The Rise of the Red Queen

by Bourne Morris

  “I apologize for being late,” I said, “but I’ve been occupied at a location we thought might lead us to our missing student.”

  “Ah yes,” said Philip Lewis. “Ezra showed me your memo about her. Beautiful girl. I saw the posters as I walked onto campus this morning.”

  “Another problem for the school of journalism,” said McCready. He was wearing a lightweight wool suit and shoes as highly polished as the conference table. His hands were folded in his lap and his long legs stretched casually out from the chair. Cool and calm, with a smugness in his expression that infuriated me.

  Philip Lewis leaned forward in his chair and put his thin pale hand on the armrest of mine. “Red, we called you here this morning to discuss the plans for the rest of this fall semester in the school of journalism—plans for dealing with the Weinstein shooting and a missing student, as well as the governance of the school and the preparation for the last of the reaccrediting meetings in October.”

  I could hardly bear to look at either of them. We had slaved over the written requirements of the accrediting team all summer long, and now I hated the thought of going through the final meeting with the accrediting team when we were in crisis mode.

  Ours was one of the select group of accredited journalism schools in the country and had been for decades. But to keep our status, every seven years we were examined by a team of distinguished academics from other schools. They looked at everything: graduation rates, faculty research, teaching evaluations, every dimension that could be seen to describe our success or failure. They would insist on interviewing the entire faculty and getting at all the dirt. How was I going to pull us together in time?

  “The accrediting team is bound to be concerned about the leadership of the school,” said McCready.

  Oh shit, here it comes.

  “And for that reason we are not going to name a new dean at this time,” said Lewis. “In the interests of stability, it seems best for you to stay as interim dean until after the team has left. The faculty is very supportive of you and we want to present a cohesive unit to the accrediting team.”

  Except for Lewis’ shallow breathing, the room was very quiet. McCready sat up in his chair and crossed his legs.

  “I see.” My head was starting to pound. The air felt much too warm.

  Philip Lewis rose unsteadily from his chair and called for his secretary. “I am going back home now for a nap. You and the provost can continue this discussion here if you like. Margie can bring you some coffee or some lunch.”

  After Lewis had left, the provost sat back in his chair and stretched his legs out again. “I’m wondering, with all your responsibilities at the school, if it’s wise for you to also continue serving on the sexual assault policy committee.”

  “I’m not sure how one thing has to do with the other.”

  The provost turned his head and looked at me, dark eyes flashing. “I’m thinking of your time. You will have a great deal on your plate in the next few weeks, what with the publicity the shooting will bring, not to mention preparing for the accrediting team.”

  “Much of the data preparation for the team has been done over the summer, Dr. McCready. And I think the publicity will die down for a while until we know more about George Weinstein’s future health problems, and until Larry’s trial date comes up.” I was dying to know about his meeting with Virginia Delacroix. “May I ask a question?”

  “Ask.”

  “Did Senator Delacroix see you?”

  “She did.” He gave me a stern glance. “I fear there again we have another example of your awkwardness at handling people.”

  “I couldn’t do what she requested of me.”

  “No, you couldn’t. But you could have handled her better.”

  “How?”

  “She’s a United States Senator. I think she felt she had been treated somewhat dismissively when she left your office.” He got up and walked to the window. “Don’t worry about her. I took care of her concerns and you can put the matter out of your mind.”

  What in hell did that mean?

  McCready turned back to me. His hands were clasped behind his back and he looked very much the stern headmaster about to discipline an errant school child. “Now I have a question,” he said. “How about the missing student?”

  I swallowed hard. “The police think they have some good leads on where she might be. I’ll know more tomorrow.”

  He turned his head and looked again toward the windows. “Anything you can share?”

  “Nothing firm. But I’ll let the administration know when I do.”

  “Well.” He walked away from me, hands still clasped behind his back. “I still think your time should be spent on the issues of the school instead of university assault policy.”

  “I disagree,” I said to his back. “I think I have an important contribution to make to any future policy that so seriously affects the life of our students, especially our female students. In fact, in light of the disappearance of…”

  He turned suddenly and walked back toward me until he towered over my chair. “Do as you please, Dr. Solaris. You seem accustomed to getting your way.”

  I stood up and faced him. “I just believe I can handle this, Dr. McCready. Really, I do.”

  He cocked his head. “I’ll be watching carefully. I will be very disappointed to read more bad press for this university or your school or your colleagues. Philip thinks highly of you. As for me,” he said, with a thin smile, “the jury’s still out.”

  “I am trying hard not to disappoint you, Dr. McCready.”

  On my way across the quad, I called Sadie on my cell phone. “Lunch? I could use a friend and a glass of wine.”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  Gormley’s Grill was crowded when I walked in, but Sadie had the table that Wilson, the owner, always kept for her in the corner of the room. She sat quietly, a dim overhead light shining on her beautiful hair.

  I sank into the chair opposite her and Wilson brought me a glass of Pinot Noir.

  I told her about the morning at the ranch and the meeting in the president’s office.

  I talked nonstop and Sadie listened patiently, her blue eyes fixed on me, a little smile of sympathy turning up the corners of her mouth.

  “McCready’s worried about you, you know,” she said, when I paused in my narration and took a breath.

  “I know. He’s sure I am going to mismanage something.”

  “No, I don’t think that’s why he’s worried. He worries about you succeeding, not failing.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Sadie smoothed her hair and reached out for my hand. “Listen. If you become the next dean of journalism, you’ll be the youngest dean on campus. And if you keep building the journalism school and getting it through its difficulties and generally doing well, you’ll develop a reputation for success on this campus. The Regents will notice you, and you just might be a candidate for McCready’s job someday. Especially if Philip Lewis retires and we get a new president who doesn’t like his second in command.”

  “Me. Provost? C’mon, Sadie. Not a chance.”

  “Not now, no. But someday. And that’s what worries McCready and probably what tempts him to clip your wings now…if he can.”

  Sadie was always on my side. And probably wrong about the provost. Then again, I found myself smiling at her idea. Maybe I had more rivals than I realized.

  After lunch, I stopped by Karen Milton’s office in the Student Services Building. Her office was small but cozy, with a large window overlooking the quad. A couch and two armchairs were placed on either side of a coffee table. Watercolor paintings of Nevada scenes hung on pale blue walls. A coffee machine and china mugs sat on a corner table along with a box of tissues. A bouquet of fresh flowers centered on the coffee table. This was a room for quiet talk, a place where stud
ents could share their worries and unburden their troubled minds.

  I sat in the armchair opposite hers. “I was with the provost this morning. He scolded me for failing to handle Senator Delacroix properly.”

  Karen nodded her head.

  “He said he would manage the Peter Delacroix situation. Has he?”

  Karen gave me her gentlest smile and spread her hands across her lap. “There is no Peter Delacroix situation anymore. The girl has withdrawn her accusations along with her request for a hearing.”

  “Oh, Karen. Why? Did the Delacroix parents buy her off? Is that what McCready advised them to do?”

  “I don’t know about the provost’s advice. But I do know the girl comes from a small rural town. I doubt her family is rich. However, at no point in our conversation did she mention Peter’s family.”

  “Did she seem intimidated?”

  “No, and I have seen a number of victims who were intimidated. If not by the accused, by his friends, or by her friends. I’ve worked with a lot of girls—and a few boys—who’d been bullied into silence.”

  I rubbed the soft upholstered arms of my chair. “Did the Senator tell you anything about Peter?”

  “Oh yes, I got a call about how he’s much too nice and much too bright and much too shy to have ever done what he was accused of doing. I also got a strong indication that the parents were convinced the girl was running a scam to get them to give her money. The Senator seemed certain that, if anything happened in that dorm room, it was the girl seducing the boy.”

  “So, what do you think now?”

  Karen leaned back so the sun coming in through her window warmed the side of her face. “I think I will never know what happened between those two students. I’ll never know what was consensual and what was forced.”

  “And you don’t know whether or not the provost encouraged the girl to withdraw?”

  “Nope. I don’t know that either.”

  But my stomach told me that Ezra McCready had a great deal to do with the dismissal of an accusation against Peter Delacroix. Bringing a United States senator’s son into a university hearing would simply not have fit into the provost’s agenda. I leaned toward Karen who looked gloomy and defeated. “I’m so sorry. What a discouraging outcome.”

  Karen smiled weakly. “But not an unusual one, I fear. Day after day, my mission in life is to create a safe and successful campus. Yet I know that often a reporting student or a responding student fails to believe me when my investigation and my findings don’t support their views of what really happened.”

  “Do you think we should just turn all these cases over to the police?”

  This did not improve the look on Karen’s face. “The police don’t always do any better than I do. A number of complaints that go to them never get to trial. The cases stack up in the department files. The prosecutors don’t want to touch anything that doesn’t seem like a sure win.”

  “But Karen, sexual assault is a crime. If a guy breaks into a girl’s dorm room, slaps her around, steals her wallet, she calls the police, right?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “What if he beats the crap out of her, breaks her nose? Then doesn’t she go to the cops?”

  Karen leaned across the coffee table and took my hand in hers. “Red, your heart’s in the right place, and of course you’re making sense. But relationships between people, especially sexual relationships, can often lead them to stupid and cowardly decisions.”

  I sat back. “I should know this. When I was a newspaper reporter back in Ohio, I was amazed at the number of domestic violence cases that never went to court.”

  “Bullies often go unpunished. And if I rely solely on the police to get the campus bad guys, I may end up letting serial rapists get away with it and roam free around here. Did you read about that case back east last month?”

  “Three Ivy Leaguers in a parking lot outside the dorm?”

  “Do you think that was their first attack?”

  I sat with Karen quietly. We drank some tea. The sun left the side of her face and highlighted the rug under the coffee table. Enough talk of Delacroix and serial criminals.

  I liked Karen and my instinct was to cheer her up. “Sadie Hawkins thinks that McCready is worried about my becoming dean of journalism because it would put me in a position to compete for his job someday in the future.”

  I was rewarded with a grin. “Sadie Hawkins is one of the smartest women I have ever known. Next to you, Red Solaris.”

  Jamie

  As Jamie washed the dishes from her own supper, she heard his footsteps on the stair and then in the hallway. He was still dressed in his suit pants with an old sweater over his shirt. He walked to the refrigerator and extracted a handful of ice cubes that he plunked into a glass. Then he produced a bottle from the top shelf of one of the cupboards and poured a drink. He turned to her. “Want one?”

  She nodded. A drink might steady her nerves.

  He poured a second glass and handed it to her. They sat at the table. “Sorry about dinner tonight,” he said.

  “That’s all right,” she said, trying to sound sympathetic. After all, he was being polite, and she wanted to take advantage of any sign he might change his mind about keeping her locked up.

  “Bad day?” she asked.

  “Frustrating day.”

  “You said when you came in you had already eaten. Sure you’re not hungry? I could fix something.”

  His head lowered and his hands circled his glass. “I stopped at a bar on the way home. I had a mediocre cheeseburger and a few beers.” He took a long swig. Oh, God, she thought. He’s drunk.

  “Maybe I should go upstairs and leave you alone.”

  “No, Jamie. Stay here. Talk to me. It will distract me.”

  She sipped on her drink. It was risky talking to him, staying in the same room with him if he was as drunk as she suspected. But if he were drunk, maybe she would have a chance to overpower him. Maybe. The muscles in her arms tensed. She waited, thinking. She leaned in. “What would you like to talk about?”

  His head came up. His eyes were a little bloodshot and his speech slurred slightly. “You always want to talk about Alice, so what else do you want to know?”

  “How old was she when she left?”

  His head cocked from one side to the other. “Twenty-six.”

  “So she was ten years older than you.”

  “Yep.”

  “And twenty-three when she married your father.”

  The man swayed in his chair, nodding his head.

  “Did she drive a car?”

  He looked puzzled. “Of course she drove a car. How else would she get here to take care of my mother and me? Why do you care about that?”

  “I just wondered if her car was gone when you regained consciousness and discovered she had left?”

  The man slouched forward, elbows on the table. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another drink. “Alice was gone. Her clothes, her books, her car, every goddamned thing that was hers was gone. Gone for good.” His fists clenched and the gesture reminded her of his strength.

  Jamie stood up quietly and left the kitchen. She’d never heard him swear. But for all his claim to strict religious beliefs, he had taken the Lord’s name in vain. And that alarmed her. There were too many things about this man that didn’t add up. What profession allowed him to live so far from civilization? The house, its furniture and his work clothes suggested he was poor, at least working poor. His well-tailored business clothes said he had money. His decision to kidnap her, imprison her, and conduct his twisted idea of a courtship said he was mentally unbalanced. And yet there were times when he seemed rational, even shrewd.

  As she sat on her bed, she decided he was a complete enigma. She also began to wonder if she couldn’t overpower him, might she still outwit him?
He’d just revealed some vulnerability. The thought made her more determined, but not less afraid.

  Chapter 31

  A long memo from Bud Chekovski sat on my desk when I returned from Karen Milton’s office. It started with his summary of all the conflicting points of view that had been emailed to him from the committee members. He had managed to squeeze what he called “some consensus” out of all our writings and his memo ended with suggested motions for us to consider at the next meeting.

  His first motion was to adopt the California policy, “yes means yes,” with consent required throughout any sexual encounter.

  The second motion was to create a new position of Director of Sexual Assault and Response. This was Karen’s idea and addressed her hope to be freed of the responsibility for receiving and investigating complaints.

  The third described a committee of selected faculty who would preside over any university hearings and stipulated that attorneys or other representatives could be present for both the accuser and the accused, although the lawyers would have to remain silent during the hearing. No doubt, this reflected Shelby’s desire for due process.

  The final motion called for a three-person committee of the university lawyer, one faculty member, and one student who would determine the punishment should the accuser be deemed guilty by a “preponderance of the evidence.”

  I had hardly finished reading when Bridget Thomas called in a state of what my father used to call “high dudgeon.” Her intense indignation roared through the phone. “Lawyers in the room? To do what? Intimidate the girl? Scare her into thinking she had some lawsuit to face if she didn’t present an unlikely eyewitness or irrefutable forensic evidence? Holy shit, Red, this is awful.”

  Bridget went on and on. While I was listening patiently, an email popped up on the computer. The provost had obviously read Bud’s memo even though it was supposedly only sent to committee members. It was clear the provost had little use for university committees when it came to conducting hearings.