Where ten Supreme Court police officers form a wall we can’t cross.
“Hold it right there, Sam,” Mr. Kalman says.
“We can’t go onto the plaza?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What about the First Amendment?” I ask. “It says that ‘Congress shall make no law . . . abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.’”
“Yes, but in 2016 the Supreme Court let stand a lower court ruling in Hodge v. Talkin that said we have to stay on the sidewalk.”
“That’s crazy! How can the Supreme Court, which defends the rights of citizens to raise their voices in protest, say they can raise their voices everywhere but in front of the Supreme Court?”
“It’s what you might call a paradox, Sam. And yet, it’s the law.”
“How will they hear us all the way from the sidewalk?”
“Oh, we’ll make them hear.”
And then, in his raspy old man’s voice, Mr. Kalman shouts:
“What do we want?”
“Free time!”
“When do we want it?”
“After four!”
Mr. Kalman said it’s up to the court whether or not they want to hear our case. With over a hundred thousand kids and their parents standing on their front sidewalk right now and spilling into the park across the street, do you really think they’re going to turn us down? I mean, Chief Justice Reynolds has kids. And if the homework in his family is anything like the homework in ours, I’ll bet they’re texting him right now, begging him to take our case.
An hour goes by, then two. It’s late in the afternoon when we get word from Sean, who’s been streaming CNN on his smartphone, that Chief Justice Reynolds has called a special conference. Just before the sun sets, the bronze doors of the Supreme Court building open, and the clerk of the court steps out.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez!” he says into a megaphone. That’s the Supreme Court’s way of saying “listen, listen, listen.” “The matter of Warren v. Board of Education will be heard.”
The crowd behind me roars. Mr. Kalman doesn’t miss a beat.
“Back to the hotel,” he says. “We’ve got work to do.”
20
The Homework Suite
“Hello, room service? This is Alistair Martin in room—no, suite—1209. We have a crew of hungry children up here and I’m wondering if you might send up a bowl—make that a platter—of spaghetti carbonara. Extra bacon, please, garlic bread on the side. Is your chef qualified to make those soft-shelled crab cakes I’ve seen on the cooking shows? Terrific. A triple order of those, too. Now, I hope you won’t think I’m being picky, but my mother wants me to cut down on red meat. Any vegetarian options you recommend? A mushroom-quinoa burger on a gluten-free bun with a side of sweet potato fries and coleslaw? I’ll give it a try. No, thank you, to the mayo. Yes, please, to the ketchup. In a little porcelain bowl if possible. I love those. Our own mini-bottle of ketchup, for keeps? That’s even better. To drink . . . ? How about a hot chocolate, heavy on the marshmallows? And a Diet Coke avec caffeine. We’ve got a long night ahead. Oh, and you’d better throw in a side of broccoli or my mom’ll kill me. But ask the chef to roast it if you don’t mind—olive oil, garlic, and a handful of Parmesan cheese. I’m hoping he has a big hand. Dessert? Hmmmmm. We wouldn’t say no to some mousse au chocolat . . . You’re out of the mousse? I see. Crème brûlée is a good alternative, isn’t it? Raspberries, this time of year? Flown in, huh? Okay. We’ll try the crème brûlée with fresh raspberries, then. No, I think that’s all. But hang on a sec.”
Alistair covers the phone and turns to us. “You guys want anything?”
You might think it’s easier to get work done in a hotel because there are fewer distractions. But the opposite is true. How many kids have an elevator at home with fourteen buttons to push? How many can go joy-riding in the halls on a luggage cart? There’s a pool, a gym, and a rec room with a Ping-Pong table and foosball. Besides room service, you can eat at the twice-a-day buffet, with so many choices for your omelet that you could lose weight just walking up the line. Not to mention the people-watching in the lobby. I could spend a whole day making up stories behind all those faces.
And I might, too, if we weren’t on a mission. But Mr. Kalman says we have work to do.
If a teacher assigns a report on a Supreme Court justice, chances are most kids will go on Wikipedia and copy and paste, maybe change a few words, and print in a superbig font so they meet the three-page requirement under the rubric. But the way Mr. Kalman assigns it, treating us like his partners instead of employees, makes us forget about the fourteen buttons in the elevator and the forty-seven omelet options; it blurs away the faces in the lobby and practically drains the hotel pool.
It makes us want to work for him. Because, really, we’re working for ourselves.
“Everybody pick a justice,” he says, dropping a stack of index cards on the wood table in his hotel suite. On each card is the name and face of a different Supreme Court justice.
Our hands plunge into the pile. We fight a little over the cards—Jaesang and I both reach for the same one; Sadie says she really wants Eleanor Cohen and Clement Williams, so we let her have them both (since she and Sean are older, they each have to pick two justices). Sean gets Justice DeFazio and Justice Fitzgerald. I let Jaesang take his pick between Rauch and Renfro, and he chooses Renfro. Catalina gets Justice Suerte. Alistair shouts, “I got the Chief! No way I’m trading.” And Mr. Kalman smiles at the thin, wise face of Justice
