Some believe all time is a line. Everything that ever was, and ever will be, is happening, right now, somewhere else on that Line. Somewhere else. I am a child. My father is always comfortable with margins. He is an attorney. Lawyer jokes are not common. There is no Perry Mason, Johnnie Cochran, L. A. Law. Dad stops, remembers his early career. He is a farmer. Homesick, he postpones his college career. Then, he has bachelor's degree, a masters in engineering. An engineer in industrial America. Here is an old photograph of sixteen men and two women. My father and mother are both on law review at St. Joseph's University Law School. Mom is in her early twenties. Law review is a chance for the best and brightest students to compete by writing and editing scholarly articles on the most obscure points of law imaginable. My mother is 25 and beautiful, surrounded by a dozen young, brilliant, upcoming future judges, partners, CEOs. Somehow, Dad gets ahead of her many suitors. Dad works ...
