Most classes in law school were an exercise in intellectual torture. Civil Procedure laid out the ground rules for litigating cases in court. Anyone who could read and follow directions could understand Civil Procedure. You had to memorize concepts in order to bandy them around with other law insiders or spit them back on exams, but beyond that, Elle reasoned, there was no reason to know the law by heart. Also, it would be malpractice to practice off the top of your head.
Elle was engrossed in a magazine and winced when Professor Erie called on Ben to answer a procedural question. They would be in for another marathon of “Ben Unplugged.” Elle was glad she’d brought the new Vogue.
Ben earned a wide chorus of laughs when he changed the names in the casebook from A, B, and C to D, E, and F, “to pro-tect the in-no-cent.” It was a matter of lawyer-client confidentiality, he explained to a smiling Professor Erie.
Ben’s “abstract legal problem solving” involved applying what he saw as a “categorical benchmark” from one class to another. As if sitting through Civil Procedure weren’t bad enough, Ben wanted to concentrate all five law school classes into every hour.
Elle noticed that Ben was wearing a bulky digital watch. She glanced at the ceiling, worried that all his hot air would melt the Gummi bears. They appeared to be holding their position.
The woman next to her offered her a piece of gum. “It’s Snappin’ Apple,” the woman whispered, “my favorite.”
“No thanks,” Elle said, smiling. The woman wasn’t a headband wearer, and unlike most of her classmates, didn’t carry a coffee Thermos with the emblem of her Ivy League alma mater. She was J. Crew fresh-faced pretty with ivory skin and clear blue eyes. Plus she was sort of blonde, or could be, with some better highlights.
“It all sounds like alphabet soup to me!” she whispered again with a grin.
Elle looked at her neighbor curiously.
“A can serve process on B, but not on C; A can implead D, but has no personal jurisdiction over F. What the hell is quasi in rem jurisdiction?” She scribbled this note on a paper, which she passed to Elle.
“I don’t know, sorry,” Elle scribbled back. “I skip this class a lot to avoid falling Gummi bears.” She slid the paper over tentatively.
“Isn’t that GROSS? I think I’ll come early and stick a piece of GUM on his seat!” came back the response. “By the way, my name is Eugenia.”
Elle laughed. She not only knew about the Gummi Bear Man, she was fighting back! This girl was all right.
“Miss Iliakis?” The note passing was interrupted. “Is Miss Iliakis here today?”
Eugenia gulped, sliding the piece of Snappin’ Apple to her cheek, causing it to bulge slightly. “Uh, yes.” She waved her hand. “Back here.”
“Miss Iliakis, here in the second problem, A”—Professor Erie turned to Ben—“you don’t mind if I call him A, do you, Counsel?” This attempt at humor was smashingly successful with Ben and his watch-wearing pals.
“No, that will be fine, Your Hon-or,” Ben played along. Tittering giggles could be heard around the room.
“Good. Now that we’ve got our dramatis personae down, Miss Iliakis, let’s see if we can help them get into court.”
Eugenia looked helplessly at Elle.
Professor Erie turned to his favored “counsel,” Ben, who happily demonstrated his civil procedure acumen for the benefit of his growing law student following. His twenty-four-function digital watch, which looked as if it also functioned as a data bank, showed 11:45. Another peak tanning hour wasted.
In the hall, Eugenia caught up with Elle. “Do you want to grab some lunch with me before Torts?”
“If we can leave this dungeon,” Elle answered, shocked that someone was actually speaking to her, much less asking her to lunch.
“Sure,” Eugenia agreed. “Wherever.”
The margaritas at lunch were irresistible. Eugenia suggested they call it a day. “I can get the notes from Claire or somebody.”
“Cool.” Elle had lucked out.
Over lunch Eugenia told Elle she was from a Greek neighborhood in Pittsburgh, grew up among Eastern Rite Catholics, in particular the Warhola family. Elle listened with interest. “My mother used to see Andy Warhol at church when she was a little girl, before he went to New York and produced the Velvet Underground and all that.”
“At church?” Elle imagined an improbable entourage of transvestites in kimonos.
“Growing up in Pittsburgh, and then going to Yale, I thought once I’d landed in California I’d hit the creative world, you know? The art scene: air kisses and egos.”
Elle laughed. “You’re like Christopher Columbus. Right direction, but you landed about five hundred miles too far north!”
Eugenia was impressed when Elle told her that her mother ran an art gallery in L.A. and even more intrigued that Elle wanted to be a jewelry designer, not a lawyer. She didn’t even ask why Elle was at Stanford Law.
Elle marveled. Had she actually found a friend in law school?