EPH ONCE AGAIN made his way across Bingham Plaza to Stockbridge. Students were scurrying everywhere with final preparations for tomorrow’s Fling and were too preoccupied to notice a disgraced professor in their midst.
An enormous stage had been erected in front of the Dix and sound checks were being performed. Adjacent to the stage was a twenty-foot video screen. Eph had never heard of Killa C Note but he wasn’t surprised. He didn’t know much about the rap world.
Electronic music blared from the speakers …
Love you! Love you!
The Fling was probably the high point of the year for most students. Classes were over and they had a week off until exams. The administration understood the constant pressure most students felt and that periodically steam needed blowing off. Best that it be done in a largely enclosed space like Bingham where campus security could keep an eye on things.
Eph wished he could share in the collective mood. Titus had called earlier and told him the tenure committee was going with Toes. Toes was going to be the Edward S. Phelps Professor of English.
“I suppose this doesn’t come as a surprise, after everything,” Titus said in a sympathetic voice.
It didn’t, but it still stung. Minutes later D’Arcy showed up and said, “I’m afraid I have bad news.”
“You should take a ticket and get in line.”
“Why?”
“Toes got the tenure spot.”
“Oh, God, baby. I’m sorry.” She gave him a supportive hug, but with the news she was about to share, it was hardly a shock.
“Okay, go ahead. Throw another log on the bonfire of my discontent.”
“So, I can hear what happens in Milton’s office, right? I usually tune it out, but I heard Milton say your name. He was talking to Martika. The second hearing is just for show. They’ve already made up their minds.”
“I should have known as much. I’m such an idiot.”
“I am going to hurt that woman.” D’Arcy explained that the meeting was to paper things over in case Eph sued later. “After Milton left, I went onto his university email account, which I have access to. I did a search for your name. Dozens of emails came up, mostly from Martika and counsel. From what I could gather, universities are sued on Title IX decisions all the time and frequently settle, but those settlements are peanuts—‘small beer’ was how Milton put it—compared to how much they receive in federal funding every year, so all in all they view it as a reasonable trade-off. But they still try to minimize the damage.”
“D’Arcy, I love you, but you have to stop.”
“The point is, they think you’d win a case against them.”
“Sweetheart, you’re going to get fired.”
“I’m not sure I care.”
“I do.”
Was this his last time on campus? He wasn’t sure why he was even going to the hearing. Did he need to play along with their star chamber? He also didn’t know why Lulu Harris still had it in for him, but he was strictly forbidden from contacting her. Title IX, he was told, again. He sighed, knowing it was in his DNA to follow the rules, even when rules were rigged. On some level, too, he still felt love for this place. He couldn’t just turn it off with a switch.
Those feelings did not apply to Martika Malik-Adams.
A secretary led Eph back to the same conference room as before and told him to wait. He could still hear the thumping beat in the plaza outside with someone occasionally saying, “Check, check.”
A full half an hour later Martika, Stephanie Coughlin, and the stenographer came through the door and took their seats. “This is the second session of Professor Ephraim Russell’s Title IX hearing, called to order,” Martika began, wasting no time. “Hello, Professor, how are you today?” She flashed some feral teeth. Eph assumed it was an attempt to smile.
“Under the circumstances, I don’t know how to answer that question.”
“I feel like we got off on the wrong foot last time, and I apologize for that. We’re not on anyone’s side, we’re only trying to establish the facts.”
“That strikes me as a difficult task when it’s one person’s word against another’s,” said Eph.
“We all do the best we can, don’t we? I should say we are very appreciative of your help in understanding what happened.” Martika waited for a response from Eph, but it wasn’t forthcoming. “Anyway, I’d like to put aside the day in question for the moment. If you would, tell us a little bit about yourself.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’d like to know you better. Indulge us. We want to understand Ephraim Russell, the person, so we can make this process as fair as possible.”
Martika was taking a different tack today, and despite everything D’Arcy had told him, a small part of him wanted to believe. This was Devon, a place where the highest ideals were supposed to be upheld. A place of beauty and truth. But, no. His naïveté could only be pushed so far. She, and by extension the university, was lying to his face. This was a game he didn’t need to play.
“Well, Martika, I like riding my bike and eating pizza, especially with clam sauce. I’m not really a morning person and I’m partial to long walks in the rain.”
Malik-Adams stared blankly. “I see. And do you walk in the rain often?”
“Oh, yes. I monitor the forecasts for bad weather.”
Martika took some notes. Is she really writing that down? His stenographer friend was clicking away.
Martika forced another smile. “Oh, you’re making a joke.” She tried her best to chuckle. “But seriously, tell us what makes Ephraim Russell, the man. I believe you have roots in the South somewhere?”
“I thought we covered that at the last rodeo.”
“We’d hate to overlook anything, especially something that might help. Wouldn’t you say that’s a good thing?”
“Okey-dokey. But I don’t see what it has to do with whether I laid a hand on Lulu Harris. Which I didn’t, by the way. Did I mention that?”
“Professor Russell, it is within our purview to ask any questions we like.”
“Then I take the Fifth.”
“About where you’re from?”
Stephanie Coughlin leaned in. “I’m afraid that the Fifth Amendment is a legal construct that doesn’t apply here, Professor.”
“Okay, I plead the Fourth.”
“Professor, there’s no such thing, and again, you are confusing this with a legal procedure. This is not a court of law. Please answer the question, if you would.”
“Fine. I’m Southern.”
“Whereabouts?” Martika continued,
“Here and there. Does it matter?”
“I’m having trouble understanding your defensiveness, Professor. I believe you told the Bias Response Team that you were from Florida, is that not right?”
“That’s where I spent a number of years, yes.”
“But not where you were actually raised…” Martika shuffled through some papers until she found the one she wanted. “If I were to look at a copy of your background file from HR, is that what it would say? That you’re from Florida?”
“Excuse me, but once again, what does this have to do with Lulu Harris?”
“It gets to character and veracity, Professor. How about your spare time? Are there organizations you get involved with?”
“Scrabble.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I am a member in good standing of the National Scrabble Association. Great game, Scrabble. Did you know I once scored one hundred and eight points on a single word? Gherkin. It’s a small pickle.”
“I see.” Martika wasn’t sure if her chain was being yanked, which it most definitely was. “What about political inclinations? Could you share your thoughts there?”
“Absolutely. I am stridently opposed to inclinations.”
“Professor—”
Stephanie Coughlin leaned over and whispered something in Martika’s ear.
“I withdraw the question.” Continuing, Martika said, “You wanted to talk about Ms. Harris. Let’s do that. Would you say she seems like a troubled girl?”
“Well, you’ve seen her crawling around campus just like I have. I’d say she’s flat-out nuts.”
“But what about before?”
“Before what?”
“Before this recent behavior.”
“I have no idea. But the girl hit on a professor and then lied about it, so yeah, maybe.” Lied came out laah’d.
“Would you say she’s attractive?”
“What?”
“She’s a very pretty girl, wouldn’t you say?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think anyone would agree she is. She’s also quite young, isn’t she?”
“Relative to what?”
Martika ignored the question. “So here we have this young, pretty girl, one that is also troubled, all alone with you when you’d been drinking. The situation must have seemed all too easy.”
“Easy for what?”
“Easy to take advantage of. Tell me, Professor, do you like young girls? Do they turn you on?”
Eph had been clenching and unclenching his fists so hard that his nails had drawn flecks of blood. His head throbbed. How did I get here? He looked across at Martika, sitting there like a ravenous vulture. What gave her the right? What?
A feeling of pure clarity came over Eph for the first time since this all began. It came as if a voice, and that voice said, Screw it. He sat up bolt straight and said, “Lady, I am from Ashley fucking Alabama. I like country music, I hate kombucha, and I think dressing up as a vagina is idiotic. Furthermore, as we say in Ashley, Lulu Harris is some serious sugar, but I never laid a hand on her. I think both you and this hearing are a complete joke, and just to be clear, for about five minutes I considered voting for Donald Trump.” Eph leaned back and put his feet up on the conference table. “Now what else would you like to fucking know?”
The two women stared in shocked silence. Martika turned the shade of a ripe eggplant and her mouth twitched. “Professor Russell! You were warned for the last time to take this proceeding seriously. I will be forced to report you did not!”
Eph gave Martika the most serious, forehead-furrowed look he could muster.
Then he winked.
“Mr. Russell!” She was screaming now. “You are—”
“Dean, perhaps this is a good time for us to take a break,” said Stephanie Coughlin.
“No!” Martika yelled. She turned the full focus of her fury back to Eph. “Look at me, Professor. Look very carefully. You want to treat this as a joke, be my guest. It makes my job easier. But you should take me very seriously. You will take me seriously!” Waves of heat radiated off her and bits of spittle flew from her mouth. Suffused with the rage of someone whose obvious importance was not properly recognized by those around her, she then rose out of her chair to say something else. It was at that very moment, Martika Malik-Adams, Devon dean of diversity and inclusion, farted. Not a small, sneak-it-out kind of fart, but an emphatic, clarion one, finding its full voice through a thin barrier of straining spandex.
Eph’s eyes went wide, and for the first time in weeks, he laughed. As Martika stormed out of the room, he laughed and laughed until tears came to his eyes.