Our grand total: $6,550.00!
My friend Alistair plus Mr. Kalman’s tuna salad equals genius!
“Maybe homework’s not so bad,” Sean says. “We could get rich off this business.”
“What about all the poor kids who can’t pay?” I say.
“There are enough rich kids who can.”
“But that wouldn’t be fair,” Jaesang points out. “All kids get homework.”
“Most can’t afford tutors, though,” Sadie says.
“Or our educational products,” Alistair adds.
“And if both parents are working,” Catalina says, “there’s no one around to help.”
Mr. Kalman, who’s been sitting in his chair—sleeping or thinking, I’m not quite sure—suddenly opens his eyes.
“That’s it!” he says. “That’s an argument we can win. Homework violates the Equal Protection Clause. Kids, I think we have a case.”
I’m not sure what the Equal Protection Clause is, but when Mr. Kalman leaps out of his chair, I slide onto his piano bench and start playing jazz.
The piano’s out of tune, but my Sound Forest is full of dancing birds.
9
We Go to Court
Technically speaking, ours isn’t a case yet. It’s a hearing to see if what we’ve got is worthy of being a case. To get the hearing, first we had to file a claim against the school board.
In my absolute best handwriting, I filled out the claim, saying that I’ve been harmed by homework. Mr. Kalman sent it in for me.
Here’s the letter they wrote back:
When the letter came, Mr. Kalman asked me if I was upset by it.
“Wouldn’t you be?” I said.
“Nope. It’s exactly what I hoped for. If they had taken your complaint seriously, they would have had forty-five days to respond. By rejecting it out of hand, they’ve given us standing to sue.”
That’s how we got our hearing so fast. But I know how hearings go, and I’m not looking forward to this one.
When it comes to scary places, the principal’s office is like It’s a Small World compared with a federal courthouse, which is the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror. At the courthouse, everyone wears a suit and carries a briefcase. Even the criminals dress up, so it’s hard to tell who’s who.
We’re dressed up too. Mr. Kalman insisted. “My team has to look presentable in court,” he said. Sadie and Sean look like they’re off to their first real jobs. Sean even trimmed his beard for the occasion. And Jaesang, Catalina, Alistair, and I look like we’re going to our high school graduation, which is what Mr. Kalman told our parents when he offered to take us shopping.
“I’m just getting them outfitted for their high school graduation,” he said.
“Mr. Kalman,” Mom pointed out, “they’re sixth-graders. They’re going to grow between now and high school.”
“I certainly hope so,” he said.
Then he took us to the Hollywood Suit Outlet for the boys and to Macy’s for the girls.
Sadie objected, saying that “gender is a social construct” and she wanted to shop at the Hollywood Suit Outlet too. Mr. Kalman said, “You’re right. You can shop wherever you want.”
But the suits at Macy’s fit her better, so she got hers there.
We make our way up a series of escalators to the fifth floor. For Sadie, the federal courthouse isn’t so scary. She’s already been here multiple times.
“This is where we do mock trial,” Sadie says.
“How long have you been doing that?” Mr. Kalman asks.
“Three years. Since ninth grade.”
And she’s good at it, too. In her last case the real judge who was volunteering for the mock trial said Sadie showed “true grace under pressure” in her cross-examination of the defendant. “I see a lot of professional attorneys in this courtroom,” he said. “They could learn a thing or two from you.”
That really made Sadie’s day.
So not only does she know how to find room 527, where our case is going to be heard, but she’s also feeling right at home here in federal court.
Unlike in mock trial, in real court there’s a lot of waiting around. It’s not like you have an appointment to get your team picture taken for soccer. Those people really stick to the schedule. Here it’s more like: Show up on the appointed day at ten o’clock and maybe we’ll get to your case by four. If not, come back tomorrow and maybe we’ll get to your case by noon. If not, come back after lunch and, well, you get the point.
At two thirty the judge, a nice-looking man who’s scary only because of his black robe, says, “In the matter of Warren v. Board of Education, are the interested parties here?”
“That’s us,” Mr. Kalman says.
We all stand up and start saying, “Here, Your Honor. Present, sir. Yes, Your Honor,” like it’s the first day of school and he’s calling roll.
The judge has a plaque on his desk that says OTIS WRIGHT III, which means he’s Otis Wright the Third. I didn’t learn to read Roman numerals from a homework packet, by the way. I learned it from Age of Empires.
Otis Wright the Third looks for the grownup among us, but all he sees are two teens and four eleven-year-olds because Sean stood up in front of Mr. Kalman and he’s at least half a foot taller. “Is the attorney of record, Mr. Avi Kalman, present?”
Mr. Kalman steps around Sean. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Filing as prochain ami to the minor?”
“Correct, Your Honor.”
This is one thing about the law you’ve got to love. Kids can’t sue because we’re underage. You can ask your parents to sue for you—as your legal guardians. But Mom refused to be a party to the lawsuit. She said that while she supports me as a parent, she thinks the lawsuit is taking things too far. She also said it might draw too much attention to our family and hurt her business as top realtor in the neighborhood.
Dad said he wouldn’t sign on to the lawsuit, but he wouldn’t stand in the
