Class Action, page 11
My stomach flips. In my head, the Guided Meditation Lady reminds me to breathe.
Mr. Kalman reaches up and puts his hand on my arm. “It’s always nice, Sam, to say thank you for coming.”
The bullhorn is heavy in my hand and looks like the bottom half of a trumpet. I wish it were a trumpet. Then I’d know what to do.
“Sometime this century, Sam,” Sadie says.
That’s worse than an elbow. It works, though. It gets me to talk.
“Hello? I’m Sam Warren.”
A wave of sound rises and almost knocks me down.
“Um,” I say, and right away I feel stupid. What kind of leader leads with an um?
So I take a minute and think it through. What do I want to say? Why am I really here?
“I’m just one kid,” I say, “who got fed up with what’s happening to us all. We’re not against school. We learn a lot in school. We’ve learned about people who changed things. But the textbooks don’t say enough about the people who helped them. There is no way I would be here without all of you. So thank you for coming. And now we’ve got to let the Supreme Court know we’re here. So come on, everybody, let’s march!”
An even louder roar flies up from the crowd.
Sean sets me down and we start to walk. The Capitol police were worried about the size of our crowd, so they’ve routed the march along Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Peace Monument, then around the north side of the Capitol to the Supreme Court. Along the way, Catalina calls out names of important historic sites, while Alistair calls out names of restaurants. After a few blocks, I know where the FBI headquarters are, Fogo de Chão Brazilian Steakhouse, Ford’s Theatre where Lincoln was shot, Central Michel Richard, the National Archives (home to the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights), and the Capital Grille, which Alistair heard has the best ribeye in town.
Soon I see four men in dark glasses and suits making their way toward me. My first thought: we just passed FBI headquarters and they’ve sent a few agents to arrest me for inciting a riot. But it turns out they’re Secret Service agents guarding the president’s son, who wanted to come over and say hi.
“I think what you’re doing is awesome,” he says. “But don’t tell my dad.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I never saw you.”
Then Alistair turns to a big, beefy Secret Service agent. He jerks toward the man but stops short. The agent leans back.
“Two for flinching!” Alistair says. And he punches the Secret Service guy twice on his right arm! Not hard, though. Alistair’s crazy, but he doesn’t have a death wish.
Jaesang just rolls his eyes, and we march on.
It’s a little over two miles from the White House to the Supreme Court, but with so many people marching, no one gets tired. Along the route, lining both sides of Pennsylvania Avenue, crowds of people and their signs cheer us on:
MOMS AGAINST HOMEWORK
SOS—SAVE OUR STUDENTS
NO CHILDHOOD LEFT BEHIND
One of the moms offers our mom a sign. She holds it up like she’s the Statue of Liberty.
I’m worried about Mr. Kalman, though. The longest walk he’s taken lately is from his mailbox to his front door. This much exercise might land him in the hospital, and then we’d never get to stand before the Supreme Court. I glance over at him, and to tell you the truth, I don’t much like his color. A little gray. Not from the parka he’s wearing, either. It’s a gray from the inside.
“Mr. Kalman, how about sitting down for a minute?”
“I can make it, Sam. And if I keel over, think of the publicity we’ll get. The justices will have to take our case.”
“Yeah, but who’s going to argue it?”
“Good point. I’d better stay on my feet.”
Sadie and Sean each take one of Mr. Kalman’s arms to steady him, and we march on.
We’re almost at Columbus Circle when I hear a voice call out.
“Mr. Kalman! Mr. Kalman!”
We all turn and see a woman squeezing toward him through a wall of people. At first Mr. Kalman doesn’t recognize her, but when she says her name, he sure does.
“Sul Jung Lee.”
“Oh, my goodness! Sul Jung!”
She tries to get closer to him, but the wall of people is too thick. He calls to her over their heads.
“How are you? What became of you?”
“I’m the assistant band director at Stuyvesant High School in New York. We heard about the march. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
That’s when I realize who she is. The girl whose case he argued before the Supreme Court. He reaches out to her, and their hands touch for just a second before the crowd pulls them apart.
“Hey, Mr. Kalman,” she calls out.
He turns back.
“Second time’s a charm!”
Then she raises a baton to a row of white-feathered hats behind her. She’s brought her school’s marching band to DC, and as the brass starts blowing, I swear Mr. Kalman is walking like he’s twenty years younger.
We pick up Constitution Avenue, which takes us around the Capitol, and with all these historic buildings going by, it occurs to me that Mr. Powell and Miss Lopez should have brought the whole class on the march, because they’d learn a lot more history right here than they ever could from a textbook.
And guess what. The whole class will get to see. We just walked by a CNN news van. They’re broadcasting live.
We come around to the east side of the Capitol, and I recognize this place. It’s where the helicopter takes off from when the old president leaves office after the new one’s been sworn in. I wonder what that feels like, flying away from such a powerful job.
We cross First Street, and step onto the marble plaza of the Supreme Court.
Where ten Supreme Court police officers form a wall we can’t cross.
“Hold it right there, Sam,” Mr. Kalman says.
“We can’t go onto the plaza?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What about the First Amendment?” I ask. “It says that ‘Congress shall make no law . . . abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.’”
“Yes, but in 2016 the Supreme Court let stand a lower court ruling in Hodge v. Talkin that said we have to stay on the sidewalk.”
“That’s crazy! How can the Supreme Court, which defends the rights of citizens to raise their voices in protest, say they can raise their voices everywhere but in front of the Supreme Court?”
“It’s what you might call a paradox, Sam. And yet, it’s the law.”
“How will they hear us all the way from the sidewalk?”
“Oh, we’ll make them hear.”
And then, in his raspy old man’s voice, Mr. Kalman shouts:
“What do we want?”
“Free time!”
“When do we want it?”
“After four!”
Mr. Kalman said it’s up to the court whether or not they want to hear our case. With over a hundred thousand kids and their parents standing on their front sidewalk right now and spilling into the park across the street, do you really think they’re going to turn us down? I mean, Chief Justice Reynolds has kids. And if the homework in his family is anything like the homework in ours, I’ll bet they’re texting him right now, begging him to take our case.
An hour goes by, then two. It’s late in the afternoon when we get word from Sean, who’s been streaming CNN on his smartphone, that Chief Justice Reynolds has called a special conference. Just before the sun sets, the bronze doors of the Supreme Court building open, and the clerk of the court steps out.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez!” he says into a megaphone. That’s the Supreme Court’s way of saying “listen, listen, listen.” “The matter of Warren v. Board of Education will be heard.”
The crowd behind me roars. Mr. Kalman doesn’t miss a beat.
“Back to the hotel,” he says. “We’ve got work to do.”
20
The Homework Suite
“Hello, room service? This is Alistair Martin in room—no, suite—1209. We have a crew of hungry children up here and I’m wondering if you might send up a bowl—make that a platter—of spaghetti carbonara. Extra bacon, please, garlic bread on the side. Is your chef qualified to make those soft-shelled crab cakes I’ve seen on the cooking shows? Terrific. A triple order of those, too. Now, I hope you won’t think I’m being picky, but my mother wants me to cut down on red meat. Any vegetarian options you recommend? A mushroom-quinoa burger on a gluten-free bun with a side of sweet potato fries and coleslaw? I’ll give it a try. No, thank you, to the mayo. Yes, please, to the ketchup. In a little porcelain bowl if possible. I love those. Our own mini-bottle of ketchup, for keeps? That’s even better. To drink . . . ? How about a hot chocolate, heavy on the marshmallows? And a Diet Coke avec caffeine. We’ve got a long night ahead. Oh, and you’d better throw in a side of broccoli or my mom’ll kill me. But ask the chef to roast it if you don’t mind—olive oil, garlic, and a handful of Parmesan cheese. I’m hoping he has a big hand. Dessert? Hmmmmm. We wouldn’t say no to some mousse au chocolat . . . You’re out of the mousse? I see. Crème brûlée is a good alternative, isn’t it? Raspberries, this time of year? Flown in, huh? Okay. We’ll try the crème brûlée with fresh raspberries, then. No, I think that’s all. But hang on a sec.”
Alistair covers the phone and turns to us. “You guys want anything?”
You might think it’s easier to get work done in a hotel because there are fewer distractions. But the opposite is true. How many kids have an elevator at home with fourteen buttons to push? How many can go joy-riding in the halls on a luggage cart? There’s a pool, a gym, and a rec room with a Ping-Pong table and foosball. Besides room service, you can eat at the twice-a-day buffet, with so many choices for your omelet that you could lose weight just walking up the line. Not to mention the people-watching in the lobby. I could spend a whole day making up stories behind all those faces.
And I might, too, if we weren’t on a mission. But Mr. Kalman says we have work to do.
If a teacher assigns a report on a Supreme Court justice, chances are most kids will go on Wikipedia and copy and paste, maybe change a few words, and print in a superbig font so they meet the three-page requirement under the rubric. But the way Mr. Kalman assigns it, treating us like his partners instead of employees, makes us forget about the fourteen buttons in the elevator and the forty-seven omelet options; it blurs away the faces in the lobby and practically drains the hotel pool.
It makes us want to work for him. Because, really, we’re working for ourselves.
“Everybody pick a justice,” he says, dropping a stack of index cards on the wood table in his hotel suite. On each card is the name and face of a different Supreme Court justice.
Our hands plunge into the pile. We fight a little over the cards—Jaesang and I both reach for the same one; Sadie says she really wants Eleanor Cohen and Clement Williams, so we let her have them both (since she and Sean are older, they each have to pick two justices). Sean gets Justice DeFazio and Justice Fitzgerald. I let Jaesang take his pick between Rauch and Renfro, and he chooses Renfro. Catalina gets Justice Suerte. Alistair shouts, “I got the Chief! No way I’m trading.” And Mr. Kalman smiles at the thin, wise face of Justice Rosenburg.
“This justice is for me,” he says. Then he looks up at all of us. “I want you to find out everything you can about the justice in your hand. Childhood. Personality. Philosophy about the law. Anything that might give us an advantage when we walk into that courtroom.”
“Shouldn’t we be focusing on the law?” Jaesang asks.
“It’s not just a legal argument we’re trying to win,” Mr. Kalman explains, “but the hearts and minds of nine human beings. Maybe you’ll discover something in their biographies that will make them sympathetic to the cause. Remember, Supreme Court justices were once kids just like you.”
He steps to a whiteboard he had sent up from a conference room. He draws three columns on it.
“As soon as you’ve done your research, we’ll divide the justices into three categories.”
He labels each column: “On Our Side,” “Not Sure,” and “Heaven Help Us.”
“Any questions?”
Alistair has one. “Can we work in partners?”
“Sure, why not?”
That’s another difference between homework and hotel work. Here you’re part of a team.
So we get to work. Sean uses his cell phone as a mobile hot spot because he doesn’t trust the hotel’s Wi-Fi. After all, this is the Watergate. We have enough iPads, laptops, and smartphones to do our “preliminary round of research.” Later, if we need it, there’s the law library at Georgetown University. Mr. Kalman can get us in.
I look down at the face on my card. Justice Gaylor S. Rauch. Justice Rauch, “Gorch” to his friends, is the newest justice on the Supreme Court. He seems like a pretty strait-laced guy. He grew up in Colorado and went to Catholic school and has two school-age daughters. Both his parents were lawyers, and his mom was the first woman to head the Environmental Protection Agency.
As a boy, Justice Rauch studied a lot, but he also liked to play outside. According to him, “There are few places closer to God than walking in the wilderness or wading in a trout stream.”
Sounds like he’d be pretty receptive to a kid who wishes he could walk in the wilderness or wade in a trout stream but has to do homework all day.
On the other hand, Justice Rauch got straight As all the way to Harvard Law School. Plus he went to Oxford for a philosophy degree. What’s he going to say to a boy who got suspended?
Since he’s brand-new on the court, I have to dig into some of Rauch’s decisions on the Tenth Circuit Court of Appeals. That’s where I find out something that really warms my heart.
Justice Rauch believes in a kid’s right to burp!
This seventh-grader in New Mexico wanted to crack up the kids in gym class, so he started fake-burping really loud. The teacher told him to stop. He kept on burping. She sent him into the hall with the door open. He kept on burping. The burps got louder and louder and funnier and funnier. The coach got angrier and angrier. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she called the resource officer, a.k.a. campus cop.
In New Mexico it’s a criminal offense to disrupt a school activity. Most people take “school activity” to mean an assembly, a graduation, or a college president’s workday. But this school took it to mean any school activity, even a boring PE class. They could have given the burping kid detention or even suspended him for a few days. But they wanted to make a point. So the resource officer handcuffed the kid and drove him to Juvy. His mom sued, claiming the punishment was way too harsh. She lost, appealed, and lost again in the Tenth Circuit.
Justice Rauch wrote a dissent, siding with the kid and his mom.
Sometimes the law can be an ass, he wrote, quoting Charles Dickens. If a seventh-grader starts trading fake burps for laughs in gym class, what’s a teacher to do? Order extra laps? Detention? A trip to the principal’s office? Maybe. But then again, maybe that’s too old school. Maybe today you call a police officer. And maybe today the officer decides that, instead of just escorting the now compliant thirteen-year-old to the principal’s office, arresting him would be a better idea. So out come the handcuffs and off goes the child to juvenile detention. My colleagues suggest the law permits exactly this option. Respectfully, I remain unpersuaded.
Bottom line: He sided with the kid. Maybe he’ll be on our side, too.
We go on with our research. Alistair’s room service feast comes and goes. And the hotel suite gets quieter than a classroom during the CAASPP test. Only instead of the scratch of number 2 pencils and the creak of erasers on answer sheets, you hear keyboards clicking and papers shuffling. It’s so quiet I can hear Mr. Kalman take a sip of coffee.
I look over and see Sadie reading a New York Times article on her iPad. The headline says, “No Argument: Williams Keeps Seven-Year Silence.”
Sean is reading something called “The Boundaries of Privacy” by Daniel DeFazio, and Catalina is looking at a Google Earth image of some buildings near Yankee Stadium. Mr. Kalman flips through an illustrated biography of RBR, Rachel Braun Rosenburg. Alistair and Jaesang are studying the Constitution.
Meanwhile Mom and Dad are doing something their parents did back in the 1960s—demonstrating. Mom FaceTimes Sadie from the sidewalk outside the Supreme Court.
“What do we want?” Mom shouts.
“Family time!” the others shout back.
“When do we want it?”
“After four!”
That’s one argument that really convinced Mom. Kids spend so much time on homework, they don’t sit down and eat with their families anymore.
But down the block, there’s another point of view. Teachers are chanting, “Supreme Court justices, watch your reach. Students gotta practice what teachers teach!”
And this from another group of teachers: “Hey, hey, ho, ho, this laziness has got to go!”
If we’re so lazy, how’d we make it all the way to the Supreme Court?
We’ve been working for so long that Alistair gets hungry again. He and I ask Mr. Kalman if we can take a break and go down to the hotel gift shop for snacks.
Mr. Kalman says sure. “And bring me back some Juicy Fruit gum, will you? You can put it on the room.”
Alistair gives me a look that says, I wonder what else we can put on the room.
I have to say there’s a pretty awesome gift shop at the newly reopened Watergate Hotel. Besides the usual racks of candy, gum, souvenirs, and games, there’s a whole section of guidebooks to Washington, DC, and other books on Congress, the presidency, and the Supreme Court. While Alistair is busy cuddling a stuffed panda, I browse the shelves to see if there’s anything on my man, Justice Gaylor S. Rauch.
A different kind of book catches my eye. A small paperback with a plain cover and the words “Supreme Court Rules” on the front.
