Chapter 1 – The Beginning of Everything
January 1, 1989 – Brooklyn, New York
The cold cut through the skin like a razor. The streets of Brooklyn were covered in a thin layer of snow, and the wind made the bare trees dance with the gray sky. But in that small house of worn bricks on the corner of 4th Avenue and 49th Street, the atmosphere was different. Warm. Familiar. Almost sacred.
Inside, the smell of fresh coffee mixed with the aroma of bread and butter lightly burning in the pan dominated the air. The TV on in the living room murmured the news of the new year, ignored by everyone, while Logan Moore leaned over the kitchen table with the local newspaper open. He read an article about changes in the state justice system, his eyes intensely focused, as if each word carried secrets of the universe.
"Logan, you're going to let the toast burn again," said his mother, Clara, in the sweet, exhausted voice of someone who woke up too early.
— Sorry, Mom — he replied with a slight smile, jumping up from his chair to take the frying pan off the stove.
Logan was 17 years old, but he moved and spoke like someone much older. Standing 6'1" tall, with an athletic, almost muscular body, the result of years of martial arts training, he carried a strong presence. His black hair was damp from his morning shower, and his dark brown eyes seemed to always be analyzing everything around him, as if the world were a puzzle to be deciphered.
Clara watched him with a mixture of pride and melancholy. The way he walked, as if each step were a statement of determination, made her heart tighten. At the same time that she was thrilled with her son's achievement, she felt the weight of the distance that would soon separate them.
— Your father went to buy fresh bread. He said he wanted to do it the "right way," since today is his last breakfast at home before he goes to Boston — she said, trying to smile.
Logan looked at her, lowering the newspaper.
"I'll still call you every day, Mom. Every single day. I promise."
She laughed, shaking her head.
"You'll be busy with your hypothetical cases, college parties, books up to the ceiling…"
"I'm not a party person. You know that," he replied, his expression sincere.
"I know… but you need to live too, Logan. You don't have to carry the world on your shoulders, son."
He took a deep breath. He knew she said it out of concern, but he carried within him a flame that he couldn't control. Ever since he was little, he had seen in his parents' eyes the weariness of the daily struggle, the calluses on his father's hands, his mother's tired eyes after a double shift as a cleaning lady. And he felt he had a mission.
Logan's father, Richard Moore, arrived a few minutes later, carrying a brown paper bag full of fresh bread. He was a man with broad shoulders and strong hands, calloused from years as a mechanic. His face bore the marks of time, and his brown eyes, so similar to Logan's, were always alert, despite his fatigue.
"Here's the best bread in the neighborhood, straight from Mr. Carmine's bakery," he said, placing the bag on the table.
"You should rest, Dad."
"And miss my last coffee with my private lawyer? No way," Richard replied with pride in his chest.
The trio sat at the table. Breakfast was punctuated by laughter, stories from the past, and practical life advice.
"At Harvard, you'll meet people from all walks of life," Richard began, chewing slowly. "Some will want to tear you down just because you're from Brooklyn. Because you don't have a fancy last name. But you have something that no one can buy: you're badass. And you have courage."
Logan nodded, his eyes shining with emotion.
"I'm not going to forget where I came from. Ever."
Shortly after lunch, the family left for Penn Station. Logan would travel by train to Boston, and from there he would go to the Harvard campus.
The wind was stronger, and Clara was wearing a thick hand-knitted scarf. Richard held Logan's suitcase with one hand and his other, firmly on his son's shoulder.
"Are you going to live with other students?" Richard asked.
"I'm going to share a room with a guy named Thomas. He's also a freshman. Son of a judge, it seems."
"If he's arrogant, you can make him eat his words with a good argument," Clara said, laughing.
On the platform, the minutes passed too quickly. Logan hugged his parents tightly. He smelled the soft scent of soap from his mother's uniform. He felt the weight of his father's calloused hands on his back.
"I promise, I'll come back better. And I'll give you the world. This is the first page of our new story," he said, his voice breaking.
"We don't need the world, Logan. All he needs is for you to be well," his mother replied, wiping away a tear.
On the move – train to Boston
The train left promptly at 3:30 p.m. Logan sat by the window, watching the landscape change. The city lights faded as snow covered the world in white.
He took a small photo from the inside pocket of his coat: his parents, on his 10th birthday, smiling in the backyard, with a simple cake on top of a box covered with a towel. He carefully put the photo inside his wallet.
He took out his black notebook, the one where he wrote down thoughts, ideas, phrases he heard and that had left an impression. He opened it to the first page and wrote with a blue pen:
"January 1, 1989. The beginning of my mission. Harvard, wait for me."
He leaned his head against the cold glass, closed his eyes for a few seconds and smiled. He was going. Against all odds, he was going.
Harvard Campus – Cambridge, Massachusetts
The campus was like a world apart. Old and imposing, with red brick buildings and white stone columns. Logan arrived at dusk, his feet sinking lightly into the snow already trodden by hundreds of freshmen. The air smelled of old books and promising beginnings.
A guidance assistant, wearing a red sweatshirt with the university emblem, guided him to his dorm.
— Room 216, with Thomas Walsh. He got here yesterday. Traditional Boston family. But it's quiet," she said, smiling.
Logan knocked twice before entering. Inside, a young white man with impeccably combed dark blond hair was reading a constitutional law book with his feet up on his desk.
"Logan Moore," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm your new roommate."
"Thomas Walsh. I didn't think you'd be here until tomorrow."
"I thought I'd get here today. Start the new year off right," Logan replied.
Thomas arched an eyebrow. "I like that."
They both laughed.
Despite their glaring differences, there was a quiet respect there. Logan realized that even in the midst of the elite, his presence would not be invisible. And that maybe… maybe he belonged there, too.
Later that night Alone in the room, while Thomas slept soundly, Logan sat at the desk. The yellow light from the lamp made shadows dance on the walls. He took the photo of his parents out of his pocket once more, placed it on his notebook and looked at it for several seconds.
He thought about every night he studied until three in the morning, every karate championship he won, every book he read, even though he was tired after washing dishes at a local restaurant. He thought about the silence of the house, sometimes sad, the lack of luxury, but never of love.
He took a deep breath. "I will honor every sacrifice."
And with that, he began the first of many chapters of the story he himself was writing.
Chapter 2 – Rapid Fire
January 2, 1989 – Gropius Dormitory, Room 216 – 6:12 AM
The shrill sound of the alarm clock echoed through the silent room, cutting through the cold that infiltrated through the old windows. Logan, lying on his side, opened his eyes abruptly, as if he had already been awake minutes before and was just waiting for the signal.
He sat up slowly, threw his legs over the side of the bed and stared at the red digital clock on the dresser. The sunlight was still weak, tinting the walls of the dormitory with pale blue. Outside, the wind whistled.
"Time to start," he muttered to himself, the hoarse morning voice fading into the room.
On the other side, Thomas was still sleeping, his face serene as if he didn't care about being called to answer in the first period. The difference in mentality between the two was already clear: Thomas was intelligent, yes, but he didn't carry the same weight on his shoulders.
For Logan, Harvard wasn't just a conquest. It was a battlefield. He got up, put on his dark dress pants, white shirt, navy sweater over it, and the thick coat his mother had folded so carefully before he left. He picked up his leather briefcase with his books, neatly organized, and went out to the cafeteria. The snow crunched softly under his feet. The campus was still asleep, and the cold air bit his face, but Logan felt awake, alive, more than ever.
8:00 AM – Langdell Room 225 – Criminal Law with Professor Charles M. Whitmore
The room was monumental. Rows of desks in a semicircle formed a kind of academic arena, with the professor's lectern in the lower center. Logan sat in the third row, slightly to the left. Beside him, Thomas was popping a piece of gum into his mouth, reading over some notes.
"I heard Whitmore likes to humiliate freshmen on their first day," Thomas muttered, as if it were a secret.
"And I heard he made a guy cry last year," a classmate replied behind them.
Logan remained silent. He was focused, mentally reviewing the cases he had studied the day before. He knew that the professor practiced the dreaded cold calling: picking a student at random and grilling him on a legal case, without warning, without mercy. It was a kind of acid test, common at the best law schools.
At 8:02 a.m., the door opened. Professor Charles M. Whitmore strode in like a silent storm—tall, in a light gray suit, with an angular face, his hair as white as snow on the outside. He carried no books. Just a thin black briefcase under his arm.
"Good morning," he said flatly as he walked to the lectern. "For those of you expecting a welcoming address, I am sorry to disappoint." This is Harvard Law School, not summer camp.
A few students laughed nervously. Logan simply straightened his posture.
"Let's start with today's case: People v. Goetz."
A ripple of murmurs went through the room. It was a controversial case of self-defense that had occurred in New York a few years earlier—a white man had shot four black teenagers on the subway, claiming to be defending himself from an attempted robbery.
Whitmore looked around the class like a predator scenting prey.
"Logan Moore."
The name cut through the air like a blade.
Logan looked up calmly, despite the pounding in his chest. He stood up slowly.
"Present."
"Tell me the facts of the Goetz case, based on the original judgment."
"Yes, sir," Logan said clearly and directly.
He took a deep breath and began:
— On December 22, 1984, Bernard Goetz was on a New York City subway car when he was approached by four African-American teenagers, allegedly demanding five dollars. Goetz pulled out a semi-automatic pistol and shot the four, seriously wounding all of them. After the attack, he fled the city and only turned himself in days later. The case sparked a national debate about race, urban crime, and the legal concept of self-defense.
Whitmore tilted his head slightly, as if listening to something unexpected.
— Correct. And what did the defense claim?
— They claimed that Goetz acted in self-defense based on his reasonable fear of being attacked, considering the history of urban violence and the behavior of the young people.
— What was the prosecution's argument?
— That Goetz's response was excessive and premeditated. One of the teenagers was shot in the back while he was already down. The prosecution argued that there was no immediate threat sufficient to justify the use of lethal force, especially in the manner in which it occurred.
"And the verdict?"
"The jury dismissed the more serious charges of attempted murder and convicted Goetz only of unlawful possession of a firearm."
Whitmore was looking at him more intently now. He crossed his arms thoughtfully before asking the next question:
"Very well. Now, Mr. Moore… something I didn't ask: what is your personal analysis of the case? As a first-year student with roots in New York?"
A collective sigh passed through the the room. Logan hesitated for half a second just enough time to gather his thoughts.
"To my mind, the Goetz case is a clear example of how the legal system can be influenced by social, racial, and media context. While Goetz's fear may have been subjectively real, his response was objectively disproportionate. The fact that he shot someone on the ground, in the back, shows action beyond simple defense. The system treated him with relative leniency, which perhaps would not have occurred if the racial roles were reversed."
The silence that followed was thick. A few students glanced at each other. Thomas, standing next to him, made a "holy crap" face.
Whitmore remained silent for a full five seconds.
"Interesting. Brave too, especially for a first day." He turned to the class. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is what is expected of you. Don't repeat words. Think. Argue. Deconstruct." You can write this down: the law lives in questions, not in ready-made answers.
Logan sat down, his heart still racing but his breathing steady. Thomas turned to him.
"You're crazy, man. You just made the professor look impressed. On the first day?"
Logan gave a half smile.
"This is just the beginning."
1:45 p.m. – Harvard Law School Dining Hall
The hustle and bustle was intense, and the smell of strong coffee and warmed food hung in the air. Logan and Thomas shared a table near the window.
"I swear I thought you were going to freeze when he said your name," Thomas said, between bites of his sandwich.
"I thought so too. But I remembered what my dad said: 'If you shake, shake with style.'"
"That's nice. Is your dad the philosopher of mechanics?"
"The very same."
Thomas laughed, and Logan noticed that he seemed more relaxed around him. Maybe out of admiration, or maybe because he realized he wasn't just another college nerd.
"You prepared yourself last night, right?" Thomas asked.
"Until two in the morning. I studied this case because of the connection to New York. I thought it was worth going above and beyond what they would ask."
Thomas was silent for a moment.
"You know... I grew up hearing that Harvard was my destiny. That I belonged here. But when I see you... I see someone who chose to be here. And that's much stronger than privilege."
Logan stared at him for a second. It wasn't easy to hear that kind of thing. Even more so coming from someone who, at first glance, had everything.
"Thank you. But don't underestimate yourself. What matters is what we do from now on."
Night – Room
Logan was lying down, his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The light from the lamp made the room yellowish, almost nostalgic. His mind was buzzing.
He pulled out his black notebook, the same one he always had. He opened it to a new page and wrote:
"Today I was called in for the first day. Goetz. Criminal Law. Professor Whitmore tested me, and I answered. Not because I knew everything, but because I know fear. I know the city. And I know the urgency of not failing. This is just the first step."
Across the room, Thomas was talking on the phone to someone—probably his father. Logan could hear fragments:
"Yeah, he's good... No, like, really good... Yeah, from Brooklyn... No, it's not a problem... He's the kind of guy who changes the rules of the game."
Logan smiled to himself, discreetly.
He knew the road would be long, and that many battles still lay ahead. But that day, he took his first blow.
And the world felt it.
Chapter 3 – The First Week
January 6, 1989 – Friday, 8:18 p.m. – Gropius Dormitory, Room 216
The light from the lamp beside Logan's bed cast soft shadows against the wall, revealing the outlines of notes taped together, books stacked in precise order, and the black notebook that was always open to a new page. His fingers were stained with blue ink, and his eyes, dark brown and intense jumped from paragraph to paragraph with almost mathematical precision.
Thomas slammed the door shut with his hip, balancing two bottles of soda and a bag of chips.
"I thought you were asleep," he said, tossing one of the bottles to Logan, who caught it in midair.
"Sleep is a luxury for those who have passed the Bar," Logan replied, closing the notebook with a slight smile.
Thomas laughed and threw himself onto his bed, stretching his feet out until they touched the desk.
— Dude... do you have any idea what this week has been like?
Logan leaned against the wall, the cold bottle against his forearm.
— I do. It was the beginning of a war of attrition. But a war I've been waiting for since I was 14.
Thomas took a bite of his potato and gestured with his hand, pointing at Logan.
— Seriously. You didn't miss a single one. Whitmore on Monday, Friedman in Constitutional Law on Tuesday, Harlow in Torts yesterday... And then there was Property Law today with that sadistic Rawlins. How the hell do you handle being called in every cold call and still seem more prepared than the veterans?
Logan answered simply:
— I expect to be called. I train for it.
Thomas looked at him with a mixture of disbelief and admiration.
— This is not normal.
Logan took a sip of his soda, feeling the gas rise up his nose. Cold, dry and invigorating. Then he took a deep breath and remembered each class. Each time he had been called on. Each time he had faced the clinical gaze of a professor testing his foundation, his structure, his psychology.
Afternoon – Constitutional Law with Professor Daniel Friedman
"Mr. Moore," said Friedman, a short man with tiny eyes and a sharp tongue, as he adjusted his thick glasses on his nose, "can you explain to us the impact of Marbury v. Madison on the formation of judicial review?"
Logan was in the fourth row, wearing a gray dress shirt and a dark suit jacket. He stood up calmly, taking a deep breath.
"Yes, Professor. Marbury v. Madison established the principle of judicial review by declaring that it was the role of the judiciary to review legislative and executive acts in light of the Constitution. In 1803, the Supreme Court ruled that a portion of the Judiciary Act of 1789 was unconstitutional, thus establishing the power of the judiciary to invalidate laws that were contrary to the Constitution."
Friedman crossed his arms.
— And why is this crucial to American democracy?
— Because it prevents either of the other two branches of government from overstepping constitutional bounds. Judicial review is the backbone of the separation of powers. Without it, the Constitution would be nothing more than a decorative document.
— And what is the main contemporary criticism of judicial review?
— That the judiciary, especially the Supreme Court, has become too powerful, influencing public policy based on subjective interpretations. Some argue that unelected judges interfere in decisions that should be up to the people, through their elected representatives.
Friedman smiled for the first time.
— Excellent. Write it down: Mr. Moore has just demonstrated legal, historical, and political mastery in a single answer. Let this become a habit.
January 4 – Torts with Professor Ellen Harlow
Harlow's office was small, with tall windows and the awkward silence of those who knew she did not forgive mistakes. A woman in her fifties, with ice-blue eyes, who used words like scalpels.
— Mr. Moore. Palsgraf v. Long Island Railroad Co.," she said, before everyone had even settled in.
Logan stood up, straightening her burgundy sweater. "1928 case, New York Court of Appeals. Plaintiff Helen Palsgraf was on the platform when two train attendants tried to help a passenger board. During the attempt, the passenger dropped a package containing fireworks. The explosion caused a scale of coins to fall on Mrs. Palsgraf, who then sued the company."
"And the decision?"
"The court ruled against Palsgraf. Justice Benjamin Cardozo argued that the railroad company had no duty of care to the plaintiff because the damage was not foreseeable. The central idea is that liability for negligence depends on the foreseeability of the damage."
"And the dissenting view?"
"Justice Andrews dissented. He argued that the issue was not about duty but about causation. For him, if there is a direct connection between the act and the damage, even if it is not foreseeable, there is liability."
— Which side does Mr. Moore take?
Logan hesitated, only out of respect for the weight of the question.
— I agree with Cardozo. The foreseeability is a pillar of modern law. If we were to hold unforeseeable actions liable, we would enter a territory of legal uncertainty.
Harlow nodded slowly.
"Clear answer. No frills. The way the law should be."
January 6 – Property Law with Professor Adelaide Rawlins
On Friday, the final blow of the week came. Rawlins was known for her coolness. Few made her smile—and no freshman had managed to impress her in the first few days, according to reports.
She glanced around the class, and without taking her eyes off her binder, she murmured,
"Moore."
Logan stood up. His hands no longer felt cold. He was so used to the tension that it had become his ally.
"What is fee simple absolute?"
"It's the most complete form of property in common law. It gives the owner full possession, use, and disposal of the property, with inheritance and perpetuity. Without conditions. It's the basis of the modern property system.
Rawlins looked up slowly.
— And what is the difference between a fee simple determinable?
— A determinable is conditioned on a specific event. If the condition is violated, the property automatically reverts to the grantor. Language such as "while," "during," "while used for…" is used.
— And if the condition is not met, but the owner refuses to return the property?
— Reversion can be demanded in court, but technically the right has already ceased to be valid. And in this case, the holder acts as a possessor without title.
Rawlins closed the file.
— You read more than necessary.
Logan nodded lightly.
— I have a habit of not stopping at the last line of the chapter, Professor.
She smiled. Slightly. Very rare.
That same night, in the dormitory
Thomas watched Logan with a suppressed laugh as he threw a small ball of paper into the trash.
— You know you're creating a reputation as an urban legend, right?
— Fame is noise. My focus is voice.
— Geez. That was philosophical. I'm going to write that on the wall.
Logan chuckled softly and went back to writing in his black notebook.
"First week: won. What have I learned? That Harvard is made up of sharp minds, but not all of them are prepared for the battlefield. I am. Not out of arrogance. But out of necessity. This isn't just where I am. It's who I am. And what I will be."
He closed the notebook. The week was over. But his journey was just beginning.
And the legal world, even if it didn't know it yet, was already starting to notice the name Logan Moore.
Chapter 4 – War Room
Monday, 4:37 p.m. – Langdell Library, Study Room 312
Afternoon light filtered through the arched windows of the study, casting golden reflections on the long oak desk. Stacks of law books were scattered in a seemingly chaotic arrangement, but each volume had a colored bookmark, a handwritten note, a blue or green underline. This wasn't disorganization. This was intellectual combat.
Logan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, reading the prosecution's argument—which would be interpreted by another group of students for the third time. He frowned.
"They're relying too heavily on premeditation," he said, tossing the paper on the desk. "The only evidence for that is the phone call, and even that's not conclusive. We can pick it apart in the rebuttal."
"And what do you want to propose?" — asked one of the women in the group, lowering her reading glasses. Her name was Olivia Hartmann, a blonde girl from Boston, the daughter of federal judges, extremely articulate and critical.
"We're going to shift the focus. Show that the defense is less about what he planned and more about how he reacted. Mens rea is not proven with assumptions."
"That's risky," said the second classmate, Jasmine Rivera, a Puerto Rican with curly hair tied in a messy bun and one of the best legal analysts in the class. "But you're right. The prosecution is going to try to take us to the realm of intent. If we keep the mock jury in the realm of reasonable doubt, we win."
Thomas snapped his fingers excitedly.
"Okay, then let's work that way. But what about the speaking order? Logan opens with the defense. Then I'll cover the technical part of the neighbor's testimony. Olivia makes the rebuttal. Jasmine closes with the weighty legal argument?"
— " Exactly "— Logan replied, already standing, pacing in circles as he mentally organized the sequence. — "But I need each of you to know not only your argument. I need you to know our argument. If anyone stalls, the defense continues fluidly. No silence. No hesitation. The prosecution will pounce on any cracks."
Everyone nodded. There was seriousness in the air. This wasn't just a simulation. For Logan, this was a real-life rehearsal. And he treated it as such.
Wednesday, 9:08 p.m. – Gropius Dormitory, Room 216
Logan wrote furiously in his notebook, while Thomas typed on his portable typewriter, huffing at each mistake.
"I can't see the word 'jurisprudence' anymore without wanting to throw it out the window," he said.
"Really? I put that seventeen times in the opening alone," Logan replied, without taking his eyes off the page.
Thomas stopped and stared at him.
"You know you're being intimidating, right?"
"I know. But I'd rather be intimidating now than ineffective in front of the judges at the trial."
Thomas sighed and put down his camera.
"Are you scared?"
Logan looked up. He took a deep breath.
"Not of losing. But of not being heard. Not representing the fictitious defendant well, or not being fair to your work. I'm the face of the defense. And that counts."
Thomas was silent for a moment.
"You're not alone, Logan. You never have been. And if anything gets out of hand up front, you can count on me. On Olivia. On Jasmine. This is a team, not some hero cult."
Logan smiled, a tight but sincere smile.
"Thanks, man."
Friday – Moot Court Day – Hauser Building, Room 6
The room was set up like a real courtroom. A raised bench with three "judges"—guest professors and a criminal defense attorney from Boston—the flags of the United States and Massachusetts in the background, and the groups of students seated to the left (prosecution) and right (defense).
Logan was dressed in a dark gray suit, crisp white shirt, and navy tie. His polished shoes reflected the fluorescent lights. He adjusted the microphone in front of him and looked at the judges. Behind him, Thomas, Olivia, and Jasmine arranged their papers, each with slightly tense but focused faces.
Professor Whitmore, seated in the center of the judges, began:
"Moot court now begins. Case: Commonwealth v. James Weller. The prosecution may present its opening argument."
The prosecution was solid. Well rehearsed, technically articulate, and well-used case law. They attacked the chronology of events, the defendant's record, and threw weight on the recorded phone call in which Weller said, "I'm going to end this today."
It was a heavy sentence. And the defense team knew it.
When it was Logan's turn, he stood up slowly, straightened his jacket, and walked confidently to the lectern, carrying only three sheets of paper folded in half.
Total silence in the room.
He began:
"Your honorable judges, members of the panel, colleagues," he said in a clear, measured voice, "the prosecution wants to convince you that one sentence, in isolation, should condemn a man to life in prison. One sentence spoken out of context, amid days of emotional torment, persecution, and despair. James Weller is not a planned killer. He is a survivor who reacted, unfortunately, to the pressure of fear."
He paused, then continued:
"The burden of proof is on the prosecution. And they need to prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that there was clear premeditation. But what have they presented so far? A phone call. A history of fighting. And a narrative built on assumptions."
Logan walked to the evidence table, picked up a copy of the report, and held it up.
"No registered weapon. No logistical planning. No digital trail, no direct threat. The only concrete element is the result of the act: death. And in criminal law, we do not judge by the result, but by intent. Mens rea. Without it, there is no aggravated murder."
He looked the invited attorney in the eye, then Professor Whitmore. Finally, he turned to the class audience.
— Today, my job is not to convince you of James Weller's innocence. But rather to prove that the prosecution has no sufficient basis to convict him. And that, gentlemen, is the core of justice.
Logan returned to his seat. Thomas handed him a glass of water with a slight smile.
— Dude... you are a monster.
The simulation continued. Thomas made a clear, error-free technical defense. Olivia was sharp in responding to the accusations in reply. Jasmine, finally, presented a final argument based on the doctrine of psychological necessity and emotional vulnerability, using real cases as a parallel.
When they finished, the judges retired to deliberate.
There were twenty minutes of silence, tension and sweaty palms. Logan looked at the floor, muttering possible flaws.
— I should have talked about the victim's history. I could have emphasized more the emotional impact on the defendant...
— Logan — interrupted Jasmine —, you are not a machine. And your opening was perfect. If this were a real court, I would bet on the jury in our favor.
The judges returned. Professor Whitmore stepped forward.
"After careful consideration, we declare that the defense team presented the most consistent, precise, and impactful argument. The panel was especially impressed with the conceptual clarity of student Logan Moore, with the legal argument of student Jasmine Rivera, and with the overall cohesion of the group. Congratulations."
Relief came in the form of smiles, deep breaths, and handshakes. Logan looked at Thomas, then at Olivia and Jasmine. He didn't need to say anything.
They had won. But more than that—they had proven themselves. Together.
Logan wrote in his black notebook, while Thomas played a soft song on the radio.
"Today, I didn't win alone. The war room was made of four voices. I learned to trust. I learned to lead without dominating. And for the first time, Harvard seemed more human to me."
He closed the notebook.
The first moot court of many. But this one, he would never forget.
Chapter 5 – Summer Silence
Sunday, 7:43 p.m. – Harvard Law School courtyard
The Boston sky was tinged orange, and the warm breeze carried a faint scent of freshly bloomed flowers. The metal chairs on the patio were empty, except for one: Logan, sitting with a notebook on his lap and a blue pen between his fingers.
He wasn't writing. He just scanned the pages, as if searching for something that wasn't there.
Beside him was a nearly empty water bottle and a folded newspaper with the headline: "Summer in Sight: Harvard Empties as Students Go Home."
Logan read the headline again. And swallowed hard.
He wasn't going home.
Two days earlier – Friday – Gropius Dormitory, Room 216
Thomas was throwing clothes into his brown duffel bag with his usual lack of organization.
"My parents want to go to Vermont for a week. Then we're going to spend a few days at my grandmother's house on Cape Cod. You have to see Cape Cod, Logan. It's ridiculously beautiful," he said, smiling as he tossed a pair of shorts aside.
Logan was sitting at his desk, flipping through a law book as if it were still necessary. "Sounds good."
"What about you? When are you taking the train to New York?"
Logan didn't answer right away. He turned a page. Then another. Finally, he took a deep breath. "I'm not going."
Thomas paused, frowning. "What do you mean?"
"I'm going to stay here. Use the summer to study, review what I learned this semester, and prepare for my sophomore year. There's a professor offering a volunteer research group. Maybe I'll sign up."
Thomas closed his suitcase slowly. "Logan, why don't you really go to New York?"
Logan hesitated. Then he looked at Thomas, finally saying:
"Because I can't afford the trip. Or the train ticket, or the time away from books. My parents are in a bad financial situation. My father had to stop working for a few days because of the column. We talk on the phone... But going there now? It's a luxury I can't afford."
Thomas sat on the bed, processing his friend's words. For a few seconds, the room was silent. Only the muffled sound of voices from the hallway, suitcases being dragged, and doors slamming.
"Then come with me," he said, without ceremony.
Logan let out a short laugh, in disbelief.
"What are you talking about?"
"Come with me. To my house. My parents have a guest room. You've slept in worse things here at Gropius. My mother's food is infinitely better than this cafeteria. And besides, you'll be able to rest. And study, if you want. Bring your books. We can review together. It makes sense."
Logan shook his head slowly.
"I can't, Thomas."
"Why not?"
"Because this is your summer. With your parents. I don't want to be an intruder. A nuisance. I'm… I'm used to being on my own."
Thomas looked him in the eye.
"Dude, you're not a burden. You're my friend. My best friend, to be exact. My parents are going to love you. And besides, there's nothing wrong with accepting help when it comes from a sincere place. You would do the same for me."
Logan lowered his eyes, staring at his hands. A part of him wanted to say yes. But pride… always him.
"I don't know if I can accept that so easily."
"Then don't accept it. But think of it as a partnership. You help me study this summer, and I'll give you a roof over your head and food. Deal?"
Logan laughed, involuntarily.
"You really are impossible."
"And you're too proud. But I can put up with you."
Monday – Back Bay Station, Boston – 8:12 a.m.
The platform was busy, packed with students, backpacks, suitcases, people laughing, people saying goodbye. Thomas got out of the taxi with his suitcase and looked around.
Logan was there, dark jeans, black t-shirt, backpack on his back.
"I thought you were going to leave me alone on this train."
Logan smiled.
"I'm not that cruel."
Thomas spread his arms as if celebrating a goal.
"That's it! Let's make history on Cape Cod!"
Walsh family home – Newton, Massachusetts – 9:27 a.m.
The house was large, but not imposing. It had that old-fashioned charm of white painted wood, wide windows with flowered curtains, and a front garden that looked like it had been tended by someone with a lot of love or a lot of free time.
Thomas's mother, Margaret, a short woman with light brown hair and lively eyes, opened the door with a wide smile.
"Are you the famous Logan Moore?" she said, before Thomas could say anything.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Ma'am" is my mother. Call me Margaret. Come in. We've got the guest room ready, and Thomas said you like your coffee black, right?"
"Yes… but… I didn't want to be any trouble, really…"
Margaret's back was already turned.
"Nonsense. All of Thomas's friends are from the house. And if you help me chop vegetables once in a while, we're even."
The father, George Walsh, appeared shortly after. Tall, with round glasses and a serene expression.
"I've heard a lot about you, Logan. Don't let my son convince you to watch Star Trek reruns with him. He always falls asleep in the middle of the episode.
Logan laughed, already feeling strangely...welcome.
Friday – Cape Cod, the Walsh family's summer home
The sound of the ocean was constant. The open windows let in the salty breeze. Thomas slept sprawled on the couch in the living room, while Logan was on the deck of the house, his laptop open, books around him, and a cup of coffee beside him.
He typed slowly. He was working on a volunteer paper for Professor Friedman on criminal liability in situations of emotional trauma. Something that had started as a duty and now felt like a necessity.
Margaret appeared with a tray.
"I made muffins. You need to eat something, Logan."
"I've already had two, Margaret."
"I don't deny food to a working brain. And these have bananas."
Logan smiled.
"Thank you... for everything." She sat down next to him, breathing in the salty air.
"You're a good boy, Logan. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. And… you have a strength that reminds me of George when he was young. But you have to learn to accept affection too. It's not weakness. It's survival."
Logan looked out at the horizon. The breeze touched his face.
Maybe he was finally learning that.
At the end of that night, he wrote in his notebook:
"Running isn't always hiding. Sometimes it's finding refuge. Summer is here. And I've found a place to breathe. More than that: I've found people who remind me that I don't have to carry it all alone."
"And for the first time in a long time, I'm at peace."
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