Mairin came down the dirty steps into the ninety degree heat. She threw her briefcase into the car and stood, hesitating to dive in after it, since the air in the car was even hotter. She let the door stand open for a few minutes, but it was a tough innercity neighborhood. So she got in, turned on the ignition gingerly because even the switch was hot to the touch, and started back towards the agency.

As she drove, she began mentally dictating the intake summary for the case she had just visited. "Male, age 53, blind after two brain surgeries. Memory loss. Suggest evaluation by home teacher." She could see the black words marching across the white paper headed "Running Record." But her words, caseworker’s jargon, didn’t really tell it. They said nothing about the tragedy of a 43 year-old man who couldn’t remember that he’d been in the hospital for months, who said, "I was just there for a little while." Who kept saying, "I don't know if I could have a home teacher come out. I’ll be busy at work, you know." Who didn’t go to work and probably never would again, outside of a sheltered shop, if that. And the wife, dazed by all the changes in the relationship, being supportive, learning to drive, and saying patiently, "No, honey, you were in the hospital for a long time."

Mairin drove into the agency lot, was halfway into the building before remembering to enter the trip mileage, went back to get it, and then collapsed in the deskside chair in her friend Lisa's office, enjoying the cool of the air-conditioning. "Look at me," she said, though Lisa was blind. "I am hot and dirty and tired. I probably smell, and I wanted to be so cool and collected for tonight."

"Hot out there, eh?"

"Horrible. The worst of September. My hair is hanging in strings. I feel damp all over, and there^ts no time to go home before the law school orientation."

"I remember when you got the acceptance letter last spring. You were so excited. And here it is, your first day. So how do you feel, aside from being a physical wreck?"

"Nervous. Remember how I said that going to night school was going in the back door? Kind of sneaking in, not facing it outright?"

Lisa nodded.

"I think I was wrong. I feel like law school is coming at me like a train, head-on, one hundred miles an hour. Why am I doing this?"

"You don’t remember?" Lisa’s tone was teasing. "You found the grail. You were just an average social worker, doing your job. You were called into court on occasion for one or two of our more sterling clients, and you saw the light. You decided to go to law school."

"I didn’t remember that it was that dramatic. I just remember thinking that lawyers used their brains a little more than caseworkers. You know how restless I’d been --some days I liked social work, and some days I didn’t. I didn’t want to see social work stretching ahead of me forever."

"Burnout," said Lisa.

"Sure, to some extent. I really don^tt know how anyone does social work forever. It’s too draining."

"I couldn’t agree more. If I could figure out something else to do, I’d do it. You^tre lucky you found law."

"We’ll see," said Mairin. "Right now I’m wondering what I’ve gotten myself into. I may have bitten off more than I could chew. Well, I’ve got to return a few phone calls, and there’s only about forty-five minutes left."

When she got downtown to the law school, the largest classroom was almost full. Of men. Even one or two years down the pike there would be many more women, but there were only a handful in Mairin’s class. The dean opened the meeting, introduced the faculty, talked a little about the rigors of law school, passed out a very thick pamphlet on how to brief cases, and dismissed the students.

Mairin had completed a mail registration. The program for first year night was completely predictable. She’d have one class in contracts, one in torts and one in legal history and methods. Those classes would occupy three evenings a week, from 6 o’clock p.m. until 9 o^'clock p.m. and four nights every third week.

Mairin went to the bookstore, bought the texts for contracts and torts and found that no text was required for legal history and methods. She came back to the lobby of the school because the dean had exhorted all of the students to read the bulletin board. Mairin looked over lists of assignments and saw that there were assignment sheets for contracts and torts. Fifty pages each, to be read and briefed before the first class.

"I don’t believe it!" she said to a fellow student who was copying down an assignment. "This reading is supposed to be done before the first class?"

"Guess so!" he said. "I’ve never seen that before."

"Me neither. The first class is tomorrow. I don’t know how I’m going to do this."

"You have Morgan for torts too?"

"Yes."

"See you tomorrow. I expect you'll have read and briefed the fifty pages."

"Sure thing." Mairin drove home in wonderment. First classes were to check the class lists, introduce the professor, discuss the structure of the course and to give the initial assignment.

Mairin decided that she’d at least look at the casebook after supper. She went into the apartment wondering whether she would put something in the oven or make an omelette. The apartment was nice, airy, spacious. The building was an older one that boasted gorgeous moldings and leaded glass windows. The owners had kept it up wel] and were known to be picky about their tenants. They could well afford to be because space in the building was always in demand.

When Mairin had moved in, she’d had a roommate, Diana. They had been elated to get into the building and had had a great time decorating. There were two roomy bedrooms, a huge living room, a dining room and a sunroom. They’d shared the apartment very comfortably until Diana had gotten married the past June. Mairin had decided to keep the apartment alone, though it was a real stretch financially.

She’d had a couple of people sound her out about moving in, but she’d decided that she^'d need all the peace and quiet she could get when she started law school.

Mairin opted for the omelette, ate it standing at the kitchen counter, made a cup of tea, took it and the casebook and settled down at the table-desk in the sunroom. It was 8:30 and dark, now, on this September evening. She opened the casebook. There was virtually no explanatory matter before the first case. Under the bold-face heading, the report read "This cause came on for hearing on the motion of the appellee to dismiss. . . ."

Mairin put down her pen. Who the hell was the appellee? What was an appellee? The thick pamphlet. She got up and went to get it. It discussed the case method of teaching, used in virtually all American law schools, outlined the process of briefing a case, and defined some key terms. Mairin finally discerned that an appellee and an appellant were parties on appeal. The one who brought the appeal was the appellant and could have been either the plaintiff or the defendant in the lower court.

Mairin sighed and went on reading. It had taken her almost an hour to figure out the first sentence. In the next paragraph there were four words she didn’t know. She turned to the huge Black’s law dictionary that first year students had been encouraged to buy. The definitions didn’t really help --she would have had to look up half the words in the definitions. When she finished the case, she turned to the thick green pamphlet, which outlined the manner of preparing a brief.

Mairin had decided to brief the cases on 5 x 7 cards rather than in a notebook. She headed the first one with the name of the case. Then she wrote "Facts:" and summarized the facts of the case. Next she wrote "Issue:" She stopped again. She had been tempted to write that the issue was who was right. That, of course, was too elementary. She struggled to state the issue in terms of the words in the case. Next she wrote "Holding:" and entered the ruling of the court. Last came ^"Rationale:," and Mairin attempted to set out the reasoning employed by the court.

She looked at her watch. It was 10:30. She had covered two and one-half pages of the fifty. Christ, she thought, I hope Professor Morgan, whoever he is, isn’t in deadly earnest about this whole thing. She shut the book and went to bed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

After work the next day, she drove downtown. At the row of machines in the student lounge she got a coke and a cherry pie, figuring that they would tide her over until she got home that night and could stick a something in the oven. As she sat at one of the little tables, the fellow she’d chatted with the day before came to join her. She’d noticed immediately that he wore a wedding band. Safe to talk to, she’d decided.

"Get the fifty pages done?" he asked.

"Of course," she said. "I did the fifty pages of contracts for good measure."

"Seriously," he said, "did you do any of it?"

"I finished one entire case, all of 2 1/2 pages, and it took me two hours," she said. "I hope Morgan doesn^tt take this too seriously."

"He probably does. I hear these law profs take themselves very seriously. By the way, my name’s Rick, Rick Thompson."

"I’m Mairin Farrar," Mairin said, "and I’m beginning to wonder whether I can do this or not."

"I think we all are. But, you’ve got to figure that this first quarter they intend to scare the hell out of us. After this, it’ll settle down. Shall we go? It’s almost six."

Mairin and Rick took seats as far back in the room as they could. For a few minutes they observed the other students filing in. Suddenly the door was thrown open with a resounding bang. A tall, distinguished looking gentleman came striding in.

He was probably fiftyish, but he had an intensity that would have suited a placard-carrying twenty-five year old. "I’m Michael Morgan," he said, even before he got to the lectern. He flung his briefcase onto the desk and picked up a piece of chalk. He was writing his name and phone number on the blackboard. "I practice law," he said. "I’m not a totally ivory tower type. However, I can claim a very distinguished law school education at Harvard, so that should satisfy the intellectuals among you." He flashed a brilliant smile, stepped up to the lectern, rifled through the class list and said, "Mr. Evans, the facts in the first case, please."

Mairin was watching Michael Morgan with an intensity of her own. Where have I seen you before, she thought. You look so familiar. No, it’s your manner that’s familiar. You look like a type--the urban activist--hair a little long, steel-rimmed glasses, jacket with patch sleeves, perhaps there’s a pipe in your pocket. But no, it’s not your looks, it’s your manner and I can’t place it just now.

There was a sort of clearing of a throat, and Mr. Evans asked, "Did we have an assignment?" Rick and Mairin exchanged glances.

"Yes, we did. It’s posted on the bulletin board in the lobby, which is the official vehicle for school memos. Posting on the bulletin board is the equivalent of service of

summons in legal practice." A soft wave of laughter followed that statement.

"Okay guys,^" Morgan said, oblivious to the fact that there were five or six women in the room, "you’ve got to get this together. You’re in law school now. We don’t have time to waste because nobody read the assignment. I don’t give lectures here. Law school involves a high degree of classroom participation.

"I admire you people. You’re trying to get a law school education on top of jobs and family responsibilities. But I’m going to hold you to the regular standards. Now, has anyone read the first case?"

Mairin shivered. She certainly wasn’t going to volunteer, yet the first case was the only one she could conceivably volunteer on. Let someone else get the laurels. A wave of antagonism hit her. I went to a pretty fancy undergraduate school, she thought, and not once in four years did I get an assignment before a class started. There are customs in academia that one expects to follow. There should be fair warning if the rules are to be changed.

Someone volunteered. Mairin made a mental note of the student, figuring that he was the type who tried to impress. He hadn’t completed a sentence when Morgan jumped on him, getting him to tighten the statement, to discard irrelevant facts. The student was on his feet one-half hour before Morgan was satisfied. He had asked other students the meaning of words the first student hadn’t known -- such as appellee and appellant --and Mairin noted wryly that at least four hadn’t known.

She was frightened of being called on, and she was relieved when it was time to take a break. She and Rick walked to the lounge and got drinks. She got another coke. "I need the caffeine," she said.

"Fear is keeping me alert," said Rick. "I just hope that he doesn’t call on me."

"Me too" said Mairin. "This is awful, this on-your-feet-spit-out-the-case."

"Yeah," said Rick. "I don’t need this after a day of work."

"Not only do I not need it after a day of work," said Mairin,"I distinctly do not need it after four years of undergraduate school. I do not want to play any more of these games. You want me to learn it? Tell me without any of the games. I’m bright enough to get it."

"I guess the game is supposed to make you get it even better."

They followed the other students back into the classroom. Mairin shivered as she sat down, but she wasn’t called on. Torts itself was going to be fun. It was the branch of law that dealt with personal wrongs. The cases were of auto accidents, shootings, assaults, batteries. Lively.

Mairin watched Michael Morgan. He seemed to have boundless energy. He followed every word of the reciting student, like a dog playing tag with a stick. She felt almost a shock of recognition. Is this what Diana saw, she wondered, when I’d run in for dinner, talking about all of the cases I’d seen that day? Another student was on his feet now. The time was moving very quickly. When class was over, Mairin gathered her books and walked out with Rick.

As she drove home, she tried to organize her mind. The orientation had been on a Wednesday. Torts was Thursday every week and Friday as well every third week. Contracts was Monday, and legal history and methods was Wednesday. Well, now she’d have a weekend. She'd get contracts finished and torts started. She could finish torts on Tuesday evening.

Mairin went out on Friday night, had dinner and a few drinks, and was back early. "I’ve got to study tomorrow," she^td told her date.

She got up Saturday morning, read the paper, went to do the grocery shopping, stopped by the bakery, and dropped something at the library. When she got home, she was appalled to see that it was 11:30. She made a cup of tea and settled down in the sunroom. She worked steadily for two hours and got up to get a sandwich. She'd only covered fourteen pages. That left roughly thirty-five. At the rate of seven pages an hour, that would be another five hours. It was now 2 o’clock. She^td planned to have supper with Linda at 6:30. Linda, a graduate student in psychology, lived across the hall. Well, Mairin thought, I have to take a break. We’re not going to be out all evening.

By six Mairin was absolutely sick of contract law. She was sick of sitting still, she was sick of briefing, she was sick of looking up every other word in the dictionary. She still had ten pages to go. Three cases. Not bad, she told herself.

Linda was good company and sympathetic. She had dated a law student once. "We never had time to talk," she said.

Mairin was back in the apartment at nine, determined to finish the ten pages. She had to force herself into the chair. She finished the first of the three cases and bolted from the table. Enough! she thought to herself. I’m not even thinking straight.

Sunday morning she was up by nine. She insisted on reading the paper. That was one of her enjoyments in life, and she was not going to be done out of it by law school. By ten she was ready to work. By eleven she’d finished contracts and was starting on torts.

In mid-afternoon a friend called to see if she^td like to go for a walk. It was a gorgeous day. "Can't," she said, ‘’I've got to finish an assignment. At six Linda knocked on the door.

"How about a glass of wine?^" she asked.

"By all means," said Mairin, following Linda back to her apartment.

"How’s it going?"

"Well, at least I’m consistent. When I’m working as fast as I can, I can do all of seven or eight pages an hour. But even so, I can barely sit still. I keep seeing myself having to defend my poor little brief in class. It's like I’m perparing to read a part on stage."

"In a way, I guess you are."

"I don’t like these games. They make me uncomfortable. I can't figure out how these cases are related anyway. The casebook is no help. It’s got little paragraphs of questions after each case but no enlightenment. Damn the Socratic method anyway."

Linda and Mairin talked for an hour, enjoying one another^ts company. "Oh lord," said Mairin. It's seven. Got to run."

She finished up the reading at 9:30. Her hair needed washing. Her wash needed washing. Her kitchen needed cleaning. "All I made today were two sandwiches," she said aloud. "I don’t understand how this mess got here. First things first." She washed her hair and went to bed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *