By the time the undergrads finished butchering their cross, I’d already rewritten their closing in my head and mentally sentenced three of them to remedial evidence.
“Stop.”
My voice cut across the practice courtroom like a gavel. Two dozen pairs of eyes jumped to me—pre-law tourists in cheap blazers, trying not to look terrified of the terrifying TA.
Too late.
The witness on the stand—a volunteer from Civil Procedure—froze mid-fidget. The would-be advocate at counsel table swallowed so audibly it echoed under the high ceiling of Sterling Law’s smallest courtroom.
“Ms. Patel,” I said, stepping down from the back row. My heels clicked on the worn wood, each sound precise. Controlled. “When a witness volunteers you a hearsay exception, you don’t swat it away like a mosquito.”
She stared at me, eyes wide behind tortoiseshell frames. “I—I thought it was nonresponsive, so—”
“It was nonresponsive.” I stopped at the edge of the well, close enough to see her notes shaking in her hand. “Which is why you smile, say ‘move to strike,’ and then use what she just told you to build your next question. You don’t argue with the gift horse. You ride it.”
A few of the students laughed, too loudly, grateful for something that wasn’t panic.
“Reset from the last question,” I said. “This time, listen to the answer instead of your own voice.”
I stepped back, folding my arms. The familiar geometry of the courtroom settled around me: judge’s bench hunkered like a watchful mountain, counsel tables forming a battlefield, gallery whispering in the dim. This room made sense. Your performance was your power. Your preparation, your shield.
Your ethics, your weapon.
I watched Ms. Patel try again—better, not great—and let the rhythm of questioning dull the frayed edges of my mind. The dean’s email sat like a live coal in my inbox, ignored but burning through the lining of my bag.
We’ll discuss an urgent assignment in my office at four.
An assignment that couldn’t wait until after my scheduled ethics board meeting, my TA conference, or, apparently, my ability to breathe.
“Okay,” I said finally, when the cross limped to a close. “We’ll stop there before this witness confesses to a parking ticket and three unpaid library fines.”
More nervous laughter. I allowed myself a small, surgical smile.
“Read chapters five and seven again before next week. If anyone comes to my office hours without having done the hypotheticals, I will make you object to your own existence on relevance grounds. Dismissed.”
They scattered, a flurry of casebooks and messenger bags. A couple stayed behind to ask questions. I dispatched them efficiently—no, you can’t cite Wikipedia; yes, Advanced Trial Advocacy will eat you alive if you don’t practice; no, Professor Locke does not curve.
By the time the room was empty, the quiet had a physical weight. Sunlight from the high windows had gone soft and amber, turning dust motes into slow galaxies.
My phone vibrated again.
Dean Harrell: 3:55. Don’t be late, Ms. Maddox.
I locked the screen before the anxiety could crystallize into anything recognizably human and gathered my files. Trial notebooks, color-coded tabs blooming like bruises—my comfort objects.
The corridor outside smelled faintly of old coffee and printer toner. Students flowed past, their chatter ricocheting off the stone walls: clerkships, OCI offers, gossip about who’d flamed out in Locke’s last cold call.
