Alan Ripka

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Alan Ripka: Lawyers think that jurors want to hear about who they are. It’s none of that. You learn patience. You heard other cases. You chatted face to face with defense lawyers and insurance companies and judges. You’re dealing with someone going to jail or maybe not. Or a crime victim getting justice or not. You’re in the moment. Big time.

Narrator: Welcome to “Celebrating Justice” presented by the Trial Lawyers Journal and CloudLex, the next-gen legal cloud platform built exclusively for personal injury law. Get inspired by the nation’s top trial lawyers and share in the stories that shape our pursuit of justice. Follow the podcast and join our community at triallawyersjournal.com. Now here’s your host, Editor of TLJ and VP of Marketing at CloudLex, Chad Sands.

Alan Ripka: I was actually in college and, of course, growing up in Queens, my parents wanted me to be a doctor or a dentist. That was the way it was back then. I believed it and believed I wanted to be and needed to be. When I went to college, I majored in pre-med, biochemistry, things of that nature.

Unfortunately, my brother, a week before his high school graduation, went on his graduation ski trip and got killed on Sugarbush Mountain.

Being an idealistic kid, I thought after that—because of how devastated my parents were—that I could help people who had kids or brothers who died in ski accidents by becoming a lawyer, an accident ski attorney. Of course, it’s really no big surprise I changed my course immediately.

I went from going to medical school to going to law school, believing in my cause and thinking I was best suited to speak on behalf of people who couldn’t speak for themselves, or didn’t know how, or didn’t have the license or passion or ability, or the ability to cut out emotion and see things objectively, issue by issue.

Thus, that was the origin of why I became a lawyer. After law school, I was lucky enough to get a position as an assistant district attorney in Kings County. I remember I went through five interviews—it was unbelievable—and there were 32 of us in our class. During training, one of the very experienced attorneys came into our little group and said, “We’ve got this case. Who wants to try it?”

I raised my hand and, as a result of trying that case as a complete newbie, I progressed very quickly through the different divisions at the district attorney’s office. I was trained incredibly well, nonstop, unlike graduating law school and joining a firm where it’s sink or swim.

I served the public, I was trained well, I was constructively taught. People sat through every trial, through every jury selection, and every night we went back to the office to go over what I did right and wrong.

After the district attorney’s office, I went into the private sector in 1992 and have been representing injured parties on the plaintiff’s side ever since. My training, background, passion, and ability to identify issues allowed me to become, luckily for me, the trial lawyer with the trial firm I have today.

Chad Sands: You started out on a path to being a doctor, which is actually what a lot of trial lawyers tell me. I think it’s that innate feeling of wanting to help people. The tragic death of your brother was the catalyst for you going to law school. Was your family able to bring any litigation with that?

Alan Ripka: Yes, there was a case. It’s so long ago that I don’t even remember if it was confidential, but it was a month before my 21st birthday, a week before my brother Robbie’s birthday. He died on February 12th, was buried on February 14th, and his birthday was February 20th when he was going to turn 18.

At that time, mountains were not required to have foam padding around the bars that hold up the ski lifts. He was on the bus going home with the entire graduating class after the trip was over. There was a snowstorm, and a lot of the kids said, “Let’s go out and have one more run since we’re delayed here for hours.”

While going down, a teacher was giving a lesson to a seven- or eight-year-old child who had fallen. Robbie, to avoid the child, turned to the left, which sent him into the ski lift, and he died as a result of the impact.

My parents became involved with a group called Compassionate Friends, which supports people who have lost loved ones—whether from suicide, drug-related issues, criminal acts, or accidents. They attended group meetings for decades in New York, Long Island, and Queens, supporting one another.

There was some litigation and some resolution. At that time, I couldn’t even begin to understand it. From a liability standpoint, it was a difficult case—you sign away all your rights when you acknowledge the dangers and that there’s no foam or padding. But now, many states require safer conditions to the extent possible.

Alan Ripka: Yes, there are many lawyers who believe that if you get a personal injury case and take a third, somehow you can make money and do it well. But that’s the furthest thing from the truth.

There are not many of us left who started young and had incredible training. At the time, we were in courtrooms all day, every day in every county. There was no remote, no Zoom. It was hand-to-hand combat. You had 100 people in a room for a preliminary conference or compliance conference. You waited your turn, sometimes until after lunch.

You learned patience. You heard other cases. You chatted face-to-face with defense lawyers, insurance companies, judges, and judges’ law secretaries.

If you gave public service, you’re a different kind of lawyer. There is no training more unique or intense. You’re thrown into a courtroom with 40 or 50 files on your desk every day, dealing with as many different lawyers and judges who want to move the calendar. You better know what you’re talking about because you’re dealing with people’s lives—someone going to jail or not, a crime victim getting justice or not. You’re in the moment, big time.

What’s made me unique is, first, the reason I became an attorney. That passion resonates with me and doesn’t fade—she’s gone forever.

Because of my public service, what I learned, and the incredible bureau chiefs and assistant bureau chiefs who pushed me, worked me, and criticized me to make me better with their 40 years of experience, I was one of the lucky ones.

We’re all born with different unique qualities. Mine is the ability to break through everything and identify the issue—what’s going on specifically, not generally. What’s not in dispute? Let’s get rid of that and focus only on what is in dispute. Then, figure out what part of that we can come to terms with.

It’s grinding it down until the judge, jury, lawyers, and insurance companies understand exactly what we’re quibbling over. Then it’s, “Okay, now that we’re here, how do we come to an amicable resolution?”

That requires hundreds, if not thousands, of thought patterns, cases, laws, being a boss, being in court, trying cases, losing, winning.

Now, older trial lawyers are retiring or passing away. My generation—30 to 40 years in—is dwindling. And COVID destroyed younger lawyers. From 2020 until now, no one’s gone to court. If you graduated law school or had three to five years of experience, you got stalled.

In my opinion, you need 15 years before you even have a scintilla of knowledge, and at least 50 trials before you can teach anyone anything. That’s what makes me unique—not because I’m better, but because I had the education, experience, resources, and drive to move forward.

Chad Sands: You talked about how you’re able to identify what is really the issue that everyone’s disagreeing on, and then get everybody to accept that and discuss it. Do you remember in your career when you started figuring that out as your strategy and putting it into play in trial?

Alan Ripka: Yes. I was in front of Judge Jed Rakoff, one of the best judges on the federal bench. I was a young lawyer with a massively difficult case. A cab driver I represented was on one side of the street in the Bronx, and a mail truck was on the other side. The mail truck went over the double yellow line and basically rolled over the cab, causing massive catastrophic injuries.

When you bring a case against the federal government, it’s judge-only—no jury. It’s called the Federal Tort Claims Act, and Judge Rakoff was the judge. We put the case in, and one night at about six o’clock, we had both rested—finished presenting our cases. We were folding up our papers to leave when Judge Rakoff said, “Mr. Ripka, where are you going?”

I said, “The defense rested, Judge. There’s no more evidence. I think we’ll sum up tonight.” We stood there, I looked at the defense attorney, and he looked back at me. I said, “Okay.”

I started my summation, talking about an orthopedic surgeon who had testified a couple of days earlier. He was a strong, well-known doctor—the head of a hospital in New York. I described his testimony about the broken bones, the inability to walk, and all the horrific injuries.

Judge Rakoff stopped me and said, “Don’t you think that guy was full of himself? Don’t you think he thought he was greater than God?”

At that moment, I realized something. I said, “You’re absolutely right. Doesn’t every orthopedic surgeon think they’re the best? They’re verbose, they’re this and that—I agree with you, Judge. But does it mean he wasn’t telling the truth? Does it mean he didn’t describe the injuries accurately? Yes, there was a lot of noise in between, but let’s focus on where he brought us to.”

In my head, I told myself: “Alan, give in to what you need to give in to. Bring the issue down to what it is—the injury. Get rid of everything else. Admit when you’re wrong, fight when you’re right.”

That moment stuck with me forever. I realized the best thing in litigation is to tell the defense, the jurors, and the judges when the facts or law aren’t on your side—but then tell them why your interpretation still leads to your position. Tell them why you’re willing to compromise when you don’t have the best case. Walk them through the issues, and that’s where it all began.

Alan Ripka: I was an assistant DA for almost four years. I had been an intern in the office for two years—1988 and 1989—and got the job in ’89. I was lucky that my first case was one I love telling the story about.

In the DA’s office, if you’re a felony attorney, you know there are violations, misdemeanors, and felonies. This case involved a man who had been with his girlfriend for about seven years. They lived together, were both hardworking people in Brooklyn, and were going out for their anniversary.

The man pulled up in front of a McDonald’s, got out of the car, and went around to his girlfriend’s side. She refused to get out, saying, “We’re not going to McDonald’s for our anniversary—you’re out of your mind.” An argument ensued, and he reached through her open window, grabbed her face, and, while wearing one of those large lion rings with emeralds or stones for eyes, struck her in the eye, blinding her.

He was arrested for assault, and the case was written up as a felony because of the serious injury. But the prosecutor handling it realized they might not be able to prove intent—there was no history of domestic violence, no criminal record. You have to show someone meant to cause the injury.

The case came down to us newbies, and they asked, “Who wants to try this case?”—thinking it might get lost. I raised my hand. My classmates were watching because it was like a fraternity or sorority—we supported each other and were curious about each other’s cases.

When the defendant took the stand to say he didn’t mean to do it, I thought: How do I get the jury to believe me? How do I get this woman justice? It doesn’t matter who’s watching or if the bureau chief is analyzing you—just do what you believe is right.

I asked him about the lion ring:
“Did you get that as a gift?” — “Yes, my dad gave it to me.”
“You love it?” — “Yes.”
“You wear it every day?” — “Yes.”
“You see it on your hand when you’re driving?” — “Yes.”
“You don’t take it off to shower or shave?” — “No.”
“It’s a part of you?” — “Yes.”
“If someone took it from you, you’d be angry?” — “Yes, no one’s ever taken it from me.”
“You admire it every day?” — “Yes.”

“Thank you. No further questions.”

In my summation, I told the jury: “He knew he had a weapon on his hand. He knew that ring could hit her cheek, her nose…

Chad Sands: I kind of squeezed two ADA stories out of you real quick, but let’s get to—you talked about your brother’s case obviously, and I know it’s hard to choose one—but can you share a story from your post-ADA years about a case that had a significant impact on you?

Alan Ripka: Oftentimes, when you do what we do, it’s the person you meet, the injury they have, and the impact on their life. When you get to know them, that’s what stays with you. I can say this now, 36 years later—looking back, you think about what affected you and what didn’t, how much of it was my job, how much was my soul, how much was I born to do?

Of course, it’s a business and you’re a professional, and you prosecute every case you’re lucky enough to get to help people at all times. I treat them equally. Some people think that’s my weakness because I’ll take a case that may not have a big injury or high value and still get on the phone and treat it like it did.

There’s one in particular—a man in New York was working under an elevator, fixing it. By accident, the person he was working with hit a switch that caused the elevator to fall and cut off his arm. He later told me how, while he was under there, he tried to reach for his phone to call for help—not realizing he was reaching with the arm he no longer had.

People told me there was no case because it was a workers’ compensation matter—it happened while he was working. But I got to know him well and spent countless nights reading cases and laws.

What’s interesting is that on March 13, 2020—a Friday in Brooklyn—I stood up before a jury to give my opening statement for that case. The courtroom was packed. I probably had 50 blow-ups, models, witnesses lined up. I don’t even want to think about what it cost to prepare—elevator experts, amputee experts, neurological experts.

I stood up, and the judge said, “Mr. Ripka, have a seat.” I said, “Judge, I’ve never delivered an opening statement sitting down.” Everyone chuckled, and he said, “You never will have to. I just got a text from the chief judge to abandon the courthouse because of some kind of disease—this COVID thing.”

I looked at my client—he was in complete shock. He had waited so long, and now all the money, preparation, and anticipation was on hold. We packed everything up and had to wait another two years before continuing. That case was finally resolved two years later, and it had a massive impact on me because of what we both went through.

But many amputation cases, children’s cases, death cases, cancer cases—they’re hard because I can’t separate myself from the victim and family. To do my best, I need to be one with them. We need to be a team. I need to understand them—who they are, what they’ve been through—and if you have even half a heart, you can’t help but feel what they feel.

I’ve learned to embrace that and bring it into my opening, cross, and closing statements. Juries see it. They feel it. And that gives clients their best chance to be heard—it’s their voice, not mine.

Lawyers think jurors want to hear about the lawyer—what they look like, how they sound. It’s none of that. If you think it is, you haven’t been around long enough or haven’t been slapped across the face—figuratively—by smart judges and jurors who tell you, “We could care less about you.”

You have to step out of who you are and be your client. Deliver why you’re there and why they deserve compensation. And compensation is the only thing our society has to make up, if possible, for what they’ve endured.

I represent people in the military under the Stayskal Act. For 100 years, active military couldn’t bring medical malpractice claims—at all. That changed in 2020. I now represent those people, bringing cases against the Department of Defense.

This is an exception to the Feres Doctrine. It’s brand new territory. Imagine—military doctors and hospitals have never had to turn over medical records to a lawyer representing an active-duty member. They have for civilians, but never military personnel.

And the cases are heartbreaking—misdiagnosed cancer, training injuries ignored, suicides after denied mental health care. These are the same cases we see in civilian life, but the dynamic is unique. We’re asking the very institution these people serve to compensate them for harm caused by its own healthcare providers.

The law is named after my client, Richard Stayskal. He was preparing for underwater training, got a chest CT scan that was supposedly clear, but later failed the training. A follow-up scan revealed a large lung cancer tumor. Comparing the two scans, you could see the earlier one had a peanut-sized tumor they missed.

That case inspired the Stayskal Act, signed into law by Donald Trump on December 20, 2019, allowing uniformed service members to bring medical malpractice claims.

The process isn’t like other federal cases—there’s no court, no judge. You submit affidavits, records, and evidence to a panel representing the Army, Navy, or Air Force. They get to see our experts’ affidavits, but we can’t see theirs, and they decide if you have a case and how much it’s worth. Pain and suffering is capped at $750,000, but economic damages have no cap.

We’ve had denials, but we keep fighting every day for these people.

Chad Sands: The Stayskal Act came directly from your client matter and case?

Alan Ripka: Yes, Richard Stayskal is from my law firm. That’s correct.

Chad Sands: And you even have the official Donald Trump–signed law in your office.

Alan Ripka: That’s right—signed with that black marker of his. To me, whenever victims have the ability to make a claim, I’m happy. Whether or not they’re right is a different story. You need two things: someone responsible for your injury, and an injury caused by that person. Not every injury meets that.

When you’re experienced, you can explain that with both sophistication and compassion—helping people understand why the law is what it is. And I think they want to hear it from someone who’s been around and isn’t feeding them a line just to get them out the door.

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Now here is this episode’s “closing argument.”

Alan Ripka: Being a trial lawyer was the greatest gift I could have ever been given by God and my family. My greatest skill is speaking on behalf of people who can’t speak for themselves—who lack the know-how, license, or training to do so. Standing in their shoes is a privilege.

We’re no better than our clients. We share the same interests—one of us just happens to have the ability to speak for the other. From the beginning, I wanted to be sure no one was left behind, that I did all I could, whether I could afford it or not, whether I was tired or not.

That means no sleeping on the job, no breaks—you’re on 24/7. You leave birthdays, weddings, and events when you must. You’re in court first and out last. You review transcripts, watch videos, rewrite cross-exams and closings until you’ve memorized them.

It’s that commitment to others. Yes, we’re compensated, but it takes enormous resources, financial commitment, and management responsibility to bring a case from intake to the finish line. Every ounce of energy, every bit of education, should go into it.

You should be proud—like I am—that you’ve done all possible for all people, whether it’s injured clients, being logical and wise in court, or teaching young lawyers how to care as much as you do.

Chad Sands: That was trial lawyer Alan Ripka. Thanks for sharing your stories. To learn more about Alan and his firm, visit alanripka.com. I’m Chad Sands—thanks for listening. See you next time.

Narrator: You’ve been listening to “Celebrating Justice” presented by CloudLex and the Trial Lawyers Journal. The stories don’t end here—visit triallawyersjournal.com to join our community and keep the conversation going. And for a deeper dive into the tools that empower personal injury law firms, visit cloudlex.com/TLJ to learn more.