Balancing the empty coffee mug that she had drained during Contracts class, Elle did her once-a-week law school mailbox check, prepared to throw away all of the law-related flyers. In the nearly two months that Elle had been at Stanford, she hadn’t found anything more in her mailbox than notices of student meetings or the occasional Barbie doll ripped from an ad to tease her. But today her mailbox was stuffed with an enormous stack of papers tied with a red ribbon. A small envelope addressed “Elle” lay at the top of the papers.
She peeled the envelope open and withdrew a single page of white bond stationery. A poem, marked with calligraphy, done in strange scrawls of fountain-pen ink, caused her to gasp.
I’m staring at your picture now,
Don’t be alarmed or nervous.
I’m not some weirdo off the street—
I plan to do you service.
I am your Secret Angel
And I’m sure you will agree
That as I stare into your eyes
The pressure is on me
To give you gifts of cunning
To give you gifts of grace
To give you presents worthy
Of the beauty in your face.
What better way to win your heart
Than with a simple rhyme?
What better way to keep you here
Than with a class outline!
Don’t leave law school, Elle. You are one of a kind.
Your Secret Angel.
Elle leaned against the row of mailboxes, stunned by the cryptic offering. With an astonished quiver, she untied the stack of papers and read the thick black type on the top page. “Criminal Law, Slaughter-Haus, Fall ’01.” Set apart by a cardboard divider was a second title page atop a separate stack. “Torts, Glenn [Fiddich], Fall ’01.” A quick peek at the pages confirmed what the poem had promised. Someone had given her class outlines, the key to law school success!
Week one discussed subrogation, the same topic Professor Glenn had led with this semester. The outline followed the same format as her class. At that Elle grinned broadly, tucking the papers into her Prada bag with confidence. Elle wondered who could have sent her such a gift.
“Take that, Sarah,” Elle said defiantly. “You haven’t beaten me yet.”
Mr. Heigh had brought his wife to Criminal Law again today, Elle noticed, as she stared at the woman who was poking through her cooler to grab a snack before the lecture began. A late-in-life achiever, Mr. Heigh decided while running a health food store in Berkeley that he was “smarter than any of the damn lawyers I deal with.” Smart enough, of course, to become what he despised.
A marketing genius, Mr. Heigh dressed frequently in promotional items from his store, which was called, imaginatively, Heigh on Health. When he was low on laundry, he also fancied running shorts about two sizes too small and vulgar tank tops, expressing sentiments like “How do you spell relief? S-E-X” or, Elle’s personal favorite, “Sexy Grandpa.”
Mr. Heigh brought his wife to class because they believed in “sharing their experiences.” Mrs. Heigh seemed to enjoy the field trips, packing bean-sprout pita pockets with carrot or prune juice in a Heigh on Health cooler that never left her side.
Professor Kiki Slaughter-Haus sputtered through another episode of Criminal Law. Elle was relieved to see that at least today Kiki had the sense to work with a visual aid, in the form of a diagram on the chalkboard:
“Another day in the slaughterhouse,” Eugenia said, prompting a shushing noise from fixated Gummi Bear Man. As usual, he had Gummi bears and a New Republic lying highlighted in front of him, ready to cite.
“Uh…the uh…Speedy Trial Act, has what as its goal?” Kiki trailed off, and Halley, always trigger-happy, piped up, “A speedy trial!” Her twin nodded in agreement.
This would be their issue, thought Elle, glancing at the speed demons. The Speedy Trial Act directed prosecutors to bring defendants to trial within a fixed amount of time from indictment.
“There are…uh…different incentives that operate at different times in the process.” Professor Slaughter-Haus moved her pointer to the word “Crime.” “To require a speedy trial from the time of the crime would put pressure on the investigation. The incentives would be on the police to work quickly. Why might we not want a trial…uh, to start up that soon?”
Professor Slaughter-Haus turned to Cari, who answered promptly. “The incentive might make prosecutors charge the defendant too quickly. We don’t want to put that kind of pressure on prosecutors; we don’t want them to prosecute until their case is solid. Right after the crime, if they had to bring a speedy trial, it might trigger premature prosecution.”
Eugenia poked Elle in the shoulder and said, “Premature prosecution! I hear with love and understanding you can work together and make it last long enough for both of you.”
Elle burst out laughing, then whispered back: “I think you can get counseling for that.” Kiki glared but ignored them.
“Yes, Cari, but…um, there is also delay to consider. The defendant wants a prosecution to be triggered so it will be over sooner. As the delay gets longer and longer, the defendant will object. The innocent defendant might want a speedy prosecution.”
“The poor prosecutor,” Eugenia whispered, “maybe he just has performance anxiety.” Elle hid her face in her hands, shaking with held-in giggles.
Jeremy butted in, unable to attract Kiki’s call with his jumping-frog routine. “The prosecutor doesn’t have forever,” he declared. “The defendant’s in jail all this time, okay, while the prosecutor gets his case ready to go. Nobody wants to trigger premature prosecution, but sooner or later the defendant will start objecting and the prosecutor will have to pull out.”
Elle exploded when she caught Eugenia’s flashing eyes, and her laughter echoed through the quiet room.
“Ms. um…Woods, do you have something to add, uh, about the, um…the problem of delay? We have time for one more comment.”
Elle noticed Jeremy’s scowl and imagined it was because she had stolen his limelight.
“It’s not just the length of the delay,” Elle said, “it’s what the prosecution does with it that counts.”
Elle glanced at Eugenia, who looked as if she could hold out no longer. They grabbed their books to make a speedy exit.