“Yes, I’m here. Just a minute, please,” I called out. I hurried into the small bathroom and rinsed my face with cold water, then straightened my mangled hair as best I could. Then I went and unlocked the door. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I must have dozed off for a minute there.”
“I tried your phone,” said Peggy, “but I think you have it set on DO NOT DISTURB.” She was right.
“Bill, we need to talk,” said the woman with Peggy. It was Amanda Whiting, UT’s general counsel.
“Come in, Amanda,” I said, “have a seat. Thank you, Peggy.” Peggy backed out, looking at me with concern and at Amanda with suspicion. “What’s on your mind?”
“I know you’ve had a rough couple of days,” she said, “and I hate to add to your troubles, but we have two major problems. As I feared, this creationist attorney, Jennings Bryan, has filed a civil suit seeking damages on behalf of his client. Your student Jason Lane.”
“I am sorry,” I said. “I wish I could hit REWIND and do that day’s class over again. I hate it that I upset him so badly, and I hate it that UT is now bearing the burden and the expense of defending against a suit like that.”
“That’s…one of the issues we need to discuss,” she said. “As you know, our policy is to defend academic freedom vigorously-when a professor is making a point relevant to the course material. In this case, it’s been called to my attention that a tirade against creationism is not, in fact, pertinent to a class in forensic anthropology.”
“Wait, wait,” I said. “Are you telling me the university might not stand behind me in this?”
“I’m afraid I am,” she said. “The trustees met in special session yesterday. They spoke with Mr. Bryan, and with the president of the faculty senate-who agrees, by the way, that you overstepped the bounds of academic freedom in this instance. In exchange for a letter from the board of trustees expressing a similar position, Mr. Bryan has agreed to drop the university from his suit.”
“But he’s not dropping the lawsuit altogether?”
“No. He now plans to sue you for actual and punitive damages.”
“How much?”
“One million in actual damages. Three million in punitive.”
“Four million dollars for embarrassing a kid in class?” She nodded grimly. “And the university’s basically cutting me loose to fight this on my own?”
“I’m afraid so, Bill. I’m sorry to have to tell you this.”
“Well. When it rains, it pours. Which reminds me, you said there were two big problems. What’s the other big problem?”
“I can’t imagine you’ll be surprised to hear that it’s the murder of Dr. Carter. I’ve been informed that you are considered a suspect in that murder. Bill, we’re a school. Parents entrust their kids to our safekeeping. We have no choice but to suspend you until this is cleared up.”
“Jesus, Amanda, what ever happened to the notion that a man is innocent until proven guilty?”
“Legally, that’s the presumption,” she said, “but we’re a publicly funded educational institution, Bill, and the public holds us accountable to other, stricter standards.” She glanced down at my desk, where I had photos of Jeff ’s boys. “Are those your grandkids?”
“Yes.”
“If one of their teachers were a suspect in a child abuse case, wouldn’t you want that teacher out of the classroom until the matter was resolved?”
If she had picked any other example, I could have argued with her. “Dammit, Amanda, you are taking away one of the last things I am clinging to for sanity right now.” She looked regretful, but not regretful enough to change anything. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to pack up some things,” I said stiffly. “I’ll be off campus within an hour. Thanks a lot, Amanda. It’s been a swell twenty-five years.” I turned my back on her and began to gather papers.
For months I’d been putting off a project whose deadline had come and gone: I’d promised a textbook publisher to revise and update my osteology handbook, which I’d written right after I began teaching, to help students identify bones in the field. But the combined demands of teaching, research, administrative duties, and forensic cases had made it impossible to set aside enough time to burrow into the revisions. Maybe now-barred from teaching, but not yet behind bars-I could finally get it done. I stuffed all the journal articles and research reports I’d accumulated as reference material into my briefcase, along with a triple-spaced version of the existing edition’s text, then turned out the light in my office and closed the door. As I locked it behind me and headed down the stairs and out the east end of Stadium Hall to my parking space, I wondered if I would ever return.
My parking space was empty. Of course: my truck had been seized, and the Taurus I’d rented remained parked in my driveway, five miles away, thanks to my one-way trip downtown in a police car last night. “Dammit!” I shouted. “Is it too much to ask?”
A horn tooted behind me for a fraction of a second. I turned and saw Miranda leaning out the window of her Jetta. “Is what too much to ask?”
Relief swept over me. I nearly cried at the sight of her face, looking at me in the same open and friendly way it had for years. “Is it too much to ask for a ride home,” I said, “and maybe a few kind words along the way?”
“Get in,” she said, “you brilliant, handsome, kindhearted man.”
Now I did cry.
CHAPTER 33
I PULLED THE RENTAL car into the driveway at Jeff’s house, after checking my rearview mirror to make sure no one had followed me here. The double-width garage door was open, and inside, I saw both Jeff ’s Camry and Jenny’s Honda minivan.
The front door was open, and through the glass storm door I saw Tyler and Walker in front of the television. I rapped on the door, then opened it and stuck my head inside. “Hey there,” I called to the boys, “look who’s here!”
Both boys turned in my direction. Walker was the first to scream, but a split second later Tyler joined him. Jenny came rushing out of the kitchen, an onion in one hand, a big knife in the other. When she took in the scene, the knife and the onion fell to the carpet. Jenny hurried over to the boys and knelt down, wrapping an arm around each. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she soothed. “Come in the kitchen with Mommy. Come on. Everything’s okay. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
A moment later Jeff emerged from the kitchen, looking embarrassed but angry. “God, Dad, I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish you had called before you came.”
Now it was my turn to be embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know that…that I needed to.”
Jeff made a face. “Some of the kids at school…You know how mean kids can be. I guess some of the parents let their kids watch the news. We don’t, but not everybody is as picky as we are about what their kids see. Anyhow. Obviously. They’re…confused about you right now.”
“Terrified of me, I’d say.” He winced, but nodded in acknowledgment. “I guess this is not such a great place for me to take refuge from the media, then, is it?” He blanched, and looked nearly as terrified as the boys had. “I should be going, then.” I turned and went out the front door.
He followed me out. “Dad, wait. Come on, don’t just run away. What do you need? What can I do to help?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, Jeff. I don’t know a whole hell of a lot right now. Everything I thought I knew-everything that seemed stable and reliable about my life-has imploded in the past few days. A woman I was starting to fall in love with has been killed, I’m on the verge of being charged with her murder, the university is suddenly treating me like a pariah, and my grandsons think I’m a villain out of some horror movie. I don’t know what I need, or what anybody can do to help. It’s like I’ve stumbled into the Twilight Zone, or some negative-polarity universe where every good thing I had and stood for has gotten twisted into its polar opposite.”
“Tyler and Walker are little kids,” he said. “They don’t understand; they can’t understand. But I can. And
I’d like to help. Let’s think about this for a minute. Do you need a lawyer?”
I shook my head. “I’ve already hired one.”
“Who is it? Somebody good?”
I shrugged. “Yes and no. Burt DeVriess.” He groaned. “I know, I know-he’s the best of lawyers and the worst of lawyers. Believe me, I’m painfully aware what a Faustian bargain I’m making. But somebody has done a damn good job of making me look guilty. Now’s not the time to be squeamish about Grease.”