CHAPTERS EIGHT AND NINE, GRAY HALL II
CHAPTER EIGHT: A LESSON IN HELPING THE LESS FORTUNATE
I always give homeless people money, and my friends yell at me, "He's only going to buy more alcohol and cigarettes." And I'm thinking, "Oh, and like I wasn't?"
--Kathleen Madigan
My family was homeless for a long time. I grew up in Canada, so I thought we had just gone camping. And my parents kept me in the dark, because they were embarrassed. I'd ask, "Dad, are we living below the poverty line?" And he'd say, "No son, we're rich as long as we have each other. Now get in the Dumpster."
--Jim Carrey
I believe there's a commonality to all humanity: We all suck.
--Bill Hicks
During the month of November, the Black Law Student Association (BALSA) at the Davis University School of Law does their annual food drive for the less fortunate in the community. Law school students, staff, and faculty, with great amounts of charity and academic self-preservation (students could pull out a canned good when asked questions during class and get skipped over), donated enough food to feed 257 families (based upon statistics given by the president of BALSA). According to BALSA, Davis Law School averages about $7,000 in cash and about two tons of canned and boxed goods every year. Every year, the Board of Regents and the City Council would commend the law school on their generosity during the holiday season. Jake thought that the City Council was being facetious, as the current City Council was noticeably conservative and not big on helping social welfare programs.
For example, the City Council moved the homeless shelter from downtown (where it was useful due to the central location and the proximity to the bus station) to a location near the city limits (where it was hard to get to and oddly enough, located right by the county jail). Money for the city's homeless shelter, in addition, was taken away and, in the words of the City Council, sent to "more useful and productive programs." What these "more useful and productive programs" were, however, nobody knew.
If the money did go into these programs, there sure wasn't any change in the city. The streets were still riddled with potholes. The sidewalks were still uneven and full of cracks. The traffic was still congested. The cars that the City Council members drove, however, were much better looking and much more expensive. Jake never saw so many shiny and brand new Corvette Z6s at one location in his entire life. Oddly enough, a well-known and highly respected news magazine did a survey of City Councils around the nation and the home of Davis University School of Law ranked in the top ten in one category. Not for being ethical and efficient, but for being one of the most corrupt, one of the most inefficient, and one of the sleaziest city governments in the entire nation. Then again, this fact wasn't meant to imply anything at all.
The current City Council promoted these community project programs, as it was volunteer work and any kind of volunteer work was good for the community. It was excellent for the City Council. In addition, there was another benefit provided by community service. Since it was volunteer work, the City Council didn’t have to pay money to anyone to do this work. This meant more money for the really important projects like properly landscaping traffic roundabouts with flowers that would die in a week and not for trivial and foolish things like fixing the massive potholes that plagued the city streets.
This year, the members of BALSA were expecting the same amount of food and money, if not more, given the current state of the city right now. Preferably more, a whole lot more. The City Council, being wise and concerned about the plight of the poor and homeless, decided that organizations like the Salvation Army weren't all that important or all that useful. Why give good money to organizations that enable people who were welfare moochers and not being productive in the community? The Corvette Z6 is an all-American car, but hey, sometimes, one wants to go foreign with their car choices. Like a Porsche Boxter in a bright fire engine red or a sleek jet black.
OK, that was enough about how lousy the local City Council was, so it's now time to go back to the good deeds happening at Davis Law School. Maybe one should include misdeeds as well.
To fully understand this, one must understand how the food is collected during the BALSA Food Drive. Around the law school, there are shopping carts. To make a donation, a person must put the items into the shopping cart. That's how things are done. This might sound like a foolish way of doing a food drive, considering the shopping cars are out in the open and nobody is watching them. Anyone could walk by, bend over, and pilfer a few food items from the shopping cart without anybody knowing. But this does not happen. In fact, in the twenty years BALSA has held the food drive, nobody has stolen food from the shopping carts. Then again, some things are meant to be broken, including streaks.
One November morning--a warm day by November standards--Jake was outside talking to some of his law school friends. Two of them were in his Federal Income Taxation class and the others were people he had known since his 1L year. They were talking about their plans for the upcoming Thanksgiving Break, a welcome reprieve from the life sentence called law school.
"So Jake," asked Hector Graza while puffing on a Camel cigarette, "what are you doing for Thanksgiving Break?"
"Nothing much. Eat lots of food. Watch some football and curse the ineptitude of the Chiefs. Maybe look over the Tax Code."
"Sounds good, except for the Tax Code part. You probably were joking."
"Yeah. Like I'm going to look at that during Thanksgiving Break. What are you doing?"
"My girlfriend's parents are coming over. That should be a riot. And I mean the violent type. Not a fun time."
Eric Vinson laughed. "Is it that bad? My wife's parents are worse. Her family are half-drunk French Canadians. They're loud and drunk. Not to mention Canadian."
"Actually, they are. I've never understood why people buy guns and Mace and Tasers and all that shit, but now I'm beginning to understand. You've got to keep people away and the 'Please leave right now' attitude sometimes doesn't work. A good shot of pepper spray to the eyes does wonders." Hector took another puff on his cigarette and then shook the ash off the tip.
"Hmm...you may have a point there," replied Eric. "Nothing says the Thanksgiving spirit like 50,000 volts of electricity coursing through your body while pepper spray melts your eyeballs."
It was moments like these that made time outside so entertaining. Some of the craziest comments and the most entertaining conversations occured with the smokers. Last year, there was the legendary "You're all burning in Hell" joke contest, where Jake, Will, and Sarah told amazingly politically incorrect jokes for nearly an hour. Sarah had a ready supply of drunk Irish jokes. Will, despite being an avowed Catholic (but was more lax in his Mass attendance than a good Catholic should), recited a string of Jesus jokes. Jake was more equal-opportunity and told jokes that covered a wide area of topics. At the end of the hour (Sarah and Will had to go to class), it was declared a tie between Jake and Will, but Jake knew that he won. The contest was a fine way of decompressing from the normally oppressive nature of law school (despite the professors saying law school was an "open and tolerant" forum for ideas. It was "open and tolerant" assuming you didn't violate political correctness and the liberal attitude of most professors. Well, this was the case at Davis and most law schools. There were some law schools of a religious nature that were decidedly conservative and Jake avoided those places).
Will and his Immigration Law professor--Professor Susan Franklin--came out of Davis Law School, puffing on cigarettes and discussing a particular section of Federal immigration law.
"Hey Jake! Buddy! It's been a while since I've seen you. Do you have any more of those pastries filled with...what was it...vanilla cream? How about some cinnamon rolls? Those were great cinnamon rolls."
"Hey Will. No pinwheels or cinnamon rolls today. But I've got something else you might like." Jake opened his backpack and pulled out a small package wrapped in aluminum foil. "A chocolate cherry scone."
"That sounds good. And it looks good as well. You ever think about becoming a baker or something? You reall should. I think I'll save it for lunch."
Jake looked up at the law school. The main entrance at the west side was made of glass and steel, so a person could see what was going on inside. He looked up at the second floor and he saw someone going down the stairs. Not a casual walk, but a full blown run. Like someone was about to chase him.
The person was halfway down the stairs and then Jake saw why the person was running down the stairs so fast. Somebody was chasing him. A big, tall, muscular man who looked very angry.
"Will. Look over there. At the law school. Who is that going down the stairs?"
"I don't know. But I do know the guy chasing him....and I wouldn't want to get caught if he was chasing me." Will paused for a second. "That's Booker Jones. He used to be a defensive lineman at the University of Georgia. Three year starter. Scary dude. I think he works as a bouncer at a local club."
Professor Franklin looked up as well. "Yup, that's Booker all right," she said. "I think I know the person he's chasing. He looks like someone who frequenly visits the Legal Services office."
A tall, skinny, almost bony man bolted out the doors. His stringy, dark brown hair (shoulder length, slightly greasy) was streaming behind him. His black shirt was getting damp due to the sweat dripping off his face. His khaki pants were wrinkled and dirty. His backpack was tighly zippped up and weighed down with something. Whatever was inside his backpack made a clunking and clanking sound every time he made a step.
The man paused to take a breath and then he saw the doors fly open, like a ton of TNT exploded. What burst out of the doors was not a flaming ball of fire and smoke, but Booker Jones, a force of nature.
Imagine an African American man, six feet three inches in height. A cleanly shaved, bald head. Flinty brown eyes, like chips of brown obsidian. A neatly shaven goatee. Very little body fat. A densly muscled physique, despite graduating from college nearly ten years ago. Very quick on his feet for his sheer size. Absolutely intimidating. And he had a trigger-quick temper. Once he got angry, he got angry. Vesuvian anger. Explosive power like a 100 megaton nuclear warhead. That burst of anger made him a monster on the football field. And it made him one of the best bouncers in the area. Nobody messed with Booker Jones.
"Hey you! Yeah you!" Booker's voice boomed loudly. "Stop right now! Open up your bag! I know you took something from the shopping carts!"
The man automatically stopped in his tracks. Hell, everybody stopped in their tracks. Booker Jones had that kind of voice and the body to go along with in. Once people realized that he was talking to someone else and not them, everyone resumed with their previous activities. Just like nothing happened.
"Look man, whatever your name is. I don't know who you are and I don't know what you're talking about," stuttered the man, very unconvincingly. But he was convincing with how scared he was. Anyone would be scared if faced with a big, scary man like Booker Jones. "I don't have anything! I didn't take anything!" This was the unknown man. "Honestly, I don't know what you are talking about."
"Damn it! Don't lie with me! I know you took something from the shopping carts upstairs. I saw you take something and put it inside your backpack. Don't fucking lie with me!" Booker paused to catch his breath. "You know who that food is for? Homeless and poor people. You're taking food away from those people."
"I still don't know what you're talking about!" His voice became shrill and panicked. "I didn't take anything!"
"What did I tell you? Don't lie to me! You're lying! Show me your ID!"
"I'm getting out of here!" The man bolted from the law school and ran across Nichols Street, not caring if he got injured in the process. He barely missed being hit by a car by about a foot.
Booker said, "Did you see what happened? Damn fucker took food from the BALSA Food Drive shopping carts and lied about it. I could hear the cans rattling inside his backpack. Caught him fucking stealing from the homeless and poor. That makes me angry."
Professor Franklin said, "Booker, calm down. Don't get too angry."
"Calm down? That fucking asshole took food from the BALSA Food Drive shopping carts and lied about it! And you want me to calm down? The food belongs to the homeless and poor, not some random dude."
"Booker, calm down. You know that man you were screaming at? I've seen him at the law school before. In fact, several times before at the Legal Aid Clinic. He's homeless."
"Yeah, so what? Still doesn't mean he should take food from the BALSA carts, homeless or not."
"That's right. You should calm down. Remember, you're already in enough trouble. Don't make it any worse than it already is. Not over a few cans of food."
"Professor Franklin, you're right. I still don't think what he did was right." And as suddenly as Booker Jones got angry, he calmed down.
Will asked, "Hey professor, what just happened?"
"Someone took food from the BALSA carts and Booker got angry. He shouldn't have."
"Really? Why?"
"That's a long story. To make a long story short, Booker was arrested for assault twice when he was a kid. I think he also was arrested for assault recently. He doesn't need any more trouble with the law."
"Now that makes some more sense. Booker does get angry real quickly. Remind me not to get him pissed off. That guy is lucky he didn't get beat up."
"Absolutely. Then again, Booker should stay out of trouble and get some anger management. It's gotten him into problems before and it might get him into problems later." She looked at her watch. "Damn, it's 11:28. Time to go upstairs to teach class. Will, I suppose you'll be in class today?"
"Yup. Let's go. See ya, Jake."
"See ya, Will."
Jake let out a quick snort. He learned a vital lesson about helping the less fortunate. Some law school students are willing to help the less fortunate, but only those they choose to help. Hey, at least the law school students were doing something to help the less fortunate, unlike the city government. Jake also wondered what it would have been like if Booker Jones got his hands on the man. It would have been pretty violent and interesting, in a sadistic kind of way. Jake was sure that the city council would have paid a tidy sum of money for a peek at the video. Probably would have made a few side bets as well. Not that the city government was that sleazy…well, maybe they were.
CHAPTER NINE: THE MADNESS SEASON
College is where I realized that God didn't need seven days to create the Earth. He could party for six days and pull an all-nighter.
--Tommy Koenig
Schools: I got an F one time on a question that asked me my opinion.
--Gallagher
I'm willing to see prayer in school if you're willing to find a place for algebra in our churches.
--Dylan Brody
One fine December day, Clarissa and Jake were at Delacroix's Ice Pond, affectionately called "The Penguin Palace" by the locals. The original owner, a homesick Canadian named Pierre Delacroix from Edmonton, decided that the city needed an ice skating rink. To be honest, he liked playing ice hockey (naturally, of course) and the nearest ice skating rink was an hour away. So, in 1955, wanting a place to ice skate year-round, bought an old roller skating rink and converted it into an ice skating rink. To bring in people, he put up a giant sign with a giant penguin painted in the center. He had a painter cover the walls with ice skating penguins. The employees at Delacroix wore white shirts and black jackets, looking like penguins. On opening day, a newspaper reporter commented that Delacroix's Ice Pond would be a grand building for a penguin to live in. The next day, everyone called Delacroix's Ice Pond "The Penguin Palace" and since then, the name stuck.
Clarissa and Jake glided smoothly on the ice, arms linked together. Long strides covering distance on the ice. Not too fast, not too slow. Just comfortable and efficient motion.
Jake noticed that a lot of the men were tripping and falling over their jaws (when their jaws hit the ice), or stumbling over their feet, or even managing to skate into the walls. This only occurred when Clarissa skated by them. She had that ability. At the law school, men forgot how to talk while around her. While going out on dates with Clarissa, Jake had a constant and seemingly endless source of entertainment. He enjoyed seeing guys do double takes, lose concentration, and run into objects. Yes, it was a sadistic kind of humor, but even Clarissa found it amusing. It happened every single time without fail. She could be hazardous to your health. Very hazardous to your health. Broken bones. Painful concussions. Bruised bodies. Then again, you could say, for a brief amount of time, it might make you think that there was a God or a higher power. Beauty in any form was proof. Jake certainly thought that was true.
After ice skating, they stopped by the concession stand and bought hot chocolate and not hot cocoa; there was a difference between the two drinks. Hot cocoa is made of cocoa powder (generally insipid and flavorless in Jake's opinion) mixed with milk and a large amount of sugar. The result was an overly sweet drink that did not taste anything like chocolate, but more like heavily sugared milk with the barest hint of chocolate. Hot chocolate, however, was melted chocolate (coming from a solid bar of chocolate) mixed with milk or in an ideal world, cream.
The man responsible for the hot chocolate was a native Parisian who used to own a highly successful cafe near the Eiffel Tower. His hot chocolate was made of melted chocolate, hot milk, and some other unknown ingredients creating a truly sublime mixture. Thick texture. Intense chocolate flavor. The perfect level of sweetness. One cup could send a person into a higher state of unconsciousness or consciousness, depending on one's constitution. Food critics who visited his cafe found his coffee to be excellent, but his hot chocolate, that was a drink fit for the gods. He decided to move to America when his wife obtained a job teaching French at Davis University ten years ago. The man fell in love with Delacroix's Ice Rink and decided to make his famous hot chocolate.
While sipping his hot chocolate, Jake's mind began to wander off. Normally, his mind would wander off onto pleasant subjects, but this time, his mind wandered onto a subject he normally would not think about this time of the year. A subject that many law school students did not want to think about. He was thinking about law school finals.
Jake barely noticed that Clarissa was talking to him.
"Jake? Earth to Jake. Yoohoo? Are you listening?"
"What? Oh, yeah. What were you talking about? I wasn't listening. Sorry about that."
"That's OK. We were having a conversation about winter vacation plans. I was just telling you about my plans. How me and my family are spending time in Colorado." Clarissa looked at him strangely. "This just isn't like you. Are you OK?"
"I'm fine. I'm just a little distracted about finals."
"What? You're distracted about law school finals? The indestructible Jake Lau when it comes to law school finals? Mr. Always Prepared?" Her eyebrows shot up in surprise and disbelief. "Now I know for sure that there is something wrong with you."
"Not really. I've got nothing but statute-based finals. One of them is closed-book. That's why."
"Oh. Then again, it could be like last year when you had four finals in two days."
"Yeah, I guess you're right." He sighed. She was right. She was always right when it came to matters like this. "I might as well study and make do. Whatever may happen."
"Now I know you're sick. You don't study for finals and you've just used the word in a sentence." Clarissa began to wonder if Jake really was an alien. "I think you should finish up that hot chocolate soon. It's getting cold."
"Ready for the International Trade Law final Jake?"
"As ready as I will ever be Beth."
"I can't believe it's going to be closed book with all of the material we had to remember."
"I know. I must have taken sixty, seventy pages of notes. And I probably missed a whole lot of the stuff he talked about in class."
"Yeah. It's not going to be easy."
"Right about that. Then again, we both have the Federal Income Tax final on Monday."
"Oh no...I forgot about that." She groaned in disbelief and frustration. "And I barely started on my outline and I have to go to a friend's wedding on Saturday."
"Hmm...that is bad. I've got a copy of an outline you can use. Pretty good, actually. It covers everything we did in class this semester. I can e-mail you a copy of it."
"Really? You can? That would be great. You're a lifesaver. I'll see you at the final. Um...what room is it in again?"
"Computer people are in Room 107 and non-computer are in Room 108."
"Thanks again. Good luck."
The first final for Jake was the dreaded closed book International Trade Law final. The professor teaching the class, Professor Bahari, said that the final would be difficult, but not overly so, as long as you studied the material. Jake listened to this with some trepidation as Professor Bahari had a much higher standard than most professors.
Being an international law genius (several well-respected treatises on GATT and international trade law in publication), as well as highly educated (Duke University, Harvard Law School, London School of Economics, and Cambridge), his standard for "normal" was set at a level most would consider advanced. In fact, during class, Professor Bahari stated "what you're learning right now is material most trade lawyers don't learn or understand." That was how advanced and cutting edge this course was. The section on dumping alone was something most trade lawyers tried to avoid. And he expected students with no experience or exposure to the subject, to not only understand the material, but also write coherent and concise answers in complete sentences. Using the very proper and grammatical Queen's English. In under three hours. For a grade. Ah, but according to Professor Bahari and many other professors, "grades really don't matter to employers."
Really? According to that logic, all of the stuff they spouted about during 1L orientation was a giant load of bullshit that really didn't matter. Great. All that time spent reading textbooks and listening in class was one giant waste of three years. Then again, professors didn't have to worry about grades. Also, law school professors did well academically in law school. If you look at the faculty profiles for law school professors, you will note that many received high grades. One does not get into Law Review, Order of the Coif, or receive a clerkship to a United States Supreme Court justice with a low GPA.
Jake automatically hated Professor's Bahari's final just looking at it. While skimming through the questions, he realized that the seemingly innocent questions weren't so innocent. The simple answers Jake wanted to write (one or two paragraphs at most) had the possibility to morph into miniature treatises. In addition, the fact patterns were vague. Whether this was unintentional or purposely done, however, was a question best left unanswered. The answer to this question really didn't matter. What mattered was the answers to the questions at hand.
He thought that Professor's LaRusso's final exams were devious and that no professor could be them in complexity. Professor Stacy and Professor Glickstein were close, but not the worst. Professor Bahari's exams, Jake soon discovered, made Professor LaRusso's exams look simple by comparison. It was like comparing the explosive power of a 100 megaton nuclear bomb to the explosive power of a keg filled with gunpowder. No comparison at all.
With most law school essay exams, the fact pattern is carefully written so that the correct answer is relatively easy to find out. You know what answer the professor would like you to write down. The explanation takes time as it takes a while to write everything down.
With Professor Bahari's exam questions, because of the vagueness of the fact pattern, you couldn't come up with an exact answer (what the Professor wanted). It depended on how you defined a certain word, how you interpreted an element of a certain test, how you felt about a certain subject, how a certain historical incident that happened a thousand years ago helped fuel the current ideas on a certain topic.
The questions got worse as the exam went along. Once he was finished with the exam, he immediately went home, took two extra-strength aspirin for an extra-strength headache, and instantly went to sleep. He didn't wake up until the next morning.
Public International Law was much better, despite the final being held on a Saturday afternoon. The Saturday final was a peculiar institution mainly done by law schools. Some other professional schools scheduled Saturday finals, but they were rare. The law school could have held the finals strictly on Mondays through Fridays, but that would have posed logistical problems given classroom size and numbers. Each law school class generally needed two rooms each; larger classes sometimes used three or four rooms. With the clever use of pigeonhole theory, one could schedule the finals such that every final was taken only on Mondays through Fridays. But this caused problems with scheduling.
For instance, certain certificate programs like the International Law and Tax Certificate Program, have several required classes each semester. One cannot schedule Federal Income Taxation and Taxation of Business Enterprises at the same time on the same day. This unfortunate scheduling conflict happened when you used a strict Monday through Friday testing schedule. To cure this problem, an additional day for testing is needed. Hence the Saturday test day.
The test went surprisingly well. The first question involved writing an outline argument: whether or not Slovenia's actions violated international law with its actions involving Gypsies. It was obvious (based upon Jake's opinion of the facts) that Slovenia did violate international law. Most of the rights involved were universally recognized rights that had become customary international law. Things like freedom of movement, the right to association, religious freedom, and such. Coming up with counter arguments were just as simple to come up with as one can always find a loophole in treaties, even with internationally recognized rights like religious freedom. Just claim the restrictions were for public safety reasons and anything could be made legal. The second question involved writing a memo. The great question involving the United States and torture. Fun. The final question, to Jake, seemed like a trick question. It asked whether the United States should continue its obligations with respect to the Convention on the Law of the Seas and other environmentally related treaties. What was the tricky part of the question is that the United States HAD no obligations to such treaties. They never signed them and enforced them as law. So Jake had to carefully answer the question by making an assumption on what the professor meant by "continuing their current treaty obligations." He thought this was a brilliant piece of legal writing.
His Federal Income Taxation final wasn't as bad as Jake thought it would be. In fact, it was much easier than he thought it would be. So much for worrying about the final. That was a total waste of five seconds of his life. Wait, he spent a weekend going over the problems (done during class) and reading over the outline he got from one of his friends in Federal Income Taxation. OK. So it was a waste of a weekend in his life. And he could have spent some of that time watching Casino Royale at one of the many multiplexes in town. It would have been an overpriced experience (ten bucks for a ticket, five bucks for soda, three bucks for popcorn, and an untold amount of hassles like cell phones and screaming children) but more interesting than looking at the Federal Tax Code.
Of course, Jake didn't escape that easily. If he did, then it wouldn't be a proper law school experience. Oh no. Professor Davidson had to include in some problems involving 1245 recapture gain (which triggered the capital gain rate of taxation), Roth IRA deductions, and municipal bonds. Jake hated any problems that involved capital gain taxes. Section 1(h) was not a very fun section to go through. Before you can come up to Section 1(h), you had to figure you what was subject to capital gains (requiring going through several other confusing sections), figure out if it was short-term or long-term, and then categorizing them in other ways. Oh, but this was just the beginning. Once you figure out the regular tax with the money subject to capital gains, you then can go though the terrible maelstrom called Section 1(h) of the Federal Tax Code. First you compute the tax without the money subject to capital gains (an already complicated process that drove people crazy). Then you go though a complicated process of figuring out the tax with capital gains. This process took a while, as the code was poorly written. At moments like this, Jake grudgingly understood why there was a Legal Writing class at Davis Law School. Just barely.
He went home, took some more extra-strength aspirin, and took another long nap. An extra long nap. He had one more final left, so this was a bad thing. This was going to be a long finals period.
Jake's final final. Bankruptcy taught by Professor Warren. Students called him Professor Everywhere Yet Nowhere, as his classes went everywhere, in every direction. In his class, when he asked a question (one that had an obviously correct answer), he accepted every answer as equally correct. No matter how off-topic or bizarre or ludicrous. On the final exam however, he wanted the correct answer, one that he never talked about. Concrete on the final exam, like a vaporous gas in class. Everywhere but nowhere. In the end, you felt like you learned everything, but got nothing in return.
This probably was an unfair characterization of Professor Warren, but one got that feeling while in one of his classes. Jake certainly got that feeling while in one of Warren's classes. He had that feeling in Contracts II when Professor Warren would ask questions over UCC 2-403. You knew the facts fit the statute or the facts didn't fit the statute. You knew when something did or didn't fit the statute. You knew when things were right or wrong. But Professor Warren would accept anything you came up with. It was crazy, just absolutely crazy.
Professor Warren's final for bankruptcy was a classic "Everywhere but Nowhere" final. The fact patterns were vague and under written. Facts were missing. Facts were poorly written as to have more than one valid meaning. The questions he asked were just as vague. Once you combined the questions with the facts, you got a giant mess.
This year, it was an unlucky couple who was suffering from crippling debt. They had a $250,000 mortgage that was overdue. Because of their missed payments (several months worth), the bank was about to foreclose on their house. In addition to the giant mortgage, they owed money on two cars ($40,000 in debt and with a fair market value of only $35,000) and $50,000 in credit card debt.
Fun. Please examine the likelihood of success of keeping their house and cars in Chapter 7 bankruptcy using applicable Missouri exemption statutes. Given the facts, it was highly unlikely that they would keep both their cars and the house. One car at most. To get to that conclusion required going through the dreaded means test and several pages of US Census Bureau data.
Next, as a great follow-up to the first question, assume this is a Chapter 13 bankruptcy. What are the chances of success assuming they file in Kansas? This was much easier to do than file Chapter 13. Jake noted the couple could file for Chapter 7. Why they didn't go for Chapter 7 seemed odd to Jake, but that was something he didn't question. That was his personal opinion.
Jake finished the final with some time to spare. Like about two minutes left. He had the nagging feeling he should have finished much earlier. Yeah, he could have, if it weren't for the bad fact patterns and the poorly written questions. Oh well. That was how life and finals worked out.
For some reason, he had a terrible headache when he was finished with finals. So when he went home, he took two extra-strength aspirin and went to sleep. And that was law school finals for this semester. The madness season, at least for now, was over. Jake only had to endure this in the spring and it all would be over. Taking finals would be finally over. Permanently.
Jake would forget about anything related to law school until January. Heck, since he was a 3L, he might forget about law school until the next madness season in May.
I always give homeless people money, and my friends yell at me, "He's only going to buy more alcohol and cigarettes." And I'm thinking, "Oh, and like I wasn't?"
--Kathleen Madigan
My family was homeless for a long time. I grew up in Canada, so I thought we had just gone camping. And my parents kept me in the dark, because they were embarrassed. I'd ask, "Dad, are we living below the poverty line?" And he'd say, "No son, we're rich as long as we have each other. Now get in the Dumpster."
--Jim Carrey
I believe there's a commonality to all humanity: We all suck.
--Bill Hicks
During the month of November, the Black Law Student Association (BALSA) at the Davis University School of Law does their annual food drive for the less fortunate in the community. Law school students, staff, and faculty, with great amounts of charity and academic self-preservation (students could pull out a canned good when asked questions during class and get skipped over), donated enough food to feed 257 families (based upon statistics given by the president of BALSA). According to BALSA, Davis Law School averages about $7,000 in cash and about two tons of canned and boxed goods every year. Every year, the Board of Regents and the City Council would commend the law school on their generosity during the holiday season. Jake thought that the City Council was being facetious, as the current City Council was noticeably conservative and not big on helping social welfare programs.
For example, the City Council moved the homeless shelter from downtown (where it was useful due to the central location and the proximity to the bus station) to a location near the city limits (where it was hard to get to and oddly enough, located right by the county jail). Money for the city's homeless shelter, in addition, was taken away and, in the words of the City Council, sent to "more useful and productive programs." What these "more useful and productive programs" were, however, nobody knew.
If the money did go into these programs, there sure wasn't any change in the city. The streets were still riddled with potholes. The sidewalks were still uneven and full of cracks. The traffic was still congested. The cars that the City Council members drove, however, were much better looking and much more expensive. Jake never saw so many shiny and brand new Corvette Z6s at one location in his entire life. Oddly enough, a well-known and highly respected news magazine did a survey of City Councils around the nation and the home of Davis University School of Law ranked in the top ten in one category. Not for being ethical and efficient, but for being one of the most corrupt, one of the most inefficient, and one of the sleaziest city governments in the entire nation. Then again, this fact wasn't meant to imply anything at all.
The current City Council promoted these community project programs, as it was volunteer work and any kind of volunteer work was good for the community. It was excellent for the City Council. In addition, there was another benefit provided by community service. Since it was volunteer work, the City Council didn’t have to pay money to anyone to do this work. This meant more money for the really important projects like properly landscaping traffic roundabouts with flowers that would die in a week and not for trivial and foolish things like fixing the massive potholes that plagued the city streets.
This year, the members of BALSA were expecting the same amount of food and money, if not more, given the current state of the city right now. Preferably more, a whole lot more. The City Council, being wise and concerned about the plight of the poor and homeless, decided that organizations like the Salvation Army weren't all that important or all that useful. Why give good money to organizations that enable people who were welfare moochers and not being productive in the community? The Corvette Z6 is an all-American car, but hey, sometimes, one wants to go foreign with their car choices. Like a Porsche Boxter in a bright fire engine red or a sleek jet black.
OK, that was enough about how lousy the local City Council was, so it's now time to go back to the good deeds happening at Davis Law School. Maybe one should include misdeeds as well.
To fully understand this, one must understand how the food is collected during the BALSA Food Drive. Around the law school, there are shopping carts. To make a donation, a person must put the items into the shopping cart. That's how things are done. This might sound like a foolish way of doing a food drive, considering the shopping cars are out in the open and nobody is watching them. Anyone could walk by, bend over, and pilfer a few food items from the shopping cart without anybody knowing. But this does not happen. In fact, in the twenty years BALSA has held the food drive, nobody has stolen food from the shopping carts. Then again, some things are meant to be broken, including streaks.
One November morning--a warm day by November standards--Jake was outside talking to some of his law school friends. Two of them were in his Federal Income Taxation class and the others were people he had known since his 1L year. They were talking about their plans for the upcoming Thanksgiving Break, a welcome reprieve from the life sentence called law school.
"So Jake," asked Hector Graza while puffing on a Camel cigarette, "what are you doing for Thanksgiving Break?"
"Nothing much. Eat lots of food. Watch some football and curse the ineptitude of the Chiefs. Maybe look over the Tax Code."
"Sounds good, except for the Tax Code part. You probably were joking."
"Yeah. Like I'm going to look at that during Thanksgiving Break. What are you doing?"
"My girlfriend's parents are coming over. That should be a riot. And I mean the violent type. Not a fun time."
Eric Vinson laughed. "Is it that bad? My wife's parents are worse. Her family are half-drunk French Canadians. They're loud and drunk. Not to mention Canadian."
"Actually, they are. I've never understood why people buy guns and Mace and Tasers and all that shit, but now I'm beginning to understand. You've got to keep people away and the 'Please leave right now' attitude sometimes doesn't work. A good shot of pepper spray to the eyes does wonders." Hector took another puff on his cigarette and then shook the ash off the tip.
"Hmm...you may have a point there," replied Eric. "Nothing says the Thanksgiving spirit like 50,000 volts of electricity coursing through your body while pepper spray melts your eyeballs."
It was moments like these that made time outside so entertaining. Some of the craziest comments and the most entertaining conversations occured with the smokers. Last year, there was the legendary "You're all burning in Hell" joke contest, where Jake, Will, and Sarah told amazingly politically incorrect jokes for nearly an hour. Sarah had a ready supply of drunk Irish jokes. Will, despite being an avowed Catholic (but was more lax in his Mass attendance than a good Catholic should), recited a string of Jesus jokes. Jake was more equal-opportunity and told jokes that covered a wide area of topics. At the end of the hour (Sarah and Will had to go to class), it was declared a tie between Jake and Will, but Jake knew that he won. The contest was a fine way of decompressing from the normally oppressive nature of law school (despite the professors saying law school was an "open and tolerant" forum for ideas. It was "open and tolerant" assuming you didn't violate political correctness and the liberal attitude of most professors. Well, this was the case at Davis and most law schools. There were some law schools of a religious nature that were decidedly conservative and Jake avoided those places).
Will and his Immigration Law professor--Professor Susan Franklin--came out of Davis Law School, puffing on cigarettes and discussing a particular section of Federal immigration law.
"Hey Jake! Buddy! It's been a while since I've seen you. Do you have any more of those pastries filled with...what was it...vanilla cream? How about some cinnamon rolls? Those were great cinnamon rolls."
"Hey Will. No pinwheels or cinnamon rolls today. But I've got something else you might like." Jake opened his backpack and pulled out a small package wrapped in aluminum foil. "A chocolate cherry scone."
"That sounds good. And it looks good as well. You ever think about becoming a baker or something? You reall should. I think I'll save it for lunch."
Jake looked up at the law school. The main entrance at the west side was made of glass and steel, so a person could see what was going on inside. He looked up at the second floor and he saw someone going down the stairs. Not a casual walk, but a full blown run. Like someone was about to chase him.
The person was halfway down the stairs and then Jake saw why the person was running down the stairs so fast. Somebody was chasing him. A big, tall, muscular man who looked very angry.
"Will. Look over there. At the law school. Who is that going down the stairs?"
"I don't know. But I do know the guy chasing him....and I wouldn't want to get caught if he was chasing me." Will paused for a second. "That's Booker Jones. He used to be a defensive lineman at the University of Georgia. Three year starter. Scary dude. I think he works as a bouncer at a local club."
Professor Franklin looked up as well. "Yup, that's Booker all right," she said. "I think I know the person he's chasing. He looks like someone who frequenly visits the Legal Services office."
A tall, skinny, almost bony man bolted out the doors. His stringy, dark brown hair (shoulder length, slightly greasy) was streaming behind him. His black shirt was getting damp due to the sweat dripping off his face. His khaki pants were wrinkled and dirty. His backpack was tighly zippped up and weighed down with something. Whatever was inside his backpack made a clunking and clanking sound every time he made a step.
The man paused to take a breath and then he saw the doors fly open, like a ton of TNT exploded. What burst out of the doors was not a flaming ball of fire and smoke, but Booker Jones, a force of nature.
Imagine an African American man, six feet three inches in height. A cleanly shaved, bald head. Flinty brown eyes, like chips of brown obsidian. A neatly shaven goatee. Very little body fat. A densly muscled physique, despite graduating from college nearly ten years ago. Very quick on his feet for his sheer size. Absolutely intimidating. And he had a trigger-quick temper. Once he got angry, he got angry. Vesuvian anger. Explosive power like a 100 megaton nuclear warhead. That burst of anger made him a monster on the football field. And it made him one of the best bouncers in the area. Nobody messed with Booker Jones.
"Hey you! Yeah you!" Booker's voice boomed loudly. "Stop right now! Open up your bag! I know you took something from the shopping carts!"
The man automatically stopped in his tracks. Hell, everybody stopped in their tracks. Booker Jones had that kind of voice and the body to go along with in. Once people realized that he was talking to someone else and not them, everyone resumed with their previous activities. Just like nothing happened.
"Look man, whatever your name is. I don't know who you are and I don't know what you're talking about," stuttered the man, very unconvincingly. But he was convincing with how scared he was. Anyone would be scared if faced with a big, scary man like Booker Jones. "I don't have anything! I didn't take anything!" This was the unknown man. "Honestly, I don't know what you are talking about."
"Damn it! Don't lie with me! I know you took something from the shopping carts upstairs. I saw you take something and put it inside your backpack. Don't fucking lie with me!" Booker paused to catch his breath. "You know who that food is for? Homeless and poor people. You're taking food away from those people."
"I still don't know what you're talking about!" His voice became shrill and panicked. "I didn't take anything!"
"What did I tell you? Don't lie to me! You're lying! Show me your ID!"
"I'm getting out of here!" The man bolted from the law school and ran across Nichols Street, not caring if he got injured in the process. He barely missed being hit by a car by about a foot.
Booker said, "Did you see what happened? Damn fucker took food from the BALSA Food Drive shopping carts and lied about it. I could hear the cans rattling inside his backpack. Caught him fucking stealing from the homeless and poor. That makes me angry."
Professor Franklin said, "Booker, calm down. Don't get too angry."
"Calm down? That fucking asshole took food from the BALSA Food Drive shopping carts and lied about it! And you want me to calm down? The food belongs to the homeless and poor, not some random dude."
"Booker, calm down. You know that man you were screaming at? I've seen him at the law school before. In fact, several times before at the Legal Aid Clinic. He's homeless."
"Yeah, so what? Still doesn't mean he should take food from the BALSA carts, homeless or not."
"That's right. You should calm down. Remember, you're already in enough trouble. Don't make it any worse than it already is. Not over a few cans of food."
"Professor Franklin, you're right. I still don't think what he did was right." And as suddenly as Booker Jones got angry, he calmed down.
Will asked, "Hey professor, what just happened?"
"Someone took food from the BALSA carts and Booker got angry. He shouldn't have."
"Really? Why?"
"That's a long story. To make a long story short, Booker was arrested for assault twice when he was a kid. I think he also was arrested for assault recently. He doesn't need any more trouble with the law."
"Now that makes some more sense. Booker does get angry real quickly. Remind me not to get him pissed off. That guy is lucky he didn't get beat up."
"Absolutely. Then again, Booker should stay out of trouble and get some anger management. It's gotten him into problems before and it might get him into problems later." She looked at her watch. "Damn, it's 11:28. Time to go upstairs to teach class. Will, I suppose you'll be in class today?"
"Yup. Let's go. See ya, Jake."
"See ya, Will."
Jake let out a quick snort. He learned a vital lesson about helping the less fortunate. Some law school students are willing to help the less fortunate, but only those they choose to help. Hey, at least the law school students were doing something to help the less fortunate, unlike the city government. Jake also wondered what it would have been like if Booker Jones got his hands on the man. It would have been pretty violent and interesting, in a sadistic kind of way. Jake was sure that the city council would have paid a tidy sum of money for a peek at the video. Probably would have made a few side bets as well. Not that the city government was that sleazy…well, maybe they were.
CHAPTER NINE: THE MADNESS SEASON
College is where I realized that God didn't need seven days to create the Earth. He could party for six days and pull an all-nighter.
--Tommy Koenig
Schools: I got an F one time on a question that asked me my opinion.
--Gallagher
I'm willing to see prayer in school if you're willing to find a place for algebra in our churches.
--Dylan Brody
One fine December day, Clarissa and Jake were at Delacroix's Ice Pond, affectionately called "The Penguin Palace" by the locals. The original owner, a homesick Canadian named Pierre Delacroix from Edmonton, decided that the city needed an ice skating rink. To be honest, he liked playing ice hockey (naturally, of course) and the nearest ice skating rink was an hour away. So, in 1955, wanting a place to ice skate year-round, bought an old roller skating rink and converted it into an ice skating rink. To bring in people, he put up a giant sign with a giant penguin painted in the center. He had a painter cover the walls with ice skating penguins. The employees at Delacroix wore white shirts and black jackets, looking like penguins. On opening day, a newspaper reporter commented that Delacroix's Ice Pond would be a grand building for a penguin to live in. The next day, everyone called Delacroix's Ice Pond "The Penguin Palace" and since then, the name stuck.
Clarissa and Jake glided smoothly on the ice, arms linked together. Long strides covering distance on the ice. Not too fast, not too slow. Just comfortable and efficient motion.
Jake noticed that a lot of the men were tripping and falling over their jaws (when their jaws hit the ice), or stumbling over their feet, or even managing to skate into the walls. This only occurred when Clarissa skated by them. She had that ability. At the law school, men forgot how to talk while around her. While going out on dates with Clarissa, Jake had a constant and seemingly endless source of entertainment. He enjoyed seeing guys do double takes, lose concentration, and run into objects. Yes, it was a sadistic kind of humor, but even Clarissa found it amusing. It happened every single time without fail. She could be hazardous to your health. Very hazardous to your health. Broken bones. Painful concussions. Bruised bodies. Then again, you could say, for a brief amount of time, it might make you think that there was a God or a higher power. Beauty in any form was proof. Jake certainly thought that was true.
After ice skating, they stopped by the concession stand and bought hot chocolate and not hot cocoa; there was a difference between the two drinks. Hot cocoa is made of cocoa powder (generally insipid and flavorless in Jake's opinion) mixed with milk and a large amount of sugar. The result was an overly sweet drink that did not taste anything like chocolate, but more like heavily sugared milk with the barest hint of chocolate. Hot chocolate, however, was melted chocolate (coming from a solid bar of chocolate) mixed with milk or in an ideal world, cream.
The man responsible for the hot chocolate was a native Parisian who used to own a highly successful cafe near the Eiffel Tower. His hot chocolate was made of melted chocolate, hot milk, and some other unknown ingredients creating a truly sublime mixture. Thick texture. Intense chocolate flavor. The perfect level of sweetness. One cup could send a person into a higher state of unconsciousness or consciousness, depending on one's constitution. Food critics who visited his cafe found his coffee to be excellent, but his hot chocolate, that was a drink fit for the gods. He decided to move to America when his wife obtained a job teaching French at Davis University ten years ago. The man fell in love with Delacroix's Ice Rink and decided to make his famous hot chocolate.
While sipping his hot chocolate, Jake's mind began to wander off. Normally, his mind would wander off onto pleasant subjects, but this time, his mind wandered onto a subject he normally would not think about this time of the year. A subject that many law school students did not want to think about. He was thinking about law school finals.
Jake barely noticed that Clarissa was talking to him.
"Jake? Earth to Jake. Yoohoo? Are you listening?"
"What? Oh, yeah. What were you talking about? I wasn't listening. Sorry about that."
"That's OK. We were having a conversation about winter vacation plans. I was just telling you about my plans. How me and my family are spending time in Colorado." Clarissa looked at him strangely. "This just isn't like you. Are you OK?"
"I'm fine. I'm just a little distracted about finals."
"What? You're distracted about law school finals? The indestructible Jake Lau when it comes to law school finals? Mr. Always Prepared?" Her eyebrows shot up in surprise and disbelief. "Now I know for sure that there is something wrong with you."
"Not really. I've got nothing but statute-based finals. One of them is closed-book. That's why."
"Oh. Then again, it could be like last year when you had four finals in two days."
"Yeah, I guess you're right." He sighed. She was right. She was always right when it came to matters like this. "I might as well study and make do. Whatever may happen."
"Now I know you're sick. You don't study for finals and you've just used the word in a sentence." Clarissa began to wonder if Jake really was an alien. "I think you should finish up that hot chocolate soon. It's getting cold."
"Ready for the International Trade Law final Jake?"
"As ready as I will ever be Beth."
"I can't believe it's going to be closed book with all of the material we had to remember."
"I know. I must have taken sixty, seventy pages of notes. And I probably missed a whole lot of the stuff he talked about in class."
"Yeah. It's not going to be easy."
"Right about that. Then again, we both have the Federal Income Tax final on Monday."
"Oh no...I forgot about that." She groaned in disbelief and frustration. "And I barely started on my outline and I have to go to a friend's wedding on Saturday."
"Hmm...that is bad. I've got a copy of an outline you can use. Pretty good, actually. It covers everything we did in class this semester. I can e-mail you a copy of it."
"Really? You can? That would be great. You're a lifesaver. I'll see you at the final. Um...what room is it in again?"
"Computer people are in Room 107 and non-computer are in Room 108."
"Thanks again. Good luck."
The first final for Jake was the dreaded closed book International Trade Law final. The professor teaching the class, Professor Bahari, said that the final would be difficult, but not overly so, as long as you studied the material. Jake listened to this with some trepidation as Professor Bahari had a much higher standard than most professors.
Being an international law genius (several well-respected treatises on GATT and international trade law in publication), as well as highly educated (Duke University, Harvard Law School, London School of Economics, and Cambridge), his standard for "normal" was set at a level most would consider advanced. In fact, during class, Professor Bahari stated "what you're learning right now is material most trade lawyers don't learn or understand." That was how advanced and cutting edge this course was. The section on dumping alone was something most trade lawyers tried to avoid. And he expected students with no experience or exposure to the subject, to not only understand the material, but also write coherent and concise answers in complete sentences. Using the very proper and grammatical Queen's English. In under three hours. For a grade. Ah, but according to Professor Bahari and many other professors, "grades really don't matter to employers."
Really? According to that logic, all of the stuff they spouted about during 1L orientation was a giant load of bullshit that really didn't matter. Great. All that time spent reading textbooks and listening in class was one giant waste of three years. Then again, professors didn't have to worry about grades. Also, law school professors did well academically in law school. If you look at the faculty profiles for law school professors, you will note that many received high grades. One does not get into Law Review, Order of the Coif, or receive a clerkship to a United States Supreme Court justice with a low GPA.
Jake automatically hated Professor's Bahari's final just looking at it. While skimming through the questions, he realized that the seemingly innocent questions weren't so innocent. The simple answers Jake wanted to write (one or two paragraphs at most) had the possibility to morph into miniature treatises. In addition, the fact patterns were vague. Whether this was unintentional or purposely done, however, was a question best left unanswered. The answer to this question really didn't matter. What mattered was the answers to the questions at hand.
He thought that Professor's LaRusso's final exams were devious and that no professor could be them in complexity. Professor Stacy and Professor Glickstein were close, but not the worst. Professor Bahari's exams, Jake soon discovered, made Professor LaRusso's exams look simple by comparison. It was like comparing the explosive power of a 100 megaton nuclear bomb to the explosive power of a keg filled with gunpowder. No comparison at all.
With most law school essay exams, the fact pattern is carefully written so that the correct answer is relatively easy to find out. You know what answer the professor would like you to write down. The explanation takes time as it takes a while to write everything down.
With Professor Bahari's exam questions, because of the vagueness of the fact pattern, you couldn't come up with an exact answer (what the Professor wanted). It depended on how you defined a certain word, how you interpreted an element of a certain test, how you felt about a certain subject, how a certain historical incident that happened a thousand years ago helped fuel the current ideas on a certain topic.
The questions got worse as the exam went along. Once he was finished with the exam, he immediately went home, took two extra-strength aspirin for an extra-strength headache, and instantly went to sleep. He didn't wake up until the next morning.
Public International Law was much better, despite the final being held on a Saturday afternoon. The Saturday final was a peculiar institution mainly done by law schools. Some other professional schools scheduled Saturday finals, but they were rare. The law school could have held the finals strictly on Mondays through Fridays, but that would have posed logistical problems given classroom size and numbers. Each law school class generally needed two rooms each; larger classes sometimes used three or four rooms. With the clever use of pigeonhole theory, one could schedule the finals such that every final was taken only on Mondays through Fridays. But this caused problems with scheduling.
For instance, certain certificate programs like the International Law and Tax Certificate Program, have several required classes each semester. One cannot schedule Federal Income Taxation and Taxation of Business Enterprises at the same time on the same day. This unfortunate scheduling conflict happened when you used a strict Monday through Friday testing schedule. To cure this problem, an additional day for testing is needed. Hence the Saturday test day.
The test went surprisingly well. The first question involved writing an outline argument: whether or not Slovenia's actions violated international law with its actions involving Gypsies. It was obvious (based upon Jake's opinion of the facts) that Slovenia did violate international law. Most of the rights involved were universally recognized rights that had become customary international law. Things like freedom of movement, the right to association, religious freedom, and such. Coming up with counter arguments were just as simple to come up with as one can always find a loophole in treaties, even with internationally recognized rights like religious freedom. Just claim the restrictions were for public safety reasons and anything could be made legal. The second question involved writing a memo. The great question involving the United States and torture. Fun. The final question, to Jake, seemed like a trick question. It asked whether the United States should continue its obligations with respect to the Convention on the Law of the Seas and other environmentally related treaties. What was the tricky part of the question is that the United States HAD no obligations to such treaties. They never signed them and enforced them as law. So Jake had to carefully answer the question by making an assumption on what the professor meant by "continuing their current treaty obligations." He thought this was a brilliant piece of legal writing.
His Federal Income Taxation final wasn't as bad as Jake thought it would be. In fact, it was much easier than he thought it would be. So much for worrying about the final. That was a total waste of five seconds of his life. Wait, he spent a weekend going over the problems (done during class) and reading over the outline he got from one of his friends in Federal Income Taxation. OK. So it was a waste of a weekend in his life. And he could have spent some of that time watching Casino Royale at one of the many multiplexes in town. It would have been an overpriced experience (ten bucks for a ticket, five bucks for soda, three bucks for popcorn, and an untold amount of hassles like cell phones and screaming children) but more interesting than looking at the Federal Tax Code.
Of course, Jake didn't escape that easily. If he did, then it wouldn't be a proper law school experience. Oh no. Professor Davidson had to include in some problems involving 1245 recapture gain (which triggered the capital gain rate of taxation), Roth IRA deductions, and municipal bonds. Jake hated any problems that involved capital gain taxes. Section 1(h) was not a very fun section to go through. Before you can come up to Section 1(h), you had to figure you what was subject to capital gains (requiring going through several other confusing sections), figure out if it was short-term or long-term, and then categorizing them in other ways. Oh, but this was just the beginning. Once you figure out the regular tax with the money subject to capital gains, you then can go though the terrible maelstrom called Section 1(h) of the Federal Tax Code. First you compute the tax without the money subject to capital gains (an already complicated process that drove people crazy). Then you go though a complicated process of figuring out the tax with capital gains. This process took a while, as the code was poorly written. At moments like this, Jake grudgingly understood why there was a Legal Writing class at Davis Law School. Just barely.
He went home, took some more extra-strength aspirin, and took another long nap. An extra long nap. He had one more final left, so this was a bad thing. This was going to be a long finals period.
Jake's final final. Bankruptcy taught by Professor Warren. Students called him Professor Everywhere Yet Nowhere, as his classes went everywhere, in every direction. In his class, when he asked a question (one that had an obviously correct answer), he accepted every answer as equally correct. No matter how off-topic or bizarre or ludicrous. On the final exam however, he wanted the correct answer, one that he never talked about. Concrete on the final exam, like a vaporous gas in class. Everywhere but nowhere. In the end, you felt like you learned everything, but got nothing in return.
This probably was an unfair characterization of Professor Warren, but one got that feeling while in one of his classes. Jake certainly got that feeling while in one of Warren's classes. He had that feeling in Contracts II when Professor Warren would ask questions over UCC 2-403. You knew the facts fit the statute or the facts didn't fit the statute. You knew when something did or didn't fit the statute. You knew when things were right or wrong. But Professor Warren would accept anything you came up with. It was crazy, just absolutely crazy.
Professor Warren's final for bankruptcy was a classic "Everywhere but Nowhere" final. The fact patterns were vague and under written. Facts were missing. Facts were poorly written as to have more than one valid meaning. The questions he asked were just as vague. Once you combined the questions with the facts, you got a giant mess.
This year, it was an unlucky couple who was suffering from crippling debt. They had a $250,000 mortgage that was overdue. Because of their missed payments (several months worth), the bank was about to foreclose on their house. In addition to the giant mortgage, they owed money on two cars ($40,000 in debt and with a fair market value of only $35,000) and $50,000 in credit card debt.
Fun. Please examine the likelihood of success of keeping their house and cars in Chapter 7 bankruptcy using applicable Missouri exemption statutes. Given the facts, it was highly unlikely that they would keep both their cars and the house. One car at most. To get to that conclusion required going through the dreaded means test and several pages of US Census Bureau data.
Next, as a great follow-up to the first question, assume this is a Chapter 13 bankruptcy. What are the chances of success assuming they file in Kansas? This was much easier to do than file Chapter 13. Jake noted the couple could file for Chapter 7. Why they didn't go for Chapter 7 seemed odd to Jake, but that was something he didn't question. That was his personal opinion.
Jake finished the final with some time to spare. Like about two minutes left. He had the nagging feeling he should have finished much earlier. Yeah, he could have, if it weren't for the bad fact patterns and the poorly written questions. Oh well. That was how life and finals worked out.
For some reason, he had a terrible headache when he was finished with finals. So when he went home, he took two extra-strength aspirin and went to sleep. And that was law school finals for this semester. The madness season, at least for now, was over. Jake only had to endure this in the spring and it all would be over. Taking finals would be finally over. Permanently.
Jake would forget about anything related to law school until January. Heck, since he was a 3L, he might forget about law school until the next madness season in May.
posted by J.U. at 10/15/2007 11:01:00 AM
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