D’ARCY POKED HER head into Milton’s office, where students still littered the floor. Many more spilled out into the hallways and other offices. The university had brought in sleeping bags and set up a portable food and beverage service in the hallway. Professors had quietly been instructed to allow any missed work or tests to be made up later.
True to his word, Milton had not left the premises since the start. D’Arcy had run back to Church House twice to retrieve basic toiletries and fresh clothes. A small shower was just off his office, but he couldn’t very well use it without allowing everyone else to, and there were just too many. The office of Devon’s seventeenth president had by now acquired a pungency rivaling that of the locker room over at the hockey rink.
The protesters had grown largely quiet, having made their case with stridency. Jaylen Biggs went out on Milton’s small balcony several times to lead outside supporters in some chants, especially after they saw the local media trucks with their big slogans drive up. CHUCK CHAPMAN IS ON YOUR SIDE! But now it was a waiting game. The protesters passed the time on their phones promoting the sit-in through social channels. #DevonShame was once again a trending hashtag, but this time it was national, not just statewide. #OccupyDevon was another popular one.
D’Arcy had been too busy to allow herself to get caught up emotionally. Between manning the phones, juggling Milton’s schedule, and coordinating with food services and the like, she’d been on call twenty-four seven. As an African-American, she sympathized with some of what the protesters were saying, but thought a few of the demands were just silly, even damaging. A dorm set aside exclusively for minority students? That one stuck in her craw. Hadn’t they waged an entire civil rights movement precisely to get away from segregation? And how did such notions square with the goals of diversity? Weren’t students from different backgrounds supposed to learn from one another? How would that happen if they built walls?
“Sir, may I have a word?” she asked Milton. They slipped out and ducked into a small office clear of students. “Stillman Weathers is here. I put him in the boardroom with the others. Also, you should know we’re getting a number of calls from the media, and some are quite persistent. They’re parking their trucks illegally. I called the city and police are issuing tickets, but they don’t seem to care.”
“Thank you, D’Arcy. Put the media on hold for a little longer. I’m going to the boardroom.”
“Oh, and, sir? Dean Malik-Adams is insisting on meeting with you as well.”
“Tell her to come straight to the boardroom.”
“Yes, sir.”
Milton entered the boardroom and found the Steering Committee gathered, talking in a corner. Stillman was holding court with the others. There was Patrick Colley and Ben Clifford, along with Allen Devereux, Devon’s senior counsel. “Gentleman, so good to see you all!” Milton gave everyone his signature vigorous handshake.
“I had to step over people to get up here!” Ben exclaimed.
“Yes, we have a few students enjoying our hospitality, as you know,” Milton said.
“But there are so many. And goodness, the smell!” They turned to see Martika Malik-Adams standing at the door. She looked angry, glaring at Ben.
“Ah, Dean Malik-Adams,” Milton said. “Please join us. Let’s all sit down and discuss this, shall we? I’d like to think we have an opportunity on our hands.”
An hour later, Milton emerged and asked D’Arcy to summon the Cultural Center leadership to the boardroom, where they and the Steering Committee met collectively. D’Arcy, who had no idea what was going on, sat just outside in case she was needed. Ten minutes later, all came out as a group.
“D’Arcy, please tell the media people to gather outside in thirty minutes,” said Milton. “We have an important announcement to make.” The group, which numbered almost ten, then walked down to Milton’s office to speak with as many of the camping protesters as could fit.
Outside, Bingham Plaza had grown dark in the late February afternoon. It had been a quiet day, but now students began to materialize, summoned by those on the inside through their social media channels. The “real” media began to show, too, those with TV cameras. The local affiliates for at least two national networks began setting up shop in front of Stockbridge. As the crowd reached a critical mass, they began to chant.
“No justice, no peace!
“No justice, no peace!”
Minutes later, the enormous double doors swung open and a beaming Milton Strauss walked out, followed by Stillman Weathers and the Steering Committee as well as dozens of students. Their appearance prodded the growing crowd to chant louder still. Milton stood on the top step, illuminated by the bright lights of television cameras. He waited a few moments to let the moment build. There was no microphone, but someone handed him a bullhorn. He felt like a young revolutionary again.
Motioning with his arms for the crowd to quiet, he raised the bullhorn to his mouth. “It’s so great to see everyone here today. I just want to let you know how much I appreciate everything you do to promote justice and social equity.”
More cheering.
“Dean Malik-Adams and I just met with Stillman Weathers, the chair of Devon’s Board of Governors, as well as the board’s Steering Committee, and students representing the Afro-American Cultural Center. We are pleased to make the following announcement. Devon University will immediately earmark $50 million to further the goals of racial diversity and inclusion.”
A whoo-hoo of surprise and delight coursed through the crowd. By this time, Malik-Adams had shouldered her way up so she was next to Milton. She grabbed his hand and waved their intertwined hands in the air, lending the impression of running mates. Camera flashes popped everywhere.
Milton beamed and once again motioned for quiet. “But that’s not all.”