The Paper Chase

by John Osborn

  He heard a car idling behind them, wondered how long until its driver would honk.

  “I’ve got to go back and get warm,” she said. “I know there are lots of things to say, but it’s not worthwhile saying them.”

  He opened the door, got out and shut it, stood, looking in the car window.

  “Think about me,” she said, and shifted into first. “And think about yourself. But don’t call. You’ll want to, but don’t.”

  The car behind honked and he cursed it. She revved the motor, the wheels spun on the ice, gained traction and then the car accelerated, racing down the street, away from him.

  19

  “YOU THE ONLY ONE HERE?” Ford said, skating across the linoleum floor. “I’ll go call them.” Hart watched Ford shake the snow off his coat.

  “Don’t bother,” Hart said. “It doesn’t make any difference. They’ll come.”

  “You’re kind of strung out, aren’t you?” Ford said, sitting down next to Hart.

  “What’s up?”

  O’Connor, Bell and Anderson came in together as Ford spoke. Hart took advantage of the noise and ignored Ford’s question.

  O’Connor curled into his chair, sitting Indian style to give himself extra height. Bell waited and then took the seat farthest away from him.

  Anderson heaved his attaché case and as it gathered momentum on the back swing gave it an extra push up so that it swung neatly, clearing the rim of the table and landing with a dull thud. He put his hands down on either side of the case, shook them like a magician about to do a trick, and sprung the locks. The top popped up: the thirty separate files disengaged and hung between the bottom and lid of the case.

  “Material-for-discussion-today?” Anderson said.

  “Civil procedure, it’s my turn,” O’Connor snapped. Anderson slid out the appropriate file and shut his attaché case.

  “I tried to call you and let you know I’d be late,” O’Connor went on, looking at Ford. “I didn’t feel well this morning.”

  Across the table, Bell was unwinding the plastic cover from his huge property outline even though they weren’t going to be discussing property. Under the crinkled plastic were four hundred tattered, yellow sheets. Bell didn’t type, and the outline was printed in a neat blue pen. He spent hours on it in the library, drawing each letter like a separate picture.

  “Before we get down to business,” O’Connor said, “I have a suggestion.” He paused to give his words drama, though everyone knew what was coming.

  “If it’s about organizing the group, I think we should wait until everyone is here,” Ford said. “Kevin has an appointment and he’s not coming today.”

  “Come on,” O’Connor squeaked, “what difference does Kevin make?”

  Bell groaned.

  “Please listen,” O’Connor said. “None of us has time to meet twice a week. The case books have grown like tapeworms. We simply have to get organized. I propose we shift to bi-monthly meetings.”

  “That’s crazy,” Bell said.

  “No, it’s not crazy,” O’Connor went on. “Our only real gain is sharing outlines at the end of the year, not these asinine talks.”

  “I want to see you twice a week so that I know you’re going to have an outline,” Bell said, looking down at the yellow pulp in front of him. “And your outline better be good.”

  “If you were properly organized, you wouldn’t have to worry about the two hours you spend here,” Anderson said, raising his eyebrows. “If you regulated yourself, you wouldn’t have this problem.”

  Hart noticed that the snow was beginning to clear.

  Ford looked down, leaning over the table.

  “It’s getting to be half an hour we’ve wasted,” Ford said. “We’ve had this group from the beginning. It’s good luck. Let’s get started.”

  “I’m willing to discuss my course anytime,” O’Connor whined. “But I think you should at least give me a fair hearing.” His voice trailed off in indignation.

  “You’re full of it,” Bell mumbled. His eyes were bloodshot.

  “I don’t have time for the group,” O’Connor pleaded.

  “Regulate yourself, O’Connor,” Anderson said.

  “Let’s start,” Ford said.

  “No, let’s not start.” O’Connor’s words seemed to choke him. “And I’m tired of you telling me what to do. You aren’t even paying attention to my idea.”

  “O’Connor,” Ford lashed out, “at the end of the year, when they’re passing out exams and you’re trying to stretch high enough to reach the table, you’ll regret you deserted this group.”

  Ford pulled his arms into his body and sat back. His hand brushed Bell’s outline.

  “Watch it,” Bell said.

  “I want a vote,” O’Connor mumbled. “I want at least a vote.”

  “I vote we forget your stupid idea,” Bell said.

  Hart, Ford and Anderson raised their hands.

  O’Connor looked down, started turning the pages of his civil procedure outline. “All right,” he said, “it’s just an idea. Do you remember Pennoyer versus Neff?”

  20

  KEVIN DIDN’T LIKE to walk down the connecting passages under the law school buildings. Long cement passages, lined with brightly colored lockers, filled with students going to classes. Passages which were always a little damp.

  There was nothing to look at. The passages focused his vision straight ahead and he couldn’t help meeting the eyes of the people he passed. In high school, he had loved the corridors. Liked the contact with people, saying hello. He just didn’t know enough people here and when he said hello to someone he didn’t know he got no response, except a puzzled look.

  He took a branching corridor deep beneath the library. There were fewer students in this tunnel and the lockers gave way to translucent glass doors of offices. This tunnel was shabby, lights out every few feet and no light coming through the dirty glass. He stumbled along looking at the name on each office.

  He took another turn, darker still. The tunnel walls seemed to close in on him. Then there was a light on in one of the offices. In little black letters the door read: Mr. Shaw. Kevin ran his hand over his hair, making sure it was in place, gathered his books together and knocked.

  A voice called him in. The office was a little cell, about the size of a dorm room. There were slits of windows high up on the wall and a light bulb without any shade hanging from the ceiling. On the wall above a small bookcase were Mr. Shaw’s degrees.

  Mr. Shaw motioned Kevin to sit and Kevin sat on the only other chair in the office: it was wooden, high and very old. It swayed slightly when Kevin moved.

  “Let’s see, you’re …” Mr. Shaw mumbled.

  “I’m Kevin Brooks,” Kevin said, remembering to smile.

  Kevin was surprised Mr. Shaw was so young. He had thick glasses, curly black unmanageable hair and spoke with a clipped New York accent.

  “Oh yes, Mr. Brooks,” Mr. Shaw said, rummaging through the papers piled on the top of his little desk.

  “I’ve got to get some light in here. This place was set for renovation, except once they gave it to the graduate students, they forgot about that. Yes, you see, I had this paper, but I just put it down, and now, ho, here it is…. Yes, Mr. Brooks.”

  Kevin leaned forward and then swayed backward and forward again on his rocking horse chair. He was curious. A little scared and curious. Why had Mr. Shaw called him?

  “Well, Kevin,” Mr. Shaw said, “we’ve got the results of your practice exams in and I wanted to talk with you about them.”

  Kevin jerked back in excitement and his chair bobbed back and forth. He put his feet solidly on either side of the legs to brace it, but that only made his bottom the apex of a triangle and the chair vibrated violently. He wanted to hear how he did; he thought he might have done well.

  “Well, Kevin,” Mr. Shaw said, “I don’t know exactly how to put this, but your performance was unusual. No use beating around the bush. You flunked eve
ry one of your practice exams.”

  Jesus, Kevin thought, that can’t be true. His chair rocked violently, almost spinning him to the ground. Shit, he thought, why can’t they get any decent equipment in this fucking school.

  “I’m sorry to be blunt,” Mr. Shaw said. “After all, there isn’t anything to worry about. As you know, these exams don’t count. By the way, if you’ll just sit still you won’t break my chair. If it goes, I’ll never get another one down here. I’m lucky to have this desk. You know that chair is the property of Harvard University.”

  Mr. Shaw got up from behind his desk and was about to pace, when he realized there wasn’t enough room.

  “Kevin, I think that we are going to have to give you some special help. We do this from time to time. We have helped a great number of students who started off on the wrong foot.”

  He couldn’t have flunked; they didn’t admit law students who would flunk.

  “Now, I think we’ll have to get to work on this right away, lose no time, you know, because we have to bear in mind that exam time will be on us in almost four months. We want to be prepared.

  “What we’ll do is this. We have a special program of tutoring by the best of our third year students–don’t worry, the law school pays for it. I’m going to assign you to one of them and he’ll take it from there. Any questions? Good. Well, then, you take this phone number; call the number and find out when you can meet with your tutor. Come back in about three weeks and let me know how it’s going.”

  Mr. Shaw opened the door. “Thank you for coming, Kevin.”

  21

  HART PUSHED BACK his chair and stretched, shaking free of six hours in the library. He walked out into the center aisle, between the tables, all manned, and past the humming Xerox machine and the press of students around the card catalogue. Turning left, he followed the Law Reviews- different colors for different schools-as they wound, six shelves high, along the side of the library. When the Law Reviews ended, he followed the State Reporters- Alabama, Alaska, sets of books containing every case heard in the courts of every state. The rows of books looked like railroad tracks nailed to the sides of the library, the only festive addition.

  Then they ended and he was in front of glass doors that said: TREASURE ROOM.

  He made this circle every few hours and he always stopped at the Treasure Room. He watched the woman at the librarian’s desk, sitting alone, circled by empty tables, oak paneling, and bookcases fronted with glass.

  On impulse Hart went in. As the doors swung shut, all the scratching pens, the turning pages and the sliding of books stopped. The room was absolutely quiet. And the air: it was cool, moist, so heavy he could taste it.

  The woman got up from her table and walked over to him.

  “May I assist you?” she said. She wants me to leave, Hart thought; she wants to throw me out of Paradise.

  “The air,” Hart said, “it’s so moist.”

  “We keep it constant,” the woman said. “At the best level to protect the books.”

  “This would be a fantastic place to study,” Hart said. “It doesn’t stink, like the library, and there isn’t any noise.”

  He’d said the right thing-she nodded, appreciating his approval of her room.

  “Something special must happen here,” Hart said.

  “This isn’t for studying, unless you need one of our important books. This room contains all the famous books- first editions of casebooks, going back to before the Revolution. And, of course, the Red Set.”

  Just the words, Red Set. The way she said it, kind of moving back from the words and letting them hang out there on their own. He knew he was onto something big.

  “The Red Set?” Hart said.

  “Yes, the notebooks, the memoranda, first drafts of all the professors’ writings. We have them all here. We guard them; keep them.”

  He walked past her into the middle of the room, and she raced after him.

  “This room isn’t for studying,” she said. “This room isn’t for you.”

  “You mean, you have the original notes of Professor Kingsfield?” Hart said, looking into the glass bookcases, looking for the red bindings. “You say that you have all his words, his notes, everything, in this room?”

  “They’re not for you,” she said.

  But he didn’t hear her. She was insignificant.

  “I want to see Professor Kingsfield’s notes on contracts,” Hart said, staring down at her, snapping out the order.

  “I’m afraid we couldn’t allow that,” she said.

  “I must see them,” Hart ordered. He drew himself up over her and peered down.

  “No,” she said. “Absolutely not. It’s out of the question, unless you have special authorization. Unless you have Professor Kingsfield’ s approval.”

  He backed down. Her eyes were burning and he knew he’d never be able to reason with her.

  “Listen,” Hart said, “I’ve found something. Where have you been?”

  “I went to the Square to eat,” Ford said, collapsing on the bed.

  Hart stood over him, his face glowing.

  “Did you know they’ve got a room in the law school that has the professors’ notes? I mean the actual notes they took when they were students. They’re just sitting there, waiting ”

  “What were they like?” Ford said.

  And then he saw Hart’s eyes, big and round, blazing against the blackness outside the window.

  “No,” Ford said. “Absolutely not. We’d be thrown out of school. Listen, notes are notes. Just paper. Don’t kid yourself. They’d be just like ours. They aren’t anything.”

  “The room is called the Treasure Room,” Hart said. “The books are called the Red Set.”

  “Come on,” Ford said. “Treasure room?”

  “Really, it’s there, all of it, everything.”

  Ford groaned.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said after a while. “If I ever really get to hate this place, maybe.”

  22

  “AND FOR FURTHER REFERENCE, you might glance at the Stubble Rock case,” Kingsfield said and then sprang to his left and asked O’Connor to recite the facts of Taylor v. Cunningham.

  “Which case, which case …” O’Connor moaned, looking through his book. O’Connor had been called on the day before. It was unusual to be called on twice in succession and he had been caught off guard.

  Hart thought about Kingsfield’s passing allusion to Stubble Rock. He was the only student in class who would know that the obscure Stubble Rock case was about a house built over an old mine, that the foundation had given way, converting the house into a bomb shelter, three hundred feet below ground, which might have been all right, had not a mother and three children been killed in the process.

  “Oh, Taylor versus Cunningham,” O’Connor said, “the case on page one thousand three. Right, I read that case.”

  “Yes, that case and be quick about it,” Kingsfield snapped. “There’s a lot to cover today.”

  Hart knew about Stubble Rock because he’d read Kingsfield’s article “The Blessings of Consideration,” published thirty years before. He’d looked up all Kingsfield’s articles and read them.

  Thirty cases later, class ended. The people in the back of the room started out, some happy because Kingsfield had been in particularly good form and others sad because he hadn’t fallen from the podium. Hart got his materials together and looked for Ford.

  As Hart watched, Ford’s notebook was knocked off the desk by a student with red hair, pushing to get into the aisle.

  “Shit,” Ford said, and bent to pick up the pages that had worked loose and were lying in the dirty space under the seats.

  “I knew about the Stubble Rock case,” Hart said absentmindedly. “It’s in an article Kingsfield wrote, ‘The Blessings of Consideration.’”

  “So what,” Ford said. A boy in the next aisle stepped on one of Ford’s pages, leaving a black footprint of dirty snow.

  “It�
�s just kind of wild,” Hart said. “It’s cool. I can really understand what he’s saying. Most of the people in this class don’t have any idea about Stubble Rock. I do; Kingsfield does. Don’t you see?”

  “No,” Ford said. He was down on his knees now, under the bench top, getting the last pages.

  “Man, my mind is really in his,” Hart said. “I know what he’s saying before he says it.”

  “You’re sick,” Ford said angrily, standing up holding two crinkled pages. “Get your head together. The only important thing is getting out of this place in one piece. You’re getting as bad as the guys at lunch who tell stories about him. I mean, those guys are really sad. They’re in their second and third year, and instead of doing something healthy-fucking or something-they sit around and re-run what a terrible time they had in contracts. All they can talk about is Kingsfield.”

  The classroom was almost empty. Outside, they could hear students coming up the stairs from the tunnels. In a minute, the room would be jammed. Ford shoved his papers into the notebook and started for the aisle.

  “Don’t get pissed off,” Hart said, following him. “Do you think I’m trying to build myself up? Do you think I told you that because I wanted to impress you?”

  “Forget it,” Ford said. They came to the door, and pushed out into the hall. “Let’s walk outside; the tunnels are crowded. I just mean, be yourself, all right? I get enough of Kingsfield in class.”

  23

  STALE CIGAR SMOKE filtered out the door, into the hall. Hart, standing by the dorm telephone, watched it float to the ceiling. He walked to the door and peeked. The bed was turned on its side against the wall. Five students were sitting in a circle, playing poker, communicating by hand signals. They’d been playing all winter.

  He started back to the phone, past a door painted black in violation of dorm regulations. The student inside collected towels. He put them under the rug, taped them to the walls. “Soundproofing,” he said, and kept to himself. Everyone said he was going to make Law Review but Hart had never seen him in class.