by Amanda Brown
Finally, Professor Kiki “Slaughter-Haus” made her entrance. Catherine “Kiki” Haus was a package deal, a Stanford Law School professor by virtue of the fact that she was the wife of the dean, whom Stanford had wooed away from Harvard. While her husband was known around Stanford as Professor Great Haus, Kiki had been tagged “Slaughter-Haus” years ago, when she taught Constitutional Law, after the infamous Supreme Court Slaughterhouse cases.
Even after Kiki switched to teaching Criminal Law, the “Slaughter-Haus” nickname stuck because her class was reputed to be unendurable. Especially among the male students. The professor was also nicknamed “Three-C Kiki” because of rumors that at grade time she evened out her perceived social injustices by giving three Cs, always to three men, especially golden-boy fraternity types.
When Elle heard this “Three-C” rumor from Bianca, a sorority sister whose boyfriend, John Brooks, had graduated from Stanford the year before, she imagined Stanford Law would be full of interesting, golden John Brooks types; but looking around, Elle couldn’t figure out who would get the Cs in this crowd.
Kiki’s class represented in a particularly blunt manner what Elle was just learning about law school: everything was upside-down from her previous life. Sidney had a whole gaggle of pasty-faced twenty-four-function digital watch-wearers jabbering about Deep Space Nine with him. Claire and Sarah were already chummy with the exclusive East Coast preppies in Add-a-Bead necklaces. The Ben & Jerry’s herd had more left-wing causes than it knew what to do with, though the revolutionary tables would be certain to disappear when law firms came to interview. Humanities Ph.D.’s met at coffeehouses to fill out crossword puzzles in foreign languages. Science Ph.D.’s compared the merits of researching on Westlaw versus Lexis and encrypted their phone numbers. But Elle had no one. She was arriving at the harsh realization that she, Elle Woods, was unpopular.
Chapter Ten
Kiki Slaughter-Haus, wide-faced, fortyish, and sturdily built, began circling the podium with her eyes anchored to her notes. She spouted a stale stream of Gloria Steinem–era feminism interrupted with a lengthy “uh” between every few words. “All law…uh…is biased. Um…against women. Uh…institutionally,” she droned.
This was Criminal Law? Elle had looked forward to this class as compared to the others. She thought they’d talk about lawyers, guns, and money, like the Warren Zevon song.
Kiki called only on women. In her introductory monotone she was making the point that women have to balance work and family life, whereas men, presumably like her husband, are free from this dual responsibility. Nobody had any idea what this had to do with criminal law, but the tap-tap-tapping keyboards took down every word.
“Uh, you, without the, uh, name card.” Slaughter-Haus pointed at Elle. “Uh, what’s your name?”
“Elle Woods.”
“Uh, Ms. Woods, why did you, uh, come to law school?”
First question, first day. A softball.
Sarah turned around with interest. The room grew quiet.
“To be a lawyer?” Elle guessed.
Kiki went in for the slaughter.
“And, uh, why do you, uh, want to be a lawyer?”
“So I can do my own divorce,” Elle answered candidly, smiling. “Without getting taken to the bank.”
She shot a glance in the direction of Sarah and Claire, to see if her casual mention of divorce had any effect on them. She caught Claire’s eye and added a cool shrug.
“I see,” Kiki said. “You all want to be lawyers, but first you have to pass my class. And last year only half of the students who sat in these seats made it out alive.”
Kiki turned her back to write on the board. Sarah stuck her tongue out at Elle, at which Claire giggled. “I told you so,” Sarah said.
Elle was picked out again in Torts class for a question based on the reading. There was no settling into law school, Elle discovered. Reading was actually assigned before the first class, but Elle hadn’t gotten to it yet, and didn’t even have her books with her. With no name card and no books, Elle was an easy target.
Torts was the class of basic personal-injury law. A “tort” described not a cream-filled dessert wheeled in on a cart, but an injury over which you could sue somebody. Any sob story with a price tag was a tort. The class focused on everyday grievances like car accidents or harassing phone calls, the stuff of daytime talk shows.
The basic rule was one you might see behind a cash register: “You break it, you pay for it.” But law school had a way of complicating even the simplest rule. “Actionable tortious infliction of emotional distress,” for example, meant “being mean enough to get sued for it.” The point of torts, Elle decided, was to learn how petty squabbles can be dressed up multisyllabically.
Today’s word, which Elle might have known had she read the assigned chapter, was “subrogation,” a neat way for the bad guy to escape paying damages by suing somebody else. Insurance companies are quite fond of the concept.
“You, without the PowerBook or a name card…” Professor Glenn, a white-haired red-nosed Harvard lion tortiously inflicting a terrible mix of plaids with a brown tie, pointed at Elle. “What do you think of subrogation?”
Elle wondered if this professor had a feminist theme too, like Kiki Slaughter-Haus. “Well,” she attempted, “it’s endemic in our society. Especially the subjugation of women.”
The class fell apart in laughter, leaving Elle to wonder alone what was so funny. Professor Glenn, whom the wags had renamed Professor Glenn-Fiddich in recognition of the obvious difference between his lucid morning classes and his rambling, red-nosed afternoons, shook his head sadly. He was sober today and appeared to regret it.
“Thank you, Ms. Woods. Let’s turn to somebody who’s done the reading.”
An arm shot up. It was impossible to tell whether the arm belonged to a man or a woman. Elle now realized that the time she had spent reading Cosmopolitan’s Life After College issue had been a total waste of time. The “Law School Revue” article hadn’t mentioned anything remotely resembling the law school life she was experiencing. She acknowledged she might need a new source of advice.
Elle suspected she might learn more by staying home and watching Oprah anyway. She began daydreaming.
If I were president, I’d put Oprah on the Supreme Court. Phil’s too liberal, Geraldo’s too insensitive. Larry King wouldn’t take the pay cut. Ricki Lake? She paused, considering. No. Wouldn’t get confirmed. But Oprah…everyone knows she’s fair. She’s got enough cash to retire from TV. And maybe the tabloids would lay off her weight fluctuations if they only saw her in the black robe. Elle smiled. Definitely Oprah.
She gasped and drew back as if shocked when Sidney’s clammy hand gripped her arm. “C’mon Elle, beam yourself back down,” he said. “Class is over.”
“Beam yourself someplace else, Sidney,” Elle snapped. Turning to leave the room, Elle heard whispers behind her back. Sidney zipped his black vinyl PowerBook pack and followed her out.
“Elle”—he caught her arm in the hall, gloating—“this isn’t Bel Air. You’re not so popular here, you know. People don’t even like you.” He tightened his grip as she twisted to get away.
Sidney held on to her arm as Elle moved down the hall, still trying to shake him. “I have soooo many friends here already, Elle. You should be nicer to me…I might let you into my study group,” Sidney snarled.
Elle spun around and faced Sidney, finally yanking her arm free. “Sidney, don’t make this worse than it already is for me,” she said. “Please.” Sidney’s laugh was her answer.
Elle tensed. “Do me a favor, Sidney? You and your whole study group?”
“What?”
Though she knew her efforts would be futile, she looked at him. “Please, Sidney, just leave me alone.”
She regretted her words as soon as the grin crossed Sidney’s face. The tables had turned and he relished her misery. He was the king and she was a standing joke. Law school was his chance to make her p
ay, and he was going to enjoy every minute of it.
Hating herself for having attempted to appeal to his better nature, Elle turned on her heel and stormed off.
Chapter Eleven
Elle went immediately after class to Savoir-Vivre, the salon she had found during orientation week when she skipped the Westward-Ho Bar-b-que. The salon was located in the Stanford Shopping Center, and she found a darling French manicurist who served as her link to a saner world, the world that read W and never gave a thought to subrogation or the writing of briefs.
Sighing deeply, Elle leaned back into the soft black-and-white raw silk pillows and put her left hand under the air dryer. “Josette, it got even worse.”
Josette went to work on Elle’s right hand, shaping her thumbnail with short, rapid strokes of the file. Her shiny black corkscrew curls bounced as she worked. “Worse? Elle, what you told me before…it was already horrible!” Her delicate features scrunched up at the thought, making her look like a perplexed Kewpie doll. Josette said “horrible” in a Frenchified way, “hor-ree-bil.” It was fun to hear her talk. Elle had booked enough time for a pedicure as well as a manicure; she was starved to talk to someone with discerning taste, and would have stayed longer if she could.
Elle glanced around the salon, noting that the only woman within hearing distance had her hair wrapped in foil and was sitting under a noisy hair dryer. “See, I have to go to class because I don’t have any friends and I don’t know who would take notes for me if I took ‘vacations’ now and then,” she admitted in an embarrassed manner.
“You should make a friend then,” Josette advised.
“No, Josette, wait till you hear what these people are like! This one guy from MIT, the Gummi Bear Man…” Elle shuddered as the vision of his computer-lab pallor, orange hair, and long, pimply neck invaded her thoughts. “He sits behind me in Civil Procedure and he claims to be doing some kind of scientific experiment about congestion or combustion…whatever. Anyway, this scientific experiment involves his utterly disgusting habit of sucking on Gummi bears all through class. When the professor turns his back, he spits them out and flicks them up so they stick on the ceiling.”
“Eeeeew!” Josette exclaimed. “And you must sit in front of thees, thees man?”
“Not only that, Josette, but in the line of fire! See, Gummi Bear Man’s plan is for the Gummi bears to turn into downward missiles in the spring, when it gets warm, so they’ll drip down on somebody in that seat second semester. But since it’s Indian summer, his Gummi bears have been melting already!”
“Eeeeeew,” Josette repeated. “Do they dreep on you?”
“Josette, I can’t even attend class when the temperature is over seventy-five degrees. I would be pelted by chewed-up Gummi bears!”
“Do you want me to do a design?” Josette asked, nodding in reference to Elle’s nails.
Please, how tacky. “No thanks, I always do pinks. I’ve brought a bottle of my favorite Chanel pink to keep here.”
“What about the other students?”
“Well, there’s Gramm Hallman. He wastes everyone’s time by somehow managing to turn every class discussion into a whiny explanation of the Spanish Succession, blow by blow. It was his thesis topic at Yale, which he’ll inform you within the first fifteen seconds of meeting him.”
“He sounds very boring.”
“Boring? He’s not half as bad as Ben! Ben lives for law school. He watches Court TV when he’s not reading the Legal Times or briefing cases. He reads the Stanford Law Review in the library when we have an hour break between classes. He looks like he’s going to collapse under the pile of casebooks he carries around. He loves law school so much, he wants to stick around for more! He told me that ever since he was seven years old he wanted to be a law professor!”
“I think I wanted to be a ballerina when I was a little girl,” Josette mused. “Or a princess. What about you?”
“I wanted to be one of Charlie’s Angels! Chris, of course.”
“What about zee women in your school?” Josette asked.
Elle examined her fingernails and put both hands under the air dryer. Stretching out her feet for the finishing touches, she sighed wearily. “Josette, if they are any indication, the future of America looks bleak and poorly dressed.”
Josette giggled. “Why are you in law school, Elle?”
Elle thought about it and wondered if she should tell her. “I followed my college boyfriend, Warner, here,” Elle admitted. “He broke up with me before he came to Stanford, and I thought I’d go to law school too, you know, to win him back. But now he’s engaged to this awful woman named Sarah and I’m stuck here and I’m going to have to finish. To show him, at least, that a woman doesn’t have to be a mousy brown-haired headband wearer in frumpy Lanz nightgowns to be serious.” She stopped and looked at Josette, then continued shyly. “And smart and competent. I’m sure as soon as he figures that out, Sarah will be history.”
“Maybe you should see another man?” Josette suggested.
“I know, I’m pathetic.”
Josette needed to get to another client. She tapped Elle’s hand, directing her to move to the front of the salon by the window.
“Do you want the same time next week?” Josette said.
“What? Sorry,” Elle answered. “I was zoning there for a minute. Yes, please, the same time next week.” She slipped on her sandals without smudging her polish and headed toward a career-counseling seminar. The seminars were offered once a week after classes, from the very beginning of the semester. Elle had signed up to see what the future promised. She also hoped to run into Warner there, but neither he nor Sarah was anywhere to be seen.
Judging from the lecture, her future boded nothing promising. The career counselor advised a solid diet of alienation from the outside world during the quest called “résumé building.” As if it weren’t bad enough that law students scorned direct contact with life in three years of ostrichlike submersion. No wonder nonlawyers peeled away from law students like a sunburn.
The prize for law school success was this: an opportunity to slave away in a law firm library researching obscure legal issues, perfecting a nervous twitch, and checking the clock in obsessive fixation on billable hours in order to make money for someone else, more specifically, a partner. This was called the “partnership track.” You sold your right to light and freedom for seven to eight good years, all in the name of an equity share and free time for golf.
Upon returning from the lecture, Elle found an official-looking note taped to her door at Crothers. The Housing Office had been notified that she was keeping a dog in her room, which was not permitted by the regulations. Elle was requested to find a new home for the dog, or find a new home for herself and the dog. Her rent would be prorated if she chose to vacate student housing altogether.
“So much for animal rights,” Elle sighed. “Guess we’ve got to find a new home, Underdog.” She collared her exuberant pet and took him outside.
Chapter Twelve
Most classes in law school were an exercise in intellectual torture. Civil Procedure laid out the ground rules for litigating cases in court. Anyone who could read and follow directions could understand Civil Procedure. You had to memorize concepts in order to bandy them around with other law insiders or spit them back on exams, but beyond that, Elle reasoned, there was no reason to know the law by heart. Also, it would be malpractice to practice off the top of your head.
Elle was engrossed in a magazine and winced when Professor Erie called on Ben to answer a procedural question. They would be in for another marathon of “Ben Unplugged.” Elle was glad she’d brought the new Vogue.
Ben earned a wide chorus of laughs when he changed the names in the casebook from A, B, and C to D, E, and F, “to pro-tect the in-no-cent.” It was a matter of lawyer-client confidentiality, he explained to a smiling Professor Erie.
Ben’s “abstract legal problem solving” involved applying what he saw as a “categorical bench
mark” from one class to another. As if sitting through Civil Procedure weren’t bad enough, Ben wanted to concentrate all five law school classes into every hour.
Elle noticed that Ben was wearing a bulky digital watch. She glanced at the ceiling, worried that all his hot air would melt the Gummi bears. They appeared to be holding their position.
The woman next to her offered her a piece of gum. “It’s Snappin’ Apple,” the woman whispered, “my favorite.”
“No thanks,” Elle said, smiling. The woman wasn’t a headband wearer, and unlike most of her classmates, didn’t carry a coffee Thermos with the emblem of her Ivy League alma mater. She was J. Crew fresh-faced pretty with ivory skin and clear blue eyes. Plus she was sort of blonde, or could be, with some better highlights.
“It all sounds like alphabet soup to me!” she whispered again with a grin.
Elle looked at her neighbor curiously.
“A can serve process on B, but not on C; A can implead D, but has no personal jurisdiction over F. What the hell is quasi in rem jurisdiction?” She scribbled this note on a paper, which she passed to Elle.
“I don’t know, sorry,” Elle scribbled back. “I skip this class a lot to avoid falling Gummi bears.” She slid the paper over tentatively.
“Isn’t that GROSS? I think I’ll come early and stick a piece of GUM on his seat!” came back the response. “By the way, my name is Eugenia.”
Elle laughed. She not only knew about the Gummi Bear Man, she was fighting back! This girl was all right.
“Miss Iliakis?” The note passing was interrupted. “Is Miss Iliakis here today?”
Eugenia gulped, sliding the piece of Snappin’ Apple to her cheek, causing it to bulge slightly. “Uh, yes.” She waved her hand. “Back here.”
“Miss Iliakis, here in the second problem, A”—Professor Erie turned to Ben—“you don’t mind if I call him A, do you, Counsel?” This attempt at humor was smashingly successful with Ben and his watch-wearing pals.
