One L by Scott Turow Read Free Book Online Page A

‘unprepared’ means. Now and then, of course, there are personal problems—we all have them at times—which make full preparation impossible. If that is the case, then I want a written note to be handed to my secretary at least two hours before class. You can find her on the second floor of the Faculty Office Building in room two eighty-one.”
    I wrote it all down in my notebook: “No absence. No pass. No unprepared. Note to sec’ty 2 hrs. b-4 class, FOB 281.”
    Holy Christ, I thought.
    As expected, Perini told us to read nothing aside from class assignments for the first few months—not even “a certain hornbook” we might have heard of. For the present, he assured us, we would have our hands full. Then he described the course in some detail. In that discussion too, Perini maintained that tone of barely veiled menace. We may have been Phi Beta Kappas and valedictorians, but this was Harvard Law School now—things would not be easy.
    There were moments when I was certain that Perini was only half serious. There was such obvious showmanship in all of this, the deliberateness of the gestures, the archness of his smile. It was almost a parody of the legendary tough professor, of the Perini of rumor. But if it was an act, it was one which he was determined would be compelling. He revealed no more than a trace of irony and there were often moments, as when he had looked up at us, that he seemed full of steel.
    As he went on describing the subjects with which we would soon be dealing—offer, acceptance, interpretation; the list was extensive—I began to think that, like Mann, he would let the hour slip away. No one would be called and we’d all be safe for one more day. But at six or seven minutes to twelve he returned to the lectern and looked down at the seating chart.
    â€œLet’s see if we can cover a little ground today.” Perini took a pencil from his pocket and pointed it at the chart. It might as well have been a pistol. Please, no, I thought.
    â€œMr. Karlin!” Perini cried sharply.
    Nearby, I heard a tremendous thud. Five or six seats from me a man was scrambling to grab hold of the books that had been piled before him, two or three of which had now hit the floor. That, I was sure, was Karlin who had jolted when he heard his name called. He was a heavyset man, pale, with black eyeglasses. He was wearing a yarmulke. His eyes, as he struggled with his books, were quick with fright, and at once I felt terribly sorry for him and guilty at my own relief.
    â€œMr. Karlin,” Perini said, ambling toward my side of the room, “why don’t you tell us about the case of Hurley v. Eddingfield ?”
    Karlin already had his notebook open. His voice was quavering.
    â€œPlaintiff’s intestate,” he began. He got no further.
    â€œWhat does that mean?” Perini cried from across the room. He began marching fiercely up the aisle toward Karlin. “In- tes -tate,” he said, “in-tes-tate. What is that? Something to do with the stomach? Is this an anatomy class, Mr. Karlin?” Perini’s voice had become shrill with a note of open mockery and at the last word people burst out laughing, louder than at anything Perini had said before.
    He was only five or six feet from Karlin now. Karlin stared up at him and blinked and finally said, “No.”
    â€œNo, I didn’t think so,” Perini said. “What if the word was ‘testate’? What would that be? Would we have moved from the stomach”—Perini waved a hand and there was more loud laughter when he leeringly asked his question—“ else where?”
    â€œI think,” Karlin said weakly, “that if the word was ‘testate’ it would mean he had a will.”
    â€œAnd ‘intestate’ that he didn’t have a will. I see.” Perini wagged his head. “And who is this ‘he,’ Mr. Karlin?”
    Karlin was