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Twenty-four-year-old Mike McCutcheon arrived at the State Street train station with his web-purchased ticket in hand. It was the first Saturday after his second full week on the job at McFeny, Stein, and Lawson, a criminal defense practice on Fortieth Street in Manhattan. It had been Mike’s dream to get this internship, and he knew that if he could prove himself to the three law partners, he could write his own ticket.
The burden of debt hanging over Mike’s head from law school had brought him—for the third time in his young adult life—back home to New Haven to live with his parents. The commute from New Haven to Manhattan was over an hour and a half, and it was killing him. On weekdays, with a 6:23 a.m. departure, he would arrive in Manhattan at exactly 8:06. That left fifteen minute
