TUESDAY 10:56AM
Jerry climbed the marble steps to the second floor of Landon Hall. Both Mike and Darla offered to accompany him for moral support, but he told them no. If things didn’t go as Jerry planned, he didn’t want his friends to suffer retribution.
He pushed open the heavy oak door and walked down the deserted hallway. Outside room 202, a solitary figure sat on a bench. At the sound of Jerry’s approaching footsteps, she lifted her head.
Fallon!
She wore an unbuttoned flannel green-and-red checkered shirt over a black tee, jeans, and Timberlands. She glared at Jerry over the rims of her glasses. Fallon was the last one Jerry expected to sell out. All her talk about sticking it to the establishment was empty rhetoric.
She read his original article connecting Cassie, Noah, and Vince’s deaths to bad luck. And she was here, no doubt, to tell the committee all about it. Jerry glanced around for Vanessa. He suspected she’d arrive shortly. But the committee playing was an old game. Whatever Fallon and Vanessa had to say was irrelevant. Jerry was ready to drop the world’s biggest reverse card.
He powered up his phone. Last night, he emailed Sam about his appearance before the committee. Still no reply.
Jerry’s throat tightened. He’d only known Darla five days. Four-and-a-half, really. But in that time, she’d proven that she knew him better than he knew himself. She’d been supportive in a way that neither Busby, nor any other girl he’d dated, had been. He was determined to prove Darla’s faith in him was not misplaced.
Perhaps the most improbable part of their relationship was that her looks really didn’t matter to him. Jerry chuckled to himself. Let’s not go overboard, Darla was a knockout. He recalled the way she pulled her body tight against his, her soft kisses on his neck, the way she slid her tongue—
“Hey!” A campus police officer held the door to room 202 open. “They’re ready for you.”
* * *
A single table with two folding chairs and two microphones were set up at the far left end of the room. On the far right was a dais where the six members of the committee sat. Jerry had met the chancellor and the police chief. The athletic director he knew. He didn’t recognize the other three.
Jerry looped his backpack over the empty chair and sat. He ignored Fallon, refusing to make eye contact.
Dr. Thornton-Gaston gaveled the meeting to order. “Mr. Williams and Ms. Ahern, so nice of you to join us today.” Her voice, amplified by her microphone, echoed through the conference room.
“As if we had a choice,” Fallon protested.
Jerry suppressed a smirk. Fallon: Always bringing the attitude.
“Let’s skip the formalities. Ms. Ahern, could you please tell us what you know about the website called The Underground?”
Fallon pointed at the dais. “May I at least know who my inquisitors are?”
Dr. Thornton-Gaston sighed. “I assume you know who I am. To my left are Captain George Characopus, Campus Police Chief; and Don Gehring, Athletic Director. On my right are Maureen Stepanian, University Counsel; Julie Fredericton, Director of Media Relations; and Rodney Case, Chief Information Officer.”
Fallon stood. “Fallon Ahern, Class of ’26. Arts and Entertainment Critic for The Chronicle and winner of this year’s Adirondack Area Golden Reviewer Award. All press, not only college media, are eligible. And I beat the lot of them.” She bowed and sat.
“Congratulations, Ms. Ahern.” The chancellor’s voice was filled with undisguised contempt. “What can you tell us about The Underground?”
“I check it out from time to time. They have decent movie reviews. But I’m having trouble accessing their website.” Fallon held up her phone. “Does anyone here know about that?”
Jerry chuckled at Fallon’s theatrics. But what was she up to? She wasn’t playing the role of friendly witness.
“We’ll be asking the questions this morning, Ms. Ahern. Do you write for The Underground? Movie reviews or otherwise?”
“I already stated that I’m the Arts & Culture Critic for The Chronicle.”
“Which doesn’t answer my question and doesn’t prevent you from writing for The Underground.”
Fallon let out an exaggerated sigh. “I’m not sure why your question is relevant. Van Buren is a state school and constrained by the First Amendment.”
“The First Amendment is not absolute,” the chief argued. “It doesn’t give you the right to shout ‘fire’ in a crowded theater.”
“I can’t believe you actually made that reference.” Fallon groaned. “Does anyone here know the actual case behind that?” She glared at the University’s Counsel. “It’s Schenk v. The United States, which isn’t even relevant law any longer. The controlling case is Brandenberg v. Ohio. But getting back to Schenk, here’s the too-long, didn’t-read version. Schenk distributed pamphlets encouraging people to resist the draft during World War I. For some crazy reason, he thought it was a bad idea to conscript young men and ship them overseas to be killed or horribly mutilated in the no-man’s-land of a misguided war of imperialism whose true purpose was to line the pockets of the munitions’ manufacturers. And for the audacity of trying to save these men’s lives, the government locked him up.
“This was not about a false claim of danger in crowded conditions that could result in bodily harm or death. And the articles that appear in The Underground aren’t threatening to create the conditions of an out-of-control stampede. They are responsible reporting that upset the powers-that-be, as all good journalism should.”
“Thank you for the history lesson, Ms. Ahern.” The chancellor looked to her right. “Rodney, do you want to take over?”
The CIO cleared his throat and read from his laptop. “Ms. Ahern, at ten forty-seven yesterday morning, routine monitoring of the campus network detected a secure file transport protocol connection from your laptop to a host that we’ve tentatively identified as belonging to The Underground. Would you care to comment?”
Jerry’s jaw slipped open. Fallon wasn’t here to rat him out. The university was after her.
Fallon shook her head in mock disbelief. “You’re tracking students like you’re the Stasi, and we’re living in East Germany during the sixties?”
Case sat up straighter. “The university has the right and responsibility to manage its network. Our proactive scans serve to enhance the student experience and protect their privacy.”
Fallon laughed. “You’re good. You sound like you actually believe that.”
The chancellor leaned toward her microphone. “Answer the question, Ms. Ahern.”
“Computers make mistakes all the time.” Fallon shrugged. “Last month, my grandfather turned sixty-five. The government mailed him one hundred and eleven Medicare cards. Not one of them had his name on it.”
“We are quite sure about our results.” The CIO tapped the side of his laptop. “We’ve checked and double-checked.”
“Look, even if your spying is legal, and your scanning program is accurate, that doesn’t mean I connected to this mystery server. My girlfriend uses my laptop. So does my roommate.”
“Enough with the obfuscations, Ms. Ahern,” the chancellor demanded. “Are you writing for The Underground? Yes or no?”
Fallon crossed her arms. “You don’t have the right to ask that question, and I’m certainly not going to answer it.”
“Very well. We can only conclude from your lack of denials that you are contributing to The Underground.”
“I think we need another history lesson. This time on the McCarthy Era.”
Jerry stood. “Can I say something here?”
“You’ll have your chance, Mr. Williams.” The chancellor glared at him.
“You want to know who’s writing for The Underground? It’s me. I admit it freely.”
The chancellor relaxed in her seat. “That’s quite a turnaround from Saturday.”
“The circumstances have changed.”
She consulted her laptop. “To be clear, Mr. Williams, you admit to being the author of the articles entitled: ‘Three Student Deaths Tied to Bad Luck’, ‘Fast Running Parking Meters: The Administration Cover-up’, and ‘Stadium Light Tower Collapse Results in Fourth Death Tied to Bad Luck’?”
“Yes, all mine.”
“Very mature of you, Mr. Williams. We’ll want you to write retractions for all three articles. They’ll be published in The Chronicle, on the university’s website, and distributed to local media.”
“Hold on!” Jerry raised a hand. “I’m not retracting anything. I stand by all I’ve written. Friday the 13th is three days away, and we can expect more deaths related to bad luck unless we find the perpetrator. That’s the reason I’m here, why I admitted to everything. I can’t do it alone. I need the university’s help.”
“You cannot be serious.” Fredericton rolled her eyes.
Jerry pounded the table. “It’s all documented. Read my stories. It all goes back to a series of deaths that happened on campus in 1984. I’ve done the research, interviewed witnesses. It’s all real.”
“This is exactly the kind of fear-mongering that will cause a panic on campus. Mr. Williams, you have one last chance to change your mind.” The chancellor glared at him.
“I’ve laid out the facts. I’m willing to help, share all that I know. But the administration has the ultimate responsibility to keep students, faculty, and staff safe. That won’t happen if you ignore what I’ve discovered.”
“George, cut his microphone.”
Jerry’s voice stopped booming. He picked up Fallon’s mike. “You can’t silence me!”
The chief cut the other mike.
“We’ve heard enough.” The chancellor wrote on her notepad. “I make a motion that Ms. Ahern and Mr. Williams be placed on suspension, effective immediately. They’ll be allotted six hours to gather their personal belongings and depart campus. They’re not to return until reinstated by this committee.”
“You can’t do this!” Fallon yelled.
Jerry cupped his hands to his mouth. “You’re going to get more people killed!”
“Do I hear a second?” The chancellor glanced around at the committee.
“Seconded.” The athletic director raised his hand.
“Maureen, please call the yeas and nays.”
The counsel grabbed a pen. “Mr. Gehring?”
“Aye.”
“Ms. Fredericton?”
“Yes.”
“Chief Characopus?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Case?”
“Yes.”
The counsel scribbled on her sheet. “I vote in the affirmative. Dr. Thornton-Gaston?”
“Aye.”
“By a vote of six—”
“Stop, stop, stop! You must halt these proceedings immediately!”
All eyes turned to a fifty-something man who stood at the open door. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a droopy face, and wore an ill-fitting suit.
“This is a closed meeting,” the chief snapped.
“Certainly not closed to legal counsel.” The man shuffled into the room.
“Whoever you are, there is no need for counsel.” The chancellor glared. “This is not an adversarial process. It’s a fact-finding committee.”
“The name is Alan Berg. And a fact-finding committee that’s about to suspend my clients? Sounds pretty adversarial to me.”
“You’re too late, Mr. Berg. You can have a conversation with the university’s counsel after the meeting concludes. But your clients’ fates are sealed.”
“Not so fast.” Berg shuffled toward the dais. “Forgive my slow gait, I’m recovering from hemorrhoid surgery.”
The chief information officer’s face scrunched up in disgust.
“Oops, was that too much information?” Berg dropped a sheaf of papers in front of each member of the committee.
“What is this?” Case squinted at the pile in front of him.
“Copies of a temporary restraining order issued by Judge Lois Huberty of the United States District Court for Northern New York prohibiting Van Buren University, its officers, employees, contractors, or anyone else in a position of authority from taking any disciplinary actions against my clients.”
The chancellor looked to the counsel. “Maureen?”
The counsel glanced at the papers. “It appears legit.”
Dr. Thornton-Gaston drummed her fingers. “The judge says we can’t zig, then we’ll zag. A conversation with Mr. Williams and Ms. Ahern’s instructors wouldn’t result in any disciplinary action but could prove most unfortunate for their GPAs.”
“I would advise against such threats.” Berg tapped his briefcase. “Judge Huberty is notorious for enforcing not just the letter of her orders, but also the spirit.”
“Janelle, this only holds things up until I can get into court.” The counsel shuffled the papers. “I’ll work on a brief this afternoon. I’m sure I can convince the judge that the university has to be permitted wide latitude when dealing with disciplinary issues.”
Berg sized up the counsel. “You seem a worthy adversary, Ms...”
“Stepanian.”
“I look forward to meeting you in court, Ms. Stepanian. Nothing like a good legal battle to get the old ticker wound up.” Berg thumped his chest, then addressed the chancellor. “Since the purpose of the committee’s meeting is now moot, I’ll collect my clients.” Berg trudged to the table where Jerry and Fallon stood in wide-eyed amazement.
“What just happened?” Fallon shook her head in disbelief.
Jerry pointed at Berg. “Why are you helping us?”
Berg leaned forward. “Not here.” He shuffled out of the room with Fallon and Jerry in tow.
In the hallway, Berg stopped. “Can we take the elevator? I’m really not in condition for the steps.”
Fallon shrugged. “Sure.”
“Mr. Berg, please—”
“Patience, young man. All will be revealed.”
The three rode the elevator to the first floor. The doors slid open to reveal a waiting Sam. Same blue beret, but this time in an orange T-shirt with Alex Jones’s face.
“Sam!” Jerry pointed at her. “This was all your doing?”
“Sam?” Fallon furrowed her brow. “She told me her name was Gretchen.”
“Hi Rachel.” Berg smiled.
Fallon and Jerry exchanged puzzled glances.
Sam/Gretchen/Rachel stepped forward and hugged Berg. “Hi Dad.”