DOWN IN FRONT, the students who raised their hands battled out a question of law for Kingsfield. It was as though they were one person, their minds one mind. Hart made a point, and then sat back, watching the others move around his assertion, cutting off the loose edges. He was locked into the graceful movement of the argument.
Above them, Kingsfield regulated, nodding approval, and every now and then, when enthusiasm overcame logic, taking possession of an irregular thought and squashing it.
The discussion was close to resolution. Its lines were about to converge when Kingsfield stopped them. “All right,” he said, “that’s enough.” He looked down, unbuttoned his coat, pulled out his gold watch and checked the time.
Hart looked at the others. It was as though all the people who had been talking were frozen: mouths still open, hands still raised, pens poised over notebooks. They were on the edge of bursting out, continuing the argument in spite of Kingsfield.
“We always seem to hear from the same people,” Kingsfield said. “Would someone who has not contributed care to speak? Someone who usually does not raise his hand?”
Hart sighed. No one would raise his hand. A hand up would be an admission that normally the hand was not raised. An admission that one was a coward. This was taking up time. They might not finish the discussion.
“I suppose I’ll have to ferret you out then,” Kingsfield said, looking irritated because, as always, there were no new volunteers. “Mr. Brooks, will you give the facts of Tinn versus Hoffmann?”
Kevin looked surprised and scared. Like most of the class, he’d retired into his private thoughts while the regulars floated in the higher reaches of the law.
“Right,” Kevin said, turning the pages of his book, trying to find Tinn v. Hoffmann.
The case was complicated: some thirteen letters and telegrams between a company wanting to sell pig iron and a company wanting to buy it. Every time it looked like they’d finally made a deal, the buyer backed down, hedged. Finally, the frustrated seller gave up and sold the pig iron elsewhere. Now the buyer was suing, saying that the seller had promised to give him the iron.
“Mr. Brooks,” Kingsfield asked, “how was the case decided, and how does the decision relate to what we’ve been discussing?”
“Right,” Kevin said again, and paused.
Hart put his hand up, swung it like an ax reaching the apogee of its arch. His eyes pleaded with Kingsfield. It wasn’t fair to stop them so close to wrapping it all up.
Hart was ignored. His stomach muscles tightened. He saw the wall clock moving toward ten. Tinn v. Hoffmann was the crux of the whole thing.
“In the first letter of November twenty-eight,” Kevin said, “we find this phrase, ‘make you an offer.’ The court seemed to stress this phrase. No, I guess that’s not the crucial passage.” Kevin wavered.
The correct answer tried to push open Hart’s mouth. Kingsfield seemed to sense it and, as though he’d known all along, he called on Hart.
“Really!” Hart exploded, drowning out Kevin’s lingering voice. “The correct rule, and the one along which this case was decided, is: In an ambiguous set of facts, the party who creates the ambiguity and tries to use it to his own advantage shall have the ambiguity resolved against him.”
The rest of the regulars stuck their hands up. They started to elaborate on Hart’s point. Kingsfield glanced quickly at Hart. There was no smile, but the look was enough. It was a recognition of Hart’s seat, a token for a job well done.
Hart looked toward the window and saw Kevin, slouched down behind his book. What the hell was wrong with Kevin? He’d given Kevin the answer, but Kevin wasn’t taking advantage of it.
As Hart watched, Kevin’s hands began to shake. Kevin put down the book and gripped the desk, holding onto the curving bench top like a sailor clinging to a spar. “Fuck,” Hart said under his breath, “fuck.”
After class, Hart walked out on the stone steps of Langdell. He could see the entire yard. Law students were rushing between classes. All of them using the same jerking motion that stressed they were going somewhere important. It was the same pace they used in the Square. Only there, for some reason, it looked silly. Hart would see them toting their casebooks as if they were going to a board meeting. And then he’d see them again, twenty minutes later, still circling the Square, looking for girls or spying on the college. The first time you saw a law student in the Square, he might wave. The second time, he’d plunge into the crowd, hiding.
The yard had gotten a clean coat of snow last night. Most people stuck to the path and, except for the occasional trail of a dog, the snow was unbroken, a solid reflecting mirror that threw the light up onto Langdell. The light seemed to stick there, held by tiny pieces of quartz in the granite. It was one of the few times the immensity of the building made sense. It rose from the white blanket like a sparkling ice wall.
There were girls on the paths. Radcliffe girls heading back to the dorms, and only crossing through the law school because it was the most direct route. Radcliffe girls forced there because it was winter and cold. They kept away from the law students.
A group of professors came up the stairs, heading for their classes. Hart drew to the side of the steps, away from the huge door. The professors hung together as they climbed, marching in formation, and the students shrank away, letting them pass. A boy at the top of the steps opened the door for them. They seemed to expect that and did not break step.
Far off to the right a law student got out of a V.W. station wagon. His wife slid into the driver’s seat and handed him his briefcase. They didn’t kiss before she drove away.
Even with the sun, Hart began to get cold. There were more students on the steps now and he began to feel pulled by them. He took a last look over the yard, at the final stragglers moving toward Langdell, and retreated into the building.