ours isn’t a case yet. It’s a hearing to see if what we’ve got is worthy of being a case. To get the hearing, first we had to file a claim against the school board.
In my absolute best handwriting, I filled out the claim, saying that I’ve been harmed by homework. Mr. Kalman sent it in for me.
Here’s the letter they wrote back:
When the letter came, Mr. Kalman asked me if I was upset by it.
“Wouldn’t you be?” I said.
“Nope. It’s exactly what I hoped for. If they had taken your complaint seriously, they would have had forty-five days to respond. By rejecting it out of hand, they’ve given us standing to sue.”
That’s how we got our hearing so fast. But I know how hearings go, and I’m not looking forward to this one.
When it comes to scary places, the principal’s office is like It’s a Small World compared with a federal courthouse, which is the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror. At the courthouse, everyone wears a suit and carries a briefcase. Even the criminals dress up, so it’s hard to tell who’s who.
We’re dressed up too. Mr. Kalman insisted. “My team has to look presentable in court,” he said. Sadie and Sean look like they’re off to their first real jobs. Sean even trimmed his beard for the occasion. And Jaesang, Catalina, Alistair, and I look like we’re going to our high school graduation, which is what Mr. Kalman told our parents when he offered to take us shopping.
“I’m just getting them outfitted for their high school graduation,” he said.
“Mr. Kalman,” Mom pointed out, “they’re sixth-graders. They’re going to grow between now and high school.”
“I certainly hope so,” he said.
Then he took us to the Hollywood Suit Outlet for the boys and to Macy’s for the girls.
Sadie objected, saying that “gender is a social construct” and she wanted to shop at the Hollywood Suit Outlet too. Mr. Kalman said, “You’re right. You can shop wherever you want.”
But the suits at Macy’s fit her better, so she got hers there.
We make our way up a series of escalators to the fifth floor. For Sadie, the federal courthouse isn’t so scary. She’s already been here multiple times.
“This is where we do mock trial,” Sadie says.
“How long have you been doing that?” Mr. Kalman asks.
“Three years. Since ninth grade.”
And she’s good at it, too. In her last case the real judge who was volunteering for the mock trial said Sadie showed “true grace under pressure” in her cross-examination of the defendant. “I see a lot of professional attorneys in this courtroom,” he said. “They could learn a thing or two from you.”
That really made Sadie’s day.
So not only does she know how to find room 527, where our case is going to be heard, but she’s also feeling right at home here in federal court.
Unlike in mock trial, in real court there’s a lot of waiting around. It’s not like you have an appointment to get your team picture taken for soccer. Those people really stick to the schedule. Here it’s more like: Show up on the appointed day at ten o’clock and maybe we’ll get to your case by four. If not, come back tomorrow and maybe we’ll get to your case by noon. If not, come back after lunch and, well, you get the point.
At two thirty the judge, a nice-looking man who’s scary only because of his black robe, says, “In the matter of Warren v. Board of Education, are the interested parties here?”
“That’s us,” Mr. Kalman says.
We all stand up and start saying, “Here, Your Honor. Present, sir. Yes, Your Honor,” like it’s the first day of school and he’s calling roll.
The judge has a plaque on his desk that says OTIS WRIGHT III, which means he’s Otis Wright the Third. I didn’t learn to read Roman numerals from a homework packet, by the way. I learned it from Age of Empires.
Otis Wright the Third looks for the grownup among us, but all he sees are two teens and four eleven-year-olds because Sean stood up in front of Mr. Kalman and he’s at least half a foot taller. “Is the attorney of record, Mr. Avi Kalman, present?”
Mr. Kalman steps around Sean. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Filing as prochain ami to the minor?”
“Correct, Your Honor.”
This is one thing about the law you’ve got to love. Kids can’t sue because we’re underage. You can ask your parents to sue for you—as your legal guardians. But Mom refused to be a party to the lawsuit. She said that while she supports me as a parent, she thinks the lawsuit is taking things too far. She also said it might draw too much attention to our family and hurt her business as top realtor in the neighborhood.
Dad said he wouldn’t sign on to the lawsuit, but he wouldn’t stand in the way, either.
Mr. Kalman said, “We don’t need your parents. I’m filing as your prochain ami. It’s French for ‘next friend.’”
Next friend is the legal term for a grownup who takes your side. Every kid ought to have a prochain ami, don’t you think?
“According to the brief,” Judge Otis Wright the Third says, “you are seeking class action status in a complaint against the Board of Education on the grounds that homework is unconstitutional?”
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“Forgive my asking, but is your license to practice law current?”
“I sent the check in on Friday.”
Mr. Kalman winks at me. I guess that means his license is current.
“Well, for me to certify the class, I have to make a few findings. First, can you afford to see this matter through?”
Catalina barrels forward. I’ve been watching a lot of legal shows on TV lately. She’s supposed to say, “Your Honor, may I approach?” But she’s a little overeager and steps right up.
“Here are our financials, sir,” she says, handing him a bank statement from the official Save Our Childhood bank account we opened.
Our total take from project flipping so far: $12,247.50. (We did the bake sale, too; Alistair’s brownies sold for two bucks apiece.) A big number if you ask me, but Otis Wright the Third doesn’t seem so impressed.
He looks the bank statement over, then glances up at Mr. Kalman. “I’m assuming you’re taking the case pro bono.”
That’s another cool legal term. It means taking the case for free. Literally, “for good” in Latin.
Mr. Kalman nods. I knew he’d never charge his across-the-street neighbor.
“That’s fine if you win. But if you lose—and lose again on appeal—you’ll have to pay attorney’s fees to him.”
Judge Wright points to a very thin man in a very green suit, the snake in the room. Not literally a snake, but one of those people who can stand so still, you hardly know they’re there. We didn’t even notice him before the judge pointed him out.
He’s Livingston Gulch, the lawyer for the Board of Education.
Sadie tells Judge Otis Wright the Third that if he grants us class action status, we’ll raise more money. “From the class itself.”
“How so?” the judge asks.
“According to the latest census, there are fifty million students in K through twelve public schools across the country. We’ll ask each of them for a dollar. Even if we get just ten percent, it ought to see us through.”
Livingston Gulch smiles but doesn’t show any teeth. He just stands there very still. Watching. Waiting.
“Which brings me to the next question,” Judge Otis Wright the Third says, “numerosity of the class. How many of those students are in the Los Angeles Unified District?”
To get class action status, you have to show that a lot of other people could make the same complaint. Then it makes sense for just one case to represent them all.
“Seven hundred thousand,” Sadie says.
In other words, my team’s so big, they can’t all fit in one courtroom.
“What do you see as the common damages, Mr. Kalman?”
“Violation of child labor laws and privacy rights. Emotional hardship due to unwarranted stress. And unequal protection under the US Constitution.”
“Claims you believe are typical of the class, not just your client?”
“We do, Your Honor.”
A green sleeve goes up—Livingston Gulch is raising his hand.
“Mr. Gulch?” the judge says like he’s calling on a student.
When Gulch speaks, the words tiptoe out of his mouth one by one.
“I move to strike.”
“Strike what?”
“The entire premise. This hearing. I move to strike.”
“On what grounds?”
“Relevance, Your Honor. The boy’s claim has no business in federal court. In 2002, Board of Education v. Earls, the Supreme Court affirmed the power of local school boards to choose which courses to offer, which textbooks to teach”—he snaps his head toward Mr. Kalman—“whose urine to test, and, by implication, how much homework to give. Therefore, I move to strike.”
Judge Otis Wright the Third looks at Mr. Kalman.
Who looks like he just stepped in something nasty and is afraid to peek at his shoe. But the look doesn’t last long.
“In 1969, Tinker v. Des Moines Independent School District,” Mr. Kalman says, “the justices held that, and I quote: ‘Vigilant protection of constitutional freedoms is nowhere more vital than in the community of American schools.’ In other words, if the schools take away students’ constitutional rights, the federal government can step in and stop them. They did it in Goss. They did it in Tinker. They did it in Brown. And, if necessary, I believe they’ll do it here.”
Have I mentioned how glad I am that I live across the street from this man?
Livingston Gulch raises his hand again.
“Yes, Mr. Gulch?”
“One swallow does not make a summer.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Aristotle. Just as it takes more than one swallow in the June sky to announce the arrival of summer, so it takes more than one anxious, distractible child to make reasonable people believe that homework is bad for all. For every child like this, I can show you thousands more who cope with the demands of the modern world just fine.”
He’s ten feet away from me. Why do I feel his hand inside my guts, squeezing?
“Well, Mr. Gulch,” Justice Otis Wright the Third says, “you’re going to have to. In the matter of Warren v. Board of Education, class action status is hereby granted.”
His gavel clops the block on his desk. Livingston Gulch turns to us. “I’ll see you on the next available date.” And he slithers out of the courtroom. Really, his feet never leave the floor.
“Now what?” Sadie asks.
“Now we notify the class.”