The Trial Of Temptation

"shes fun"

You woke up shortly after 9 o clock on a Thursday afternoon. It was September of 1969. You had just arrived in Chicago to start your internship for the wildly famous defense lawyer William Kunstler. Being a lawyer had been your dream job for as long as you could remember, as your entire immediate family had been lawyers, including your favorite aunt Lisa, who you'd aspired to be like ever since girlhood. The truth is, you were nervous. There were stakes. This internship could assure you entry into law school, especially considering the time and circumstance of your internship.
What's the big deal? Well, William Kunstler had just agreed to represent the so-called Chicago 7 in their trail against the city of Chicago. This was a great opportunity for you to get in with the lawyers in the area and also experience intense work and in a defense setting. With this determination and hope on your mind, you got out of bed, slipping into your favorite hoodie and throwing your (h/c) hair into a loose ponytail.

You made a cup of coffee, and sat down at your kitchen table to review a bit of background on the trial to better prepare you for the day. You saw that Kunstler would be representing the leaders of the yippies, Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin, who you knew to be extremely smart yet reckless men through your friend Angela, who had been a member of the yippies since their creation. He would also be representing the leaders of the SDS (students for a democratic society) who you knew less about. Their names were Rennie Davis and Tom Hayden. Hmm. Ok. The other defendants were David Dellinger, Lee Wiener and John Froines. All dudes. Great. You hadn't had a ton of luck with dudes over the years. You had sort of a thing with tall, condescending skinny fucks with asshole-ish demeanors. It hadn't served you well and resulted in many a heartbreak. You'd sort of figured out how to be an asshat to those sort of guys before you caught feelings, or vice versa. You hoped no one involved in the Kunstler internship would fit that description because you wanted this job to be strictly professional, no funny business.

You got up from your chair and went to put on your outfit that you'd planned the night before. A green turtleneck with a corduroy mini dress over it, black tights and brown Mary Janes. You took out your hair and put a brown headband in, grabbed your bag and headed out the door. You grabbed a cab and arrived at a large stone house that you knew to be Kunstler's. You hesitated to get out of the cab for a second, extremely nervous that you'd fuck the whole thing up, but the cab driver gave you a look that made you want to get out of the car immediately. So, you dropped the money in the pail and headed in toward the house. You rang the doorbell and waited for a bit, until the door was opened by a short, dark haired man with glasses. One of the defendants perhaps.

"Who are you?" The man asked, cocking his eyebrow.

"I'm y/n l/n, I'm one of the interns?" You said, smiling sheepishly.

"Ah, alright, come in then. I'm Rennie Davis." He said, sticking out a hand for you to shake. Ah, yes, the SDS guy. So far, safe, not attractive, easy to work with probably. You thought. You shook his hand and smiled. He held the door open for you and you went inside, noticing the sheer rugged beauty of the home in the front of you. The walls were lined with stained glass windows and paintings of various soldiers and knights. There was a wooden staircase in the middle, lit warmly with a light coming from the level above.

"Uh- everyone is up on the second floor. It's kind of a shitshow, just to let you know in advance. Lots of work to be done" Rennie said from behind you. You nodded.

"Sure, alright, just up here then?" You said, gesturing to the staircase. Rennie furrowed his brows.

"How else would one get to the second floor?" He said with a chuckle. Fuck. First awkward interaction? Check.

"Ah, alright, obvious." You muttered, blushing a deep shade of red. You started up the staircase, hearing the clicks and clacks of typewriters and the rusting of papers grow louder as you made your way up. The stench of marijuana also filled your nose as you crept nearer. You got up to the top, turning the corner to see probably a dozen people, all moving about the space. It was set up like an office, with makeshift desk spaces scattered about the floor. People were talking, watching the news and scribbling hurriedly on the desks. You wondered which were defendants, which were other interns, and which, most importantly, was Kunstler.