takes a moment or two to collect my thoughts. I just offered to prostitute my education and training for something far less than the best, and it landed me on the sidewalk in a matter of minutes.
As things developed, my brief interview with Roderick Nunley would be one of my more productive outings.
It’s almost ten. In thirty minutes I have Selected Readings from the Napoleonic Code, a class I need to attend because I’ve skipped it for a week. I could skip it for the next three weeks and no one would care. There’s no final exam.
I’m moving freely around the law school these days, no longer ashamed to show my face. With a matter of days to go, most of the third-year students are abandoning the place. Law school starts with a barrage of intense work and pressurized exams, but it ends with a few scattered volleys of soft quizzes and throwaway papers. All of us arespending more time studying for the bar exam than worrying about our final classes.
Most of us are preparing to enter the state of employment.
MADELINE SKINNER has taken up my cause as if it’s her own. And she’s suffering almost as much as me because we’re both having no luck. There’s a state senator from Memphis whose office in Nashville might need a staff attorney to draft legislation—thirty thousand with benefits, but it requires a law license and two years’ experience. A small company wants a lawyer with an undergraduate degree in accounting. I studied history.
“The Shelby County Welfare Department may have an opening in August for a staff lawyer.” She’s shuffling papers on her desk, trying desperately to find something.
“A welfare lawyer?” I repeat.
“Sounds glamorous, doesn’t it?”
“What’s the pay?”
“Eighteen thousand.”
“What kind of work?”
“Tracking down deadbeat fathers, trying to collect support. Paternity cases, the usual.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“It’s a job.”
“So what do I do until August?”
“Study for the bar exam.”
“Right, and if I study real hard and pass the exam, then I get to go to work for the Welfare Department at minimum wage.”
“Look, Rudy—”
“I’m sorry. It’s been a bad day.”
I promise to return tomorrow for what will no doubt be a repeat of this conversation.
Eight
B OOKER FOUND THE FORMS SOMEWHERE in the depths of the Shankle firm. He said there was an associate tucked away in the basement who occasionally handled bankruptcies, and he was able to pilfer the necessary paperwork.
They’re fairly straightforward. Listing of assets on one page, a quick and easy task in my case. A listing of liabilities on another page. Spaces for employment info, pending litigation, etc. It’s what’s known as a Chapter 7, straight bankruptcy, where the assets are wiped out to cover the debts, which are also wiped out.
I’m no longer employed at Yogi’s. I work, but I now get paid in cash, no records. Nothing to garnish or attach. No obligation to share my meager wages with Texaco. I discussed my predicament with Prince, told him how bad things were, blamed it on tuition and credit cards, and he just loved the idea of paying me in cash and screwing the government. He’s a firm disciple of cash-and-no-taxes economics.
Prince offered to make me a loan to bail myself out, butit wouldn’t work. He thinks I’ll soon be making big money as a wealthy young lawyer, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I may be with him for a while.
Nor did I tell him how hefty the loan would be. Texaco has sued me for $612.88, a sum which includes court costs and attorneys’ fees. My landlord has sued me for $809, ditto on costs and fees. But the real wolves are just getting near. They’re writing the dirty letters, just now threatening to send in the lawyers.
I have a MasterCard and a Visa, each issued by different banks here in Memphis. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas of last year, during a blissful little period of time in which I was assured of a good
As things developed, my brief interview with Roderick Nunley would be one of my more productive outings.
It’s almost ten. In thirty minutes I have Selected Readings from the Napoleonic Code, a class I need to attend because I’ve skipped it for a week. I could skip it for the next three weeks and no one would care. There’s no final exam.
I’m moving freely around the law school these days, no longer ashamed to show my face. With a matter of days to go, most of the third-year students are abandoning the place. Law school starts with a barrage of intense work and pressurized exams, but it ends with a few scattered volleys of soft quizzes and throwaway papers. All of us arespending more time studying for the bar exam than worrying about our final classes.
Most of us are preparing to enter the state of employment.
MADELINE SKINNER has taken up my cause as if it’s her own. And she’s suffering almost as much as me because we’re both having no luck. There’s a state senator from Memphis whose office in Nashville might need a staff attorney to draft legislation—thirty thousand with benefits, but it requires a law license and two years’ experience. A small company wants a lawyer with an undergraduate degree in accounting. I studied history.
“The Shelby County Welfare Department may have an opening in August for a staff lawyer.” She’s shuffling papers on her desk, trying desperately to find something.
“A welfare lawyer?” I repeat.
“Sounds glamorous, doesn’t it?”
“What’s the pay?”
“Eighteen thousand.”
“What kind of work?”
“Tracking down deadbeat fathers, trying to collect support. Paternity cases, the usual.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“It’s a job.”
“So what do I do until August?”
“Study for the bar exam.”
“Right, and if I study real hard and pass the exam, then I get to go to work for the Welfare Department at minimum wage.”
“Look, Rudy—”
“I’m sorry. It’s been a bad day.”
I promise to return tomorrow for what will no doubt be a repeat of this conversation.
Eight
B OOKER FOUND THE FORMS SOMEWHERE in the depths of the Shankle firm. He said there was an associate tucked away in the basement who occasionally handled bankruptcies, and he was able to pilfer the necessary paperwork.
They’re fairly straightforward. Listing of assets on one page, a quick and easy task in my case. A listing of liabilities on another page. Spaces for employment info, pending litigation, etc. It’s what’s known as a Chapter 7, straight bankruptcy, where the assets are wiped out to cover the debts, which are also wiped out.
I’m no longer employed at Yogi’s. I work, but I now get paid in cash, no records. Nothing to garnish or attach. No obligation to share my meager wages with Texaco. I discussed my predicament with Prince, told him how bad things were, blamed it on tuition and credit cards, and he just loved the idea of paying me in cash and screwing the government. He’s a firm disciple of cash-and-no-taxes economics.
Prince offered to make me a loan to bail myself out, butit wouldn’t work. He thinks I’ll soon be making big money as a wealthy young lawyer, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I may be with him for a while.
Nor did I tell him how hefty the loan would be. Texaco has sued me for $612.88, a sum which includes court costs and attorneys’ fees. My landlord has sued me for $809, ditto on costs and fees. But the real wolves are just getting near. They’re writing the dirty letters, just now threatening to send in the lawyers.
I have a MasterCard and a Visa, each issued by different banks here in Memphis. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas of last year, during a blissful little period of time in which I was assured of a good
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