Spain's State Lawyer exam: 464 topics and 10kg lost

Spain's State Lawyer exam: 464 topics and 10kg lost

Álvaro Melón passed the competitive exams for Abogado del Estado (a high-level legal civil service position in Spain) on his first attempt, ranking number one in his cohort after two years and three months. He began his preparation in Foz on September 2, 2020, and by December 2, 2022, he was a civil servant at age 25. In between, he tackled a syllabus of 464 topics covering all legal areas, five qualifying exams, and two ten-hour practical cases. "I lost ten kilos during the nine months of exams," he noted. The news, published in October 2024, sparked a debate that goes far beyond academic records: is this the meritocracy Spain claims to promote, or the reproduction of a privileged caste?

What the State Lawyer exams require

The sheer scale of the syllabus is the first barrier. The 464 topics exceed the judicial (328) and notary (348) syllabi by more than a hundred units. It is not recommended to tackle them all at once: "It is advised to print the topics gradually, because if you see them all together, you might not continue," Melón explained. He set a strict goal for himself: "I wanted to ensure no topic could alucinación me up, even the ones I disliked."

The exams are equally demanding. There are five qualifying stages: two oral exams consisting of seven topics each, chosen by lottery, with a 65-minute presentation; a double language test (English or French is mandatory, with another EU language being optional); and two practical cases with a maximum duration of ten hours. "There is usually not a minute to spare," he said. "The tension is so high that it keeps you going." Nine months pass between the first and the last exam.

The average time to secure this position is at least five years. Melón achieved it in two years and three months. His recipe is straightforward: "You don't just pass the exam on the day of the test, but from the very first day you start studying until the last." He adds mental discipline, tranquility, and the ability to stay calm. He also shared a confession: "During the week, I went running after studying. I covered many kilometers, but I haven't run since then."

His father was also a State Lawyer

Melón speaks seven languages, studied a double degree in Law and Political Science at the Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, and earned 30 honors out of 40 possible. His father is an Abogado del Estado, but he refused to let him prepare him: "Preparation requires great objectivity, and family relationships can cloud it. A father can be too good or too bad in these situations." He relied on three tutors, one in Logroño and two in Pamplona, and took about four weeks of vacation per year.

That detail—the father being in the same corps and the use of three tutors—is what ignited the debate. Some argue that these competitive exams are the last bastion of equality: the tribunal does not know who you are, only what you recite. Others counter that formal equality does not compensate for unequal starting points: in a home where books, languages, study abroad, and a professional role model are abundant, the starting line is not the same as for someone who helps their father unload construction materials in the morning.

Economic cost is another factor. A tutor for the Abogacía del Estado (State Legal Service) costs around 150 euros per month; for notaries, the tradition is to charge nothing. However, some estimate the total expenditure for an exam of this caliber—multiple tutors, years without income, travel—at tens of thousands of euros. The uncomfortable question remains: how many brilliant candidates are left behind, not due to lack of ability, but due to lack of family support?

Is there favoritism in such high-level state exams?

No. Or at least not in the vulgar sense of the term. In high-level state exams—State Lawyers, judges, notaries, registrars, tax inspectors—favoritism does not exist as such: the candidate faces a tribunal that only hears them recite randomized topics. However, the ecosystem surrounding the exam is different. Some tutors market themselves with the argument that they know the examiners and that the tribunal will know who is preparing them. That doesn't buy the position, but it buys information, methods, and contacts.

The underlying suspicion is not that someone passes without knowing the material, but that the system rewards those who already had a path laid out at home. Furthermore, once inside, the "revolving door" to the private sector is wide open: leaves of absence to join major law firms or the banking sector, carrying with them both professional contacts and administrative expertise.

The Spain that studies for exams while the country debates

Melón's case aligns with a deeper trend discussed in economic forums: the feeling that young Spanish talent has only two exits, emigrating or becoming a civil servant. As news of selection processes with hundreds of candidates for few positions multiplies, elite competitive exams are presented as the last refuge of stability. It is no coincidence that these stories spark such conversation: they touch upon the core of meritocracy in a country where social mobility is struggling.

The unsettling detail is not that Melón passed with a brilliant record. It is that, despite 464 topics, five qualifying exams, and two ten-hour practical cases, the system continues to produce headlines of individual triumph instead of asking how many like him were left behind because they lacked three tutors, a father in the corps, and two years of financial security.