One after another, companies are leaving California.

Chevron, Tesla, Oracle and others have already moved their headquarters to other states. And all have cited an unfriendly business environment.

High taxes and onerous regulation are big parts of that story, but there’s something else that chases away big employers, too: California’s legal environment.

The Golden State is a troubling example of what happens when workplace litigation becomes an industry unto itself. In August alone, roughly 225 California workplace disputes reportedly settled for a combined $157 million.

Some of these cases undoubtedly involved workers who had been genuinely wronged and were entitled to compensation.

But over the years, an enormous cottage industry has grown from workplace lawsuits and employment claims, in part because many employers acknowledge even claims with little merit can cost vast sums to defend.

Sometimes paying a settlement is cheaper than proving you did nothing wrong.

Such litigation creates a dangerous incentive. It raises questions that receive far less attention than the size of the settlements: What obligation does a lawyer have to determine not merely whether a workplace claim can be brought, but whether it should be? When did being a good lawyer become primarily about what you can do rather than what you should do?

Law schools still teach ethics. There are courses, professional codes and elaborate rules governing what attorneys may and may not do. But rules are not morality, and somewhere along the way, too many have confused the two.

When a potential client walks into a lawyer’s office angry at a former employer, how often does the lawyer begin with the most important question: “What actually happened?” And how often does the conversation become: “What can we turn this into?”

An employee leaves angry. Maybe she didn’t receive the promotion she wanted. Maybe he was fired for poor performance. Maybe it just wasn’t a good fit.

Then a lawyer enters the picture.

A workplace disagreement can become employer retaliation. An offensive comment can become harassment — and a lawsuit. Real harassment and discrimination exist. People who have been mistreated are entitled to have their story heard. That is precisely why dishonest claims should offend everyone.

Every manufactured accusation diminishes a legitimate one. Every lawyer who knowingly stretches the truth makes it harder for the next person who walks through the door with a real injustice.

And the damage extends far beyond the courtroom: Businesses don’t have bottomless bank accounts. Their revenue hires the next employee. It pays for health insurance; it gives a young person an internship.

When that money disappears into unnecessary litigation, somebody pays: The honest, hardworking secretary who earned a bonus may never get it because the business had to pay a settlement instead; the employee who was never hired will never know why.

The moral obligation to resist this temptation is biblical. Exodus 23:7 commands: “Keep far from a false charge.”

American history contains a remarkable example of a lawyer who understood this: In 1770, British soldiers fired into a crowd in Boston, killing five colonists. John Adams opposed British policies. The dead were his fellow colonists. The soldiers represented the government he opposed. But Adams did something extraordinary: Because he believed in due process, he defended the British soldiers. His friends, political sympathies and financial interests were on one side. Justice was on the other. Adams chose justice.

He endured intense criticism and financial loss but later described his defense as one of the most “disinterested” actions of his life and one of the best services he ever rendered to his country. More than 250 years later, we remember him not because defending those soldiers was popular. We remember him because what he did was moral.

That is what our law schools should teach. Teach students the rules, certainly. Teach them procedure. Teach them how to construct an argument and how to dismantle one. But teach them something more important: Teach them winning and justice are not synonyms.

California desperately needs lawyers who will fight ferociously for people who have truly been wronged. But it also needs lawyers with enough character to look at a potentially lucrative case and say: I could make money from this; I might even win; But it is not just.

Rules can be interpreted. Loopholes can be found. Words can be manipulated. Ultimately, justice depends upon the character of the people entrusted to administer it.

Someday our children will inherit the legal culture we create. They will inherit either a system in which law has become a weapon for extracting whatever one can get, or one still governed by men and women capable of placing truth above tribe, above money and even above victory.

John Adams made his choice. Every lawyer eventually makes the same one. And when that moment comes, the most important question will not be, “Can I win?” It will be: “Is it just?”

California is imploding in part due to this legal environment. 

But if more learned from these consequences of turning away from morality, the state’s businesses and workers would be better for it.

Marissa Streit is CEO of PragerU and host of Real Talk.

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