Trial Talk Q2 2025

Letter to the Young Attorney About to Try Your First Case

Let me give you the unfiltered truth. Trial is scary. You’re stepping into something real. And real things come with fear. You’re not imagining it. You’re not broken. You’re not unprepared. And you’re not alone if you feel this way. Let me show you what that looks like—what my process feels like—the morning of trial.

The morning of trial, I’m usually up before the alarm. Technically, I was in bed—but my mind never rested. It spent the night shadowboxing: rehearsing arguments, anticipating objections, running through worst-case scenarios. Not exactly restful. But it’s part of the process. Then comes that moment of panic: I can’t remember my opening. The same statement I’ve practiced for weeks—gone. Just like that. I grab my phone and hit play on a voice memo—me the night before, pacing my office, delivering the opening with conviction. As my voice fills the room, the words come back. The rhythm settles in. The chaos quiets. Then comes ritual. I cue up the Rocky IV soundtrack. Yeah, it’s dramatic. But in that hotel room, it works. It reminds me I’ve trained for this. That fear doesn’t mean I’m not ready. It means I care. It means I’m locked in. And here’s the thing most people won’t tell you: the fear doesn’t go away. It sharpens. It focuses. It pushes you to check your outline one more time, refine your voir dire, anticipate the argument your opponent hasn’t even made yet. Fear is what makes you prepare harder. Dig deeper. Perform better. And yet—on the morning of trial—fear still has one more trick to play.

The judge emerges. Preliminary matters are addressed. Most rulings fall in my favor, and a spark of confidence ignites. The jury won’t arrive for an hour. I should prepare, but my mind spins. My questions for the jury are suddenly elusive. My opening statement feels disjointed. I scan the jury questionnaires, hunting for insights, connections, anything to give me an edge. When the panel finally files in, my heart sinks. Can they be fair? The judge begins voir dire. My inner voice offers a shaky “pep talk.” You got this. This is your arena. The jury wants a show. Give them one.” “Mr. Lomena?” The judge’s voice snaps me back. It’s my turn. All eyes shift to me. I stand, and something remarkable happens. The fear doesn’t vanish—it transforms into confidence. This is where I belong. The nervousness hasn’t disappeared; it’s been channeled. Every sense is sharper. In this moment, I rediscovered what I learned every trial: I love this. The fear isn’t my enemy —it’s the cost of admission. It keeps me sharp, humble, and fighting.

It’s easy to idolize the lawyers who stand on podiums and talk about their multi-million dollar verdicts. But I promise you—every single one of them felt this too. I know I did. My best verdicts—both seven figures—came from cases most attorneys wouldn’t touch. Bad facts. Difficult clients. Brutal defense attorneys. I was terrified. But I tried them anyway. That’s the job. If you want to be a trial lawyer—a real one—you’re going to try hard cases. You’re going to walk into court knowing the jury may not like your client, the judge may not agree with your theory, and the defense will throw everything they’ve got at you. And you’ll still stand up. That’s what we do. Fearlessness isn’t about being fearless. It’s standing up with the fear. It’s not ego. It’s not bravado. It’s preparation. It’s discipline. It’s belief—not that everything will go perfectly, but that you’re ready for when it doesn’t.

So if you’re staring down your first trial and your stomach is in knots—good. That means you’re doing it right. Fear is not your weakness. It’s your weapon. Let it push you. Let it sharpen you. Let it remind you that this matters. Because when the trial begins—and it will—you’ll feel it: You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.