The windowless seminar room at St. Thomas More School of Law, like all the other rooms in the school, has a crucifix hanging from the wall. I’m not Catholic, but focusing on it lessens the humiliation of having only three people enrolled in my trial advocacy class, not the twelve or fifteen that Manny predicted.

The low turnout proves what I’ve long suspected—this so-called job is nothing but Manny’s act of charity. Though I’m no expert in law school administration, I do know that even small seminars are canceled if only three people sign up for them.

I wait for my trio of students to boot up their computers. The two women and one man sit at the long rectangular conference table and stare at me with bored yet insolent looks signaling that they’re not easily impressed, that no matter how good my credentials might be, my classroom performance is all that matters. When I was a law student thirteen years ago, I used to give the new professors that same look.

“My name is Parker Stern,” I say. “For twelve years, I worked at the law firm of Macklin & Cherry, where I practiced both civil and criminal law, mostly white collar. I’ve tried about thirty-five cases, ranging from personal injury to defense of a racketeering prosecution. I’ve also handled a number of pro bono matters, including one on behalf of a class of federal prisoners. Now, why don’t you introduce yourselves and tell me what you plan to do after law school.” I gesture toward a blonde woman. She has a model’s high cheekbones and the curvy body of a Texas homecoming queen. “You are . . . ?”

“Lovely. Lovely Diamond.”

Giving a false name to the new professor is an old law school prank. “Very funny,” I say. “But it doesn’t show much originality. When I was in law school, my classmate Dennis Beryl told our torts professor that his first name was Trash. Now do you mind sharing your real name?”

The man in the class snorts and covers his mouth with his hand. The other woman blushes. The blonde shakes her head. She reaches into her backpack, takes out her wallet, and retrieves something, which she slides across the table as though she’s playing arcade air hockey.

It’s her driver’s license. Her name is, indeed, Lovely Diamond. No middle name. An address on Westmoreland Avenue, a dicey area, but increasingly BoHo. Height: five feet five inches. Weight: 118 pounds. Hair: blonde. Eyes: green. The picture doesn’t do her justice. And her eyes are more gray than green. DOB: June 8, 1982, which makes her twenty-nine—older than I thought.

“My mistake, Ms. Diamond.”

“Didn’t you check out your class roster?” she says, her tone rife with censure, as if she’s the teacher.

The truth is, I didn’t bother to study the roster. When I saw that my twelve students had dwindled to three, I didn’t see the point. “Let’s move on. Tell us something about yourself.”

She sighs in exasperation. “I’m a third year. I worked in the entertainment field for a couple of years before going to college. After that, I was a paralegal for three years and then went to law school. I’m interested in constitutional law, particularly the First Amendment.”

I point to the man sitting next to her, a wiry, red-haired kid wearing a University of Arizona sweatshirt. He has fair skin and a wispy goatee, which he probably grew so he could look older, but which, when combined with his slight build, makes him look like a ninth-grader.

“I’m Jonathan Borzo. Also a 3L. I have a degree in computer sciences. I’m interested in Internet law. So, I think the studios and record companies are a threat to our individual freedom.” This kid apparently believes that the ability to watch stolen copies of Spiderman on the Internet is more important than global warming or ending world hunger.

“Welcome, Mr. Borzo.”

As soon as I focus on the woman sitting next to Jonathan, her neck turns splotchy. “Well, my name is Kathleen. Williams. I guess . . . I’m also a 3L.” She has limp brown hair, a round face, and a pudgy body. She’s as plain as Lovely is striking. “I went to Cal State Reseda and got a BA in English. I don’t know what kind of lawyer I want to be yet.”

“Good to have you with us, Ms. Williams. Now let’s talk about what we’re going to do this semester. We’re going to pick a case, and—”

“Before you go on, I have a question,” Lovely says.

“Absolutely, Ms. Diamond.” I try to sound enthusiastic—an olive branch.

“Is it true you’re Parky Gerald?”

And with those words, Lovely Diamond has intentionally or unwittingly exacted revenge for my thinking her name a joke. I begin drumming my fingers on the table bottom, which is tacky with what I pray is nothing worse than used chewing gum.

“I did go by that name when I was a kid,” I say, or rather, confess. I’ve spent my adulthood trying to hide it.

Kathleen considers me with a look I haven’t seen in years—celebrity worship. “Oh my god, that was you, professor?”

“Who’s Parky Gerald?” Jonathan asks.

“A child actor,” Kathleen says. “He starred in that movie Alien Parents. And Alien Parents 2. And then a soccer movie, I forget what it’s called.”

“I remember that guy,” Jonathan says. “You don’t look anything like him.”

Of course I don’t. I’m thirty-seven years old, not ten. And I have dark brown hair and a swarthy complexion and a stocky build. Back then, they wanted their child star blond and fair and rosy-cheeked and rail thin. They bleached my hair platinum and layered on the pancake makeup so I’d look pale. And there was the rouge and the eye shadow to make my eyes look big and the constant dieting to keep me skinny. The only good thing about that part of my past is the Screen Actors Guild residuals.

Kathleen continues to gawk at me like an obsessed fan. “Wow. When I was nine, I watched your movies on the VCR over and over. You were so cute. Then you were gone. Wasn’t there . . . some lawsuit or scandal or . . . ?”

She looks at Lovely, who shrugs. I bet this Diamond woman thinks she knows exactly what happened to Parky Gerald.

“Let’s leave my checkered acting career for some other time,” I say. “And I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention it to anyone else. It’s not something I want people to know.” I’m sure that my request is hopeless—law students love gossip.

I summarize what I want to accomplish during the semester. They’ll each be responsible for monitoring a lawsuit so they can get some real-life experience. They’ll work with me and the outside attorney of record. I ask them to come to our next class with a proposed case to handle. I pass out a list of possibilities that I got from an ex-colleague who works at Legal Aid—mostly credit card fraud and slumlord cases for impoverished clients, unexciting but worthy causes that can give them valuable experience. I spend the rest of the session describing the nuts and bolts of a legal case from complaint to trial, something I was never taught in law school. I let them go twenty minutes early. As they’re leaving, Jonathan nods, and Kathleen grins at me like a moonstruck schoolgirl. Lovely walks past me without a gesture of goodbye.