Civil Procedure
Richard Schreck
Unemployed after thirty years of government service, acceptance into the law school of her choice proved insufficient to allay Marta Novak’s worries about her future. She pondered them from the back row of an evening section of her first-year civil procedure class. Beyond rows of heads, she watched the professor—a rumpled sort of man—busying himself at the lectern, perhaps skimming his notes in last-minute preparation. He held her attention as little as the white noise of conversations drifting up.
A twenty-something squeezed past her, platform flip-flop sandals, cropped jacket, silicone cause bracelet. The apparel was no surprise, it was the tobacco stink. Although Marta had chosen to sit in an empty row, the twenty-something dropped to the seat next to her, pulled out a laptop, and pushed the rest of her gear down out of sight.
Marta ignored her, prepared to keep her distance. Long habit had given her the skills. When her former colleagues had commented on her departure from service, she’d dismissed them with, “No use crying over spilt milk.” Then added to avoid giving offense and show she took her termination lightly, “Fine wine, maybe. But milk?” When only three people had probed further about what she planned to do next, Marta was neither disappointed nor surprised. She had steered clear of intrusion, whether well-meant, mean-spirited, or thoughtless. All the better that the workplace culture had discouraged private life from leeching into professional relationships. Loner that she was, she had thrived.
She had managed on her own since childhood. In the wake of her tyrannical mother’s desertion, she had withdrawn, allowing room only to care for her grandmother. With no other options, she struggled into self-sufficiency, carrying it with her through college and career.
The young woman at Marta’s elbow intruded. “What do you know about this guy?”
Marta glanced over, allowed herself a beat. This person had invaded Marta’s space and insinuated herself with a question as if they were familiars. Well-honed analytical skills kicked in. Marta couldn’t help herself.
She reasoned that night classes tended to attract older students transitioning in mid-career. For someone younger, the choice of a nighttime section usually pointed to a life outside college claiming time from their days. And the tobacco smell. Marta smoked, accepted her dinosaur status. Pocket full of mints for her breath, frequent laundry for what clung to her blouses and coats. Made the effort but accepted it didn’t work. Twenty-something’s smoking signaled self-indulgence or tension. Marta bet on tension.
So. She was a pushy cigarette smoker fighting against distractions. Sounded like Marta. A young Marta?
How amazing, Marta thought, to be young. Seven at night on a Thursday and this one too wired to live. At this point in her life, Marta was consistently ready to fold up the tent by five. See where this one was in thirty years.
Judgy interlude completed, Marta returned to the young woman’s question. “This professor? Uses the full three hours, what I hear. We’ll go all the way to ten.”
“Supposed to be tough.”
Marta heard the hope for contradiction. Quashed it. “Yeah.”
“Have you been working in a law office?”
Usual sort of question. Marta was inured to people taking it for granted that at her age she was pivoting after a first act. She’d seen her reflection in store windows, out in public with her guard down, knew what she looked like. Certainly old enough to have had a first act. At best, they’d put her at her actual age but probably something older. And no one would take her for an empty nester mom. No parental vibe, no hint of a soft mom center. “No, not in legal. Government.”
Twenty-something’s eyes stayed on her as if waiting for more. Wanting more. Accustomed to encouraging connections only for professional advantage, Marta wondered why. “I’m retired from the foreign service.”
“Really? That’s great. So you got to travel. What was it like?”
Marta thought not about what it was like doing the job but, instead, what it was like not doing it. She shook that off, guessing the young woman had probably wanted to travel but hadn’t gotten the chance. At her age, Marta had been the same, had jumped at the government job for that reason. “It was exciting sometimes, boring other times.” Accepting the inevitability of conversation, but changing the subject, “What kind of law do you want to practice?”
The young woman leaned in. “Intellectual property law. I just finished an engineering bachelor’s. What about you?”
“Litigation.”
“Okay. Yeah. I can see that. You look like a litigator. Tough. Like you could fight it out in court.” The young woman raised her face to watch a man slide past them to the next seat over. As he settled in, she shifted in her seat toward him, and Marta reoriented toward the front of the room, grateful the conversation had ended.
It hadn’t. “This is my dad.” The young woman was making introductions. “I don’t know your name.”
“Marta.”
“I’m Chloe.” She turned back to her father. “Marta was in the foreign service.”
“I’m Art.” He leaned forward to see around Chloe and smiled.
As the minutes closed in to the start of class, Choe interrupted Marta’s wondering why her father was there. “What’s it like to start back to school at … after working at something else?”
Marta didn’t pause. “Starting back at middle age, sure.” She smiled an honest smile. “I’m doing what I want. So it’s fine.”
At the lectern, the rumpled guy started speaking. Giving her attention to the lecture, Marta pushed away worries about her future, about profiling Chloe, about the stranger named Art. Yet something nagged, and Marta allowed it to hang at the periphery by its fingers, waiting to be seized and lifted to worry central, where it seemed to believe it rightfully belonged.
Discipline forbade lessening her focus on the speaker, but at the break, she allowed the foggy issue to claw up into the light. As it did, she turned to look at Art. She knew who he was. Arthur Landon Walker. Law professor, heavy hitter, totally the shit.
As Marta stood to stretch, she caught his eye glancing up at her. He smiled and returned his attention to Chloe, who was speaking too softly for Marta to hear, but a moment later, he leaned forward to place Marta in his line of vision.
“Are you Marta Novak?”
Caught off guard, she wondered how he knew her. “Yes, I am.”
“I heard you speak at …” he stopped, glanced at Chloe, then returned to Marta. “… Washington last year. I didn’t recognize you at first.”
Marta experienced a mixture of pleasure and wariness. Pleasure at being remembered, wariness because Walker had to have had security clearance to hear her speak and appeared to have momentarily forgotten he’d been required to get it. “You’re Professor Walker. I’ve heard you speak, too.”
He laughed. “Right. So you’re in law school now.”
The professor resumed, breaking off the exchange.
When the lecture wrapped up, Walker leaned toward her. “Chloe and I are going to get chai. Join us. I’m interested in what brought you here.” As the three of them settled in at the tea shop, he asked, “What made you decide to go to law school?”
“It’s an interest that’s grown over the years. A private practice would let me locate anywhere in the country, which is a bonus.”
Chloe asked, “Where do you want to work?”
“New Orleans. I grew up here.”
Walker mentioned his New England childhood and shared a story about his first experiences with New Orleans food. Marta sat silent, content to be logging time without having to actually talk. Always her preference.
When he wound down, she recognized the need to contribute and fell back on the question she’d asked herself when she first recognized him. “I was surprised to see you sitting through a first-year lecture.”
“I just want to be sure she can meet the challenge. Just being helpful, you know.”
Echoes of Marta’s mother clouded whatever it was that Walker was saying. Marta recognized shame in Chloe’s lowered head, alienation in her narrowing eyes. She knew that—at least in his daughter’s mind— his persistent attention meant scrutiny and judgment.
Marta had had no confidant, no understanding friend.
Chloe raised her eyes, and Marta’s met them.
Richard Schreck
Unemployed after thirty years of government service, acceptance into the law school of her choice proved insufficient to allay Marta Novak’s worries about her future. She pondered them from the back row of an evening section of her first-year civil procedure class. Beyond rows of heads, she watched the professor—a rumpled sort of man—busying himself at the lectern, perhaps skimming his notes in last-minute preparation. He held her attention as little as the white noise of conversations drifting up.
A twenty-something squeezed past her, platform flip-flop sandals, cropped jacket, silicone cause bracelet. The apparel was no surprise, it was the tobacco stink. Although Marta had chosen to sit in an empty row, the twenty-something dropped to the seat next to her, pulled out a laptop, and pushed the rest of her gear down out of sight.
Marta ignored her, prepared to keep her distance. Long habit had given her the skills. When her former colleagues had commented on her departure from service, she’d dismissed them with, “No use crying over spilt milk.” Then added to avoid giving offense and show she took her termination lightly, “Fine wine, maybe. But milk?” When only three people had probed further about what she planned to do next, Marta was neither disappointed nor surprised. She had steered clear of intrusion, whether well-meant, mean-spirited, or thoughtless. All the better that the workplace culture had discouraged private life from leeching into professional relationships. Loner that she was, she had thrived.
She had managed on her own since childhood. In the wake of her tyrannical mother’s desertion, she had withdrawn, allowing room only to care for her grandmother. With no other options, she struggled into self-sufficiency, carrying it with her through college and career.
The young woman at Marta’s elbow intruded. “What do you know about this guy?”
Marta glanced over, allowed herself a beat. This person had invaded Marta’s space and insinuated herself with a question as if they were familiars. Well-honed analytical skills kicked in. Marta couldn’t help herself.
She reasoned that night classes tended to attract older students transitioning in mid-career. For someone younger, the choice of a nighttime section usually pointed to a life outside college claiming time from their days. And the tobacco smell. Marta smoked, accepted her dinosaur status. Pocket full of mints for her breath, frequent laundry for what clung to her blouses and coats. Made the effort but accepted it didn’t work. Twenty-something’s smoking signaled self-indulgence or tension. Marta bet on tension.
So. She was a pushy cigarette smoker fighting against distractions. Sounded like Marta. A young Marta?
How amazing, Marta thought, to be young. Seven at night on a Thursday and this one too wired to live. At this point in her life, Marta was consistently ready to fold up the tent by five. See where this one was in thirty years.
Judgy interlude completed, Marta returned to the young woman’s question. “This professor? Uses the full three hours, what I hear. We’ll go all the way to ten.”
“Supposed to be tough.”
Marta heard the hope for contradiction. Quashed it. “Yeah.”
“Have you been working in a law office?”
Usual sort of question. Marta was inured to people taking it for granted that at her age she was pivoting after a first act. She’d seen her reflection in store windows, out in public with her guard down, knew what she looked like. Certainly old enough to have had a first act. At best, they’d put her at her actual age but probably something older. And no one would take her for an empty nester mom. No parental vibe, no hint of a soft mom center. “No, not in legal. Government.”
Twenty-something’s eyes stayed on her as if waiting for more. Wanting more. Accustomed to encouraging connections only for professional advantage, Marta wondered why. “I’m retired from the foreign service.”
“Really? That’s great. So you got to travel. What was it like?”
Marta thought not about what it was like doing the job but, instead, what it was like not doing it. She shook that off, guessing the young woman had probably wanted to travel but hadn’t gotten the chance. At her age, Marta had been the same, had jumped at the government job for that reason. “It was exciting sometimes, boring other times.” Accepting the inevitability of conversation, but changing the subject, “What kind of law do you want to practice?”
The young woman leaned in. “Intellectual property law. I just finished an engineering bachelor’s. What about you?”
“Litigation.”
“Okay. Yeah. I can see that. You look like a litigator. Tough. Like you could fight it out in court.” The young woman raised her face to watch a man slide past them to the next seat over. As he settled in, she shifted in her seat toward him, and Marta reoriented toward the front of the room, grateful the conversation had ended.
It hadn’t. “This is my dad.” The young woman was making introductions. “I don’t know your name.”
“Marta.”
“I’m Chloe.” She turned back to her father. “Marta was in the foreign service.”
“I’m Art.” He leaned forward to see around Chloe and smiled.
As the minutes closed in to the start of class, Choe interrupted Marta’s wondering why her father was there. “What’s it like to start back to school at … after working at something else?”
Marta didn’t pause. “Starting back at middle age, sure.” She smiled an honest smile. “I’m doing what I want. So it’s fine.”
At the lectern, the rumpled guy started speaking. Giving her attention to the lecture, Marta pushed away worries about her future, about profiling Chloe, about the stranger named Art. Yet something nagged, and Marta allowed it to hang at the periphery by its fingers, waiting to be seized and lifted to worry central, where it seemed to believe it rightfully belonged.
Discipline forbade lessening her focus on the speaker, but at the break, she allowed the foggy issue to claw up into the light. As it did, she turned to look at Art. She knew who he was. Arthur Landon Walker. Law professor, heavy hitter, totally the shit.
As Marta stood to stretch, she caught his eye glancing up at her. He smiled and returned his attention to Chloe, who was speaking too softly for Marta to hear, but a moment later, he leaned forward to place Marta in his line of vision.
“Are you Marta Novak?”
Caught off guard, she wondered how he knew her. “Yes, I am.”
“I heard you speak at …” he stopped, glanced at Chloe, then returned to Marta. “… Washington last year. I didn’t recognize you at first.”
Marta experienced a mixture of pleasure and wariness. Pleasure at being remembered, wariness because Walker had to have had security clearance to hear her speak and appeared to have momentarily forgotten he’d been required to get it. “You’re Professor Walker. I’ve heard you speak, too.”
He laughed. “Right. So you’re in law school now.”
The professor resumed, breaking off the exchange.
When the lecture wrapped up, Walker leaned toward her. “Chloe and I are going to get chai. Join us. I’m interested in what brought you here.” As the three of them settled in at the tea shop, he asked, “What made you decide to go to law school?”
“It’s an interest that’s grown over the years. A private practice would let me locate anywhere in the country, which is a bonus.”
Chloe asked, “Where do you want to work?”
“New Orleans. I grew up here.”
Walker mentioned his New England childhood and shared a story about his first experiences with New Orleans food. Marta sat silent, content to be logging time without having to actually talk. Always her preference.
When he wound down, she recognized the need to contribute and fell back on the question she’d asked herself when she first recognized him. “I was surprised to see you sitting through a first-year lecture.”
“I just want to be sure she can meet the challenge. Just being helpful, you know.”
Echoes of Marta’s mother clouded whatever it was that Walker was saying. Marta recognized shame in Chloe’s lowered head, alienation in her narrowing eyes. She knew that—at least in his daughter’s mind— his persistent attention meant scrutiny and judgment.
Marta had had no confidant, no understanding friend.
Chloe raised her eyes, and Marta’s met them.
