Free Testing Kate by Whitney Gaskell Page A

No one could blame me for beaning her over the head with my Crim textbook, right? But then I sighed and pressed on. Violence never solved anything, as satisfying as it might be.
    There was nothing of interest in my mail folder. I looked up at the corkboard and saw the usual assortment of multicolored flyers posted there. One announced a Bar Review next week at the F&M Patio Bar. Another advertised the Public Interest Law Foundation’s bake sale. One had been posted by a Two-L eager to sell his One-L course outlines, claiming that he’d used them to grade onto Law Review. And then my eyes settled on a plain note card with a carefully handwritten message: R ESEARCH ASSISTANT NEEDED . I F INTERESTED CALL A RMSTRONG M C K ENNA . 555-7823.
    Armstrong McKenna. I knew the name, of course. McKenna was the historian and biographer who had, in recent years, penned the best-selling biographies of Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin. He was a frequent guest on the Sunday-morning talk shows that Graham was so addicted to (and which I only half listened to while I worked on the crossword puzzle). I hadn’t known he lived in New Orleans, though. And now he was looking for a research assistant.
    I reached up, pulled the note card down, and stuffed it into the outer pocket of my knapsack.

    At four o’clock that afternoon, I was driving down Prytania Street looking for the address that Armstrong McKenna had given me when I called about the research-assistant position. I knew that with my current study load it was crazy to even think about a part-time job, but just the thought of working for McKenna sent a ripple of excitement through me. To have something of my own, something outside the stifling confines of law school, was just too tempting to pass up. And I’d always been a history buff; I’d even majored in American History in college. I’d considered going on for my master’s degree, but there wasn’t exactly a thriving job market for history grad students.
    I’d been surprised that McKenna had wanted to see me so soon, but he’d insisted.
    “What are you doing now?” he’d asked in a thick Southern accent over the phone.
    “Wh-what…You mean right now?” I asked.
    “That’s precisely what I mean.”
    “I have a class this afternoon. Civil Procedure,” I added, unnecessarily.
    “Then come by after you’re done,” McKenna said breezily. He gave me his address and rang off, and it was only after we’d disconnected that I realized he hadn’t asked what time that would be.
    Now I was crawling along, trying to find the house number he’d given me, although none of the houses on the damned street appeared to be marked. Still, it was a lovely neighborhood, just off Prytania, with cobblestone sidewalks and large Greek Revival homes.
    “There it is!” I said triumphantly. The only house on the entire street with a number on the mailbox just happened to be Armstrong McKenna’s. I felt a little burst of triumph.
    “Maybe my luck is finally starting to turn,” I said aloud as I shifted the car into reverse to pull into the only curbside spot available on the street, which just happened to be located right in front of his house.
    I felt a thump, the soft resistance of my back tires hitting something.
    “What the…,” I started to say.
    And that’s when the howling began. It was an awful noise, like the scream of a banshee hell-bent on revenge. Goose bumps actually broke out over my chest and arms.
    I leapt out of the car and ran back to where the source of the screeching was coming from. There, lying on the pavement with all four of its stumpy legs waving up in the air, was the fattest basset hound I’d ever seen. The dog had limpid eyes, long ears, and a brown-and-white coat. I crouched down next to the hound, looking in vain for any obvious signs of blood or injury. But still, he might have internal injuries. I was going to have to get him some help.
    I looked a bit grimly at Armstrong McKenna’s enormous