Most law students complete their public interest stints during the summer after their first year in law school. Thereafter, most go on to big law firms. But anything cool (i.e., non-law-firm-related) requires a clerkship, (see chapter 2), and even then, places such as the ACLU, the Federal Public Defenders Office, and the U.S. Attorney’s Office still often require a couple years of litigation experience at a top firm. The long and the short of it, however, was that I’d foregone the big salary and packed it off to Pennsylvania in the hope of hopes that I’d be one of the lucky law clerks who could—and would—go straight to the ACLU. The problem was that the ACLU typically hired less than a handful of staff attorneys every year and the chances of two law clerks from the third circuit making the cut in the same year were slim to none. I’d never anticipated the intracircuit competition. Just my luck—Brian clerked for the most powerful judge on the bench. Chief Judge Fleck. The writing was on the wall. I was Flecked.

Yet again, Brian had grown tired of me, turned his back and continued to hold court as to the Supreme Court’s current docket. Brian was about five foot seven. He had a wide ride and tight khaki pants. He tucked in a white oxford shirt, the collar buttoned down. He wore a dark brown braided belt and a red sweater vest. With the brown wool fedora, he looked like a drug-dealing elf. Brian was the spiritual leader of the group. Brian thought I was stupid. Ergo, everyone else did, too.

Brian’s fans followed him back to the courthouse after lunch. I kept my distance, walking a half block behind everyone else. Matthew joined me.

“Hey, Matthew, thanks so much for piping up for me back there,” I said, taking a deep breath, venturing to spew sacrilege. “Those people don’t seem to be so much up my alley. You know?”

“They’re just lawyers, that’s all,” he replied. “I wouldn’t take it personally. And you were right. You know, about Bowers and habeas.” Matthew shoved his hands in his pockets and pursed his lips, as if he’d said too much.

“So, um,” I fumbled for a talking point, “you have a girlfriend. What’s her name? Did you guys meet at Yale?”

“Ah, yeah, her name is Heidi. And we did meet at Yale,” he answered, staring ahead. “She’s actually clerking for a judge on the Southern District of New York.” Full stop.

“Wow, great, does she like it there? I wish so badly I’d gotten a clerkship in New York.”

“Ah, her judge really likes pastrami,” he said awkwardly. Then, silence.

“Who wouldn’t like pastrami? It’s a very likable meat.” Why did I always have to fill the silence?