The Paper Chase

by John Osborn

  Kingsfield called on Ford, forty seats from Hart.

  “Do you think, Mr. Ford,” Kingsfield said, “you could explain why the last answer was unsatisfactory?”

  “Yes,” Hart said, “the last answer.”

  Then he stopped because he could not remember the last answer and bowed his head. When he looked up, he realized Ford was answering the question.

  Sometimes things happen in class that you don’t expect and are hard to explain. Once one of my professors said to the class: ‘I want to see Planet of the Apes, but no one will go with me. “Everyone talked about it afterward. You see, he just blurted it out while giving a very technical lecture on the parol evidence rule. The class copied down the phrase “planet of the apes“ along with citations to cases and laws. I guess we discussed the incident for maybe three weeks at lunch in Harkness. Some people wondered if they should see the movie in case a question about it appeared on the exam. Much later I sat next to this professor at dinner. After he’d had a couple of drinks, I asked him if he’d ever seen Planet of the Apes. “Planet of the Apes?” he said. “Why would I want to see trash like Planet of the Apes?”

  35

  KEVIN LOOKED out over the faces in the classroom. It was hard to tell age. At least half were married. Some had babies. Others had them on the way. He wondered what they did with their wives. Maybe it had been a mistake to get in with Hart and Ford. Maybe he should have gotten into a study group with married students.

  Class floated before him like an old movie. He had no idea what case they were on. Last night, trying to work on his outline, he’d fallen asleep over his book and Asheley had taken him to bed.

  He looked at the student next to him, searching for the page number of the material being discussed. Down near the front, far off to the right, he saw his empty seat. It looked lonely without him and he felt responsible for it. He wished the seats weren’t assigned because it was a good seat and if he wasn’t going to use it someone else should have.

  Kingsfield looked at the seating chart, picking a name. Kevin knew that it would be his own name. There wasn’t any question about it. Kingsfield glanced up, and his eyes met Kevin’s. Kevin scrunched down in his seat, hiding in the back.

  “Mr. Brooks,” Kingsfield said, looking toward the empty assigned seat and then over the entire classroom. “Is Mr. Brooks here today?”

  The boys around Kevin smiled. They’d been through it before. They’d had Kingsfield drill into them the fact they lacked the courage to man their seats. Their smiles almost made Kevin rise up and answer. Almost made him callout: Yes, I’m here, in the back. But he didn’t, because people don’t do that when they sit in the back.

  “Well,” Kingsfield said, “I guess Mr. Brooks couldn’t come to class today.”

  Kevin released his grip on the desk top. His mind floated somewhere near the ceiling, careening in weird jagged patterns. He had an image of coming into class with his gun, sitting down in his seat, and when Kingsfield asked him a question, leveling down the gun barrel along a sight that ended in Kingsfield’ s gold watch.

  “Mister, y’all called on the wrong student.”

  “Mister, I think you better take another look at that there chart of your’n.”

  And then letting fly, carving up the vest.

  36

  BELL CAME IN and the circle was complete.

  “How come you’re not using oil skins anymore?” Hart said, watching Bell take the two huge binders out of his briefcase. Bell had given up trying to wrap his outline in plastic and had replaced it with the sturdy binders, each one holding three hundred of the yellow sheets.

  “Funny, very funny,” Bell said.

  “It’s going to cost you a fortune to Xerox that,” Hart said, “and I bet the pen won’t come out clearly either.”

  “Maybe I’m not going to Xerox it,” Bell snarled.

  “What does that mean, maybe you won’t Xerox it?” Kevin said.

  “I mean, this is a good outline, and if yours don’t stack up, maybe you won’t get a chance to look at it,” Bell snapped.

  “Christ,” Ford said. “Not today, all right? It’s getting too late in the year to argue. Bell’s going to have his outline Xeroxed just like the rest of us.”

  “Maybe Bell is, and maybe Bell isn’t,” Bell said.

  “Personally, I think you’re counterproductive,” Anderson said. “Bell, you must know that if you refuse to share your outline with us, then we will refuse to share ours with you. You will, thus, only pass one course and flunk out of school.”

  “I really don’t care about any other course except property,” Bell said.

  “What the fuck kind of thing to say is that,” Ford said. “Look, Bell, we’ve got to get to work and you’re making it very difficult.”

  “I don’t care if I flunk the other courses,” Bell said. “I have to finish my outline and I don’t really have time for any other course except property.”

  “The outline is a tool, Bell,” Anderson said. “A tool, not an end in itself.”

  “I’m going to publish my outline,” Bell said, and his face lit up.

  “So, you’re going to publish your outline,” Ford shot back. “Did it ever occur to you that your outline is merely a summary of a casebook? And that the casebook has already been published?”

  “My outline is better than the casebook,” Bell said. “Anyway, it’s going to be longer.”

  “God,” Ford moaned, “if this goes on for the next two months, we’ll all flunk.”

  “Listen, Bell,” Kevin said, and his voice was high-pitched, worried. “We have to stick together. Please don’t talk like that.”

  “I think you’re all pimps,” Bell said. “If you had any balls, you’d be trying to write an outline as good as mine.”

  “You’re on a suicide course,” Anderson said. “You’ve become, is the correct word schizophrenic?”

  “I won’t sit here and be insulted,” Bell snarled. “One more word out of you, Anderson, and I’ll lock your head in your attaché case.”

  Ford rocked back in his chair.

  “All right, we’re just going to sit here quietly for the next three minutes. No one is going to say anything. Then after we’ve all enjoyed the silence, we’ll start this meeting over again.”

  37

  SUSAN’S STREET was quiet, empty and warm in the spring air. Halfway down, she saw a boy in the shadows across the street, sitting on the curb between two parked cars. She slipped off her shoes, crossed, and crept along the sidewalk behind him.

  It was Hart, staring up at her window, his feet in the road and his arms around his knees. She sat down quietly beside him, resting her arm on a car fender.

  “Do you do this often?” she said softly. “I mean, do you look at my window every night?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” he said quickly, in a low whisper, and started to rise. She took his hand.

  “Come on,” she said, “what the hell is wrong with looking in a girl’s window? I like it. It makes me feel good to know you’re here, guarding the house. You are guarding the house? I’ll sleep better.”

  “I won’t be here long,” he said, but he sat down again.

  “Look, you won’t see anything in my window anyway,” Susan said. “On the other hand, over there is a window with all sorts of promise.” She pointed to the house next to hers. In the lighted second floor window, he saw the back of a girl’s head, poking over a couch.

  “It’s all bullshit,” Susan said, releasing his hand. “That girl up there will tell you, ‘I can’t love you.’ She’ll say it all intense, and then go to bed with you. You know, everyone here is messing everyone else up and then saying that it doesn’t count. This street is like a swamp. Cambridge is like a swamp.”

  “I don’t know Cambridge the way you do,” Hart said.

  “It’s late,” Susan said. “I’ve been with my father, and I feel like three days have passed. How long has it been since I’ve seen you? Three months?”r />
  Hart said nothing. She seemed so beautiful. A cloud welled up in his mind, and he shut his eyes for an instant, containing himself, trying not to make a mistake.

  “I’m glad,” she added. “I don’t know. I’m glad you’re here.”

  I was just walking by,” he said.

  “Come on, Hart,” she said softly. “You weren’t just walking by. Goddamn it, I’m glad you were watching my window. This is a special night. It’s warm. It’s spring. We’re sitting here, like two old friends.”

  A car went by and they ducked down out of the headlight beams. He told himself not to make it more than it was.

  Her voice changed and she spoke over-seriously. “This girl you’re watching,” she said. “Is she really crazy? She double-cross you or something? You planning to take revenge because she left you behind? Maybe you’re waiting to rape her when she comes out?”

  She put an arm around him and whispered in his ear. “I hope you get her,” she said. “I hope you beat the shit out of her. I know that hussy. She don’t listen to nobody. She throws her ass all around Cambridge.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him slowly, as if she were licking ice cream.

  “You just take that hussy and teach her a thing or two,” she whispered. “You wait out here long enough and I know she’ll come sauntering out, not expecting a damn thing. Then you sneak up and grab her quick-like.” She let him go.

  “Look,” she said, “I’ll help you. I’ll sit here with you and watch for her. I can distract her while you sneak.”

  “Jesus,” he cried in a long whooshing burst. He turned to her. Felt her hair, running against the side of his face. He buried his head in her shoulder, and wrapped his arms around her back, holding on as hard as he could. He stayed that way for a long time and she did not move.

  “This was good,” he said finally. “Don’t ask me up. It was good just to see you.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask you up,” she said.

  “I know,” he said. He pulled her up with him and watched her walk across the street to her apartment.

  38

  HART AND FORD stood together at the back of the classroom, under the tall windows, looking down over the descending ribbons of seats. Just in front of the podium, five boys were jockeying for position on the stairs leading up to the lectern. On the top step, a boy in a green plaid jacket refused to yield position to the boy, one step below, who held the present.

  “Goddamn,” Ford said.

  Up on the blackboard someone had written Happy Birthday, the torts class in wavy letters made with the side of the chalk.

  “Did you ever give any money?” Ford asked.

  “No,” Hart said, “I never did. Is it becauses they want a good grade?”

  “I don’t know,” Ford said. “I think they want to purge themselves of their hate. Really. But I guess they have different reasons.”

  In the next instant the German professor, Vorgan Temby, came through the door. Perhaps he thought it was some kind of protest. He froze and then started backing away.

  “What iz ziss …” the German stammered. “Iz somezing wrong? Do you want somezing?” He was terrified having them up at the lectern. They’d broken some kind of magic, mental dividing line.

  The boy in green reached down, took the present from the boy on the next step and at the same time started to sing, alone, in a squeaky high-pitched voice:

  “Happy Birthday, Dear Professor ….”

  The group on the steps joined in. Green coat tried to give the present. The professor backed further toward the door. A bomb? A trick? And then green coat plunked the present down in the professor’s arms. He gripped it and shut his eyes, as if he was trying to keep whatever was in the box from popping out. After a few seconds, the professor relaxed. After all, the box hadn’t blown up. He was still standing there on the podium, alive. He turned and saw the sign on the blackboard.

  “Sank you,” the professor said, smiling at his deliverance.

  And the class started to applaud.

  39

  IT WAS THE HEIGHT of the lunch hour rush and the dining room was crowded. Hart would have liked to eat alone but all the tables were full. Reluctantly, he pushed himself between Anderson and Bell. He took the salt from Ford, sitting across the table, and spread it over the thin meat patty on his plate.

  “No, I’m not going to go,” Anderson was saying. “I don’t like parties. They distract me. I’ll spend the night in the library.”

  “Go where?” Hart asked. He tried to cut the patty with his fork but it sprung out of the rubberized meat.

  “To Kevin’s surprise party,” Anderson said.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Hart said, “you can take the night off. Look, his wife planned the whole thing. She’s pregnant, you know.”

  “Kevin couldn’t make someone pregnant,” Bell muttered.

  “I’d like to go,” Anderson said. “But I just can’t. I’ve worked out my studying schedule to the end of the year. What’s the use of having a schedule if you don’t use it?”

  “Let’s not talk about your studying schedule,” Ford said. “Not at lunch.”

  Hart managed to separate the patty with a knife. He could see the blood vessels running through it. An especially ugly vein was hanging limply across his plate like spaghetti. He put down his fork.

  “He’s in the study group,” Hart said. “That should make you go.”

  “Who cares about the study group?” Bell said. “What’s he ever done for us? Who’s ever seen his outline? Look, I bring my outline with me. Have you ever seen Kevin’s outline?”

  “I don’t want to hear about Kevin’s outline,” Ford said. “And I don’t want to hear about your outline. In fact, your outline is the last thing I want to hear about.”

  Hart looked at Ford. “Don’t you think these guys should go to the party?” he said.

  Ford had finished eating and his tray was piled with the leftovers, his silverware and napkin. He pushed it to the center of the table.

  “I don’t know,” Ford said quietly. “Kevin makes me nervous.”

  40

  THE PLUSH NEW FACULTY office building, in which Hart stood waiting for the elevator, had none of the monastic feeling of Langdell. There were carpets, bathrooms everywhere and small alcoves designed to relax faculty-student conversations.

  Contracts class had ended fifteen minutes before and Hart was tired. He’d done well in class. Perhaps because his mind felt like a festering sore, he had been encouraged to block it out. He had fused with the cases, locked out the world. His answers had been clean.

  The elevator doors opened bashfully, coming halfway open, scampering back, and finally jerking forward again in a programmed dance. Hart stepped into the cage and pressed the third floor button. He was going to pick up what was promoted as the last handout in torts, but which would probably be followed by others.

  As he leaned against the rear of the car, anticipating the massage he would get as the machine took over and delivered him upstairs, he began to feel a tingling numbness-the same feeling he got in class when he was going to be called on, a warning. He looked quickly around the empty cage, wishing the doors would shut faster. In the same instant, a hand slammed against the sensitized rubber edges and the doors sprang back like students.

  “Gotcha,” Kingsfield said proudly to the retreating doors. He squinted his eyes for a second and then settled in the middle of the car. The doors closed, locking the two of them together.

  As the machine began its climb, Hart’s neck started to ache as if a scalding washcloth, draped around his shoulders, was dripping hot fluid. He tried to reach his arm up and rub, but his arm would not move.

  Kingsfield shifted his weight from one foot to the other. To Hart, the act seemed to ridicule his own impotency. Why couldn’t he move? It was as though the small confines of the cage trapped the professor’s suffocating presence, normally dispersed throughout the entire classroom.

  Hart tried to pretend he wa
s giving another person advice. It’s all in your mind, he told himself. You’re making a big thing out of nothing. He’s just an old man.

  But it made no difference. His legs began to weaken, melt. Hart prayed the elevator would climb faster.

  Suddenly, as the car started to decelerate, Hart’s body burst with heat. He looked at Kingsfield’s dark suit, striped with tiny white lines, and he knew it was Friday, because Kingsfield wore this suit on Friday. He knew that tonight he would have to go to the library and study like a madman, because the fact that he was in the car would trigger something in Kingsfield’s mind. When Kingsfield was searching for a person to call on an impression of Hart would flicker in the professor’s subconscious.

  As the car stopped, and the doors began to jiggle away from each other, the paralyzing vapor dispersed through the opening. The light from the third floor hallway flooded in, reaching past Kingsfield to Hart, and with the light, Hart relaxed, breathed for the first time.

  Kingsfield stepped out. Then he turned and caught sight of Hart pressed like a mosaic against the back of the elevator.

  “Oh,” Kingsfield said, surprised, as if when he’d entered he had somehow missed the fact that Hart was in the car. “You. You did well in class today. Your mind seems to be getting sharper.”

  Then the elevator doors were shut. The machine started to move down to the first floor, where a student waited for the car to lift him up to the third floor, to the German professor’s office and the torts handout. Hart pressed the buttons, trying to stop the elevator, make it reverse course. The buttons did nothing but register the machine’s steady decline to the first floor.

  Hart gave up and looked around the empty steel shell. Then, in a purging burst, he shoved his feet apart, his hands straight up in the air, and screamed.

  41

  “BEFORE WE BEGIN the discussion,” Ford said, “let’s see how things are going. You know what I mean. The outlines.”