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said, “Up here.”
    “Up there. Why all the way up there, Mr. Tinsel? Are you trying to hurt my feelings?” Without allowing an answer, Tom continued, “Mr. Tinsel, in the case of Richardson v. Callahan , give me a brief description of the facts and the court’s holding.” Tom knew what the answer would be but was looking forward to hearing this kid’s version of “I didn’t give a shit enough to get my books and schedule from the bookstore.”
    “I, uh—well, I haven’t actually read that case yet. I’m sorry,” Jonathon Tinsel said, chomping on a piece of gum that Tom had not previously noticed.
    “I’m sorry too, Mr. Tinsel. Well, let’s move ahead to a case you have read, shall we? Tell you what. You pick any of the cases I assigned as mandatory reading before the first class and give me the facts of the case and the court’s holding.”
    “Sir, I haven’t had a chance to pick up my materials yet. I’m sorry but I won’t be able to help you today.” The bastard even smiled at the end of the statement.
    “Well, Mr. Tinsel, I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you either. You are dismissed from today’s class. For your sake, I hope you find the bookstore between now and tomorrow morning.” Not waiting to see Tinsel’s reaction, Tom moved on, scanning the faces for another victim. As he was about to call out the name of Vanessa Yearout, a petite black woman about halfway up, Tom noticed that Tinsel had remained glued to his seat.
    “Tinsel, what part of ‘dismissed’ did you not understand? I mean it. Get the hell out of my classroom,” Tom said, burning a hole through Tinsel’s eyes with the ferocity of his gaze.
    As Tinsel shuffled out of the upstairs exit, Tom transferred his gaze to the rest of the class, trying to make eye contact with as many of them as he could, telling each of them without words that this is the way it is gonna be. It’s my way or the highway. Any of you turds who don’t understand can follow Tinsel out the door.
    After what must have been a five-second pause, Tom took a deep, audible breath and turned his eyes back toward his face sheet.
    “All right now . . . Ms. Yearout,” Tom began, speaking in a calmer voice. The storm had passed, and Tom saw the results he had expected. Almost every student was leaning forward in his or her seat, pen pressed to paper, eyes focused right on Tom, readying themselves for the call that might be coming. The Socratic method in all its glory.
    Tom called on several more students, including young Ms. Dawn Murphy from Elba again, before the clock read 9:50 and it was time for the entire class to join Tinsel on the outside. The first day of McMurtrie’s Evidence class was over. Those like Tinsel who had failed to read breathed a sigh of relief and made their way to the bookstore. Dawn Murphy crossed off Evidence from her to-do list and headed to the library to begin her Evidence outline. Tom stood by the board and waited for them all to leave.
    Forty years of this shit , Tom thought, smiling. And the first day is still pretty fun.

    An hour later, as he sat behind his desk in his third-floor office, the fun had worn off. The fifth edition of McMurtrie’s Evidence —or, as his students were fond of calling it, the Bible—was supposed to go to press in two months, and Tom was struggling to meet the deadline. Tom had always loved the teaching aspect of his job. Trying to get that light to flicker in a kid’s head was what made the whole experience worthwhile. But the publishing aspect was a different story. Since he had walked in the door some three weeks after accepting the Man’s offer, every dean—Heacock, Jackson, and now Lambert—had pushed the faculty to publish. The first edition of McMurtrie’s Evidence was published in 1973. To this day it had been the highest-selling hornbook for any faculty member, past or present, in the history of the Alabama School of Law. Every year Tom wrote a supplement to go in the back of