The final chapters offer Turow a chance to reflect on the lessons he learned in his first year of law school, as the memoir moves toward a conclusion in which he takes stock of his errors and his development while also considering some of the systemic problems inherent to the law school educational model. Turow tries to rectify his mistakes from the Legal Methods oral argument by taking the moot court competition seriously. Like his classmates, Turow spends a considerable amount of time on the project, not because it’s hard, but because he’s excited by the research aspect that will be common to life as a lawyer: “Moot court offered a real opportunity to demonstrate and see for yourself that you had acquired some competence with professional tasks” (196). This assignment, however, causes conflict in his relationship with Terry, as Terry—highly individualistic and averse to authority—becomes disillusioned with Harvard’s legal education style, which he regards as overly rigid. Terry stands as a foil to strict, authoritarian professors like Perini, and Turow uses him as an example of the kind of personality that does not thrive in the law school environment. Terry’s disillusionment connects to the theme The Psychological and Physical Stress of Rigorous Academic Programs, as the pressure to conform leads him to lash out at his professors and his peers. Terry uses the BSA advisor Margo as a scapegoat for his frustrations with the school, and he yells at her for the critiques on his written brief: “I don’t care if everybody who’s ever done this sees it your way—they’re all wrong. You’re wrong! You’re just abusing your power as an advisor. You’re trying to push me around” (201). Terry doubles down on proving himself right, not considering the extra pressure he is putting on his partner. When Terry continues to argue with the judges after the competition closes, Turow knows that his relationship with Terry will never be the same.

The first-term grades significantly affect how students in Turow’s section interact with their education. All students were admitted to Harvard based on their high undergraduate grades, and they’re all used to being top of the class. The students are used to using their grades as a signifier of their achievements, as well as of themselves. Turow’s description of this phenomenon is one of the book’s clearest explanations of The Link Between Competitive Ambition and Identity: “Those high marks had been the means by which we’d made our way through the world—to famous colleges, to Harvard Law School. They were success itself, the underpinnings of self-images, taken, over time, less as limited reflections of our abilities than as badges of personal merit” (207-08). To be accepted to Harvard Law School, each student has had to perform consistently at the top of their class for many years. By now, top academic performance has become fundamental to each student’s sense of self. When students receive more average marks—Bs or even Cs—they take the news very hard. Many students stop putting as much effort into their work, not seeing the point in trying hard anymore, and Turow hears an increase in criticisms about the exam grading system. Professors mark the exams without knowing who wrote them—called blind grading—and the registrar later connects the grade to the student. Developing the theme The Weaknesses of Traditional Legal Education, students criticize blind grading because they believe the professor’s knowledge of their performance in class should be considered—especially since the exams are the sole determinant of their final grade. Several students showed “real insight into legal problems in class” (209), but they ended up with poor grades because they weren’t good test takers. Students find the historical practice of blind-grading unfair, especially when they put so much effort into their class participation.

On the other hand, students who received high marks are elated, and they throw themselves more intensely into their studies, no longer caring about appearing too ambitious. This rapid shift in focus is another example of The Link Between Competitive Ambition and Identity. Stephen, for example, recognizes that his high A marks bring him that much closer to making the Review, so he calls the study group back together months before exams to ensure their work will help him achieve his goals. Stephen spends every waking moment reviewing and even outlines the outlines to distill them further in a desperate attempt to keep hold of his status. Stephen also learns the kind of privileges his grades can give him in the real world. Over Spring Break, he does interviews with some large firms, and he realizes his grades give him more options than others may find: “I’ll tell you something, […] grades don’t talk—they scream” (236). Contrary to his vow of not taking a corporate job, Stephen feels the pull of seeking a high salaried position because he is so consumed with the access his grades grant him: “But he also frequently talked about salary differentials between the two careers and said he was thinking about working permanently for the private firms of which he’d been so contemptuous in October” (237). Stephen begins as an idealistic student who hates corporate law firms and plans to work in the public interest, but as soon as he sees the advantages his grades confer, he abandons his earlier principles. His position as a winner in the academic competition becomes his identity, and he wishes only to keep winning.

Another major incident that occurs in these chapters is the chaos over Turow study group’s outline. This moment shows that The Link Between Competitive Ambition and Identity can be morally corrosive, as the students of Section 2 dramatically alter their behavior when they fear they are falling behind. Most study groups cease meeting after the first term, but when they hear about Turow’s study group still working—and working on a full-year Civil Procedure course outline—they feel slighted, assuming everyone else was also working independently. There is a frantic period of creating groups, but the students know they’ll never catch up to the work Turow’s group already completed. Nicky Morris tries to narrow the scope of his exam so those without an outline have a clearer view of what to study, but most students still panic about failing. The incident draws out what Turow calls “my enemy” (254)—a symbolic figure of his deepest ambitions and the cutthroat methods he’ll use to achieve them. Turow initially refuses to let anyone see the outline unless they’ve contributed to it. He has little sympathy for the students who didn’t work on an outline on their own initiative, and he doesn’t want to be handing out his hard work to those who didn’t have the same drive. Turow’s innermost feelings bubble through when he confesses, “I want the competitive advantage. I don’t give a damn about anybody else. I want to do better than them” (252-53). A dark ambition that Turow repressed finally rears its head, frightening both himself and his friends. The vicious confession makes Turow look deeply at himself, and he must remind himself to remain decent in the face of these cruel feelings.

As Turow comes to the end of his second term, he looks back on his entire first-year experience and offers possibilities for change. At the most foundational level, he believes that legal education needs to be more humanistic—both in its treatment of its students and in its curriculum. Turow recognizes that the Socratic method is a mainstay of the institution, but he wants schools to implement safeguards so professors can’t abuse their power and terrorize their students: Schools should take steps to mitigate The Psychological and Physical Stress of Rigorous Academic Programs. Although Turow’s daughter claims that, a generation later, the experience of law school is less aggressive, Turow still knows of teachers who take pleasure in tormenting their students: “One Harvard professor admitted to me privately a few years ago that when a student answers ‘unprepared,’ she asks the slacker to select the classmate whom the professor will call on next” (283). Turow also suggests smaller class sizes so students can have more personal contact with their professors. This would help overcome the depersonalization and alienation common in large classes, where students end up feeling like numbers, not people. Turow’s interest in the law began by questioning how legal codes and rules interact with peoples’ daily actions and decisions. He comes to learn that the law is not absolute but is in a constant state of flux and construction: “The law can change; the law can vary from place to place. And in those changes and variations, the law, like any other social product, reflects the persistent conflicts and contradictions within the society” (191-92). Turow thinks students would benefit from learning this at the outset, so they don’t feel like the rules and concepts they learn are immutable. He proposes supplementing regular legal courses with comparative courses, including with other disciplines like film, literature, and philosophy, to remind students about the complex social contexts all law exists within.