Sins against the innocent never go unpunished, and they always leave their mark. Look closely enough in the mirror, and you’ll see a whole new spate of crow’s-feet, or a crinkle in your forehead where it once lay smooth. To this day, I see the furrows etched around my mouth, and all I can think is: Linda. Linda was the first real girlfriend I ever made in law school. We bonded over a particularly sexist constitutional law professor, who insisted on calling all his female students “Missy.” I was sick with depression most of the first semester; and when I came back to class a few weeks before finals, Linda voluntarily offered to lend me her notes. It was the first—and little did I know then—the only act of kindness I was ever to receive at UCLA Law. And it was the beginning of a friendship that lasted long past graduation, into the wilds of our professional careers. Linda and I talked on the phone every day, sometimes two or three times if a crisis was in the offing. Crises ranged all the way from what do I wear to federal court to I think I’m falling in love with a senior partner.
