Alumni Association

by Michael Rudolph

  “You can still call me Tripp, Beth, and this is my nephew Chord Masters. He’s representing the Smythe estate in the sale to Gartenberg and LaVerne.”

  Chord replied with a handshake and a long ogle, scanning Beth from top to bottom. Her navy blue suit and white silk blouse were a conservative statement she usually reserved for when she opposed attorneys like him.

  “Did you go to BMI?” Beth asked him, ignoring his leer in deference to the need for his cooperation for the length of the deal.

  “I was a junior there when it closed in 1985,” Chord replied.

  “Is it okay if we look around the tunnels?” Beth took a small camera out of her shoulder bag and began to snap pictures of the Old Main.

  “The tunnels are all sealed, but you can still see an entrance in the basement of the Old Main and also from across the street,” Tripp replied. “Max, why don’t you and I swap war stories in my car while Chord shows Beth around the grounds?”

  * * *

  —

  “What’s up, Tripp?” Max asked as they got into Tripp’s SUV. “You never swap war stories.”

  “I need to talk to you about a major-league problem. Chord’s malpractice insurance was just canceled.”

  “Oh, shoot! That really sucks, Tripp.”

  “After a third client in two years complained about him to the bar association last month, the insurance company refused to carry him anymore.”

  “Can he get coverage from another company?”

  “He tried—even I tried—but nobody will touch him, and you know what? I can’t really blame them.”

  “Sounds like you’re the one getting squeezed here. You must feel torn between being a judge and being Chord’s uncle.”

  “Chord’s hoping that when Gartenberg and LaVerne buy the campus, his fee from representing the Smythe estate will pay off the firm’s creditors so he can close down without screwing anybody else.”

  “And save some reputations.”

  “Max, you knew my father. He must be turning over in his grave to see what Chord has done to the firm he started with my uncle.”

  “I feel terrible about this. Is there anything I can do?”

  “There is, and it’s a real big favor.”

  “We’ve been friends since BMI, Tripp. If I can help, I will.”

  “I need you and Beth to keep an eye on Chord as much as possible to make sure he doesn’t screw up the deal, and I need you to keep me in the loop as much as you can.”

  1984

  A week after Cadet Berland’s funeral, Dean Smythe met with Judge Tripp Masters, chairman of the BMI Board of Trustees. Right after the meeting, Tripp called Max Swahn in New York. Max was the vice chairman of the board.

  “Max, I had a meeting with Dean Smythe this morning. He wants the board of trustees to investigate that Berland kid’s death. He says Berland was being sexually abused by one of the postgraduate students.”

  “Who’s the cadet he suspects?” Max asked.

  “Herbert Gartenberg.”

  “Tank Gartenberg? The big fullback who’s going to play for Penn State next year?”

  “That’s him. My nephew Chord says he’s quite a bully.”

  “Why doesn’t Wylton just turn the whole matter over to the police?”

  “The scandal will kill BMI. He wants it handled internally.”

  “But, Tripp, you and I aren’t criminal attorneys, and the other trustees are his son F.X. and three local alumni who are even less qualified.”

  “I know, but I told him I’d discuss it with you because you’re the past chairman.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “Colonel Moore is already collecting evidence of the abuse. He’s even got some friend of Gartenberg’s wearing a wire.”

  “A wire? That’s what we’re doing now at BMI? Who’s the cadet?”

  “Al LaVerne. The post-grad quarterback who’s going to Syracuse. The colonel threatened to revoke his scholarship if he didn’t cooperate.”

  “Oh, great!”

  “I know, I know. Anyhow, Gartenberg’s also there on scholarship. We’ll hold a hearing. If he abused Berland, we revoke his scholarship and expel him for something academic like cheating on an exam.”

  “And he gets to skate on the charge of child abuse.”

  “My exact words to Dean Smythe.”

  “Do we have the authority for this? Your law firm represents BMI. What’s our liability as trustees?”

  “I’m having someone research it now. I’ll get back to you tomorrow or Friday latest.”

  “Okay, buddy. Speak to you then.”

  * * *

  —

  Beth followed Chord down into the basement, now exposed to the sky in places where the floor above it had collapsed from years of neglect. The basement floor was hard-packed dirt, though muddy in some areas from recent rainfall. The smell in the air was an unpleasant combination of decay, dampness, and mold.

  Raising her camera again, she began shooting, while slowly picking her way around, trying to avoid the muddiest of spots. After every few shots taken with the camera, she backed them up with shots on her cellphone. She felt Chord’s occasional stare as she probed about the basement, and responded courteously to his questions about her marital status by asking him about his wife and kids.

  “They ought to designate this a hard-hat area,” Beth said, not entirely in jest, as they walked around.

  “Gartenberg’s talking about converting the Old Main into condominiums.”

  “Is the structure sound enough?” Beth was dubious.

  “Who knows? The steps up to what’s left of the first floor are over here.” He motioned over to a narrow stone stairway. “We can go up them, but the first floor isn’t safe to walk on.”

  “I can see that,” she observed.

  “See the charred food cans over by the fireplace?” He pointed. “Squatters have been a problem for years, ever since the seminary left.”

  “There was a seminary here?” Beth asked.

  “Yeah, after BMI closed, the dean’s son was desperate enough to rent the Old Main to anyone. There’s a seminary down the road that needed extra dormitory and classroom space.”

  “How’d the alumni take that one?”

  “Some of them sued to block the lease but lost.”

  “What’s this over here?” Her attention was attracted to a portion of the foundation wall where a bricked-up outline in the obvious shape of an archway stood in contrast to the rest of the wall.

  “It’s the entrance to an old escape tunnel.”

  “You’re kidding.” Beth reacted with genuine interest.

  “No. I’m not. Dean Smythe always insisted that it was an escape tunnel used by Joseph Bonaparte’s confidential secretary when he lived here in the early eighteen hundreds.”

  “Joseph Bonaparte? As in the king of Spain Bonaparte?”

  “This is all part of the Bonaparte estate. Didn’t Max ever tell you about Bordentown’s history, the Underground Railroad and the escape tunnels?”

  “Just that they existed.”

  “Every cadet had to learn the history of the Old Main. Dean Smythe made the junior schoolers recite it from memory before he’d promote them to the upper school. The mansion was built by Joseph Bonaparte, Napoleon’s older brother. He was the king of Naples and later the king of Spain before he came to live here.”

  “Where’d the tunnels go?”

  “I’ve seen them on some old town maps as part of a sewer system that drained into Crosswicks Creek. There’s another entrance in the woods across the road.”

  “That is so cool. Bordentown has an amazing history.”

  “When I was at BMI, the varsity football jocks used to hang out there. Called themselves t
he Tunnel Rats, just like the volunteers who helped escaped slaves hide down there before the Civil War.”

  “Those blocks on the bottom right-hand side of the arch look newer than the others,” she said while shooting, oblivious this time to Chord’s lascivious stare.

  “A couple of years ago after a really bad storm, water poured into the tunnel from Crosswicks Creek when it flooded. The seminary called the fire department to pump out the basement, and they probably had to replace a few of the blocks when things dried out.”

  “But this is a brand-new repair.” She reached over with her free hand to touch the foundation. “The concrete isn’t completely cured, so the repair can’t be more than twenty-eight days old.”

  Somewhat skeptically, he walked over to scratch the concrete with his fingernail. He was able to dig a groove into it. “You’re right. How do you know about concrete?”

  “I worked on a construction gang one summer when I was in college. Spent the summer building a dormitory from the ground up—I poured a lot of concrete and mixed a lot of mortar.”

  She touched the cold mortar and cinder blocks with her fingertips, hoping to absorb its history. Was it an escape tunnel or part of an old abandoned sewer system? Probably the latter, a much more utilitarian function, she thought to herself, but how much more romantic if it were the former. She knew she had a lot of work to do over at the town hall, but the hypnotic fascination of the old basement kept her attention focused on every crevice.

  Finally, after she saw Chord looking at his watch, she followed him back out of the basement and over to the cars, where they rejoined Max and Judge Masters. The judge invited them all to lunch at his country club. As if by prearrangement, only Max accepted the offer. Chord said he had to get back to the office. Beth excused herself and asked for directions to the town hall. She acknowledged it was a good idea when Chord offered to take her there so he could introduce her to the Planning and Zoning folks.

  Chapter 6

  Beth was waiting for Max in the Old Main parking lot when Tripp dropped him off after their extended lunch. He got into Beth’s car impatient to tell her what he’d learned from Tripp.

  “He’s concerned that his nephew let the Smythe estate sign such a grossly unfair contract with Gartenberg, and now he’s worried Chord will somehow manage to screw up things even further between now and the closing,” Max said, as they started the trip back to New York.

  “Well, I only just met Chord,” Beth replied, “but I can see that he doesn’t pay much attention to details.”

  “Tripp says that Chord will sell his soul to make this deal. He’d like us to keep an eye on him.”

  “C’mon, Max, that’s a pure conflict of interest.”

  “I know, but if you can stop Gartenberg from screwing the Smythe estate and still focus on our duty to the Alumni Association, lots of trouble can be avoided.”

  “Okay, I’ll try to babysit him.”

  “How did you do over at Planning and Zoning?”

  “Fine. Chord was helpful, actually. He introduced me to all his buddies, and they made sure I had the right forms and everything we need to oppose Gartenberg’s application.”

  “Excellent.”

  “And I think one of the clerks is reaching out already.”

  “Which one?” he asked.

  “Guy in the planning office, Tony somebody, was telling me how busy he was, and then he gave me his card and told me to contact him personally if I needed any help with the application.”

  “It does sound like his hand was out.”

  “I thought so, too,” she replied.

  “Local government is fun. Maybe it’s time to retain one of those local law firms to work with us so we have a hometown flavor.”

  “Already done.”

  “Who’d you pick?”

  “Christine Osgood of Osgood and Osgood. Her father, Frank, graduated from BMI in the mid-seventies.”

  “Sounds good. When does the planning office expect Gartenberg’s surveyors to file their subdivision drawings?”

  “Couple of weeks. They just located a map of the tunnels at the Bordentown Historical Society.”

  “The society may want to join your petition to block the development.”

  “I’m going to file the petition first, and after it’s approved, we’ll see if they want to deal in.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Max said.

  “I got an interesting email from Zeke Shadenheim while I was waiting for you.”

  “What does he want?”

  “Gartenberg and LaVerne would like to sit down with us to discuss the concerns of the Alumni Association.”

  “So make a date. Can’t hurt to talk.”

  “That’s what I think. They want to meet at Gartenberg’s house in Great Neck because it’s hard for him to get around. He’ll send a car for me.”

  “Okay, but I’ll go along to introduce you to Gartenberg. You’ll take it from there.”

  “Do you really want to come? We need you more in the office.”

  “I know, but I’ll feel more comfortable getting some face time with Gartenberg. We expelled him from BMI, so who knows if he has an ax to grind.”

  “I’m a brown belt.”

  “I’m not worried about your physical safety, but I do want to see him for myself.”

  “I get it. Thanks, Max.”

  * * *

  —

  Just north of exit 11 on the New Jersey Turnpike, Beth suggested a pit stop, and pulled off at the Grover Cleveland service area. She parked in a remote corner of the lot, hoping to avoid dings on her new car for at least a few more months. The isolated spot was illuminated by a solitary light pole framed by two garbage cans loaded with rotting food and plastic cups.

  In ten minutes, they were both outside again in the chilly night air, carrying coffee and dodging traffic on the long walk back to her parking spot. Somewhere across the lot, a solitary car alarm blared its urgent appeal to scores of unresponsive parkers.

  As Max and Beth walked in the general direction of her spot, the alarm got louder. When they finally saw her car, its flashing brake lights identified it as the source of the alarm. Like all the other parkers, Beth assumed it had gone off accidentally. Max waited by the passenger side while Beth retrieved her keys, pressed the remote to turn off the alarm, and then headed around to the driver’s side.

  “Oh fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” He heard Beth suddenly curse furiously and repeatedly, staring and pointing excitedly at her side of the car.

  “What’s the matter?” Max asked, maintaining his calm, figuring at worst that the alarm had gone off when some other car had dinged her.

  “We’ve been robbed!” Beth shouted. “Somebody busted in my side window. There’s glass all over the place. I can see my camera’s gone.” She grabbed her cellphone out of her coat pocket and called 911. The two of them then stood together, leaning against the car, stoically drinking coffee until a patrol car drove up a few minutes later.

  The state trooper briefly looked around the inside of the car himself, and routinely asked Beth to open the trunk, which she did. He finally stated that there wasn’t much else he could do, adding that parking lots on the turnpike were easy pickings for junkies and other social misfits. Before leaving, he gave Beth a copy of his report for her insurance company.

  As soon as the trooper left, Beth and Max drove over to the service station behind the gas pumps, where a garage attendant vacuumed out most of the glass shards from the back seat and taped some plastic sheeting over the broken window. With the damage controlled as best as possible, they got back on the turnpike to continue home.

  “What are we into, Max?” Beth spoke first, calmly, quietly, and deadly serious.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, hiding his own concern.

  “This wasn’t a rand
om break-in. Why take my camera and leave everything else?”

  “The cop was probably right, sweetheart. It was just some junkie,” he said, trying to quiet her doubts. “The alarm scared him away.”

  “I’m not buying it,” she replied.

  “The camera was small and expensive. Easy to sell for a quick fix. What was on it?”

  “Pictures I took of the Old Main and the tunnels.”

  “I’m sure it was just a hit-and-run break-in. Want me to drive?”

  “No, I’m fine, really.”

  “Wake me up if you get tired.” He closed his eyes and rolled back the seat, needing to drift off for a while, immersed in his own efforts to distinguish between relevance and coincidence.

  * * *

  —

  When they got back to the city, Beth pulled into Max’s parking spot in the basement and the two of them took the elevator up to his condo.

  “You hungry?” he asked as they entered the unit.

  “I’m starving.”

  “What time is your basketball game?”

  “Not until ten P.M. We’re the second game tonight.”

  “Have time to share a pizza?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where are the takeout menus?” he asked.

  “Same place as Mom kept them.”

  Max walked through the dining room into the kitchen and noticed the smell of bug spray permeating the air. “The place stinks,” he said. “Exterminator must have been here today.”

  “No,” Beth replied. “He still comes on the third Monday of the month.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure.”

  “Well somebody was spraying the place today. I can smell it all over.”

  “You’ve got the most sensitive nose in the world. Somebody must be cooking down the hall.”

  “No, it’s bug spray and it’s in here.”

  “Go order the pizza while I change.”

  After ordering the pizza, Max walked around the apartment and noticed the same smell around the entire suite. Still sure it was the exterminator, he dialed the concierge, who confirmed exactly what Beth had said. The exterminator was not due for another week and, moreover, no one had signed in to visit his apartment today.