–From Janet Rae Montgomery, Stanford Law School, Date of event: 1973

By second semester, the demented students had been sorted out by the grades from the first semester—the demented ones were the ones with the As. The professors had also sorted out the ones it was safe to call on and the ones best left alone.

A visiting professor from the University of Chicago was teaching Civil Procedure, taking us through the federal rules of discovery. Usually this professor would have about five of us dangling in his Socratic questions, bouncing from one to the next of us.

The question of the day was: why were the written documents of the defendant readily available in discovery when it took a specific court order for blood or other corporeal evidence to be taken? Isn’t a diary recording our most secret thoughts at least as important as a blood sample? Why should Mr. Smith’s personal thoughts and records be at the mercy of a fishing expedition, when his DNA wasn’t?

Class was winding down. The five of us were wriggling on the line struggling to satisfy the professor’s demands, and all of us were failing. The bell rang. Books were being packed up but we weren’t going to be allowed to leave until this question had been answered. Then a hand went up.

Jonathan, a smile on his face and a gleam in his eye that I could see even from ten chairs away, decided to give it a shot.

“Well, professor, I guess the people who wrote these rules thought it was more important to be able to get into a person’s papers than into his pants.”

The Socratic method was never used in that class again.

–From Susan Parkes, University of Tennessee College of Law, Date of event: circa 1980

I guess you could call this a socratic mishap.

In my third year at the University of Tennessee, I was taking Decedent’s Estates. The professor went up and down the rows of the class calling on us. When she got to the fellow sitting next to me, the questions and answers went very well and no problems were obvious. But I could tell my classmate was getting angrier with each remark.

As class ended we walked out of the room together and he exploded, “I can’t stand it when someone doesn’t look at me when they talk to me!”

I responded, “She was doing the best she can. She’s cross-eyed.”

–From Vera Beretvas, Albany Law School, Date of event: Oct. 2002

In our Legal Profession class, Professor Connors was discussing situations in which a lawyer may withdraw from representation of a client.

He turned to me as it often happens when one sits in the first row, and said: “Could you, Vera, specify such a situation for us?”

He caught me in a moment when my thoughts were around an egg-salad versus a tuna sandwich for lunch. And I definitely wanted cucumbers on the side …

Out of at least five plausible answers, all I could think to say was: “Well, when a client doesn’t want to cooperate, and showers the lawyer with annoying phone calls …”

“Yes!” he said enthusiastically. “If, for example, I am a pain in the ass …,” and he paused, expecting me to carry the ball from there.

In my confused state, I just repeated after him: “Yes, you are a pain in the ass …” Unfortunately, my intonation accidentally dropped there, ending the sentence prematurely. It was too late for me to add something else to save the situation.

When the burst of laughter died down in the room, he looked at me with surprise in his eyes, and answered in a meditative, yet fully resigned manner: “Well, I guess, we can say I am …”

–From Lara Gardner, Lewis and Clark Law School, Date of event: circa March, 2002

Last spring, in my Entertainment Law class, Professor Newell asked the class a question, Socratic style.

When no one answered after several moments, Professor Newell said, “Oh hell, I’ll just answer it myself. Sometimes that’s how this Socratic crap works.”

–From J. Stephen Donovan, University of the Pacific McGeorge School of Law, Date of event: 1989

I was in the frat man/jock contingent in first year. When we got to a case about flammable pajamas in Torts, the professor asked, rhetorically, “On whom should we call today?”

I blurted “Falbo” at the same time the four guys behind me, including Falbo, knowing I had not read the case, announced “Donovan.” The prof, somewhat dismayed by this response to his clearly rhetorical question, chose me. After 45 minutes of Socratic back-and-forth during which I managed to hold my own, the prof finally asked something fact-specific about the case.

I responded, “I don’t know, I haven’t actually read it. That’s why I suggested you call on Mr. Falbo.”

He replied, “Too bad, you were doing quite well. You had me fooled. Very well … Mr. Falbo, please address my last question.” Then he proceeded to hang Falbo for the last 15 minutes.

McClurg footnote:Out of professorial curiosity, I wrote back asking the author, J. Stephen Donovan, how he managed to fake out the professor for 45 minutes when he hadn’t read the case. He replied that he wasn’t sure, but speculated it might have something to do with his being Irish.

–From Ryan Arnold, Thomas M. Cooley Law School, Date of event: Fall 2001

This is a socratic story from Thomas M. Cooley Law School. It was my first term. I had almost made it through the first semester without getting called on until my prof called me out. After I had answered questions to most of the relevant facts, the prof began pushing me up in the corner by asking me irrelevant minute details. With the pressure building, without hesitation I said very calmly. “I MAY HAVE TO PHONE A FRIEND ON THAT ONE.”

The class fell out laughing. The prof told me I had better be ready next week. When I didn’t get called on, several fellow students thought the prof just forgot about it. When I received a low grade in the class I told the prof I thought he/she got the last laugh. The prof denied it to the end. Who knows?

–From João Teixeira Freire, University of Lisbon College of Law, Date of event: 2001

This one happened last year, on a final exam of European Community Law, at the University of Lisbon, Portugal.

The professor, after asking a few simple questions that the student—who was very nervous—failed to answer, asked an even simpler one: “Where was the founding treaty of the European Community signed?”

The student tried to remember, but nothing would come to his mind, so the professor, almost desperate, said, “Okay, I’ll give you a hint. Do you like soccer?”

“Yes!” the student replied enthusiastically, as if grateful for a topic he could finally comprehend.

“Okay, great. Where does Batistuta play?”

The student answered promptly: “For Lazio!”

“So, then, the answer is …”

“The Treaty of Lazio!!!”

(The right answer was Treaty of Rome. To those less familiar with European soccer teams, Lazio is from that city.)

–From Monica “Nic” Monroe, Catholic University School of Law, Date of of event: August 2000

Today is the first day of school of my second year. Looking at all the wide-eyed First Years wandering around the building I am reminded of my First Week one year ago.

We all find law school rather tense those first few days. Everyone is sizing up their classmates, wondering who will be the top students. One can’t help it. We all got good grades in college and most of us came here believing we were smart, articulate, and even witty. We live in fear of two things: BEING CALLED ON and (a fate worse than death) GIVING A DUMB ANSWER.

Our Lawyering Skills professor, Michael Koby, was speaking generally about the structure of law and government. He turns to a student, “Quickly, what are the three branches of the U.S. government?” She stares, blinks, and stares some more. Finally she shrugs, “I was a Biology major.”

The whole class lost it. Professor Koby smiled and stifled his own laugh. Finally, we settle down and he tries again. He talks her through the answer he wanted. Bless his heart, he even sang part of the “School House Rock” America episode—the song called “Three Ring Circus” describing the branches and their functions.

Looking back, this was the ice-breaker for Section B. Yes, some teased her about it. But, this was the first time our section laughed as a group, our first shared “funny law school story.” Her response and especially the professor’s response finally took the edge off. It set the tone for a demanding, yet never dull year-long course with an exceptional professor. One who taught us to “write like a lawyer” but also to Believe In and Laugh At Ourselves.

Professor Koby left Catholic for Washington University in St. Louis. For any of his students who might read this, I hope you appreciate the rare treasure you have in this professor.

–From McClurg, University of Florida College of Law, Date of event: circa 1980

I decided to add a couple of my own stories from law school in the hope that you—the loyal website visitor—will be stimulated to send in your own stories.

Here’s a Socratic happening that many law students have perhaps dreamed about, but few would dare to implement. It occurred in my last semester of law school at the University of Florida. We were being taught criminal procedure by Professor Gerald Bennett.

Professor Bennett was conducting class in typical Socratic fashion one day when my seatmate and close friend, Mac McCarty, turned to me and whispered: “I’m sick of the Socratic method. If he calls on me I’m going to tell him that if I have anything relevant to say I’ll raise my hand.”

“Yeah, right,” I whispered back.

As fate would have it, at that second, these words boomed across the room: “Mr. McCarty, please state the facts in Betts v. Brady.”

It was all I could do to keep from choking on my laughter. I expected Mac’s bravado to dissolve quickly and sat waiting for him to begin reciting the facts. But he didn’t do it.

“Professor Bennett,” Mac said, “I feel I’ve reached the stage of my law school career where if I have anything relevant to say, I’ll raise my hand.”

As you might imagine, stunned silence and dropped jaws filled the room. We all sat perfectly still waiting for Professor Bennett’s response. Would he explode? Storm out of the room? Throw his casebook at Mac? To his credit, he did none of these things. He said calmly, “Well, Mr. McCarty, the exam is in two weeks. Let’s hope you think of something relevant to say by then.”

Then he looked at me and said, a bit more confrontationally, “Mr. McClurg—the facts of Betts v. Brady.”

A moment of truth had arrived. Should I risk my GPA to back up my best buddy in his act of civil disobedience?

“The petitioner was charged with robbery,” I said. “His request for counsel was denied by the trial court … blah, blah, blah.”

I got a better grade in the course, but always admired Mac for his guts. I don’t recommend his approach, especially to my students.

–From Lynn Lisk, University of Arkansas School of Law at Little Rock, Date of event: unknown

One of my former students sent in this story about the legendary Professor Robert R. Wright, a former colleague of mine, now retired, at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock School of Law. Professor Wright, a leading property and land use expert, was the law school’s “Professor Kingsfield.” The students were terrified of him:

In first year Property, Professor Robert Wright called on someone to answer a question. The person told Professor Wright that they were sorry, they had not read the assignment and didn’t know the answer. So Professor Wright called on a second student. That person also stated they had not read the assignment and didn’t know the answer either (apparently this was the day after an important basketball game). Completely frustrated by now, Professor Wright “nominated” a third person to answer his question. This third person, obviously destined for greatness due to his ability to think on his feet, stated “I’m sorry, professor, I was studying with them last night.”

According to my source, Professor Wright shut his book and told the class it was dismissed for the day and to be ready for the next assignment on the syllabus since he would not be discussing this subject anymore in class. However, the issue did appear, in substantial part, on the final exam that semester.