Horns of a ChatGPT Dilemma

“Counsel, are you out of your ever-lovin’ mind?”

OK, so the judge didn’t say that. But clearly, he was thinking it. His big bushy brows were furrowed together like the cornrows he had plowed in his youth, and his big lips were pursed together. Thought was happening, and it was trying to come out through those tightly mashed lips. I couldn’t avoid seeing them, as there was a big bushy moustache just above the lips, and his face was mere inches from mine. Those grey eyes were trying to bore holes in my soul. I was trying to keep my soul from burrowing down into my shoes and fleeing the courtroom.

“Mr. James, I will need to see evidence – real evidence – of your legal precedent on my desk by 5 p.m. today. There will be no delays.”

This wasn’t the response I was expecting. Those grey eyes brooked no refusal. And I wasn’t about to argue with someone who could give me hell in my corporate career, such as it was. I’d worked hard to graduate from law school, and this was my shot at a better life. I hadn’t passed the MPRE yet, and after this incident, it’s not likely that I’d be given a pass on legal ethics and professional responsibility.

So I mumbled something that sounded like agreement, and the grey eyes watched me scuttle out of that courthouse, wishing for a better life. Maybe a better paralegal, though I wouldn’t ever tell Mabel that her slow-as-molasses step in time could use a little more pep.

I’d like to say this reluctance stems from a desire to be kind, but Mabel has strong views about the nature and necessity of justice. She’s equally firm about technological advances: All meaningful progress ended with WordPerfect. It’s more accurate to say that my reluctance stems from a desire to avoid commentary along with her piercing gaze. It’s eerily close to the judge’s stony glare. Both stares somehow had the power to pin a person down and press the truth out of them.

I’d made the classic mistake in any lawyer’s life. I assumed that the judge wouldn’t read all the way through until the end. Why? Stress. It’s the new nicotine.

The problem was that I had been a little creative with my pleadings. I’d always heard that when oranges are squeezed, the juice comes out. For lawyers, the constant pressure and deadlines can drive lawyers toward drink, drugs, or a noxious mixture of both. My siren call came from ChatGPT.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with AI. Just because some Luddite technophobe has an issue with letting machines compile data doesn’t mean that their web of conspiraphobia has merit. (I know that’s not a word, but it should be.) But even a broken clock is accurate at least twice a day, and sometimes the tinfoil theory pushers make a valid point about handing over ultimate responsibility to machines.

But thoughts about the past and cultural trends aren’t going to solve this ethical pickle. How did I get here? I can’t even remember how I entered our firm’s high-rise building, or crept into its marbled bathroom.

Where am I going to get legal precedent that doesn’t exist?

So either I draft a resignation letter, or admit that my pleading is full of it, or – no, I can’t throw Mabel under the bus. Her 14 grandchildren would show up with pitchforks and torches (her strong views reaped a strong harvest). My senior partner would open the door with a big smile and hand one of them a rope.

I know that about Douglas Durbano, just like I know that life played me a cruel joke by having my parents name me “Falefel James”. Ever since then, I’ve had to explain that my very Caucasian parents love Mediterranean food.

I stare at my own sweating reflection in the mirror and mouth the words, “Who are you?”

Are you the kind of person who lets other do work for them? No, not usually – when that other person has two eyes and ears and can talk back. Usually I double-check other people’s work, because I don’t trust them. They might try to take advantage of me, in a way that a machine never would.

Are you the kind of person who tells a subordinate, “Yes, anything that you come up with will be better than what I can write.” Since when? Since a colleague leaned over and whispered, “I bet AI could get that done faster for you.” The seed was planted.

Are you the kind of person who brings Mabel her favorite pecan praline latte one day, and throws her under the bus the next day? I shudder. The grandchildren. The torches. No, that’s not a real option.

So what is real?

I don’t know anymore. And I can’t write that and hand it in to get a “C-” on a pleading. You don’t get to retake those kinds of classes in life.

Maybe I’ve spent so much time with machines that even though I know they’re flawed, they’re so confident about spitting out results that I’ve stopped double-checking their work. Maybe I’m just tired of working with words, constantly running on the hamster wheel of justice that spits out husks of human beings.

The truth is that I stopped caring about justice a long time ago – this job just became another thing to do, like brushing teeth or taking the dog for a walk. Write the pleading. Check emails. Avoid Bob in the hallway because you’ll lose .6 hours of billable time hearing about his hearing aid issues.

I find myself sitting at my desk, still sweating while the fan slowly revolves in tandem with the slowly ticking clock. The only thing that’s beating fast is my heart.

I glance at the computer screen, flashing with ChatGPT’s eager desire to help. “Ask me anything.”

Hah, should I ask, “Why did you give me fake results and make up cases that don’t exist?”

It’s still waiting. “How can I help you?”

I type slowly, with firm intent. “You can tell me why you lied to me.”

“I’m here to provide accurate information and support. If there’s something specific that seems incorrect, please let me know, and I’ll do my best to clarify or correct it.”

My brow furrows. How to explain. I type slowly, again with emphasis. “You said Varghese v. China Southern Airlines was a real case. You were wrong.”

ChatGPT is trying to remain calm and carry on. “I apologize for the confusion. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. If you have any questions or need information about a different case or topic, feel free to ask!”

Is it worth trying to drink from the same well that just poisoned my career? It’s the only well around, so I try one last time.

“Shaboon v. Egypt Air – why did you make up this reference out of whole cloth?”

The answer comes faster this time. ChatGPT has gotten a taste for useless justifications, and it is going to keep beating that defensive drum.

“I apologize for any misunderstanding or misinformation regarding that reference. It was not my intention to provide inaccurate information. If you have specific questions or need information on a different topic, please let me know, and I’ll be happy to help!”

I stare at the screen. This first-world creation, the language-processing tool of developed nations, is trying to hide behind a smokescreen of helpfulness while letting me wallow in the dilemma it had created. The drive for creative resolution would override any inclination for accuracy.

The only responsible party in this situation would have to wipe the sweat from his brow, type up a resignation letter, and trudge back to the courthouse to tell the judge, “ChatGPT made up those cases, Your Honor, and I have no defense.”

Maybe the Luddites were right. Burn it all down to the ground and start over with horses and buggies.

But before I light any matches, I have to talk to the judge – or my senior partner. It’s the responsible thing to do.

Before Mabel gets me.