Chapter 6 – Choices and Silences
July 25, 1989 – Tuesday – Cape Cod, Walsh summer home – 7:02 p.m.
The aroma of fresh food filled the entire house. Margaret pulled a roast chicken with herbs and golden potatoes from the oven, while George tossed a homemade salad. Thomas sliced bread with garlic butter that he had prepared according to a poorly written recipe in a cooking magazine.
White china plates, pale blue cloth napkins, and simple glass goblets were neatly arranged on the table. The porch was lit by a string of small lights hanging from the ceiling—a touch that Margaret said was "only for special dinners."
Logan, in a light dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, helped discreetly set the table. The routine made him feel like he was part of something.
"Logan, honey, can you bring the wine? It's in the refrigerator downstairs," Margaret said, smiling at the heat on her face from the oven.
— Of course, Margaret — he replied, going down to the house's airy basement, where there was a small makeshift wine cellar.
When he returned, George was already sitting at the head of the table, with a dish towel over his shoulder and a satisfied look on his face.
"This dinner looks like a celebration," he said.
"You just didn't see the salad," Thomas replied, feigning excitement. "I'm sure this arugula will change our lives."
"Arugula really does, son," George replied, as everyone laughed.
They settled down. Margaret served the chicken, Thomas distributed the bread, and Logan carefully filled the glasses with red wine.
"Logan, dear," Margaret began, chewing slowly, "you've already adapted so well here at home that I'm going to miss you when you go back to Harvard. The routine will seem strange without someone proofreading articles at midnight with fresh coffee…"
Logan smiled sincerely.
"Thank you." You guys gave me more than I could have ever imagined. Honestly? I didn't know how much I needed a summer like this.
George watched him closely. A meticulous man, with a firm but respectful tone.
"You're not just a brilliant student, Logan. You're focused. But you're also empathetic. That's a combination I rarely see these days."
Thomas grumbled, "He made me review Mens Rea at three in the morning with colored index cards. Empathy has its limits."
Everyone laughed, but George didn't take his eyes off Logan. He waited a little longer. Then he asked the question, calmly and with genuine curiosity:
"So tell me… do you know what you're going to major in yet?"
The question fell like a soft stone in the center of a calm lake. Logan looked up from his food, at George, then at Margaret and Thomas. It was as if everyone, somehow, had been waiting for that answer.
He put his silverware down on his plate. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, thoughtful.
— Criminal law... and national security.
A brief silence. But not uncomfortable. Just the kind of pause that comes when a choice carries weight.
"Two very demanding worlds," George said, crossing his fingers on the table. "Why?"
Logan took a deep breath. He already knew the answer, but he had never said it out loud.
"Because these are areas where lives are at stake. Because you can't pretend to be neutral when the criminal justice system fails so many people. And... because I believe that justice is not just about punishing, but about protecting. And protecting sometimes involves understanding fear. Threat. The fragility of order. I want to be where the law meets the limits of humanity."
Margaret looked at him tenderly.
"That's beautiful. And scary."
"Yeah..." Logan said. "But it's also necessary. I grew up in a neighborhood where the police were more feared than respected. Where you didn't know the name of a lawyer, but you knew the name of every cop who had ever beaten someone. I want to be part of the change. Even if it's just a small piece."
George nodded slowly.
"That takes strength. Not just intellectual, but moral. And courage. But, Logan… if there's anyone I've met in the last few years who has all three of those things together, it's you."
Thomas raised his glass.
"To the future most stubborn and brilliant lawyer at Harvard."
They toasted. And the red wine sparkled in the soft light of the porch lamps.
Later that night – 10:11 p.m. – Back porch
Logan sat alone, now with a cup of tea in his hands. The conversation from dinner echoed in his mind. It was strange how something so simple—a question—could open so many inner doors.
George appeared in the doorway, his glasses off now, a book under his arm.
"Can I join you?"
"Sure," Logan said, offering the chair next to him.
They sat in silence for a while, just listening to the crickets, the distant sound of the ocean, and the soft whistle of the wind.
"Do you remember what I asked you at dinner?" George asked.
Logan nodded.
"Yes."
"I asked that question because I wanted to know who you want to be. Not just as a lawyer, but as a man."
Logan looked at him.
"I want to be someone my parents can to be proud of. And that I can respect myself when I look in the mirror. That's all.
George smiled, putting his hand on his shoulder.
"You already are. And you're going to be even more so."
Sunday – Walsh House Living Room – 5:48 p.m.
Margaret showed Logan old family albums while Thomas packed his backpack for the return trip.
"This is George in 1969. Don't tell him, but I still have that jacket," she said, laughing.
"He looked like a secret agent," Logan commented, flipping through the pages.
"Yeah. And now he's always asking where we left the wine opener."
Logan laughed, but his eyes were fixed on the image. There was something comforting about that family, something he never knew he missed.
Margaret touched his hand.
"You have a house in New York. But know that if you ever need it, you have it here too."
Last day of summer - Back Bay Station, Boston – 08:34
Back at the station. The same one from two months ago. But everything was different.
Logan, now with more weight in his backpack and in his heart, said goodbye to the Walsh family.
George squeezed his hand firmly.
"Go out there and change the world, kid. And come back for Thanksgiving, huh?"
"I'll try."
Margaret hugged him tightly.
"Write. Call. And please, eat right."
Thomas threw his arm around his shoulders.
"I'm with you, brother. Every last comma."
And so, Logan boarded the train. Back to Harvard. Back to the battlefield.
But now… with roots in two places.
And a purpose clearer than ever.
Chapter 7 – Voices from Home
September 1, 1989 – Friday – Harvard Law School, Austin Hall Building – 8:05 a.m.
The campus was different.
It was as if summer had taken away some of the innocence of the first few months at Harvard. The trees around Austin Hall were already starting to change color, a shy yellow emerging in the leaves, setting the stage for fall.
Logan and Thomas walked across the courtyard with heavy backpacks on their backs, both wearing light blazers the sophomore year was beginning with a quiet seriousness in the air.
"Have you noticed?" Thomas asked, adjusting his glasses on his face.
"Notice what?"
"That no one seems excited anymore. Like... no one smiles."
Logan smirked.
"Sophomore year. The semester where everyone starts to realize how real the pressure is."
Thomas snorted.
"Yeah. And we still had an amazing vacation." Imagine someone who spent the whole summer interning at a firm.
— Or worse... trying to get an internship and failing.
Thomas looked at Logan with gratitude. He knew his friend was talking about himself subtly Logan had turned down internship opportunities so as not to give up the summer he was offered. And he didn't regret it.
When they entered Professor Alan R. Hathaway's office, a name feared among seniors for his sharp questions and discreet irony, the students were already in their seats, with files in their hands and eyes fixed on their books.
Logan sat down next to Thomas, opened his notebook, and readied his pen. The first class of the semester would begin. And he was ready.
Room 203 – Constitutional Law II – 8:10 a.m.
Professor Hathaway entered without greeting, with silent steps and a dark leather briefcase. He wore a dark gray suit, a light blue shirt, and an expression that seemed to say "I'm never satisfied."
Without looking at anyone, he sat down and opened the book.
"Moore, Logan. Answer."
Logan looked up. First class. First question. Sure.
"Sir?"
"Marbury v. Madison. What does this decision represent for the institutional balance of the country?"
Logan straightened his posture. He took a breath. And spoke:
"Marbury v. Madison, 1803. Chief Justice John Marshall's decision was responsible for establishing the principle of judicial review. In other words, the power of the Judiciary to declare laws unconstitutional, even if they had been approved by the Legislature and sanctioned by the Executive. This established the role of the Supreme Court as guardian of the Constitution and transformed the balance of powers."
Hathaway watched him. Coldly.
"That's in the book. I asked what it represents. Your interpretation."
Logan didn't hesitate:
"It represents the moment when the Judiciary stopped being just a passive interpreter of the law and assumed an active role in the structure of American power. It brought stability, but it also created the dilemma of unelected judges deciding the future of millions. A paradox between democracy and constitutionalism."
Hathaway closed the book.
"Keep it up, Moore."
And then, he turned to the next student.
Thomas whispered:
"Do you have a pact with some entity?"
"Only with insomnia and coffee," Logan whispered back.
September 5 – Gropius Dormitory – Room 216 – 10:41 p.m.
Logan settled into his chair, the lights dimmed, the pay phone in the hallway still working. He took the coins from his pocket and dialed.
Three rings.
"Hello?" Clara Moore's soft, familiar voice came on the other end of the line.
"Mom..."
"LOGAN!" The emotion in her voice was clear. Almost as if she had been waiting for that call for hours.
"Sorry I didn't call yesterday. Class started with a bang. I was already called in the first period, can you believe it?"
"Of course I do. You're my son. The best."
He laughed.
"Dad, are you there?"
"Yes, you are! RICHARD! COME HERE! IT'S LOGAN!"
A few seconds later, his father's hoarse and ever-so-slow voice came on the line.
"Hi, son."
"Hi, Dad."
"How are things going over there?"
"Rush. But good. I'm fine."
Richard paused.
"Are you eating right?"
"Yes. Margaret practically taught me how to cook this summer."
"Did you have a good summer then?"
Logan took a deep breath. He looked up at the ceiling of the hallway.
"I did. One of the best of my life." There was a moment of comfortable silence.
"We miss you," Clara said.
"Me too. But I'm calling to tell you that… I'm with you. Always. Even from afar."
They talked for another ten minutes. About the weather in New York. About a neighbor who had a baby. About a tire his father changed by himself. Little things. But to Logan, it meant everything.
September 8 – Langdell Library – 2:02 p.m.
Logan sat with Thomas among stacks of books. The two of them were preparing a paper on federal crimes.
"Do you call them every week?" Thomas asked, typing on his laptop.
"Whenever I can. Sometimes more than once. Sometimes I write letters, too."
Thomas stopped typing. He looked at him.
"That's… nice. I can barely talk to my parents without discussing politics."
"I can't afford not home with them. They're getting old. And they're far away. But they're my ground."
Thomas nodded.
"You're made of a kind of steel that Harvard doesn't teach."
Logan laughed.
"And you're dramatic."
September 15 – Gropius Cafeteria – 7:34 p.m.
The routine was heavy now. Each lecture came with double emphasis. Teachers expected more. Students seemed more exhausted. But Logan…he felt at home.
He sat alone, with a plate of rice, vegetables, and grilled chicken, while he reviewed his notes.
The pay phone in the hallway rang.
He stood up.
"Hello?"
"Logan?" Richard's voice.
"Dad?"
"I just called to tell you that I fixed the TV without any help. And…we're fine. Your mom's embroidering some new pillowcases. She said that when you come over for Christmas, you'll sleep on them."
Logan held the receiver tightly.
"I can't wait."
Richard was silent. Then he said:
"I'm proud of you, son. Not because of what you're studying. But because of who you're becoming."
Logan closed his eyes.
"I am who I am because of you."
September 20 – Wednesday – Classroom 204 – 9:05 a.m.
Professor Hathaway called Logan back to answer about the General Deterrent Theory in Criminal Law.
Once again, Logan answered in depth, going beyond the text. With examples. With historical cases. With practical implications.
When he finished, Hathaway said nothing.
He just turned to the class and said:
"Some students read. Others understand. Moore does both."
Letter sent by Clara Moore – September 23, 1989
My beloved son,
Your father helped me write this letter. We are doing well, and we hope you are too. I miss your watchful eyes at the table, the way you put too much sugar in your coffee.
We continue to pray for you every night. Don't be so hard on yourself. The world is big, but your heart is bigger.
With love,
Your mother (and your father, who is right here saying that the TV worked even without the repairman)
Logan put that letter in the drawer of his desk. Along with the others. Each one was a piece of home that he carried with him.
And so, the second year began. With fatigue. With pressure.
But also with love. And with roots.
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