Why I Went to Law School

I didn’t really think that I would be a lawyer. In high school, I was very good at mathematics and science and aspired to be an engineer. My father discouraged that plan because he felt that it was too difficult for Jews to rise in what he thought was an occupation that was a closed club. He instead encouraged me to study business administration, suggesting that I should learn to be a stockbroker. Dutifully, I enrolled in the School of Business Administration at Syracuse University. Accounting, a mandatory freshman course, soured me on the program, and by the second semester, I switched to the College of Liberal Arts, eventually majoring in history for no particular reason. Very few courses stimulated me, and I was a mediocre student. I graduated in May 1959, just meeting the 120 credit hours minimum requirement, of which 20 hours was ROTC. I was happy to leave college and start my 6 months of active duty in the army in July.

While at Syracuse University, like practically all-male liberal arts undergraduates, I considered going to law school. When asked about my future plans, saying that I was thinking of going to law school sounded better than saying I was just hoping to get a good job. Actually, going to law school was probably my “Plan C”. Plan A was to get into a management training program with a prestigious corporation, and Plan B was to get some decent job that didn’t involve retail sales or weekend and evening hours. In my senior year a friend, Dave Newman, who was planning to go to law school immediately after graduation, talked me into taking the Law School Aptitude Test (LSAT) with him. I wasn't particularly motivated, and had no plans to apply for law school, but I scored better than Dave, who went to the University of Florida law school that fall.

I finished my active duty in the Army in January 1960, and returned home to Nassau and started my job search. It was very discouraging. The job market was very soft. The placement office at Syracuse University had very few leads and my hope of landing a lucrative $100 a week job faded. I collected unemployment insurance, checked the Times Union help wanted ads, and helped my father in his tavern and gas station. I had taken the New York State Professional Careers Test given to college seniors to make me eligible for an Administrative Trainee civil service position. I had scored quite high and was getting inquiries from several state agencies, but I resisted going for interviews as I really didn’t want to be a government bureaucrat any more than I wanted to be a history teacher.

One morning in late March I was driving to Albany for my weekly unemployment insurance sign up. Heading west on Route 20 I followed a slow-moving automobile for several miles of a no-passing zone. Finally, I came to a straight stretch of highway which I knew had a broken line permitting passing in either direction for a few hundred feet, although the markings were obscured by some snow and slush. As I started to pass the slowpoke, I noticed a state police car coming in the opposite direction but didn’t give it much thought because I was not speeding and I knew that I could legally pass. However, as I pulled back into the driving lane, the trooper put on his red lights and turned around. He pulled me over and after checking my license and registration said that he was going to give me a ticket for passing in a no-passing zone. I told him that there was a broken line covered by the snow, and if he would come back with me I would show him. He refused and issued a ticket returnable that evening before George Irish, a Town of Schodack justice of the peace who lived nearby.

In the early 1960s, justices of the peace were usually laypersons without any legal training, and they handled routine matters in their homes rather than at the town hall. Judge Irish was a farmer, about my father’s age and a friend of his and my uncle Harry since they were young men. They were also members of the Masonic Lodge in Nassau. I went to Judge Irish’s home that evening to respond to the ticket. I explained what had happened and pleaded not guilty. Judge Irish telephoned the state police barracks in East Greenbush and asked that the trooper come to his home. After some wait, the trooper, then in civilian clothes, showed up. He was not on duty and had been called away from some activity. When Judge Irish told him that I had pleaded not guilty, the trooper got very indignant. He told Judge Irish in words to the effect that if he wrote the ticket, I was guilty. Judge Irish set the matter down for a trial the following week.

I was upset and stewed about it all week. I went to Judge Irish’s home at the time he had set for a trial, but neither the trooper nor a court reporter was there. Judge Irish told me that he was going to find me guilty without a trial for my own good, and out of his long-standing friendship with my family. If there were to be a trial, he would have to acquit me because I had passed in a legal passing zone. He said that the trooper, Anthony Hoogkamp, was new and a bit hot-headed, and if he acquitted me, he felt that Trooper Hoogkamp would lay for me and charge me with some violation like reckless driving, which would be much more difficult to defend, since it would be Hoogkamp’s word against mine, and most justices of the peace will usually take the word of the trooper. He didn’t think that I could avoid this problem since I would always be driving back and forth on Route 20 but thought that Hoogkamp would leave me alone if I was convicted. Accordingly, he declared me guilty and fined me five dollars.

The experience left me angry and disillusioned. I didn’t doubt that Judge Irish was sincere in thinking that what he did was in my best interest, but the result made me feel vulnerable. I was a college graduate who had just completed service as an army officer, living in a community where my family had lived since the turn of the century, and now I had to worry about some trooper who wouldn’t admit his mistake and might be “laying” for me. Finally, I came to the conclusion that I needed to become a lawyer so that I couldn’t be put in that position again.

I dug out my Law School Aptitude Test score certificate and went to see the admissions director at Albany Law School. Although my college grades weren’t great, my LSAT score was quite high, and I was very quickly granted admission to the fall term. My mother was very pleased, as she wanted all of her children to be lawyers. My sister, Lelia, and her husband, Mark, both were attorneys in California. My father was not very enthusiastic and expressed doubts that I could be as good as Morris Zweig, an attorney in Nassau who had represented him in some matters. Nevertheless, he agreed to pay for my tuition and expenses. Nedda and I married during the summer between my freshman and junior years. (Law school is a three-year course, and there is no sophomore year.) My parents had just moved into a new home that they had built, and Nedda and I set up housekeeping in my parents’ old home. Nedda got a job as a secretary at General Aniline and Film Company in Rensselaer, and we lived on her union salary of $105.00 per week. The federal government came out with a program, designed to encourage scientific and graduate studies after Sputnik, which somehow also applied to law school students who already had an undergraduate degree, and my tuition cost became negligible.

In 1960 Albany Law School seemed to admit practically anyone who had at least three years of successful undergraduate study, and some of my classmates didn’t even take the LSAT until the fall term had started. One or two hadn’t even applied for admission until after the start of the fall term. As a freshman, we received no grades until the Saturday of July 4th weekend after the freshman year, at which time at least 50% of the class flunked out. We started with over 120 students, but only 50 graduated. Very few were given a second chance. The only student in my class who was given a second chance was Walt R. Walt was an army veteran and was married. He did poorly in all of the first-year courses with the exception of criminal law, which was taught by Dean Andrew Clements. Because he scored near the top of the class in criminal law, Dean Clements agreed to let Walt repeat the freshman year. Unfortunately, Walt grew a mustache during his second try, something that was frowned up by the faculty. Although Walt was of German heritage, he looked like a Mexican bandito with his large black mustache. When the grades came out the following July 4th weekend, Walt had done much better in all of the courses, with the exception of criminal law, where his score in the low 30s gave him an average grade of 64.9, just one-tenth of a point below passing. Dean Clements, who claimed to be have been a friend of Houdini, was himself an accomplished amateur magician. He told our class that a law school dean is very much like a magician anyway. Just as a magician can make a rabbit appear or disappear, a law school dean can make a student appear or disappear. Thus, Walt R. disappeared. Dean Clements had spent his entire adult life at Albany Law School. He was a Canadian by birth but entered Albany Law School as a student following his graduation from high school. Years ago an undergraduate college degree was not a requirement for admission to law school. Following graduation, Dean Clements was employed by Albany Law School in various positions, including registrar and professor before being appointed dean. He had married a woman from Ravena and they lived in her family home. All seniors, in small groups of three or four couples, were invited to the Dean's home for dinner.

We students were of the impression that Dean Clement’s closest friend at Albany Law School was its head janitor, “Sandy”. Sandy lived in an apartment in the basement of the school and had been at the college longer than any other staff or faculty member. Dean Clements was known to end many days by having a drink of scotch with Sandy in his apartment. Wise students knew that it was prudent not to get on the bad side of Sandy. When some students played basketball in the school’s gym without proper sneakers, they were reprimanded by the dean while Sandy stood by.

Albany Law School was a regional law school, and most of the students were from upstate New York. The full-time faculty numbered only nine, including the dean and the librarian. Almost everyone had a nickname, including most of the faculty. Professor Burton Andrews was known as “Bugsy”. He wore very wide ties and his speech was a bit unusual. Bugsy used geometric patterns to call on students. Unlike most other professors, he did not call on students alphabetically, or by simply going up or down or across rows, but instead might well use a simple diagonal or start with some student arbitrarily, and then perhaps go two down, one across, then two down, one across, etc. Students sometimes spent more time in class trying to figure out his pattern than paying attention to the subject matter. Although Bugsy did not require us to hand in our case reports, he would not discuss grades unless we first brought in every case report that we had done for the semester for his examination. Throughout our three years of law school, he frequently reminded us that "A horse is not a cow; even the legislature cannot make a horse into a cow". Years after I started practicing law, I realized, as did many of my fellow graduates, that Bugsy was probably the most effective member of the faculty.

Professor Ralph Semerad taught contracts and constitutional law. He was called “Button Ass” by the students because he started lecturing the moment he sat down as if he had a button on his buttocks that would turn him on when it was depressed.

Professor Carl Selinger was a Harvard Law School graduate who was younger than some of the students. Accordingly, he was “Carl the Kid”.

Professor William Samore looked somewhat oriental, and he wore glasses that were tinted a faint purple. He was quickly named “Hawaiian Eye”, after the character of a popular television series, and students would sometimes whistle the theme song from the show while he lectured.

Stuart, a fellow student, was the “Toad” because he had reportedly been born with an extra digit or some webbing between his toes. Bernie was referred to as “Two Questions” because he could never resist asking a follow-up question. Arthur was once seen looking at some sheep, and was thereafter always “Ba-a-a-d Artie”. Joe was the “Phantom” because he rarely showed up for class. Donald was “Vladimir Cool” for some reason which escapes me, and his girlfriend, later wife, who was a year behind us, was “Virgin Mary”. Carl was “Mutha”. I became known as the “King” because I arrived early in the morning after dropping Nedda at her job, and I sat in a big leather easy chair in the men’s lounge, which was referred to as my throne. Flag was in his mid-30s when he entered law school. He was married with four children and earned a living as an operating engineer. He would never take a "bye" when called upon even though wholly unprepared. Instead, he would offer to discuss some other case that he was familiar with. Phil was obsessive; he would brief all of a semester's cases within the first couple of months. He had a breakdown during the first-semester final exams of our senior year. For some reason, he only completed three of seven essay questions and knew that he failed the exam. Afterward, at lunch, he started asking Gretta about the intimate details of her sex life. Dean Clements was called, and after speaking with Phil he brought him across the street to Albany Medical Center. Phil never returned, although he was offered the opportunity to do so, and later took a job as a file clerk. Dick and Jack would leave promptly after the 2 pm class to go home to watch soap operas or go to the "skin flicks" at the Leland Theater on South Pearl Street. Bart graduated with our class. He should have graduated a year earlier but lost time because of his frequent alcohol-related automobile accidents. (Two or three years later I was in the Washington County Court on a civil matter. The county judge arraigned an indigent criminal defendant and assigned Bart as his counsel. The defendant protested and said that based upon what he had heard in jail, he would be better off representing himself. Bart was relieved of the assignment.) Vic was in his late 50s or early 60s when he entered law school. He commuted 40 miles each way from his home in Columbia County where he was a justice of the peace. He was an accomplished illustrator and had done several covers for Parade Magazine. An uncle had been the presiding justice of the Appellate Division, Second Department, and Vic had inherited his uncle's law library. Although Vic graduated with our class, he failed the July bar exam and died later that year.

We started out with four or five women in our freshman class. One woman, probably in her 60s, was the wife of the school’s accountant, and she took freshman courses on a non-matriculating basis for two or three years. She never was called on to recite a case, and she never asked questions. One young woman started during the second week of the freshman term. Somehow she was given the moniker of “Black Saddle”, possibly because she was short, dark, and hairy. She had no idea what any of the courses were about, and the faculty pretty much ignored her. She sat in the back of the freshman lecture hall, which like most of the classrooms, rose from the front to the back at a slight angle to give all students a clear view of the professor and the blackboard. One day she was playing with her ever-present pearls when the string broke and probably fifty or sixty faux pearls rolled to the front of the lecture room like marbles. She was only called on once to recite a case. She simply read from a "canned brief" and was never called upon again. She left after the first semester. Another woman was from Buffalo. After a few weeks, she began acting strangely. For a week she would commute daily from Buffalo by car. Reportedly, her father had her committed and she never again reappeared. Margrethe was probably in her late 30s when she joined our freshman class. She was the mother of four children, and her husband was a professor of surgery at Albany Medical College. She had socialized with some of the professors before deciding to become a student, and played bridge with Professor Godfrey. “Gretta” was valedictorian of our class, and had unquestionably earned that honor.

The social event of the law school year was the Student Bar Association's annual Christmas Party. The party was held in the gymnasium, and there was dancing and drinking. A lot of drinking. One year each student was given a 5th of whiskey. Walt became so intoxicated and tried to run outside to vomit; instead, he fell down the marble stairway and then smashed his head through the glass door leading to the parking lot. I, introduced my wife, Nedda, to Professor Selinger. Then, several other classmates introduced Nedda to him as their wives, and he was so intoxicated that he didn't recognize that he was repeatedly meeting the same woman. After the party, there were a couple of automobile accidents, and the dean ordered a restriction on the amount of alcohol that would be permitted in the future.

We were required to dress properly. All men were required to be clean-shaven and wear a jacket and tie to school. The faculty said that as lawyers we had to be appropriately dressed for court, and we should get in the habit right away. This dress code was strictly enforced. At lunch before our last final exam before graduation, Dean Samuel Hesson (a faculty member who became acting dean upon the death of Dean Clements during our senior year) approached our lunch table. He pointedly looked at his watch and said: “Mr. A__________, you have enough time to go home and shave before your exam.” And Mr. A _____________ did.

Graduation was a joyous occasion. My parents and my in-laws attended. Nedda presented me with a beautiful new leather attache case, the cost of which brought our bank account below $100.00.

Shortly after graduation, we started studying for the July bar exam. Bar review courses were taught in New York City, but most of us took the bar review course on tape. The lectures in New York City were tape-recorded and mailed to us at the law school with study materials. There were two different courses, and both met in the basement of the college. It was a very hot summer, and there was no air conditioning. The review course was probably four weeks long, and it was very difficult to study all day long. The bar exam was given in the gymnasium on two very hot and humid days. I sat behind a large black man who had failed the bar exam numerous times over several years. He worked as a federal Marshall, and throughout the exam, he mumbled to himself and kept clutching his large Colt .45 sidearm. It was unnerving.

The bar results were announced by publication in the New York Times in October. We were advised of the date when the results would be published, and everyone who was still in the Albany area met at Coulson’s News on Broadway at about midnight to get the New York Times when it first arrived. Fortunately for me, I passed the first time, although less than fifty percent of my class passed the July bar. Some repeated the bar exam twice before passing. I was admitted to the practice of law on November 14, 1963.

I met Trooper Hoogkamp once more. In 1969 I was the defense attorney in a rape/homicide case. Trooper Hoogkamp was called as a prosecution witness to introduce a map of the crime scene that he had prepared during the investigation. During cross-examination, I thanked him for giving me the incentive to become an attorney.