Chapter 15

  

I might have known that in the midst of my worries about Jamie and my job, my journalism faculty colleagues would come up with a new way to bedevil me. Larry Coleman, recently tenured associate professor of new media writing, was waiting in my office. I’d fought hard for his tenure last year over the objections of three senior professors who had wanted him fired. We’d prevailed, but Larry still seemed tense and unhappy. I wondered what was bothering him this time.

“No rest for the wicked,” Larry said as I settled into the chair behind my desk. The morning was bright and sunny, and the leaves of the giant trees that lined the quad outside my window rustled in the constant northern Nevada wind.

“Me wicked or you wicked?”

Nell came in with some files I’d requested and two small bottles of water balanced in her hand. She smiled at me. My, she was looking pretty these days. I knew from her personnel record she was close to sixty, but her face was as smooth as porcelain.

Larry nodded at Nell and took the water. I thanked her for both of us.

“Neither one of us wicked,” he said. “Weinstein is wicked and up to his old tricks.”

My stomach turned. I’d hoped George Weinstein and Larry would get along this semester and get past their old bitterness toward each other. Dream on. Egotistical hardly described either of them. George and Larry had each come to live in a state of permanent outrage.

“What now?” I dreaded hearing about another fight between the two men. Both of them hit below the belt whenever possible.

“I’m slated to give a paper at an online conference in San Francisco in December. The chair of the panel I’m on knows George, and in a friendly chat yesterday, she asked George what he thought about my paper.”

“And?”

“And George gave my paper what she called ‘a lukewarm review.’”

“How did George even know what your paper is about?”

Larry chuckled, but there was no amusement in his face. “Oh, George doesn’t know a damned thing about my paper. He just ventured an opinion anyway.”

“And you found out how?”

“The event chair called me. You know how some people love to spread negative gossip. She thought to give me a heads up about George, as if I needed any warning about that asshole.”

“You reassured her, I hope.”

“I reassured her about my paper, but I told her what I thought of George, too.”

“Great. If she went back to him, George will be in a snit.”

Larry stood up and put his water bottle on my desk.

Outside, the sun had gone behind a cloud and the wind had picked up. The rustle of leaves made the trees sound as irritated as I was.

“I’d appreciate it if you would talk to George. I know you want us to have a cordial faculty relationship, but Weinstein makes it impossible for me. He never lets up. The man’s behavior is monstrous.”

“I’ll talk to him. But meanwhile, please don’t escalate this matter. The last thing I need right now is another faculty fight.”

“I’ll be good. I know we all have to behave while you’re going through the dean search. And, honestly, we all want you to win this job.”

“That’s good to know. Thank you.”

Larry tugged at his mustache. Then he said, “I am trying to get on with George, I’m trying to be cordial to all the faculty. But George…George’s treatment of me constitutes legal harassment. I’m sure I could win a grievance against him because it never stops. It just never stops.” He turned abruptly and left.

Please don’t file a grievance, I said silently to his back. A grievance garners all the bad publicity of a gang war and would really screw up my chances for the dean’s job.

“I don’t believe it,” said Nell, standing in my doorway. “If those two start up again, I’ll put poison in their coffee.”

I patted her shoulder as I walked out. “We’re not at poison stage yet, Nell. But maybe some antidepressants might help.”

If there was one thing I’d learned from last year’s faculty quarrel it was that, if the animus gets vicious enough, everyone gets hurt. No matter what the issue, once a quarrel reaches the point where bullying and hateful insults become part of the weaponry, no one escapes the consequences. People who don’t want to take sides end up taking sides. Even those who try desperately to remain neutral are drawn into a toxic whirl of accusation and recrimination. I was determined not to let that happen to my school again.

I was also at a complete loss as to what I could do to prevent the next battle. George and Larry were increasingly bitter and trouble seemed inevitable. Wouldn’t Mark Froman have a good time watching my failure to prevent another scandal?

  

The meeting with the policy committee was set for ten a.m. sharp, and Bud Chekovski had scheduled it in a conference room clear across campus from the journalism school. I walked quickly to make up for the time I had been delayed by Larry. I hardly noticed the blue of the bright, cloudless sky or the tall trees that occasionally shaded my path. The Mountain West campus was one of the most beautiful in the country. Defying the high desert that surrounded it, the grounds were green with grass and trees. And all about was a changing array of flowers that bloomed from March until the middle of November. I was so preoccupied I walked past a spectacular stand of purple asters without even seeing it.

I also failed to see Joe and Wynan coming toward me.

“Good morning, Red,” said Wynan. Joe grinned, glad we were all finally on a first-name basis.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Any news?”

“Joe’s team found a witness who saw the man who matches our guy’s description outside of Jamie’s apartment house.” Wynan’s eyes were wide with anticipation.

“And the witness got a partial license plate off the gray Ford van our man drove away in,” Joe added. “We’re heading to university parking services to see if the plate belongs to anyone on campus. Meanwhile my guys are checking the Nevada DMV for more.”

“So we may be making progress.” Wynan almost smiled.

“Could the witness add anything more about what the guy looks like?”

“Tall and white, which we knew. Muscular arms. Overalls and muddy boots. Sunglasses and a cap covering the eyes and hair.”

“Good hunting,” I said, feeling a slight lift in my mood. Maybe we could find Jamie. And maybe we could find her in time.

I continued on toward the other end of campus, wishing I could have stayed with Joe and Wynan and avoided the next hour of discussion.

I spied Bridget and Karen ahead of me as I neared the building.

We walked in together. “A united front,” said Bridget, opening the conference room door.

Bud Chekovski was seated at the end of the table. The athletic director and the football coach sat on either side.

Bud looked up. “Morning, ladies.” The coach and the athletic director nodded.

Bridget sat down next to the coach and addressed the chairman. “Some of us were wondering why you felt it necessary to send us that quote about dangerous statistics.” Bridget didn’t start with small talk.

“Just underscoring the point,” said Bud, amiable as usual. “We really should focus on this campus and what we know about this campus. Not on some national figures that may or may not be accurate.”

“Often what happens to our students doesn’t occur on this campus. It occurs off-campus,” said Karen.

“What do we know about off-campus assaults?” Howard had come into the room.

Karen paused, waiting for the rest of the committee members to file in and find seats.

“Here’s what we know,” she said, her voice steady and authoritative. “The Cleary Act requires us to keep records of on-campus incidents. We know that only a few assaults have occurred on the Mountain West campus during the last two years. And only three were reported to my office.”

“Only three,” repeated the coach.

“Yes, but in the same time period, the Landry police have received dozens of reports from off-campus locations. That’s where the parties are, since this campus is officially dry. Most of the incidents the police know about occurred in apartments and houses nearby, but off-campus.”

“I know the police chief. I’ve never heard him say anything about this,” said Bud.

“The chief’s not the expert,” said Karen. “The Victim Services people are. They are the ones who know what’s going on. If a student is assaulted and wants to report it, the student goes to them.”

“And then when do you hear about it?” This from the university attorney.

“The police are good about keeping me informed,” said Karen, sadness in her voice. “When the victim wants to talk to me, or get counseling from us, I see her, or him. When the police tell the survivor that the description given to them isn’t enough to identify, or isn’t enough to formally charge someone with a crime, then they tell the survivor to come to me.”

“When the police don’t think they have enough to charge the accused, is that what the provost means when he refers to exaggeration?” Bud was leaning forward.

“No. Not exaggeration,” said Karen, her voice rising again. “More like intimidation. All sorts of pressures are put on these young women, many of whom are freshman and new to college. They are shy and uncertain, and it doesn’t take much to make them afraid of losing their reputations, or getting all their new friends angry with them.”

“I’m told that other girls are often the ones pressuring the victim to keep her mouth shut,” I said, remembering Nell’s words.

Karen nodded. “Absolutely true. Any of us who deals with sexual assault cases can tell you that happens more often than we would like.” Karen sat down heavily in her chair.

The group fell silent. Several pretended to search for something in their briefcases.

“Should we institute the same policy as California? Yes means Yes?” Howard’s question surprised me.

Karen nodded but before she could speak, the university attorney cut in.

“Let’s remember that a young woman who changes her mind midway, and doesn’t get her way, can cause real damage.”

“But what kind of young man keeps going when a girl says ‘Stop?’” I was beginning to see how this discussion was shaping up.

“A drunk young man,” said the coach.

“Or an entitled young man,” said Bridget. “Especially a man who doesn’t have much respect for women in the first place.”

“I think we should keep in mind that sexual activity among our students often starts in high school,” said the foreign language professor. “By the time they get to university, the young men expect sex. And sometimes the young women expect it, or assume it’s expected.” His accent was strong, but his English was exact. And he raised a point that had bothered me too. How much was a history of high school sex mixed with a new freedom to get blind drunk responsible for the degree of assault we were seeing?

“I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” said Bud. “Let’s begin with looking at the current law. Karen, perhaps you could lead us through.”

When Karen was finished, one of the faculty, whose name I had forgotten, raised his hand. He was a big man seated at the other end of the table. His voice was soft but intense. “Is there anything that ensures the guy who’s accused gets a fair shake?”

Karen leaned forward. “Shelby, the law is designed to protect both male and female students.”

Now I remembered. Shelby Vane, a tall, large-boned professor from the College of Agriculture. “Yes, I’m sure it protects the victim of either sex. But how does it protect the accused?”

Karen frowned. Bud interrupted. “I think this is a point we should cover in our next meeting.”

Shelby Vane sank back into his chair and looked at the ceiling. For a minute, I thought I saw tears in his eyes.

The attorney again, “Dr. Vane, I assure you we will address your concerns, and we will address them thoroughly.”

As the meeting broke up, I sidled over to the attorney. We walked out together. In the hallway, I tapped his arm. “You seem to know Shelby Vane. Does he have a particular stake in this issue? He seemed visibly upset.”

The attorney looked uncomfortable and drew me aside. “Vane’s older brother did some time in prison for rape. Months later, the woman recanted her testimony, but the man’s reputation was ruined. I understand the entire Vane family was devastated by the matter. They had a big ranch outside of Landry, and most of them moved away. Shelby and his mother stayed, or I should say, his mother stayed, and Shelby returned after he got his doctorate.”

“Do you think he’ll be able to be objective about the work we are doing?”

“I don’t know. But I do know Shelby Vane asked the Provost to put him on this committee.”

“Well, perhaps he’ll help represent the interests of the accused.”

The attorney cocked his head, “Ever think about taking up the law, Dr. Solaris?”

Nope. Too busy trying to take up the work of a detective.

  

Jamie

  

Jamie could still feel the grip of the man’s hands on her shoulders and still see the flame in his dark eyes. But he hadn’t hurt her. And he said he wouldn’t do anything against her will except keep her locked up. She desperately wanted to believe him. But the basic fear sat like a rock in her stomach. He said he wasn’t going to hurt her, but he still could. He may not be ready to assault her, but he seemed determined to keep her prisoner. And his reasons struck her as irrational.

Insanity would explain his behavior. But what if he wasn’t insane, just cold and calculating, a leopard poised above, waiting for the perfect moment to leap and overwhelm his prey? What if, after he got what he wanted, he planned to kill her? Now more than ever, she had to get away. She had to get back to the closet in the empty room.

She turned on the lamp on her bedside table and picked up the leather journal. He had given her this particular book to read. Perhaps its contents would tell her more about his “objective” and more about who he was and why he had captured her.

The handwriting was elegant and precise.

Penmanship like this was no longer taught in schools, so Jamie deduced that this journal was written by a young woman who had been educated decades ago. The man’s mother? Or grandmother? Probably the latter, since the writing was infused with old-fashioned notions of submission and propriety. But certainly the writer was not the stepmother. These were not the words of a woman who had refused to “obey.”

Jamie took a deep breath when she came to: Every day, I shall prepare our home and my appearance before my husband comes home. I will take a few minutes to rest so I will be refreshed from housework. I will apply makeup and curl my hair. I will remember he has spent his day working hard and with others who make him tired and irritated. I promise to be light-hearted and charming when he comes through the door. If he needs a lift in his spirits, I will endeavor to provide it.

Jamie frowned a few pages later when she read: Obey! I must not shrink from the word even though it sounds harsh and unreasonable. Instead, I will ask myself if it is truly so difficult to obey him when he commands affection and tenderness. I must find a way to remind myself every day that obedience to my dear husband is Divine Will.

Jamie closed the journal. She understood the carvings on the wooden toilet seat covers. And she was beginning to understand just what was expected of her. If she’d been afraid he might kill her, the journal convinced her that, at some point, she might have to kill him.