FROM JUDITH’S DESK - AUGUST 20, 2026 - DEPENDS ON WHO'S ASKING.

DEPENDS WHO’S ASKING

A collection of thoughts that didn’t make it to the blog.

I answer to a ridiculous number of names depending on who needs something from me. “Counsel” usually means I am in court, wearing real clothes, speaking in complete sentences, and somebody has temporarily mistaken me for a woman with her shit completely together. “Ms. Hampton” is what clients and strangers call me before they know enough about me to become less formal. “Judith” can mean anything from a normal conversation to Nan standing in my doorway with the facial expression that tells me I am about to hear something I will not enjoy. “Mama” generally means somebody is hungry, bleeding, missing a shoe, tattling, asking me to look at something disgusting, or yelling my name from another room despite having two perfectly functional legs.

Then there is “JJ,” which is what my daddy calls me. It does not matter how old I get, how many children I have, how many cases I handle, whether my name is on the building, or how many people call me “Counsel” during the day. To Daddy, I am still JJ. There is something both comforting and mildly insulting about reaching an age where other adults routinely ask you what they should do and still having one person who can say two letters and instantly remind you that you are, in fact, somebody’s child. The law degree carries considerably less weight with the man who knew me before I could spell “lawyer.”

The full name is different. “Judith Layne Hampton” is not affectionate. Nobody reaches for all three names because they are overwhelmed with tenderness. That is the verbal equivalent of hearing a shotgun rack in the dark. If somebody says the whole thing, either I have done something, somebody thinks I have done something, or we are approximately thirty seconds away from an argument in which exhibits may be introduced.

What I find funny is how much authority people attach to whatever version they know. In court I can be “Counsel.” At the office I am the person everybody ultimately expects to make the decision. My children could not give less of a shit about either of those facts. They have seen me without makeup, without patience, without pants, and without the slightest clue where the thing is that I was holding thirty seconds earlier. It is difficult to maintain a commanding professional mystique around people who have walked into the bathroom while you were sitting on the toilet and started telling you a story.

And that is probably the truth of it. None of the names are fake. “Attorney Hampton” is me. “Mama” is me. “JJ” is me. The woman who can argue a serious felony matter without blinking is the same woman who can laugh at the phrase “naked ownership,” make a joke at an objectively inappropriate moment, spend money on her face because she felt like it, and occasionally require someone who loves her to tell her to quit being an asshole.

People tend to think adulthood means settling into one polished identity and staying there. I have apparently gone the opposite direction. I have accumulated aliases. Some come with professional respect, some come with children screaming from across the house, some belong to the people who knew me long before I had anything impressive to put behind my name, and a few probably come with language unsuitable for publication.

But if we are ranking them, I already know which one wins.

The name I want to be called most is baby, by my goddamn man.

And frankly, “Counsel” is going to have to learn to live with second place.

JLH

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