
cases,
though
we’ve
had
our
share.
It’s
that
people
want
to
work
in
an
environment
where
their
contributions
matter,
where
they’re
not
just
executing
someone
else’s
vision
but
actively
shaping
the
strategy.
This
means
involving
associates
and
junior
partners
in
client
conversations
earlier
than
might
be
traditional.
It
means
crediting
their
ideas
explicitly
in
meetings
and
briefs.
It
means
creating
an
environment
where
someone
can
say
“I
think
we’re
missing
something”
without
fear.
The
best
legal
work
happens
when
smart
people
feel
safe
being
honest
about
uncertainty,
about
gaps
in
the
argument,
about
weaknesses
in
the
case.
That
safety
only
exists
when
egos
are
checked
at
the
door.
In
my
2002
piece,
I
argued
that
law
schools,
which
focus
on
solitary
exam
writing,
send
the
message
that
“to
succeed
I
had
to
work
as
an
island
unto
myself.”
The
most
successful
practices
do
the
opposite.
They’re
archipelagos—distinct
talents
connected
by
shared
purpose
and
mutual
respect.
Other
Firms
Here’s
what
surprised
me
most
about
building
a
practice:
some
of
our
best
work
comes
from
other
law
firms
bringing
us
in
on
their
cases.
This
seems
counterintuitive.
Why
would
a
major
firm
want
to
split
fees
and
credit
with
us?
Because
we’re
not
a
threat.
When
you
build
a
reputation
for
collaboration
rather
than
competition,
for
making
others
look
good
rather
than
claiming
all
the
credit,
firms
trust
that
you’ll
enhance
their
client
relationship
rather
than
trying
to
steal
it.
We’ve
been
brought
in
on
dozens
of
cases
where
the
referring
firm
maintains
the
client
relationship,
handles
most
of
the
case,
and
brings
us
in
specifically
for
the
appellate-like
stage,
which
is
most
often
at
the
trial
court.
Everything
from
dispositive
motions
like
motions
to
dismiss
to
issue
preservation.
We
do
the
work,
share
the
credit,
and
strengthen
their
relationship
with
their
client.
This
only
works
if
you
genuinely
believe
that
there’s
enough
success
to
go
around.
The
scarcity
mindset—that
every
case
is
a
zero-sum
competition
for
prestige
and
credit—is
poison
to
a
sustainable
practice.
The
abundance
mindset—that
by
helping
others
succeed,
you
create
more
opportunities
for
everyone—is
what
builds
a
practice
that
lasts.
The
Long
Game
None
of
this
is
fast.
You
don’t
build
trust
with
clients,
teams,
and
co-counsel
through
a
single
brilliant
performance.
You
build
it
through
hundreds
of
small
interactions
where
you
consistently
choose
collaboration
over
ego,
listening
over
talking,
“yes,
and”
over
“no,
but.”
The
paradox
of
rainmaking
is
that
you
succeed
by
focusing
on
something
other
than
success.
You
focus
on
making
others
successful—your
clients,
your
team,
your
co-counsel.
You
build
a
practice
where
people
want
to
return
not
because
you
won
(though
winning
helps),
but
because
working
with
you
made
them
better
at
what
they
do.
Is
this
the
only
way
to
build
a
successful
practice?
Of
course
not.
Plenty
of
rainmakers
succeed
through
sheer
force
of
will
and
brilliance.
But
I’ve
found
that
the
practices
built
on
collaboration
tend
to
last
longer,
weather
storms
better,
and—ironically—attract
more
business
than
those
built
on
individual
genius.
The
real
world
works
in
groups.
Twenty
years
after
writing
that,
I’m
still
learning
what
it
means.
Neal
Katyal
is
one
of
the
nation’s
foremost
attorneys
and
former
Acting
Solicitor
General
of
the
United
States.
He
is
a
partner
at
Milbank’s
Washington,
DC
office,
and
serves
as
the
Paul
Saunders
Professor
of
Law
at
Georgetown
University,
where
he
was
one
of
the
youngest
professors
to
have
received
tenure
and
a
chaired
professorship
in
the
university’s
history.
He
has
argued
52
cases
at
the
Supreme
Court,
including
landmark
cases
on
gene
patents,
Guantanamo,
the
Voting
Rights
Act,
and
corporate
law.
He
received
the
highest
honor
the
Justice
Department
can
bestow
on
a
civilian,
the
Edmund
Randolph
Award,
and
has
won
all
sorts
of
other
awards,
including
being
named
one
of
GQ’s
Men
of
the
Year.
He
has
performed
in
both
Netflix’s
House
of
Cards
and
Showtime’s
Billions
(both
times
playing
himself).