The heavy, polished oak doors of the university’s mock trial courtroom swung shut behind me with a solid, definitive thud.
It was late November, and the first genuine blizzard of the season was howling outside the frosted gothic windows of the law building. Inside, however, the air was warm, charged with the electric, nervous energy of the semester’s final appellate competition.
I stood at the plaintiff’s podium, straightening the lapels of my thrift-store blazer. Across the aisle sat the defense team—three third-year pre-law students wearing expensive, tailored suits that looked identical to the ones my father used to wear. A year ago, the sight of those sharp lapels and confident, arrogant smirks would have made my throat close up in panic. I would have folded my hands, lowered my eyes
