by Harry Marku
ambitious or the unscrupulous.
Bailey fostered a competitive spirit, attacking the “country club” mentality that, ironically, had preserved him. He brought to review those that fell short, while lauding those who earned peer recognition. He purged the vulnerable and condemned the aged to Emeritus status. The University Regents applauded.
Bailey “cared.”
Under Bailey's charge, and much to the Faculty's dismay, the standing of the school was enhanced. Bailey applied the screws, raising the rents on their lab space. Too busy to fight against his success, the disgruntled were unable to plot a day of reckoning. They sought their grants and submitted their publications and hoped for a day of reckoning.
The Faculty knew that Bailey had driven away several promising junior faculty members after unfairly rejecting their tenure applications—a hypocrisy that he overlooked when he touted their achievements to the Regents, the donors and the professional societies—for the modern sin of possessing a backbone.
The Faculty understood that the future was being sacrificed for a breakneck pace of the present. And in that regard, Bailey could not be dethroned in spite of the conflict he generated.
“I'm sorry to hear that, Tyrone.” Bailey was less than sympathetic.
Jankowiak sensed that Bailey was smiling.
“I may have difficulty keeping the students I have,” Jankowiak admitted.
“I've wondered how you were holding out. I've dropped by a couple of times but I was told that you were 'otherwise engaged' by one of your students,” Bailey smiled grimly.
“Ryan.” Jankowiak hid his smile.
“Yes.” Bailey's raised his nose.
“He's remarkable,” Jankowiak refused to let Bailey's condescension go unchallenged. “He's won enough grant money to complete his studies.”
“Should a graduate student be so troubled?” Bailey pressed his agenda.
Jankowiak hid his disgust. “Students at the top university's have been securing money for years,” he said with defiance. “It's an essential skill that shouldn't wait until they enter academia.”
“Is that where you see him?” Bailey sniffed.
Jankowiak stiffened—Bailey was such an ass—and then he fired. “There's always a place for the talented.”
Bailey's face flushed red. He gritted his teeth and spoke harshly, “What is it that you want?”
“I need to free up funding for legal expenses.”
“You need money?”
“For the near term, perhaps a year or two, until this matter with GenCorp is sorted out.”
“The Department does not provide funds for tenured professors,” Bailey refused.
“From my research grants alone there was sufficient seed money to fund three junior faculty,” Jankowiak said with belligerence.
“The Department funded them!” Bailey snapped.
“From money raised by me and the other professors,” Jankowiak refused to concede. The exorbitant fee structure that Bailey had established was a sore topic for the department's faculty.
“In the past decade, the Department's fees have tripled,” Jankowiak vented. “That's far more than was needed to support the Administration.”
“Under my direction the Department has established an endowment,” Bailey waxed in his political voice. “The Board is well aware of this.”
At the expense of the present! Jankowiak yearned to retort but he didn't want to escalate the conflict just yet. He stilled his tongue and contained his emotions. Suddenly, he realized that Bailey hadn't addressed his insubordination. Despite Bailey's resistance, his hands were tied. Bailey had to fund him. The longer the battle with GenCorp had drawn out, the more his colleagues throughout the academic communities understood that GenCorp lacked evidence for its accusations. There would be severe fallout from banishing a Nobel Laureate. At the very least, it would drive away the talented and ambitious. At the worst, it might cost Bailey his position and his legacy.
Serves him right. Jankowiak thought. The chief reason he and his fellow faculty hadn't rebelled at the exploding fee structure was that it been sold as an 'Emergency Fund.'
“Will you fund my students?”
“You should have been more careful,” Bailey fumed, framing the argument of Jankowiak's detractors.
“Really?” Jankowiak scoffed. “You know full well that there's less grant money available from the Feds than every before. Your fees required us all to turn to industry. Though we are novices, there was no money for legal assistance.”
Bailey started to speak but Jankowiak cut him off.
“No, Tom, you exposed us. GenCorp is what happens when sheep are sent to the wolves. It's time you took some responsibility for your policies.”
“The Department will fund your current students for two years,” Bailey enunciated his offer with contempt. “After that you're on your own.”
Bailey looked out the window in dismissal. “You cannot rest on your laurels indefinitely. I suggest you make alternative plans. The Board suggests you create an escrow account with sufficient funding to cover your first and second year for their remaining years.”
“You're too kind, Tom.” Jankowiak rose from his chair and vacated Bailey's office. That the unoriginal Bailey had a plan confirmed many suspicions.
Blind Side
“Jerome, do you have a minute?”
“Of course, Tyler.”
“Let's meet in my office,” Tyler suggested. He had tried to be casual in his delivery but he failed.
Jankowiak pretended to not notice. Dr. Tyler MacPhee's office and robotics lab were adjacent to his computation rooms. They'd been neighbors, colleagues and friendly rivals for a dozen years.
“Sure.” He agreed and pulled his office door shut behind him and tested the handle. It was locked.
“A little paranoid?” MacPhee needled.
“I have my reasons.” Jankowiak did not return the humor.
“That's beyond my payscale.” MacPhee's shrugged off the rebuff. He held his office door open.
“I used to think the same.” Jankowiak entered MacPhee's office but remained standing.
MacPhee entered behind him and in the confined space between himself and Jankowiak he twisted and closed the door.
“What is it, Tyler?” Jankowiak queried.
MacPhee slipped past Jankowiak and sat on the edge of his desk. He started to speak—“We should”-- and then stopped. He looked at the door.
Jankowiak chuckled, “Now you're being paranoid.”
“Perhaps so,” MacPhee mused but still he struggled to say anything more.
“Does this concern the department?” Jankowiak prodded.
MacPhee nodded.
“About my... circumstances,” Jankowiak stated.
“Uh huh,” MacPhee nodded again, “there was an informal faculty meeting last week”—
“Last week?”
—“while you were in court. I thought you should know about it.”
“What is being said about me?” Jankowiak asked satirically.
MacPhee snorted.
“That I'm a distraction to the department?” Jankowiak's pitch raised slightly. “That students are shying away from the University because of me?”
“In as many words, yes. And”—
“Who led the charge?” Jankowiak interrupted but before MacPhee could answer he retreated. “No, don't bother. I can pretty much list their names. It's no surprise. They're lining up for the spoils.”
Tyler winced.
“Vultures,” Jankowiak guffawed.
“You have many defenders, Jerome.” MacPhee had heard enough.
“Besides yourself?”
“Yes, besides me. We won't let it happen.”
“I hope you can prevail Tyler. I... I have my doubts.” Jankowiak was less belligerent.
“Why is that?”
“I hear whispers... that I am to blame for the loss of funding for a new facility.”
MacPhee was silent.
�
�I see,” said Jankowiak.
“That is preposterous, Tyrone,” MacPhee was adamant. “We all know the deal was unethical.”
“I don't think that matters,” Jankowiak disagreed. “but I imagine the Board sees it that way. So,” he shrugged with resignation, “it's official.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I have two years.”
“Two years?” MacPhee repeated. “For what?”
“To win my case.” Jankowiak deadpanned.
MacPhee was shocked.
“And then what will you do?”
“I've been in contact with the business incubator group.”
“Aren't they managed by the Board?” MacPhee scoffed.
“To some extent. I might have to start over elsewhere, but I doubt it. Like the Board, they can only think in dollars. I just never imagined myself as a businessman.”
Railroad
Jankowiak impatiently shuffled in his seat and organized his papers. According to the agenda, he was slated next in the long queue of “New Business.”
“The Board will now address the complaints of Student 'X' against Dr. Tyrone Jankowiak.“
Jankowiak stood and approached a podium with his documents well-ordered. It seemed hardly necessary that the matter of a student's cheating should be addressed by the University Board.
“Dr. Jankowiak, why was the student issued a grade of “zero” following the re-submission of his test?” A woman asked in a deliberate voice.
She was severely manicured as an academic, her silver hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head. In complement, she wore a tailored navy business vest above a primly cut ivory blouse. She was reading the agenda which she clutched with thin hands of transparent skin.
“The student cheated,” Jankowiak answered.
“What makes you think so?” She looked up, her eyes flashing intently above horn-rimmed bifocals.
Jankowiak was