Most clients arrive at an appeal with a mix of fatigue and hope. They’ve been through trial, they’ve met deadlines, and they’ve likely lived with uncertainty for months or years. Now they are asked to trust a new process that looks less like a courtroom drama and more like a long chess match played in silence. In that setting, the lawyer’s craft is only half about legal substance. The other half is communication that is honest, paced, and calibrated to the realities of appellate law.
I write as someone who has shepherded clients through state and federal appeals, from emergency writs to multi-issue civil matters that span several volumes of transcript. The stakes vary, but the communication discipline does not. Good updates do not happen by accident. They require structure, thought, and a clear sense of what the client needs to decide what, when.
The first conversation sets the tone
How an appellate attorney frames the appeal at the start determines much of what follows. Clients want to know two things: What are we trying to do, and what does the road actually look like. I resist the urge to overpredict or comfort with platitudes. Instead, I map the terrain with ordinary words. The appeal is not a do-over, it is a review of what already happened. The record is closed, we live with the trial judge’s rulings unless they were preserved and legally incorrect, and the standard of review controls how uphill our climb may be.
I will sketch the timeline in weeks and months, not fuzzy terms. For a typical civil appeal, the notice of appeal is filed within 30 days of a final judgment. The record assembly can take several weeks, sometimes longer if transcripts have to be prepared. Opening briefs often come due 40 to 60 days after the record is filed, subject to extensions that are common when the record is large. Oral argument can be set months after briefing closes. Decisions often take a few months, though a year is not unusual in overloaded courts. I give a range, then I write it down and send it as a follow-up note. That written map reduces anxiety because the client can see the process in a single page.
On day one, I also explain what is and is not useful to send me. New facts usually cannot be added unless they fit in the narrow lanes for judicial notice or a limited remand. Still, clients often sit on emails or boxes of documents because they are unsure. I invite over-inclusion early, then I take responsibility for filtering. It is better to receive three extra binders now than to discover a decisive exhibit after the reply brief is filed.
Translating the record without diluting the law
The appeal lives inside the record. That is the central tension of appellate litigation: the client’s lived experience will not expand the pages the court is allowed to read. Appellate lawyers sometimes talk like this constraint is obvious. It is not obvious unless you’ve been through it before. So I describe it with examples.
In one employment case, the client was convinced an email would “prove everything.” The email existed, but it never made it into the trial exhibits because the court excluded it as hearsay. On appeal, we could not “add” the email, but we could challenge the exclusion if it was preserved and harmful. Walking the client through that distinction changed our communication. Instead of relitigating the merits of the email, we focused our calls on the legal standard for evidentiary error, whether the objection was specific enough, and how the judge’s rationale fit or misfit the controlling cases. That shift set expectations and protected our credibility when we later explained why the odds on that issue were modest.
Clients understand candor when it is tethered to a clear strategy. When I say a structural error is easier to win than a discretionary call, I show a couple of published decisions from the same appellate district with outcomes we can analogize or distinguish, and I translate them into plain English. If a standard of review is abuse of discretion, I explain it in human terms: we are not asking whether the panel agrees with us, we are arguing the trial court was outside the range of reasonable outcomes. Even nonlawyers grasp the difference. They stop expecting perfection, and they start asking sharper questions.
Building an update cadence that fits the appeal
Every client asks, how often will I hear from you. I answer with a schedule that matches the phases of work and the client’s tolerance for detail. Some clients want a drip, others want a quarterly digest. The best cadence is stable and predictable, because unpredictability is where fear grows. I anchor communication to milestones: record designation, completion of the record, filing dates for briefs, the status of extension requests, and the setting of oral argument. Between those anchors, I do not send “no news” emails unless the client prefers weekly contact. When the court goes quiet for 90 days after argument, I say exactly that, with a one-sentence reminder of the likely decision window.
There is a practical reason to prefer milestone updates. Appeals are long. If the client gets ten short emails with no substance, they start to skim, and then when something urgent arrives, it is lost in the noise. Better to send fewer notes, each with a descriptive subject line and an explicit ask if there is one.
What a client needs at each phase
Good communication is not just frequency, it is fit. The content should serve the decisions a client must make at that point, and it should be delivered in the form the client will read.
At intake, clients need clarity about scope and budget. I provide a written engagement letter that separates fixed tasks, like notice of appeal and record work, from variable work, like research on a novel issue or potential amicus coordination. If the case may spawn collateral actions, such as a supersedeas bond dispute or a motion to stay enforcement, I flag those tracks and the likely extra cost. I would rather lose a case at the start than build resentment by surprising a client later.
During record assembly, the client needs to understand why we are spending time on pagination, exhibit lists, and transcript coverage. I explain that missing a day of trial can cripple an issue. I also make it practical. I ask the client to identify in plain language what moments at trial felt decisive, then I use those memory prompts to double-check that the transcript coverage captures those days. This approach respects the client’s lived knowledge while keeping control of the process.
When we outline issues, the client needs to see how we choose what to include and what to leave out. I rarely brief more than three or four issues unless the case is uniquely complex. An appeals lawyer earns trust by cutting, not by stacking grievances. I share a one-page issue memo that lists potential issues, notes the standard of review and preservation status, cites one or two leading cases, and gives a quick assessment of likelihood and value. Then I invite the client to react. This step is both substantive and relational. The client sees that we are not ignoring their concerns, we are ranking them.
During brief drafting, clients need progress reports and a plan for review. I set a date when they will receive a draft with enough time for thoughtful feedback. I also explain what kind of feedback is most useful. Corrections to chronology, nuance on industry practice, and pointers to record citations we might have missed are welcome. Legal wordsmithing is less useful unless the client is also a lawyer. Saying this upfront avoids friction later.
At oral argument, the client needs to understand logistics and the purpose of argument in that particular court. Some panels are hot and interactive, others are quiet. I sometimes conduct a short moot with a colleague and invite the client to sit in. It is not about showing off. It is about giving the client a window into how we stress-test the case. After argument, I send a candid debrief the same day while the experience is still fresh. If the court was skeptical on a key point, I say so. Clients know when things are choppy. They appreciate hearing it from counsel rather than reading tea leaves alone.
Managing risk, hope, and disappointment
Communicating probability is one of the hardest parts of appellate practice. The temptation is to speak in safe vagueness. That helps no one. I try to use ranges and analogies that anchor expectations without manufacturing certainty. If a case raises a preserved legal question that has split districts, I might say our odds are better than even, perhaps in the 60 to 70 percent range, given that the court has recently signaled interest in harmonizing the law. If a case turns on a discretionary evidentiary call, I will say the odds are below even, likely in the 20 to 30 percent range, and that our best play is to aim for a narrow remand rather than reversal with instructions.
Hope is necessary to finance patience. I never extinguish it. I channel it. If we are realistically appellate litigation Gusdorff Law, PC aiming for a partial remand or a new sentencing hearing rather than outright reversal, I make that our North Star and explain how it would change the business or personal outcomes that the client cares about. This is practical, not just emotional. When a client understands that a limited remand could shave six figures off exposure or open a path to settlement, they stop fixating on an all-or-nothing win.
The hardest conversations are about losing. When the decision goes against us, the client deserves a same-day call and a clear plan for next steps, even if the first step is to breathe. I prepare for that call before the opinion arrives by drafting two short memos, one for likely scenarios if we win, one if we lose. Those memos outline options: petition for rehearing, en banc review, certiorari if the case fits the criteria, or simply closure. Having that material ready allows me to speak concretely rather than improvising through disappointment.
Email, phone, or in-person: choosing the medium
The mode of communication signals the gravity of the message. Routine scheduling updates and filings belong in email. Drafts for review go by email with tracked changes and a version number in the subject line. Anything that moves the goalposts deserves a call. If the client is local and the stakes high, I prefer an in-person meeting for the initial strategy session and for any discussion about a settlement posture that might change based on appellate outcomes.
One practical tip from years of doing this: I keep an appeal-specific subject line convention. For example, “Smith v. Acme - Appeal - Record Filed,” “Smith v. Acme - Opening Brief Draft v2,” “Smith v. Acme - Argument Date Set 12/6.” This helps the client, but it also helps me search and reconstruct a history if questions later arise.
The ethics of clarity
Many communication failures are ethical failures in disguise. If a deadline is approaching and I need an extension, I tell the client before I ask the court, and I explain why the extension serves their interest rather than mine. If a conflict emerges because another case demands my time in a way that would jeopardize the appeal, I say so early and propose coverage. The client should never learn from a docket entry that their lawyer asked for more time.
Billing is also communication. Appellate work is lumpy. Some months are quiet, others are heavy with research and drafting. I avoid surprise by sending brief monthly notes that tie the invoice to milestones: “This month’s time reflects 28.6 hours drafting and revising the opening brief, including record citation checks and research on Issue Two.” If I expect next month’s bill to be smaller, I say that. It builds credibility and relieves anxiety.
Handling client-driven pressure without losing the thread
Occasionally a client pushes for arguments that are cathartic but weak. The appellate attorney’s job is to protect the case from that pressure while respecting the client’s perspective. I have found two approaches that work. First, quantify the cost of adding the issue. If adding a marginal argument will add ten pages and dilute our strongest points, show a side-by-side outline to make the trade-off visible. Second, invite a compromise: include the point in a footnote that preserves it without giving it oxygen, or reserve it for rehearing if the panel’s reasoning leaves an opening.
Another pressure point is public messaging. In high-profile appeals, clients may want to speak to the press. I advise them to keep statements general and forward-looking, and to avoid criticizing the trial judge. The appellate panel will read coverage, and credibility matters. If there is a must-respond moment, we prepare a short statement that acknowledges the process, reaffirms respect for the court, and frames our legal position without trying the case in the media.
Working with trial counsel
In many appeals, trial counsel remains a vital partner. The first task is to reset roles. Trial counsel holds institutional knowledge and can help reconstruct preservation, but the appellate lawyer should own strategy and drafting once the appeal begins. I prefer a kickoff call with the client and trial counsel together to avoid misaligned narratives. It is better to air disagreements about issue selection in that room than to triangulate later by email.
The record on appeal often turns on trial counsel’s file. I ask for a preservation chart if one exists, and if it does not, we build one together by reviewing objections, offers of proof, and rulings. This exercise doubles as communication with the client, because it produces a concrete artifact they can understand, even if they cannot parse every rule citation. It also sets realistic boundaries. If an issue was not raised below, we say so, and we move on.
When the court goes silent
There is a particular kind of client anxiety that sets in after oral argument. The event is public and kinetic, then the case enters a quiet room with no visible clock. I prepare clients for this by describing the court’s internal process in general terms. Draft opinions circulate, judges confer, dissents get drafted and revised. This can take a week or a quarter. In busy terms, it is normal for a decision to arrive 60 to 180 days after argument. Setting that expectation takes the sting out of the wait.
I also set a weekly reminder to check the docket even when there is no reason to expect movement. If something posts unexpectedly, the client hears it from me within hours. Speed is part of respect. If the decision is favorable, I call before forwarding the opinion so I can frame the result and the implications. If it is adverse, I call with the plan we prepared. Either way, the priority is the client’s understanding, not my celebration or disappointment.
Documenting advice without turning every email into a memo
Appellate practice is a writing discipline, but not every communication should read like a law review footnote. I aim for notes that a busy executive or a parent on a lunch break can digest. A two-paragraph email that says what happened, what it means, and what comes next is often enough. If a decision point is truly consequential, I follow up the call with a short letter that memorializes the advice and the client’s decision. This is not defensive lawyering, it is good hygiene. Months later, when we are preparing a petition for rehearing or strategizing about settlement, that record helps us remember why we made a particular choice.
Making space for the human element
No matter how technical the appeal, it involves people’s lives or livelihoods. A criminal appellant waiting on a resentencing hearing counts days differently than a company disputing a contract interpretation, but both live with uncertainty. I schedule check-ins that acknowledge the human timeline. Before a holiday, I send a note if a decision is unlikely during that period so the client can set it down. If a hearing date falls on a personal milestone, I ask whether they want to attend or prefer a detailed debrief afterward. These small adjustments cost little and deliver trust.
A brief anecdote illustrates the point. In a family law appeal involving relocation, the client faced a school enrollment deadline. The appellate timetable could not change, but we could align information with decisions. We prepared two short path memos: what to do if we had guidance by July, and what to do if the decision slid into September. When the court issued a decision in late August, the client already had a plan, and communication felt like execution rather than crisis.
Technology that helps without getting in the way
Clients do not need a dashboard full of dials. They need reliability. I use a secure portal for sharing large records and drafts, but I do not force clients to log in for routine updates. Email remains the backbone, supplemented by scheduled calls for key moments. For internal tracking, I maintain a timeline spreadsheet with dates, deadlines, and statuses. It is not glamorous, but it ensures that when a client calls, I can answer quickly without hunting through PDFs.
I also keep a short glossary I can share at the start of the case. Terms like standard of review, preservation, harmless error, and en banc lose their ambiguity when defined in three or four clear sentences. It reduces friction later and empowers clients to ask sharper questions. That is the point of communication: to create a client who is a partner in judgment.
When to say no
Saying no is part of honest communication. Sometimes a prospective appeal is not worth the cost. Maybe the standard of review is fatal, the error is harmless given the record, or the remedy would not improve the client’s position in a concrete way. An experienced appellate lawyer should explain that clearly and back it with references to the record and law. I have had clients thank me for declining a case because the explanation armed them for internal conversations with boards or family. You do not build a practice by filing every notice. You build it by guiding decisions with discipline.
A simple framework clients can rely on
To make communication concrete, I often share a compact framework at the start. It has served me well across civil and criminal appeals.
- What just happened: a two-sentence summary anchored in the docket or record. What it means: a short explanation of how this event changes, or does not change, our plan. What we need from you: any decision or document, with a date. What comes next: the next milestone and a realistic window.
This structure keeps emails readable and calls focused. It also creates consistency across months of work so the client never wonders whether they missed something.
The appellate lawyer’s voice
Tone matters. Clients can tell when an appeals attorney enjoys the work and takes pride in the craft. That confidence is not swagger, it is steadiness. It shows up in how you talk about risk, in how you politely decline to add a doomed issue, in how you prepare for oral argument without promising a particular judge will side with you. A steady voice calms clients more than any number of adjectives.
There is a reason many trial lawyers hire appellate attorneys to handle post-trial motions and appeals even in cases they know perfectly well: the appellate voice is different. It trades speed for precision, volume for calibration. Communication follows suit. The best updates feel like the briefs they foreshadow, clean and disciplined, with the right facts in the right order and no unnecessary flourishes.
Closing the loop after the opinion
When the decision arrives, communication does not end with the result. If we win, we discuss implementation. On a remand, I coordinate with trial counsel to ensure the mandate is understood and the posture in the trial court reflects the appellate instructions. If we lose, we talk about whether rehearing is worth it. I walk through criteria, not just emotion. Did the panel misstate a material fact, overlook a controlling authority, or create a conflict with existing precedent. If not, rehearing is usually a long shot. If the case has broader implications, I discuss whether to invite amici on further review.
Even when there is no next step, I send a closing letter that summarizes what we did, attaches the key documents, and outlines any practical obligations, like costs or bonds that might be released. It gives the client a complete file and a sense of completion. Appeals can feel amorphous. A clean ending is part of good communication.
The quiet metric that matters
There is a metric I watch that does not appear on a docket sheet. It is how often clients call just to ask what is going on. If that number is high, my communication is failing. The right rhythm, clarity, and tone reduce those calls. When clients do call, the questions are sharper, the conversations shorter, and the decisions better. That is not an accident. It is the product of a discipline that treats communication as a core component of appellate litigation, not a courtesy layered on top.
Appellate work is complex, but the communication principles are simple: set the map, narrate the journey honestly, and tie every update to the choices a client must make. Do that, and clients will feel guided rather than carried, informed rather than overwhelmed. That is the attorney’s approach that endures across courts, cases, and years.