Chapter 1

  

Anyone who thinks a college campus is a haven of scholarship and civility hasn’t been paying attention. Last year, I sat through a dozen faculty meetings with recurring visions of Dr. Amy Bishop flooding my mind. I could almost see Bishop seated in a 2010 faculty meeting at the University of Alabama, then see her stand, aim a nine millimeter gun at her friends and colleagues across the table and begin firing. Before her gun jammed, Bishop killed three people, wounded three others, and then left the building and headed home to her husband and children.

Madmen lurk among us.

I don’t recall the day when members of my own faculty began to scare me, or when their normal academic debates turned to prolonged and vicious quarreling. It was as if trouble crept up on us, a slow-moving storm that turned the sky pewter just before the funnel cloud manifested. I began to worry about potential violence.

I clearly remember the faculty meeting last August when George Weinstein’s hand came down on the table so hard it bounced the piles of paper in front of us.

“Larry Coleman doesn’t deserve tenure,” said George, breathing heavily. Sweat shone on his upper lip. “We should never have hired him in the first place. He’s a lousy teacher and a third rate scholar. I move we request his resignation.”

I could smell the fear around the room.

Larry Coleman’s eyes turned dark. His hands closed into fists, his lips tightened over his teeth.

“George, shut the hell up,” said Max Worthington from the other side of the table. His voice was low, almost soft, his face gray with anger. “You can’t say that about a colleague. Not here, not now.”

“I can say whatever I goddamn please,” said George, not even bothering to look at Max.

Max’s voice grew louder. “Tenure doesn’t protect your right to slander.”

George moved around the end of the table until he was a foot away from Max. Max stood up. The two men loomed over us—big, tall, muscular.

Here we go.

Partly hidden by my open laptop, I waited to find my voice but I was paralyzed by the idea that anything I said would further inflame the situation. Pain in my stomach ruled me. It made me ashamed to think I was scared of two angry professors, but I was. I said nothing.

Henry Brooks, our dean, sat morose and silent. Henry was the best boss I had ever known. He didn’t just manage, he inspired. Usually, he helped us play to our strengths and overcome our weaknesses. His fine, handsome features rarely displayed despair. But that day he looked old and defeated. He was my hero, but I felt sorry for him.

“This school is in crisis,” said Simon Gorshak, the oldest of the faculty. He twisted in his seat to face the dean. “Henry, what are you going to do about it?”

“There is a motion on the floor,” said George at the top of his voice.

“But no second to the motion,” said an obviously exhausted Henry, “and I don’t think ad hominum remarks illuminate the conversation or our understanding.”

George turned and went back to his chair. Max sat down and pulled his laptop toward him.

A message arrived on my screen from Max, fuming and banging on his keyboard: “Hold on tight, Red. Palace revolution coming up.”

I typed a reply: “The revolution eats its children.”