by Mark Gimenez
Professor Goldman: ‘Where’d you read that?’
‘The Wall Street Journal.’
‘You read the Wall Street Journal?’
‘Of course. Don’t you?’
‘No. I read the New York Times. If it’s not in the Times, I don’t need to know it.’
‘Jonah, you need to know that our graduates are facing the worst legal job market in two decades. We’re dramatically oversupplying the market. But we’re immune from market forces because the federal government is now the sole provider of student loans and lends the full sticker price for law school, including cost of living, whatever the cost. Last year’s graduating law class nationwide owed a collective three-point-six billion in student loans. The students don’t have a prayer of repaying that debt.’
‘What’s your point, Bob?’
‘My point is, Jonah, we can’t keep bringing four hundred new students into the law school each year, charge them thirty thousand dollars a year, and put them into a market where there aren’t enough jobs to go around. Nationally, one hundred fifty thousand students at two hundred law schools pay five billion a year in tuition. Law schools are cash cows on university campuses, Jonah, but in this job market, a law degree will be worthless for three-fourths of the students. Actually, less than worthless since they’ll owe a hundred thousand or more in debt.’
‘Why’s that our fault?’
‘Because we continue to raise the cost of a legal education. Over the last decade, we tripled tuition and doubled our salaries.’
‘But they keep paying it.’
‘With federal loans, debt that pays our salaries. We’re like peanut farmers, Jonah, subsidized by the federal government.’
‘How many peanut farmers have advanced degrees from Harvard?’
Professor Goldman let out an exasperated sigh.
‘Okay, Bob, so what’s your brilliant proposal this time?’
‘We need to teach more and be paid less. We need to be honest with our students about their job prospects. We need to reduce the supply of lawyers to the demand for lawyers. I propose a faculty resolution that we reduce next year’s incoming class by twenty-five percent.’
Professor Stone’s proposal evoked a collective gasp from the faculty. Professor Goldman stared at his younger and untenured colleague as if he were a homeless person urinating at the corner of Eleventh and Congress downtown.
‘Have you lost your mind? Twenty-five percent, that’s a hundred tuition-payers—’
‘Tuition-payers? You mean, students?’
‘Yes. Them. And that’s over three million dollars in lost tuition revenue. You know what that would mean? Pay cuts. No summer stipends. No research funds. Maybe no secretaries or interns. You want that? Besides, these tuition-payers—excuse me, these students—aren’t here to save mankind. They’re here to get a law degree and hire on with those corporate law firms and get rich. Just this morning, I posed a hypothetical fact situation to my class and asked a student which side he wanted to represent. He said, “Whichever side can pay more.” We didn’t teach them that. The world did. These kids are capitalists through and through.’
‘And we’re not? Fifty-one of us in this room make more than two hundred thousand and nineteen more than three hundred thousand, for teaching, what, six hours a week for twenty-eight weeks? We’re paid summer stipends of sixty, seventy, even eighty thousand dollars to write on a beach. This public law school paid the seventy-two full-time professors in this room a total of eighteen million dollars in compensation last year—not including those forgivable loans some of you got—for part-time work.’
‘Part-time? My God, man, we’re in class six hours each week. At Harvard, they’re in class only three hours. Besides, we’re a top-tier law school—we shouldn’t have to teach.’
‘Someone’s got to, Jonah. It’s a school, which implies teachers. So the school has to hire twenty lecturers and one hundred thirty-five adjuncts to teach for us. And it’s all paid for by increasing tuition on middle-class students who borrow to pay it. Total student debt now exceeds one trillion dollars, more than credit card debt, and it can’t be discharged in bankruptcy. It’s a huge drag on the economy. Even the employed grads can’t qualify for home mortgages.’
‘They need forgivable loans,’ Professor Manfried said.
‘They’ve got them,’ Professor Goldman said. ‘I hear Obama’s going to forgive all that student debt—it’s all owed to the federal government anyway, so we’re just passing the cost on to the taxpayers, like the General Motors bailout.’
Henry whispered to Book, ‘And the public thinks we spend our time teaching contracts and torts.’
Professor Goldman turned back to Professor Stone. ‘Why shouldn’t we be well paid? My Harvard classmates sitting atop those corporate law firms in New York are making millions.’
‘They’re real lawyers, Jonah, working for real clients paying real money. That has value in the marketplace. Most of us don’t have a clue what real lawyers do.’
‘I don’t want a clue. We’re not practitioners, Bob. We’re not a trade school. It’s not our job to teach students how to practice law. We’re here to teach the theory of law. And we do have value—we’re the only path to the legal profession. If you want to be a real lawyer, you’ve got to go to law school. That gives us value.’
‘A hundred-thousand-dollar value?’
Professor Goldman addressed Professor Stone as if he were a 1L who hadn’t answered a question correctly.
‘Tell you what, Bob, let’s take a quick vote. A show of hands from those in favor of Professor Stone’s proposal to reduce enrollment, tuition, and our salaries.’
Book raised his hand. Henry couldn’t; without tenure, he had no academic freedom. No other professor raised a hand.
‘Yes, we know you would be in favor of something like that, Professor Bookman.’
Professor Stone sat and slumped in his chair. His regular economic analyses of law school finances over the last few years of the Great Recession had always proven unpopular with the faculty. Denial was far more popular; in fact, denial defined the Academy, aristocrats blissfully ignorant of the plight of the masses living off-campus. They fought over forgivable loans and summer stipends, they wrote law review articles with four thousand footnotes, they dreamed of being appointed to a federal appeals court; they taught the theory of law and lived theoretical lives, ‘what-if’ lives as if life were a hypothetical fact situation. They railed against Republicans and Wall Street and the one-ercenters, but they sat happily ensconced in chairs endowed by corporate law firms in Houston and Dallas, by Joe Jamail, the billionaire plaintiff’s lawyer famous for winning a $3 billion verdict in Pennzoil v. Texaco, and even by Frederick Baron, the now-deceased millionaire asbestos lawyer infamous for funding John Edwards’ mistress during his failed presidential campaign.
Such was the Academy.
Book did not live an Academy life. He lived out there, among the people. In the real world. On the road. Less traveled or more traveled, but at least traveled. He didn’t want to teach theory; he wanted to live reality. With each passing day, he became more disillusioned with the Academy. It seemed less relevant, less in touch with the real world, less concerned with the problems of real people. More disconnected from life. More unconcerned with life off-campus.
‘All right,’ Professor Goldman said. ‘Let’s move on to tenure. Would those professors up for tenure please exit the meeting?’
Henry stood. He looked like a man about to face a firing squad.
‘I love teaching the law.’
‘You’ll still be teaching the law next year, Henry.’
After Henry and Professor Stone and the other tenure candidates had departed, Professor Goldman, as chair of the Tenure Committee, opened the meeting for discussion.
Book stood. ‘I propose Henry Lawson for tenure. For the third time. Henry is a gentleman and a scholar. He has published five law review articles—’
Professor Goldman i
nterrupted: ‘In what reviews?’
‘Texas Tech, Tulsa …’
‘Texas Tech and Tulsa. Not exactly the “A” list, is it? Any in the Harvard or Yale reviews?’
‘Those reviews aren’t interested in articles about oil and gas law, Jonah.’
‘Then how important can his articles be? How much value can we attach to publications in the Texas Tech Law Review?’
‘You write about the rights of trees, Jonah—how valuable are your articles, except perhaps to an evergreen? How many people read your articles? How many times have your articles been cited, anywhere? Truth is, no one reads our law review articles, you know that. We write them to get tenure. Most legal scholarship is worthless drivel. But Henry is a nationally recognized expert in oil and gas law—’
‘Yippee.’
‘—He’s served on the White House’s Energy Task Force—’
‘Promoting oil and gas drilling—including fracking, for God’s sake!’
‘—He’s in demand as a speaker to industry groups—’
‘Oil company executives.’
‘—We all know that Henry is smart enough, dedicated enough, a hell of a teacher, his students love him—’
‘Tenure is not a popularity contest.’
‘—Henry worked in the real world—’
‘For an oil company.’
‘—Which means he can teach the students about being real lawyers.’
‘So?’
‘So he can relate to the very alumni who support this university and this law school. For all of you Harvard and Yale grads who don’t know, this university was built on oil money. And I remind you that Henry—’
‘Voted for Bush! Twice!’
Another even louder collective gasp went up from the professors.
‘How do you know?’
‘I have my sources. He can’t have voted for Bush and be our next tenured professor.’
‘You’re right, Jonah. Henry shouldn’t be the next tenured professor. He should be the next assistant dean, and then the next dean when Roscoe retires. He could run this school better than any of us.’
‘Having a Republican dean like Roscoe is why we dropped in the rankings. If word gets out that one of our tenured faculty members voted for Bush, we’ll be a joke in the Academy. Our reputation among our peers—which accounts for twenty-five percent of our U.S. News ranking, I remind you—will take a dive. Do you want that?’
UT law school had dropped from fourteenth to sixteenth in the latest U.S. News and World Report law school rankings; panic had ensued. Twenty years before, U.S. News began the rankings. At first, the rankings were viewed by the Academy as amusing anecdotes; today, the rankings are viewed as critical to a law school’s success. Move up in the rankings, and celebrations begin in the faculty lounge; move down, and heads roll. Prospective law students decide which schools to apply to based upon the rankings; thus, rankings drive applications; and applications put butts in seats worth $30,000 to $50,000 each. With so much money riding on the rankings, some schools had gamed their reports to achieve higher rankings, inflating their Law School Admission Test numbers, including among ‘graduates known to be employed nine months after graduation’ those grads working at Starbucks because they couldn’t find legal jobs, and even hiring their own unemployed grads for short-term stints spanning February 15—the effective date for the schools’ reports—so those students could be counted as employed. Rankings now drive every decision made in law schools across America.
‘If we hope to move up in the rankings, we must hire and grant tenure to star professors,’ Professor Goldman said.
‘And all the stars come from Harvard and Yale?’
‘They’re sure as hell not Republicans from UT.’
‘But we’re top ten in football,’ Professor Al Harvey (UT, 1985, Property Law) said. ‘Can’t be tops in football and law.’
‘Tell the alumni that,’ Professor Goldman said.
‘Did you see the spring game? The team’s looking good.’
‘Shut up, Al.’
‘I’m just saying.’
‘Jonah,’ Book said, ‘this isn’t about rankings.’
‘Everything’s about rankings. If we grant tenure to Henry, we’ll be lucky to stay in the top tier. Are we going to be the Harvard of the Southwest or not?’
‘Not. Jonah, we’re chasing Harvard and Yale in the rankings even though we all know the methodology employed by U.S. News is flawed and their results laughable. I’ve got a better idea: let’s drop out of the rankings.’
‘You’ve gone mad! If we take ourselves out of the rankings game, we’ll never hire another Harvard or Yale graduate.’
‘Good.’
Jonah Goldman’s pale face turned bright red, which clashed with his brown suit. Book figured, what the hell, might as well go all the way.
‘Jonah, you’re living in the past. But our students will live in the future, so this school must look to the future. And that future will not be made following in the footsteps of Harvard and Yale. It will be made by cutting our own path right here in Texas. Therefore, I propose that we refuse to participate in the rankings. I propose that we teach our students to be real lawyers. And I propose the best person I know to lead this school into that future: Henry Lawson. I propose Henry for tenure and to be our next assistant dean.’
‘Fine,’ Professor Goldman said. ‘All in favor of Professor Bookman’s proposals, raise your hands.’
Book stuck his hand defiantly in the air and waited for reinforcements … and waited. Four other hands finally went up, all from the UT professors. But no Harvard or Yale hand. Or Columbia. Or Stanford. Or the others. Professor Goldman turned to Book with the smug look of the rich boy in grade school who always got the best toys money could buy.
‘Your propositions fail, Professor Bookman.’
Book dropped down in his chair. Institutional inertia prevailed. Fear of the future. Professors hanging on to the past. Hoping the past lasts until they retire with full benefits. The school would continue to chase Harvard and Yale in the rankings, and the students would lose. Henry Lawson would not be the new assistant dean. He would not be granted tenure. Not that year. Not any year. He was the best teacher on the faculty, but he would soon be teaching at another law school. Or perhaps at a high school.
Other professors stood and championed their protégés. Book slumped down in his chair and felt something in his back pocket. He pulled out the envelope Nadine had given him. It was postmarked ‘Marfa, Texas,’ on April 5, four days before. He removed the letter, unfolded the single sheet, and read the handwritten note.
Dear Professor Bookman,
Remember me? Nathan Jones? I was your intern for one month four years ago. I’m sorry I quit so abruptly back then, but I didn’t want to die before getting my law degree. (Just kidding.) Anyway, I’m married now, my wife’s pregnant, and I’m a third-year associate at the Dunn firm in West Texas. I work in our Marfa office which we established to represent our largest client, an oil and gas company. Mostly gas. They’re fracking in the Woodford shale field north of town. Professor, our client is contaminating the aquifer with the frack fluids. I have proof. That aquifer is the sole source of drinking water for this part of West Texas. I took the matter to my senior partner in Midland. He told me to keep my mouth shut, that any information I have is confidential under our ethics rules. Which means if I go public, I’ll get disbarred. So I’m required to keep this secret while our client contaminates the aquifer with toxic chemicals. That doesn’t seem right. But I don’t know what to do. Can you help me? Funny. Now I’m writing one of those letters to you.
Regards,
Nathan
PS: I think someone followed me home last night. My wife is scared.
Book walked down the corridor at a fast pace then stopped and stuck his head into Henry’s office. Henry looked up.
‘I’m sorry, Henry.’
‘They know I voted for Bush?’
Book nodded.<
br />
‘Damn.’
Book continued down the hall. He had secured tenure four years before, at age thirty-one. Clerking for Justice Kennedy, winning two Supreme Court cases, and making the shortlist of potential candidates for the Court does that sort of thing for a law professor. The law school would be embarrassed to have a faculty member nominated for the Supreme Court but denied tenure. Henry Lawson was not a Supreme Court candidate.
Nor was he a celebrity law professor.
Book was. After his Supreme Court clerkship, he could have taught at any law school in America. But he came home to be near his mother after she had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. Eight years later, she still lived in the same house where she had raised her children, but she did not know her children and could not find her way home. Book entered the outer office of his suite. Myrna held pink message slips in the air.
‘Your sister called. She wants to put your mother in a home.’
‘Did you tell her, “Hell no”?’
Myrna knew not to answer. ‘And James Welch called.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Our boss. Chairman of the Board of Regents. Appointed by the governor himself.’
‘Another billionaire alumnus wanting to fire me because he didn’t like what I said on Face the Nation.’
‘He doesn’t want to fire you. He wants to hire you.’
‘For what?’
‘Didn’t say. Might have something to do with his son.’
‘Who’s his son?’
‘Sophomore. Arrested for drug possession. On Sixth Street. It made the paper.’
Book took the pink slip. ‘I’ll call him from Marfa.’
‘Marfa?’ She groaned. ‘Oh, no, not another letter.’
Book waved Nathan Jones’s letter in the air as he walked into his office where Nadine Honeywell still sat reading his mail. He grabbed the crash helmet off the bookshelf and held it out to her. She frowned at the helmet as if it were a bloody murder weapon.
