Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 72
Professional Day

"Absolutely not," Ash said, staring at the suit laid out on his bed.

"Absolutely yes," Patrick replied from the doorway. "The Mid-Atlantic Legal Conference is here this year instead of DC. They're doing a 'Future Lawyers Day' for attendees' kids. You're coming."

"I don't want to be a lawyer."

"You don't have to want to be a lawyer. You just have to spend the day seeing what it's like." Patrick picked up the suit jacket, examining it. "Your mother had this tailored for you. Navy blue, very professional. Try it on."

"Dad—"

"Noam." Patrick used his lawyer voice—the one that meant the discussion was over. "This is an opportunity. The conference is usually in DC, which means I miss it or go alone. This year it's local. They're hosting activities specifically for kids. You're going to put on the suit, come with me, and maybe learn something."

Ash wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that he'd been an adult, had a life, had specifically avoided the corporate professional world his father inhabited.

But he was also eleven years old with a father who'd already made the decision.

"Fine," he muttered.

Shannon appeared with a camera. "Oh good, you're getting dressed! I want pictures before you leave."

"Mom, no—"

"Mom, yes. You and your father matching in your suits! This is a moment."

The suit fit perfectly—tailored to his eleven-year-old frame, navy blue with a crisp white shirt and a bow tie that Patrick insisted on. Ash looked at himself in the mirror and saw a miniature version of his father.

It was deeply weird.

"You look just like Patrick did at your age!" Shannon took approximately fifty pictures from every angle. "Stand next to your father—both of you in suits, this is perfect."

Patrick stood beside him, both of them in matching navy suits. Father and son. The Walsh legal legacy, or whatever narrative his parents were building.

"Can we go now?" Ash asked after the tenth photo.

"One more—"

"Shannon, we're going to be late," Patrick intervened gently. "You can take more when we get back."

In the car, Patrick explained what to expect. "It's a three-day conference. Today is the only day with the kids' programming. There's a mock trial demonstration, a debate workshop, a moot court exercise for different age levels. Between those, you'll come with me to a few panels—legal ethics, constitutional law, that kind of thing."

"Sounds riveting."

"It might be more interesting than you think." Patrick glanced at him. "You're smart. You've got a good analytical mind. Even if you don't want to be a lawyer, understanding how law works is valuable."

The conference was at a downtown hotel—the nice kind with marble floors and chandeliers. Patrick checked them in, got their name badges. Noam Walsh, printed in neat letters with "Future Lawyer" underneath.

"I'm not a future lawyer," Ash muttered.

"You're a future something. Today you're a future lawyer." Patrick led him into the main conference hall.

The place was full of lawyers. Hundreds of them, all in suits, all carrying briefcases or tablets, all talking in that particular way lawyers talked—precise, confident, ready to argue any point.

Ash had spent his previous life avoiding people like this. Had resented his father's world, the corporate structure, the rules and regulations and endless precedent.

Now he was eleven years old in a bow tie, surrounded by it.

"Patrick!" A woman approached—fifties, sharp suit, carrying herself like someone important. "Good to see you. Is this your youngest?"

"Noam, this is Judge Martinez. She sits on the appellate court." Patrick's hand on Ash's shoulder was gentle but firm. "Noam's here for Future Lawyers Day."

"Wonderful! How old are you, Noam?"

"Eleven."

"Perfect age for the middle school mock trial. You'll love it." Judge Martinez smiled at Patrick. "He looks just like you did at that age. Same serious expression."

After she walked away, two more of Patrick's colleagues stopped to say hello. Then a law school friend. Then someone from Patrick's firm. Each time, Patrick introduced Ash formally, hand on his shoulder, pride evident in his voice.

"My youngest son, Noam. He's here to see what we do."

Ash played the part. Shook hands properly. Said "nice to meet you" at appropriate times. Stood up straight in his tailored suit.

He could feel his adult consciousness analyzing the performance. Could see how Patrick was showing him off—not cruelly, not as a trophy, but as his heir. His son who might follow in his footsteps.

The irony wasn't lost on him. In his first childhood, he'd rejected this world entirely. Had gone the opposite direction—art, alternative lifestyle, everything their father wasn't.

But Noam? Noam wore the suit. Stood beside his father. Played the role of the dutiful son interested in law.

The first session was a panel on constitutional law. Ash sat beside Patrick in a conference room full of lawyers, listening to three professors debate the finer points of Fourth Amendment jurisprudence.

It was... actually kind of interesting.

Not in a "I want to do this for a living" way, but in a "these are smart people making complex arguments" way. The way they built their cases, anticipated counterarguments, used precedent to support their positions.

Ash found himself paying attention. Taking mental notes. Seeing the structure of legal reasoning.

"What did you think?" Patrick asked afterward.

"They disagreed about basically everything."

"That's law. Reasonable people can interpret the same text differently." Patrick guided him toward the next session. "That's what makes it interesting. There's rarely one right answer—just better and worse arguments."

The Future Lawyers sessions started after lunch. Kids from ages eight to seventeen, separated into age-appropriate groups. Ash ended up in the 11-13 bracket—about twenty kids, all dressed nicely, all there because their parents were attorneys.

The session leader was a law professor named Dr. Emerson. "Welcome to Introduction to Debate and Moot Court. Today we're going to learn the basics of legal argumentation. Not just what to argue, but how to argue effectively."

They started with a simple exercise: arguing both sides of a straightforward proposition. "Resolved: Schools should have uniforms."

Ash got paired with a twelve-year-old girl named Sarah. They had to prepare arguments for both sides, then present them to the group.

"Okay, so for pro-uniform," Sarah said, clearly taking charge, "we argue safety, equality, reducing distraction—"

"And against," Ash interrupted, "we argue freedom of expression, individuality, and the fact that uniforms don't actually solve the problems they claim to solve."

Sarah looked at him with new respect. "You've done this before?"

"No. I just think about both sides." Which was true—his adult consciousness automatically saw multiple perspectives.

They prepared quickly, efficiently. When their turn came, Sarah argued for uniforms, Ash argued against. He found himself enjoying it—the structure of building an argument, anticipating rebuttals, making his case clearly.

"Excellent work," Dr. Emerson said when they finished. "You both demonstrated good rhetorical skills. Noam, particularly strong on the rebuttal. You anticipated her arguments and addressed them preemptively."

After the debate exercise, they moved to a mock trial scenario. A simple case—someone accused of stealing a bike, witnesses with conflicting testimony, physical evidence to interpret.

Ash got assigned to the defense team. Five kids working together to build a case, cross-examine witnesses, make closing arguments.

The kid playing lead attorney—a thirteen-year-old named Michael—was clearly experienced. Probably had lawyer parents who'd been training him for this since birth.

But Ash found the weak point in the prosecution's case. "The testimony about what time he saw the defendant doesn't match the physical evidence. The sun position they described wouldn't happen at that time of year."

Michael looked at him. "How do you know that?"

"I just... think about details." Which was partially true. His adult mind noticed inconsistencies that kids might miss.

They built their case around that contradiction. In the mock trial presentation, they won—not decisively, but enough that the judges (actual lawyers volunteering their time) ruled in their favor.

"Strong work," one of the judge-lawyers said. "Defense team did an excellent job identifying the weakness in the prosecution's timeline. That's real legal thinking—finding the detail that unravels the entire case."

Afterward, Patrick found him. "I heard you did well in the mock trial."

"How did you hear that?"

"One of the judges is a colleague. She said you showed real analytical skills." Patrick looked pleased. "Not bad for your first time."

The afternoon session was moot court—slightly more advanced than the mock trial. Constitutional law cases, appellate-level arguments, more complex reasoning required.

Ash's team got assigned a First Amendment case about school speech. They had to argue whether a school could discipline a student for off-campus social media posts.

This was actually interesting. Not just because the legal questions were complex, but because Ash had lived through the internet age as an adult. Had seen how social media evolved, how speech online was treated differently than offline.

He helped his team build their argument. Not dominating—he was careful about that, didn't want to seem too mature—but contributing strategic points.

When they presented, he gave one section of the argument. Spoke clearly, cited precedent they'd been given in the brief, made eye contact with the mock judges.

It felt... natural. Not in a "I want to be a lawyer" way, but in a "I know how to make a coherent argument" way.

Afterward, Dr. Emerson pulled him aside. "Noam, that was impressive. You have a real gift for legal reasoning. Have you considered debate team when you start middle school?"

"I haven't thought about it."

"You should. You've got the mind for it." She handed him a flyer. "There's a citywide youth debate league. Might be something to explore."

Patrick was waiting for him after the session ended. "Ready to go home?"

"Yeah."

In the car, Patrick asked about the day. Ash gave him the highlights—the debate exercise, the mock trial victory, the moot court argument.

"You enjoyed it," Patrick observed. Not a question.

"Parts of it," Ash admitted. "Not enough to want to be a lawyer. But it was interesting."

"That's all I hoped for. Exposure. Seeing what's possible." Patrick was quiet for a moment. "You know, you don't have to follow in my footsteps. I've never expected that."

"Really? Because it kind of feels like you've been grooming me for this since I was two."

"Teaching you to think critically isn't grooming you for law. It's giving you tools." Patrick glanced at him. "Whatever you end up doing—and you've got years to figure that out—the ability to argue effectively, to see multiple sides, to build a case for your position... those are valuable skills."

At home, Shannon took more pictures. Ash in his suit, looking tired but accomplished. Patrick beside him, both of them matching, both of them looking like the professional Walsh men.

"My boys," Shannon said, and Ash heard the emotion in her voice. Pride, yes. But also something else. Relief, maybe. That this version of her child fit into the world in ways the first version never could.

That night, Ash hung the suit in his closet. It felt symbolic somehow. The navy blue jacket, the pressed pants, the bow tie hanging beside it.

He'd worn his father's world for a day. Had performed the role of the future lawyer, the heir to the Walsh legal legacy.

And the complicated truth was: he'd been good at it. The debate, the mock trial, the moot court arguments—he'd excelled. His adult consciousness combined with his eleven-year-old appearance had made him seem precocious, gifted, destined for this.

But he'd also enjoyed parts of it. The intellectual challenge. The structure of legal reasoning. The satisfaction of finding the flaw in an argument.

He thought about his first life. About how hard he'd worked to reject everything Patrick represented. How important it had been to be different, to go the opposite direction, to prove he wasn't defined by his father's world.

But Noam didn't have to reject it. Noam could wear the suit, excel at the mock trial, and still be his own person.

The difference was: before, he'd needed to reject it to survive. To establish an identity separate from expectations. To prove queerness and professionalism weren't mutually exclusive by choosing neither.

Noam didn't have that burden. Noam was already seen as male, already accepted, already fitting into his father's world in ways his first childhood never allowed.

So he could engage with it without it threatening his identity. Could be good at debate without it meaning he had to become a lawyer. Could make his father proud without sacrificing himself.

"My name is Ash," he whispered to his dark room. "I'm thirty-three years old. I'm eleven years old. Today I wore a suit and argued constitutional law and won a mock trial. Today I was everything I could never be before—my father's son in his father's world. Today I didn't have to reject it to protect myself. Today I could just... try it on."

He paused.

"I'm still not going to be a lawyer. But I didn't hate it. And that's complicated."

Four thousand, six hundred and eighty-seven days to go.

But tomorrow: back to normal. Back to being Noam the athlete, the student, the kid who wore t-shirts and played baseball.

The suit would stay in the closet until the next formal event. A costume he could put on and take off.

And that was okay.

Growing up meant trying on different roles. Seeing what fit. Learning what you were good at even if you didn't want to do it forever.

Patrick had wanted him to see his world. To understand it. To maybe appreciate it.

And Ash had. More than he'd expected.

That didn't mean he'd follow that path. But it meant he didn't have to fear it either.

One mock trial at a time.