CONTENTS
Prologue
First Week: Monday (August 2010)
First Week: Tuesday
First Week: Wednesday
First Week: Thursday
First Week: Sunday
Second Week: Monday
Second Week: Wednesday
Second Week: Thursday
Second Week: Sunday
Third Week: Monday
Third Week: Thursday
Third Week: Saturday
Third Week: Sunday
Fourth Week: Monday
Fourth Week: Tuesday
Fourth Week: Wednesday
Fourth Week: Thursday
Fourth Week: Saturday
Copyright
PROLOGUE
It was the beginning of my third year of law school, but not my last. I was halfway done. I was studying in the evening program at a large university in Washington, DC, and also working full-time. The program took four years instead of the usual three.
The DC area had effectively been my home since I was born. However, it was more complicated than that. I had been born here, but had spent several summers in Spain, visiting my father’s family in Barcelona and Madrid. After completing my undergraduate degree, I worked in Barcelona for a few years, then in Paris for a year, and eventually became disenchanted with the lack of upwardly mobile positions available to women in both Spain and France.
Despite being fluent in Spanish, Catalan and French, I was still treated like a foreigner, even in Spain. I had the distinct impression that the “natives” resented foreigners who took jobs away from them. Even though my father was Spanish and I had Spanish nationality, it didn’t matter. I had lived most of my life in the U.S., and the Spanish people I had worked with seemed to feel resentment toward me for that. Why, I didn’t really know. I felt that part of it was jealousy. I hadn’t really ever lacked anything in my life. Even after my father died, my mother spent all her energy making sure that my sisters and I had everything that we needed. Although I certainly had complaints about my mother, I loved her for that.
I thought it ironic that my Spanish coworkers were jealous of me for my “easy” life in the U.S. In Spain, they had nationalized health care, so that in theory everyone had access to treatment. However, as I experienced when I lived there, that meant long lines, inefficient service, and rude medical providers. Doctors didn’t want to treat you. And when a young person went to the doctor with a complaint, they treated you with disdain, like you were wasting their time. Also, instead of private insurers making decisions about what medications, treatments, and procedures to cover, you had some bureaucrat making those decisions for you. Just like insurers, the bureaucrats were guided by cost savings, so that concern certainly was not erased with nationalized health care.
I remember one time when my family was visiting my father’s relatives in Barcelona and my little sister got really sick with some virus. We didn’t know what she had; she was vomiting and her face was green. My father and I took her to the doctor there. After standing in line to check in with the receptionist, we were told to wait outside the doctor’s door, where he would call us in and spend a few minutes diagnosing what my sister had.
We waited for a couple of hours, and my father got sick of waiting and went to inquire at the front desk why it was taking so long. We were then informed that the doctor had left a long time ago, and, despite that, no one had told us anything. Oh, and also, by the way, the receptionist had “forgotten” to check us in on the computer. My father raised holy hell, yelling and screaming, tossing papers in front of the receptionist and kicking the receptionist’s desk. He demanded that a doctor see his sick child. Eventually they found a doctor to see my sister, but the experience marked me. This is how they treat sick children here? I thought.
And when I lived there later as an adult my experience was no better. In fact, when I needed medical treatment I ended up paying to see a private doctor in a private clinic. So what was the point of “free” medical service, then?
It seemed to me that I would much rather pay less money in taxes and keep more of my own money, and then arrange my life however I wanted. That way I would have money to spend on what I wanted. In any case, no national government that I could think of (certainly none of the governments where I had lived, including the U.S.) did an overall good job of managing taxpayer funds. And government agencies were bloated. It’s so easy to spend other people’s money, I had thought.
But I digress. I was talking about my family. I digress often. My sisters make fun of me for that. I love to argue, and I love to use logic.
That was why I went to law school.
Like I said, my father was Spanish. His father is Catalan, and his mother is from a small town near Albacete, the heart of Don Quixote’s La Mancha. Hence my last name, Vilanova, which means “new town” in Catalan. My father was born in Barcelona, and grew up speaking Spanish and Catalan at home. But he was ambitious, and thought that Barcelona was a small pond. He was an engineer, but felt that his talents were greatly underappreciated in Spain, more so when Franco was in power. My father was also good with languages and was diligent about learning English.
At some point, my father made it to the U.S. and stayed with an uncle until he found work. He was never entirely clear on exactly how he had made it out of Spain at the time. His English skills and his hard work eventually paid off, and he found work. He had told his family that he didn’t have much of a future in Barcelona, especially under Franco’s regime. And he wanted to see more of the world.
His U.S. salary was eventually good enough to allow him to rent a modest house in a suburb of Washington. My mother’s family lived next door to him. My mother was just starting college when they met. The way she told me, they immediately fell for each other. At that time, there weren’t many Spanish-speakers living in northern Virginia, and they had that connection. My father had black, wavy hair, which must have come from his mother’s side of the family. There must have been some Arab blood involved there.
My mother’s journey to the Washington, DC area was just slightly more dramatic than my father’s. She was born in Buenos Aires during the 1950s. Things in Argentina for my mother’s family went all right, but not great. My grandfather found work but the economy was so touch-and-go that he couldn’t expect a regular paycheck, so he made up for that by working odd jobs.
In the 1960s my grandfather, who was one of the most intelligent people I know, sensed that greater turmoil was coming. So he moved his family to the U.S., where some of his other relatives had already immigrated.
My grandfather was more right than he knew, because only a few years later came la Guerra Sucia, one of Argentina’s darker periods. By then, my mother’s family was installed in the U.S., in a suburb of Washington, DC, next to my future father.
My mother’s personality is larger than life, and she is gregarious and outgoing. She was also extremely beautiful when she was younger, with light skin and thick, dark, almost-black straight hair. She speaks Argentine Spanish and cooks Argentine cuisine. She’s hot-blooded and stubborn. She and both my sisters dance the tango very well.
My parents had three daughters in fairly rapid succession, only a few years apart. I am the oldest, Lara is next and lastly, Ariel. The running joke in my family was always that Lara’s personality is exactly like our mother’s, Ariel’s is like our father’s, and I’m a toss-up. I’m moody and brooding like our father, but there’s a little bit of my mother in me too. I didn’t always think so, but discovered throughout the story that I’m about to tell that this was the case, and that it wasn’t all bad.
I was talking about law school. That’s right. Once again, I digress. Today was the fir
st day of my third year. Wait. I haven’t told you how I got back to DC. That’s right. There’s so much to tell, and it’s difficult to keep straight.
After working in Spain and then France, I was disenchanted with the work culture there. Most of the time, I had been working as a translator/linguist. It was what I had trained to do, but it was solitary work. I was lonely, desperately lonely, and missed my family. I never thought that I could be that lonely. My mother, at that time, was living in a small city about forty-five miles south of DC. I figured I knew DC, and with my languages, maybe I could get some government work. So I moved back. My mother was ecstatic. She must have missed me or something.
I got a job with a government contracting firm doing Spanish and French and, very occasionally, Catalan translations and language/linguistic consulting. I was a diligent worker (having nothing else to do), and after a couple of years was promoted to Senior Translator/Linguist, or some such title. I reviewed the other translators’ work and did high-level document translation. The pay was pretty good and the benefits were fine. I had my own apartment. But I wasn’t busy enough.
I had always thought that the law was a good match for my over-analytical, overly-wired, never-turned-off brain and, after reading a bunch of law-related stuff, I decided to enroll. And I had been right. I loved it. It kept me busy enough that I didn’t have time to think that much about my life, or lack of a significant other, or my problems, or my father, and how I hadn’t been able to prevent his death.
But, as usual, life was about to happen. You know what I mean. Life. As John Lennon said, it’s what happens when you’re busy making other plans.
FIRST WEEK: MONDAY (AUGUST 2010)
I left the metro station and was walking to the law school campus. It was a Monday, the first day of my third year of law school classes. The evening students like me worked full-time jobs and attended school at night. The program took four years instead of the usual three. I couldn’t believe that I was already halfway done with school.
People referred to it as the part-time program, but my friend Melanie and I laughed at that. We instead referred to it as the “evening program,” because the evening students only took one class less than the full-time students. The difference between the day program students and the evening students was, I thought, profound. Melanie and I overheard the full-time students plotting their nights out, their drinking festivities and general rowdiness. They had a lot more free time than we did. They also were able to do more extracurricular activities, such as law review, law clinics and clubs. I was lucky if I managed to do most of the class reading on the weekends and stay awake during class.
Each semester was fourteen weeks long. They always flew by like nobody’s business. Before long, I would be feverishly studying and outlining for exams.
I had started law school in 2008. The problem was that, during that year, the economy began to tank, and law firms began laying off attorneys and deferring the start dates for entry-level law school grads. Less business was being done overall, and fewer transactions meant that there was a reduced need for corporate attorneys. Companies also began realizing just how much they paid outside counsels. CEOs were balking at attorneys’ fees, and were looking for ways to cut legal expenses. This all translated into fewer job opportunities for law school grads.
When I started law school I had visions of getting all these great offers with firms due to my good grades, my professional experience and my foreign languages. Unfortunately, that was looking more and more far-fetched. I felt lucky that I had a full-time job and could pay my rent and my bills, but I was also confronting the prospect of graduating with six figures of law school debt and not making any more money than I was making before I started.
I was also thirty-four years old, and when I graduated in a year and a half I would be thirty-six. How many good years did I have left? I thought. Would I be able to get a law firm position and repay my debt on only one salary?
Despite the worrying, in my heart I was still happy to have gone to law school. Deep down I felt that I was born to be an attorney. I was over-analytical and detail-oriented and couldn’t stop thinking. In fact, one of the main reasons I had gone to law school was to stay super busy so that I wouldn’t dwell on things. Over the years, I had noted that when I didn’t have enough things to do, I started overthinking and then started to feel down. I would think about my father, replaying the events surrounding his death twenty years before over and over in my head, and thinking about how I could have done things differently.
I would think about my former boyfriend Santi, who I had left in Madrid all those years ago. I would think about what I could have said differently to Santi so that we could have stayed together. Even though I was doing well and had generally had a successful life, there had been missed opportunities. It made me feel a little depressed sometimes.
However, law school had restored some of my happiness. I was busy, I was studying interesting things and had met intelligent people. I had never had many friends, but counted my newfound law school friends among my best friends other than my sisters. Unlike many of the students here, I lived law school.
I went to school with some people who worked on Capitol Hill, who had to go to law school in order to keep or advance in their jobs, but they hated law school and their hearts weren’t in it. That wasn’t me.
I also went to law school with people who had gone straight from undergrad, and who were in law school because they didn’t know what else to do, or because their parents thought it was a good idea, or because they were putting off working in a real job. I had no patience for that crowd.
I was looking forward to this semester. On Mondays and Tuesdays I had Criminal Procedure from 6 p.m. to 8 p.m., which would cover in large part the Fourth Amendment and basic civil rights. I also had Property on Wednesdays and Thursdays from 6 p.m. to 8 p.m., which would be a bear. It was a dense, complex class, but necessary, being a mandatory requirement to graduate. And on Wednesdays and Thursdays I also had International Law right before Property, which I hoped would be interesting.
The law school campus was small; it was basically one building with a grassy “quad” in the center where students hung out when the weather was nice, maybe playing frisbee.
The university was well-known and I felt lucky to be there. But sometimes I kicked myself for not going to a much cheaper state school. I had set my sights high, banking on the fact that I would be able to repay my student loans with a law firm job, but now I was having doubts. Oh well. It was too late for regrets now.
I had come straight from work, still in my work clothes. I was wearing a patterned skirt, which was form-fitting and hugged my curves. I was also wearing tights and a loose, short-sleeved, black silk blouse. The loose-fitting blouse complemented the hip-hugging skirt. I had noticed some turned heads both at work and on the metro.
At 5'6", I was above-average height for an American woman. I had my mother’s thick hair, very dark brown that looked almost black. Today I had blow-dried my hair straight, but it was naturally curly, and if I put gel in it and let it air dry, it would dry curly. Both my parents were of European stock, with fairly light skin, and my skin color was no different from theirs. I had also inherited my mother’s large dark brown eyes.
I worked out like a fiend, partly to have something to do, partly to work off my excess angst and partly because I was addicted to the endorphin rush. I loved to run and lift weights. As a consequence of that, I was pretty athletic and my arms and shoulders were pretty developed. However, I could not change my curvy hip bones, and it was a challenge to find clothes that fit properly.
I had angst because of a lot of things. I had angst because I was still mad about my father dying. I had angst because I had screwed things up with Santi all those years ago. I had angst about getting a job that I wanted after graduating from law school. I had angst because I was living in a city where 99% of the people thought the same way, and had the same opinions, and I was different from th
em.
But I also had angst because of baser, more physiological things. I was thirty-four years old and unattached. And I was horny. I was like a twenty-something man, thinking about sex and looking at prospective partners, weighing their potential sex appeal. It was like my body was telling me that it was time to have children and I wasn’t listening. I mean, I was listening because I occasionally indulged my physiological needs, but I wasn’t procreating.
Since I hadn’t found anyone since Santi who was fulfilling enough to be a true partner, and because I didn’t want to be having random sex with countless men, I would wait until I was about to explode, and then pounce upon the opportunity when it presented itself, and I would indulge my needs. Not with a guy I didn’t know, but usually with someone I knew a little bit, but not well. Like a friend of a friend or someone in one of my law school classes who I didn’t hang out with regularly. Not that that made the sex any less random, of course.
The last time I had done that was about three or four months ago. That would have to hold me for a while. I was averaging about one or two encounters a semester.
As I entered the main law school doors, I mentally seized the thoughts floating ominously through my head and shoved them away. I would undoubtedly take them out later, when I was alone late at night, trying to get to sleep, or when I didn’t have enough to do.
The first thing I noticed at school was the crush of students. Most of them appeared to be very young. Somewhat depressingly, the youngest of them, those who were starting their first year and who had just graduated from undergrad, were twelve years younger than me. Babies. Children of the Millennial generation who sought instant gratification and superficial fulfillment.
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