Defence Against the Dark Arts

14 December, 2024

Today, I finally cracked open the dangerous subject of the Advanced Research and Analysis class. You know, the glamorous year-long training in how to stalk legal sources across Westlaw, LexisNexis, HeinOnline, and presumably the dark recesses of dusty law journals no one’s touched since the Cold War. Without proper research skills, writing decent analysis is basically impossible — like trying to bake bread without flour, or worse, with flour but no will to live.

I brought it up during my weekly meeting with Professor Pigou. To my shock, he liked the idea and told me I should definitely register. This was encouraging, in the way being told “Yes, you can” by someone who has no actual power to authorize it is encouraging. I briefly considered asking him to talk to the class professor for me but decided against it. After all, I already had a meeting with the Dean scheduled, and why miss an opportunity for a direct rejection?

When I met with the Dean, we started with other topics. She wanted to know how satisfied I was with the program, about my meetings with the professor, how we covered materials, how much time I was given before class, etc. All questions she obviously already knew the answers to — perhaps part of an annual ritual where the student is gently reminded they’re being observed. She said this was a “mandatory” meeting for all JSD students, which is somehow less comforting than it sounds, and informed me she’d be away next semester, so she couldn’t “provide support.” I didn’t say it out loud, but I’ve had quite enough “support” lately. Others may require it; I’m at the “please stop touching the controls” stage.

I waited for my opening and finally asked:“One additional thing I wanted to ask is about taking the class in advanced research and analysis. Can I take that class?”

Her reaction is seared into my memory like a GIF on loop. She lifted her head slightly, eyes drifting up and to the right, as if mentally scanning the ceiling tiles for divine guidance, then said, “No, you cannot take that class.” I felt like a houseguest asking the owner if I could see the locked attic room — only to be told, with a polite smile, that it’s off-limits for reasons I wouldn’t understand. Then, perhaps realizing the bluntness of her “no,” she added that it was an “experimental” class and that if I approached the professor, maybe they’d consider me.

I left and promptly emailed her assistant, who’d sat in on our meeting, asking who the professors were and how to approach them. The reply: it was “experimental.” Again. Why can’t I experiment? What’s the worst that could happen — accidentally inventing a better way to find statutes?

From the course list, I narrowed it down to two suspects based purely on their titles. I emailed both. The first professor informed me that his class was actually for final-semester students prepping for the bar exam, so not remotely what I needed. I briefly thought about taking it anyway — getting an attorney’s license would look good on my CV — but my hesitation won.

The second professor was indeed my target. She clarified that the class wasn’t “experimental” at all, but “experiential.” This was disappointing; I’d been picturing Bunsen burners and maybe a controlled explosion of the twins. Instead, it was designed to mimic real legal practice. The first few classes — reviewing case law, statutes, regulations — would be relevant to me, and I was welcome to attend those. But after that, she warned, the class wouldn’t be a good use of my time. She reassured me (as they all do) that she was “there to support me” in my research, and to prove it, suggested we schedule a meeting in January to discuss my ideas.

All I wanted was to take Advanced Legal Research. Or at least get my hands on the materials. Apparently, both are too “advanced” for the current system.