He died the day before my final exams. I was in a race against the clock, poring over my case notes, when the phone rang and a disembodied voice at the hospital said, “Mr. Fry expired at three-fifteen this afternoon.” The next morning, adrift in a mad sea of law students, I stared blankly at the exam book as my classmates wrote feverishly. I had come back to the law college in my hometown to be with my father at the end. It was winter 1964. Now, as I look back through the haze of so many years, I also see myself—a lawyer in his eighth decade trying to remember a man he may never have known.
Premium Content For:
- Senior Lawyers Division