The Greatest Oralist

Yesterday was a great day at BU Law. It was truly a momentous occasion, as Daniel Webster was reincarnated there, in the halls of the tower of terror. No black magic was involved in this, but there certainly was something in the air.

In retrospect, you could call it magic. My moot court argument took place yesterday, much to everyone's delight. The fifteen minutes of oratorical skill on display were transcendent, in the matter of whether the consent-once-removed doctrine was a constitutionally permissible extension of the consent exception to the warrant rule of the Fourth Amendment, and whether that particular doctrine should be extended beyond undercover agents to apply to confidential informants as well.

The cheering audience was left astonished by the dazzling display of verbal dexterity and wit, to the point where the defendant, one Avon Barksdial, was heard to remark that his twelve years in jail were totally worth it, just because he had the opportunity to be on the receiving end of this incredible performance.

My plan was simple. The fifteen minutes allotted to a participant are, in the case of mortals, mostly consumed by a Q&A session, where the judges break into your argument every fifth word to try to fool you with their trickery. But I knew I was a better speaker than that. The judges, captivated by my artful wordplay, would no doubt be rendered mute and left speechless, unable to formulate any questions.

That's why I penned an entire fifteen minute speech. In it, of course, I allowed pauses for gasps, laughter, and applause, including a full minute break in the middle for the standing ovation that my dissection of the 10th Circuit's erroneous decision in Callahan was sure to elicit. These were fifteen minutes to rival the greatest speeches in history, from the Gettsyburg address to MLK's dream to President Whitmore's call to arms. It was glorious.

I was dressed to the nines, with a sharp two-button suit that would make Jack Kennedy jealous, a crisp white Brooks Brothers oxford shirt, and a power tie knotted with a tight and symmetrical full-Windsor buffeted by a perfect rakish dimple.

I walked into that courtroom ready to become a legend and Youtube sensation. When it came time to present my argument, I rose to the excited buzzing of the crowd, strode with great determination to the podium, opened my mouth, and promptly blacked out.

When I came to, I was lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by a sea of anxious faces. Foremost among them was my friend and co-counsel, Kyle.

"What happened, Kyle?" I asked. "Did we win?"

Kyle shook his head. "No, you asshole, you passed out."

"Oh," I said. "Because the crowd rushed the stage?"

"What crowd?"

"There was no crowd?" I asked, incredulous.

"What the heck are you talking about? Why would there be a crowd?"

"I guess that makes sense," I nodded sagely. "The authorities probably wanted to avoid a riot."

Silence. "Maybe we need to reduce your dosage," Kyle said. "I'll call a nurse."

"Good idea," I said before I passed out and the men with the white coats and butterfly nets came. "She probably wants to hear the speech too."