Don’t Be Late

This is the sixth guest post by Steven Epstein from his book, Extreme Punishment:  The Chilling True Story of Acclaimed Law Professor Dan Markel’s Murder.

The following is an excerpt from Chapter 8, Ivory Tower:

Law professors typically employ the Socratic method to impart their wisdom in the classroom, rather than the lecture style that predominates in undergraduate education.  Students are called on randomly—drafted without their consent—and are asked a series of questions about the assigned reading.  “Mr. Jones,” the questioning might begin, snapping the unfortunate soul in the back row to attention in an instant.  “Why did the court consider the gun the fruit of the poisonous tree?”

The initial question is nearly always followed by progressively more difficult ones even seasoned attorneys would struggle to answer.  The professor will often toss hypotheticals into the questions designed to flesh out how malleable legal principles are to different factual scenarios, the student on the hot seat merely a prop to illustrate the law in action.  For brand new law students, being on the receiving end of a professor’s rapid-fire interrogation can seem intimidating, even fear-inducing.  That was especially true when the intense gaze of Professor Dan Markel was locked on a 1L who wasn’t thoroughly prepared.

Dan desperately wanted his students to succeed, but expected their complete buy-in in their own education.  Which left him bitterly disappointed when they showed up late or unprepared, or when he detected them surfing the internet on their laptops or texting instead of focusing on him.  On occasion he’d lock the classroom doors the moment class began; when he didn’t, he’d berate students who sauntered into the classroom a few minutes late, instructing those who arrived even later to leave.  Because he was such a stickler for punctuality, it wasn’t uncommon to see students racing through the hallways to make it to his class on time.

 

Dan’s brilliance was always on full display in his back-and-forth with students over questions of criminal law or procedure, which some of them appreciated, but others found condescending and belittling.  He developed a reputation of being intense and aggressive in his use of the Socratic method.  A hard-ass.  He would often push students beyond their comfort zone, trying to get them to think outside the box.  Brighter students would rise to the occasion.  Weaker students, however, would wither under the pressure. 

But with each passing year, Dan would modulate his approach to make classes more fun and less intimidating.  He’d get students on their feet for stretch breaks and randomly incorporate photos of Benjamin—and later Lincoln—into his PowerPoint slides.  “Before we get started,” he’d sometimes begin class, “I’ve got to tell you what Baby Ben-Ben did this morning.”

For students who took the time to get to know Dan outside the classroom, they were astonished to learn how personable and affectionate he was.  He’d ask them about their families, what they did for fun, and about their career aspirations.  If he learned of students who landed summer jobs in places he’d previously lived—such as Boston or Washington, D.C.—he’d provide them a list of things to see and do, restaurants at which to eat, and reach out to his friends who lived there to take his students under their wings.

He became particularly close with the handful of students who served as his research assistants each year—whom he encouraged to call him “Danny”—often steering judicial clerkship opportunities their way and writing glowing recommendation letters on their behalf to judges and prospective employers.  He performed the same function for his top students, even years after they’d graduated, often emailing them into the early morning hours to dispense helpful career advice.  He formed a close bond with the students who served as senior editors of the Florida State Law Review, acting as the publication’s informal advisor and helping weed through thousands of submissions to identify the most promising scholarly work. 

When he taught upper-level seminars on sentencing or punitive damages, Dan always ended the semester with an intimate dinner at his Betton Hills home.  Students got to see an entirely different side of the hard-ass professor who, as 1Ls, had them quaking in their shoes.  The home they encountered was one in which children ruled the roost, Ben and Lincoln’s artwork strung across the living room, toys strewn about everywhere, picture frames revealing Dan as a doting and playful dad positioned prominently on the bookshelves.  As they enjoyed their meal, students couldn’t help but sense the unabashed pride Dan felt for his boys.  The homey experience helped them see their demanding professor in a whole new light.

Many law professors enjoy their scholarly work far more than their time with students.  For Dan Markel, however, there was unmistakable joy and passion in his teaching and interaction with students—both in and out of the classroom—coupled with the genuine pride he felt as he watched them grow and mature during their time in law school.  He recognized that their success in the real world depended on the wisdom and life lessons he could impart and took that responsibility seriously.  Several of his former students I spoke with during my research wanted me to know how indelible Dan’s mark has been on their lives and careers.