When I was a paralegal at a law firm in Los Angeles right after college, I grew to hate timesheets as much as I hated L.A. traffic. Every Friday around 4 p.m., the office manager would walk the halls to collect our timesheets. Because I was too lazy to fill out mine on a daily basis, I had to spend a good hour every Friday afternoon recreating my workweek.
It also was never clear to me who should pay for my mistakes. Should I charge the client for the 25 minutes it took me to extract its mangled pleading from the bowels of the jammed copy machine? And what about the 15 minutes it took me to clean the ink off my hands after a run in with my Bates stamper? And who should pay for the four-and-a-half hours I once spent summarizing the wrong depositions?