Testing Kate (2 page)

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. So you’re a One-L too? I don’t remember seeing you at orientation,” he said.

“I wasn’t there. My U-Haul truck broke down in Pennsylvania. I spent three days outside Pittsburgh waiting for a replacement,” I said.

“You didn’t miss much,” he said. “They made us wear name tags.”

“Yeah, but now everyone knows everyone else,” I said. “Except for me.”

“You know me.”

“No, I don’t, actually.”

“That we can remedy immediately. I’m Nick Crosby,” he said.

“Hi, Nick. I’m Kate. Kate Bennett,” I said. I sniffed again as the burned-toast aroma became even stronger. “What is that smell?”

“What smell?”

“You don’t smell that? It smells like burned toast.”

“Maybe someone burned some toast,” Nick suggested.

“I don’t think so. I smelled it earlier, when I was leaving my apartment. Unless people are burning toast all over the city, all at once,” I said.

“Did you know that carob trees smell like semen?” Nick said.

I blinked. “What?”

“I thought we were having a conversation about things that smell weird.”

“No. Just the one smell,” I said.

“Right, sorry. So what classes do you have today?”

I consulted the slip of paper the school had sent me over the summer. “This morning I have Criminal Law with Hoffman. And then Torts with Professor Gupta,” I said.

“Excellent. We must be in the same section,” Nick said. When I looked at him questioningly, he explained. “They break the One-Ls into four sections. Each section has all of their classes together.”

“Just like at Hogwarts in the Harry Potter books,” I said.

Nick laughed. “Minus the magic and all of the other cool stuff. Come on, we’d better get in there.”

We walked up the steps, and then Nick held a glass door open for me, and I stepped inside. The ground-floor corridor of the law school was bustling with students standing around in groups or winding their way through the crowd en route to class. Up ahead, to the left, there was a student lounge furnished with green upholstered chairs and couches and lined with glowing vending machines that spat out soda cans with a loud clatter.

“We have mailboxes in there,” Nick told me, pointing to the lounge. “Only they’re not really boxes, they’re hanging folders; but, whatever, they call them mailboxes. The Powers That Be have ordered us to check them once a day.”

“You see, you did learn something at orientation. Did I miss anything else?” I asked.

“No, not really. They gave us a tour of the building, told us what to expect at lectures, stuff like that. Mostly it was just a chance for people to meet and settle into cliques at the earliest possible point,” Nick said.

“Oh, good. That makes me feel better,” I said, rolling my eyes.

We turned left and walked to the end of a locker-lined hall, where even more students were milling around, some of them shoving heavy legal books into the lockers before slamming them shut. The hollow metallic clang reminded me of high school. The law school smelled like a high school too, that unmistakable bouquet of tuna fish sandwiches, new sneakers, and freshly shampooed hair.

“Do we have lockers assigned to us?” I asked.

“Yeah, but to get one you have to fill out paperwork at the reception desk we just passed back there,” Nick said. “Give the Powers That Be your student ID, take a blood oath that you won’t deal drugs out of it, promise them your firstborn, and they’ll give you your combination.”

When I laughed, the tangle of nerves in my stomach loosened.

Directly ahead of us was a set of heavy wooden doors. Just through it was a large, sunken lecture hall, so that when we stood at the doors, we were at the highest point in the room, looking down. At the front of the hall, a wooden lectern sat on a slightly raised platform. Long tables were bolted into the floor across the center of the room, set up in a stadium style, so that each was on lower level than the one behind it. There were two sets of staircase corridors—the one where I was standing, and another to the right of the long tables. The room was already half filled with our new classmates sitting in green upholstered task chairs lined up behind the tables. Their voices, buzzing with excitement and anxiety, echoed around us. The chic dark-haired girl I’d seen earlier was there, I noticed, along with her skinny companion with the nose ring.

“Do you want to sit here?” Nick asked, gesturing to one of the shorter tables just to our left, which was still empty.

“Sure,” I said. We sat down, and I got out a yellow lined legal pad and a pen. Nick unzipped his black messenger bag and pulled out a thick brown textbook with gold lettering on its face: C
RIMINAL
L
AW
, 8
TH
E
DITION
, A
LAN
M. H
OFSTEADER
.

“You already got your textbook?” I asked him.

Nick’s eyebrows arched. “You didn’t?”

“No, I just got into town on Saturday, and since then I’ve been unpacking and getting groceries and things. I figured I’d just go the bookstore today after class,” I said, trying to keep the shrill edge of panic out of my voice.

Nick nodded. “That must have been your U-Haul parked in front of the house on Saturday. I saw it when I came back from the library.”

“The library…you mean you’ve already started studying?”

“Yeah, we had a reading assignment for class today.”

“What?”

“That’s right—you weren’t at orientation. They posted the first class assignments over by the student lounge. This class was the worst. We had two chapters to read, and the cases were unbelievably boring. I thought Crim Law would have been the most interesting assignment, but apparently not,” Nick said.

“Oh, no,” I said, slumping forward. “I’m already behind. Stupid U-Haul…”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you won’t get called on. What are the odds? There must be over a hundred students in here,” Nick said.

“Called on? He’s going to start
calling
on people today?” I asked, and when Nick nodded, my stomach did that dropping thing where it feels like you’re falling off a tall building. I
never
thought the professors would be calling on us on the first day of classes.

“Hoffman is supposed to be the worst of the worst when it comes to humiliating students in class. The upperclassmen call him Professor Satan. Actually, I think that’s him there,” Nick said, nodding at the back of a man cutting through the students.

I turned and saw a middle-aged man making his way down the stairs. He led with his crotch as he walked, and the fluorescent lights shone on his pate. He reached the front of the room, stepped up on the platform, and turned to face us. From where I sat, he didn’t look outwardly satanic. Just your average academic type. He wore the hair he had left a bit too long, and his blue oxford shirt was rumpled. His pants were low on his hips to accommodate his stomach paunch. The professor crossed his arms and leaned forward against his lectern, looking blandly disinterested as he waited for the noise level to drop to a nervous buzz before finally tapering off. When silence stretched across the room, he continued to stare back at us for a few uncomfortable moments.

“This is Introductory Criminal Law. I am Professor Hoffman. If you are in the wrong place, please leave. For those of you who are in the right place, I’m going to go over the ground rules. First, do not be late to my class. We will begin promptly at nine a.m. on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

“I will be passing around a seating chart. The seat you are now sitting in will be your seat for the remainder of the semester. Locate your seat on the chart and fill in your name in large block letters.

“My system for calling on students is as follows: Everyone will be called on at least once over the course of the semester. If you volunteer to answer a question during class, you will inoculate yourself from being called on for the rest of that week.

“Office hours are Wednesdays from two to four p.m. Do not bother me at any other time, including before and after lectures. And do not waste my time during office hours by asking questions that were addressed during the lecture. If you attempt to do so, I will not be pleased. And I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, you do not want to displease me. Any questions? Good. Open your casebooks to chapter one,” Hoffman said. His biting voice had just the faintest trace of a Northeastern accent. Connecticut? I wondered. Rhode Island, maybe.

Nick opened his book and moved it between us on the table so that I could share it with him. I shot him a grateful look and began speed-reading through the introductory paragraphs of the chapter, praying that I wouldn’t be called on.

“Ms. Bennett, I don’t like to be kept waiting,” Hoffman snapped. “Stand up now.”

Finally my legs obeyed me, and as I stood shakily, my chair rolled backward, turning as it went, so that the hard, curved plastic of the armrest was pressing into my right thigh. My hands shook slightly as I clasped and then unclasped them, and I tried to resist the urge to wipe my slick palms on the front of my skirt. Nick gave me a tight-lipped smile of encouragement and pushed his book even closer to me.

“Define
mens rea,
” Professor Hoffman said. He continued to stare at me blandly, with eyes that were light and flat, like a shark’s.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “My moving van broke down, and so I missed orientation and I didn’t know there was a reading assignment due today. I’m sorry. I’ll be prepared next time.”

I started to sit down.

“I didn’t tell you to sit. I asked you to define the term
mens rea
for the class,” Hoffman said.

My mouth went dry and my throat was so scratchy, it felt like I’d swallowed a handful of sand. He wasn’t going to let me off the hook, I realized. He was going to make an example out of me in front of everyone. I slowly stood back up, my legs shaky.

“Um…I don’t know. I’ll have to pass,” I said lamely. I crossed my arms in front of me, pressing my elbows down so that no one would be able to see my sweaty armpits.

“I don’t allow passing in my class,” Hoffman said.

Mens rea, mens rea,
I thought wildly. I’d watched every episode of
Law & Order
at least three times. Hadn’t Assistant District Attorney Jack McCoy used that term during that episode with the teenager who’d killed his friend? It had something to do with…

“Is that…does that mean…the mental state of a…um, criminal…person?” I asked, stumbling over the words.

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Hoffman asked.

Asshole, I thought, biting down so hard, the muscles in my jaw twinged.

“
Mens rea
refers to the, um, mental state of a criminal,” I said loudly.

“And why is that important?”

“Because a person’s intent when they commit a crime is important for…um…determining…um…what kind of a crime…it is,” I said, hoping that that made sense. I had a feeling that Jack McCoy had been more eloquent when he was explaining it to the police detectives.

“And what are the four levels of criminal intent under the Model Penal Code?” Hoffman asked.

Four levels? I didn’t have the slightest fucking clue.
Law & Order
wasn’t going to save me now.

“Ms. Bennett?” Hoffman said.

I shook my head. “I don’t know,” I mumbled.

Hoffman strode to the whiteboard behind his lectern, picked up a black Magic Marker, and began writing: PURPOSELY, KNOWINGLY, RECKLESSLY, NEGLIGENTLY. Then he drew a line under the four words, and below the line wrote: STRICT LIABILITY.

“This is a basic concept of criminal law,” Hoffman said, pointing to the board with the uncapped marker. “Your inability to answer does not bode well for how you’ll do in my class. I gather it would be a waste of everyone’s time to ask you for a summary of
Staples v. U.S.
?”

Somehow his bland, sneering tone was worse than if he’d yelled at me.

“Yes,” I said in a small voice.

“You can sit down now. And don’t come to my class unprepared ever again,” Hoffman said.

I reached behind me for my chair, sat down shakily, and edged it back toward the table. Resting my hands on my forehead, I stared at Nick’s casebook, but the words on the pages didn’t make any sense. They just floated around, an impenetrable sea of tiny type.

“That wasn’t so bad. Could have been a lot worse. At least you were able to answer a few of his questions,” Nick whispered. His breath was warm on my ear and smelled like mint toothpaste.

I just shook my head at him and tried to focus on the casebook. If that was how Hoffman treated a student who was unprepared, I could only imagine how he’d deal with our whispering in the middle of a lecture. I certainly wasn’t about to find out.

Chapter Two

I
was in the back of the student-union bookstore, where the law textbooks were shelved, when a giggling female voice from the other side of the stacks said, “I heard Professor Hoffman made a One-L cry in class today.”

I clutched a Torts textbook up to my chest, holding it like a shield, and crouched down before they could see me.

“He did! She was in my class. It was awful; she practically broke down right in the middle of the lecture,” her friend replied.

“I’m so glad I didn’t end up with him. I heard he’s the hardest professor in the whole damned school,” the first woman said. “You want to go get a coffee?”

“Sure. I just have to buy my Contracts book.”

Great, I thought. I slid down a little farther, until I was sitting on the ground, leaning against the book stacks, hoping they’d leave without seeing me. And as if it wasn’t bad enough that they were gossiping about me, they didn’t even have their facts straight. I hadn’t broken down. I’d spent the remaining hour of class staring down at Nick’s textbook. Only after Hoffman had finished—ending his lecture with the menacing warning, “I expect everyone will be prepared for Wednesday’s lecture. No excuses this time”—did I pack up my supplies and hurry out of the lecture hall. I heard Nick call out to me, but I didn’t stop.

Now, sitting on the cold floor in the back of the bookstore, I sighed and rested my forehead against my bent knees, closing my eyes against the series of mortifying events that had been my day thus far. A little bit of bad luck was one thing, but this was turning into an epidemic.

“I surrender. Just make it stop,” I muttered into my knees.

“It really wasn’t that bad,” a voice said.

I opened my eyes. Two thin denim-clad legs were standing in front of me. I tilted my head back, looked up, and saw that it was the
Pulp Fiction
girl. She was peering down at me, her slanting eyes sympathetic.

“Really. In a few weeks, no one will even remember,” she said.

“Do you mean the part where I came to school with a maxipad stuck to my skirt, or the part where the professor called me a simpleminded moron in front of the whole class?” I asked.

She laughed. “He didn’t say that,” she said.

“He implied it,” I said darkly.

She reached down, holding out her hand to help me up. “It’s safe to get up now. Those girls who were talking about you left. Besides, I can see your underwear.” She pointed down at my skirt, which was now gaping open, thanks to my bent knees.

“Of course you can,” I said, accepting the proffered hand as I stood. “Thanks.”

“No problem. I’m Lexi, by the way. Lexi Vandenberg.”

“Kate,” I said.

“I know,” Lexi said. She grinned impishly. “Kate Bennett. You’re infamous.”

Lexi waited for me as I paid for my textbooks, which weighed a ton and looked like they’d burst out of the overstuffed plastic shopping bags at any minute. Together we walked out of the student union and across the outdoor patio.

“Hey, you guys! Over here!”

Nick was sitting on one of the benches that flanked the patio. With him was the spiky-haired guy I’d seen with Lexi earlier. A second woman, who had a long tangle of burnished red hair falling around her shoulders, was sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of them, leaning back on one hand and holding a cigarette in the other.

“Hey, Add,” Lexi called out. “Come on, you have to meet Addison. He’s hysterical. Oh, and that’s Jen with them. She’s in our section too.”

“Is Addison your boyfriend?” I asked.

Lexi let out a snort of laughter.

“As if,” she said. When I looked at her questioningly, she said, “Wait until you meet him. Add’s a riot, but he’s not exactly boyfriend material.”

“We were just talking about what a dick Hoffman is,” Nick said, once we reached them. I dropped the heavy bags on the ground, grateful for the rest. My arms felt like they were being stretched out from the weight.

“
Such
a dick,” the redhead said. She was big-boned, with the wide shoulders of an athlete, and her pale white skin was sprayed with freckles. “I used to work for a law firm in town as a paralegal, and the lawyers there said that Hoffman has a horrible reputation. Total egomaniac. Oh, I’m Jen, by the way,” she added, smiling at me. There was a slight gap between her two front teeth and a dimple in her right cheek.

“And that’s Addison,” Lexi said, nodding to the spikyhaired guy.

“Hi.” I sat down awkwardly on the bench next to Nick, scooting forward so that I could see everyone. Addison looked different somehow. “Weren’t you wearing a nose ring earlier?” I asked him.

“It’s a clip-on,” Addison said, holding the gold ring up. “I was hoping it would keep me from getting called on.”

“How so?”

“I thought facial piercings might intimidate the professors,” Addison said, grinning affably. He had a narrow face and a long beaky nose, and wore black-plastic-framed glasses.

“So why didn’t you just get your nose pierced?” Nick asked.

“Because that would really fucking hurt,” Addison said.

“Better that than being called on,” I said, sighing. “Trust me.”

“I heard that Hoffman married one of his students,” Addison said.

Jen snorted. “I find that hard to believe. Who would find that man attractive?”

“Someone who’s into S&M?” Nick guessed. “Only instead of being into handcuffs and leather, she gets her jollies by having a middle-aged dork scream at her.”

At this everyone laughed, and I could feel my shoulders relax.

“I can’t believe I was the first one to get called on,” I said. “It was like that dream where you’re walking around in your underwear.”

“I love that dream,” Addison said.

“I totally know what you mean,” Jen said, ignoring Addison. “I was white-knuckling it the whole time, praying he wouldn’t call on me next. And the guy he called on after you—What was his name? Mr. Sobel?—he didn’t do any better.”

“At least he’d read the case,” I said.

“Yeah, but he was so nervous he was stuttering,” she said.

“Where are you from, Kate?” Lexi asked.

“I grew up outside of Albany, New York, in Saratoga Springs. But for the past ten years, I’ve been in Ithaca,” I said. “I went to school at Cornell, and then after I graduated, I worked in the admissions office.”

“Married? Boyfriend? Any dark secrets?” Lexi continued.

I shook my head. “Nope. None of the above,” I said, and tried not to feel guilty about the ease with which I was able to push Graham aside. It wasn’t like I was lying. He wasn’t my boyfriend any longer.

“So, we’re all single. Except for Jen; she’s married,” Lexi said. Jen nodded at this, and for the first time I noticed the wide gold wedding band etched with interlocking circles on her finger.

“And we all did something else before coming back to law school,” Lexi continued. “None of us came here straight from college.”

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“I went to NYU and then worked for Bloomingdale’s in their PR department,” Lexi said. She tucked a shiny tendril of blue-black hair behind her ear and smiled. Her teeth were very white and straight. It was as if every last detail on her person had been polished. I suddenly realized that Lexi wasn’t quite as pretty as I’d originally thought when all I’d seen were glossy hair, slanted eyes, and a slim figure. Her nose was a little too sharp and her lips were too thin.

“Addison’s from L.A., and he’s been very mysterious about what he did there,” Jen said.

Addison shrugged. “It’s not a mystery. It’s just not that exciting. I worked for a few of the studios, did some location scouting.”

“Compared to being a paralegal, working in Hollywood is exciting,” Jen said dryly. “Anyway, my husband and I were high-school sweethearts—we grew up in Missouri—and we both came here, to Tulane, for undergrad. Then Sean went to med school, and now that he’s finishing up his residency, it’s my turn to go back to school.”

“D.C.,” Nick said. “I worked on the Hill as a congressional staffer. Nothing too serious. Mostly I just brokered deals between the various power players. You know, shaping U.S. foreign policy, keeping my finger on the pulse of the country’s epicenter. Stuff like that.”

“Is that what they call being the coffee gofer up there?” Jen quipped.

“Hey, watch it. I have CIA contacts,” Nick joked.

“So…we should form a study group,” Lexi said. “We’re all in the same section together, and we’re all about the same age. Older than the average One-L. If we stick together, we’ll be able to blow everyone else out of the water.”

“I’m in,” Addison said.

“Me too,” Nick said, and Jen nodded.

They all looked at me. “Sure,” I said, feeling happy for pretty much the first moment since I’d arrived in New Orleans. It had been one misery after another—from getting lost in the maze of streets that made up the Garden District while I was driving around looking for a grocery store, to having to drag almost all of my furniture up the stairs on my own, aided only by a spacey-eyed guy who told me to call him Jimmy-D.

“Like the sausage,” he’d said happily.

Jimmy-D had approached me on the street while I was unlocking the back of the U-Haul and offered to help me move in for twenty bucks. It’d seemed like a good deal, right up until I discovered that he’d stolen my toaster and three pairs of pink satin Victoria’s Secret panties.

“May I join your study group?” a voice asked.

I turned and noticed for the first time that there was a girl sitting on the bench behind us. She looked even younger than the undergraduates milling around, but she was dressed like a junior executive in a tan pantsuit and expertly pressed blue oxford shirt. A gold-toned pin of the scales of justice was fastened to the lapel of her suit jacket. She had a mop of brown corkscrew curls framing a serious, pointed face.

“Are you in our section?” Nick asked her.

The girl nodded. “I’m sorry Hoffman called on you,” she said. “Although you really should have read the assignment.”

“Ah…you’re right, I should have,” I said, waiting for her to smile. She didn’t. She just looked at me with solemn eyes and then nodded briskly, as though she was satisfied that I appreciated the gravity of my transgression.

“I heard what you were talking about—forming a study group of older students. I came here straight from undergrad, but I’d really like to join your group. I think older students are more likely to take things seriously,” she said.

“Sure, you can join us,” Nick said, smiling at her.

His instincts were markedly nicer than those of the rest of us, all of whom were staring at this girl, who looked so young she ought to be out shopping for a prom dress or running for student-body treasurer.

“What’s your name?” Lexi asked her.

“Dana. Dana Mallick,” she said. And then she did smile, a beaming, confident grin. It was the smile of someone who had never failed at anything in her life, the smile of someone who had won student-council campaigns, led the debate club to victory, and delivered a valedictorian speech.

I’d known girls like Dana at Cornell, both during my time as a student there and the subsequent years I spent working in the admissions office. They were earnest and peppy and threw themselves at their schoolwork and activities with tireless enthusiasm. They’d always sit in the front row at lectures, take elaborate notes that would later be filed in a color-coded binder, and would fling their arms up in the air whenever the teacher asked for a volunteer to answer a question or helm a project. When they sent out college applications, they always requested interviews.

“Cornell is a good school. It’s my first choice after Harvard and Yale,” they’d say, with the innocent confidence of one who has never had to resort to the desperate ass-kissing that less confident candidates instinctively fall back on. Usually unsuccessfully.

I joined the others in smiling back at Dana, and we introduced ourselves in turn. And then finally Jen blurted out what we were all wondering.

“How old
are
you?”

Dana had the grace to blush. “Nineteen,” she admitted, looking down at the toe of a perfectly polished black pump with a sensible two-inch heel.

“Nineteen? And you’re in law school?” Addison exclaimed. “That means you’re, like, Girl Wonder.”

“Are you a genius?” Lexi asked.

Dana’s cheeks stained even darker, and she shrugged. “I was accelerated, so I graduated from high school and college early,” she said.

I decided to rescue her from further interrogation. “When should we meet?” I asked. “And where? Is there room in the library for study groups?”

Nick nodded. “There is, but when I was there on Saturday, it seemed like it could be sort of a scene. And the librarian had to chase away some undergrads who were hanging out in the reading room.”

“I say we meet Sunday afternoons,” Jen said. “That way we’ll have all weekend to go over our notes from the week before we get together.”

“There’s a coffee shop near my house, the Rue de la Course,” Addison said. “The Rue, for short. It’s in the lower Garden District, on Magazine Street, and it’s far enough away from campus that it might not be crowded.”

“Sounds perfect. Sundays at the Rue,” Lexi said. She pulled a white box of Marlboro Light cigarettes out of her leather knapsack, packed them against the heel of her hand, and then pulled one out. She lit the cigarette with a light-pink Bic lighter and took a long, satisfied drag on it. The mannerism was fluid and self-possessed, reminding me of a Parisian woman, the kind whose elegance is so natural she can wear a scarf or hat without looking foolish.

“Cool. I’m sure we’ll talk before then,” Addison said. He stood and shifted his knapsack onto a thin shoulder. “Okay, chickadees, I’m going to split.”

“Plan on coming over to my place next Saturday,” Lexi said to him. She nodded at the rest of us. “All of you. There’s a Bar Review that night. We can hang out at my place and then all go together.”

“What’s a Bar Review?” Dana asked, frowning. “Is it a requirement for class?”

Lexi laughed and shook her head. “No, it’s just a party the law school hosts at a bar near campus. They’ll have free beer there for law students. It may be lame, but I thought we could check it out.”