“Take six Advils,” Edna advised, recognizing Sally’s disorientation for what it was. “And get something in your stomach.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Right,” Sally muttered, realizing that her body had a stomach, not all that enjoyable a realization. “Call you back,” she managed, lunging to hang up the phone, lurching to the sink, splashing water on her face, looking in the mirror, and daring her dripping, ugly-looking self to beat this swirling, brain-splitting hangover senseless and get on with what was sure to be an infuriating day.
Edna, being a humane sort of person, gave Sally a good half-hour to wake it and shake it and focus her eyes. Patiently waited another ten coffee-making minutes, and even gave her an extra two minutes to read the story in the newspaper a first time, for herself. But that was it. She was just getting ready to dial again when her phone rang.
“Bosworth,” said Sally.
“Obviously,” said Edna. “He’s quoted. ‘Public universities must maintain their independence from political and other pressure, and faculties must have the right to enforce their professional standards in hiring and curriculum. This bequest violates our most sacred canons, subjecting us to the dictates of political correctness.’”
“First time anybody’s ever tried to claim the Boz had any kind of cannon,” Sally observed, but Edna wasn’t in a laughing mood.
“‘Independence from political and other pressure,’” Edna sneered. “I don’t recall him complaining every time some mining company gave the geology department a bunch of money to go tear up the national forests. Or that nice grant from the Cattlemen’s Association to research the environmental hazards generated by endangered species. But this time, he’s worried. The son of a bitch has managed to stir up at least a few of the no-neck neanderthals around here. Can’t figure out how many, or who, but that won’t be that hard. If this suit is actually filed, they’ll be named as plaintiffs.”
Rage had cleared Sally’s mind the moment she poured her first cup of coffee and unfolded the paper. Her stomach responded gratefully to a bagel and cream cheese. This new unpleasantness should have made her want to go back to bed and pull the covers over her head. But she had become in mid-life one of those people who love crises. The more screwed-up things got, the sharper her focus, the firmer her resolve. “Okay, so they’ll have to come out and play. What I want to know is, who’s paying the lawyers? UW faculty? What are they doing—selling plasma to pay legal fees? Where’s the money coming from, and who’s representing them?” She drank more coffee, looked again at the article.
“All it says here is that they’re represented by a Casper law firm,” Edna read at the other end of the line. “Typical. The fools in Casper probably think they can get the University to move up there if they make things annoying enough here.”
“A Casper law firm? Hey—I met a lawyer from Casper at the party last night. Wonder if he’d know what’s going on. He was drooling all over Brit—bet she could get some information out of him.”
“Let me do some digging first. I’m going to call that horse ’s ass Bosworth and ask him what he wants the University to do about having gotten a big old pile of free money. By the time I’m done with him, we’ll know a lot more.” Edna was, after all, a skilled interviewer, but Sally figured Byron Bosworth knew enough to keep his mouth shut around people he was suing.
“Okay. I’m going to call Ezra Sonnenschein’s office and tell them we need him up here for a meeting the minute he gets back from Africa. He’ll need to be involved.”
“Yeah,” said Edna, “and so will Egan Crain. We need a unified strategy.”
It occurred to Sally, at that moment, that she was only one of the many parties involved in this particular little brouhaha. First, there were the aggrieved plaintiffs, who undoubtedly had a variety of reasons for joining the suit (ranging, she assumed, from the understandable to the sociopathic). Then there was the University, which encompassed a whole lot of people who would have many different ideas about whether or not to cave in to pressure or hang onto the money and the Dunwoodie Chair and the Center. And of course, the archives, which was dying to get its hands on Meg’s stuff, one way or another. And the trustees of the Dunwoodie Foundation, whoever they were. Maude Stark, whose stubborness, at least, was beyond question, would insist on having a say.
As for her own self, Sally was measuring her options. The best, of course, would be for the lawsuit to go away, the money to stay put, and her plan to write and teach in Laramie to hold up. But Meg Dunwoodie’s story had gotten a sharp hook into her, and she ached to tell it. The ache was turning into a determination to write the book, endowed chair or no endowed chair. She’d told herself she wasn’t letting a vicious skinhead keep her from doing it— could she really be afraid of a bunch of peevish college professors? If the university decided to punt on the bequest, she could always go back to LA, but she fully intended to persuade Sonnenschein that she should continue with the biography.
Of course, there had turned out to be unexpected reasons to stay in Laramie, one of which had left a black Armani suit hanging in her closet. No promises, though—at least they agreed about that, right?
“Where are you on this, Edna?” Sally asked.
“Pissed as hell and spoiling for a fight.”
“You, or the University?”
“Me, for one. The president, for another—I talked to him. He has a very hard time contemplating giving back five million dollars. And once I talk to the University counsel, I’ll have a better idea how they might think about fighting this idiocy.”
“Thanks,” Sally said, pouring more coffee, drinking, scalding her mouth. “I mean it.”
“Call Sonnenschein,” Edna replied shortly. “Let’s get this thing in gear.”
For two weeks, everyone played phone tag, fended off the press, milked, dismissed, and occasionally confirmed rumors, gathered information, and played more phone tag. But by a Tuesday afternoon in late January, they were sitting around the conference table in Edna’s office: two members of the board of trustees; Dean Edna; the vice president for academic affairs (a handsome, blow-dried economist with a hands-off attitude; he was representing the president, but Edna assumed he’d give them ten minutes, then plead “another meeting”); the University counsel (a short-haired woman in a no-nonsense suit and turquoise blue silk shirt with a bow at the neck); Egan Crain; and Sally. They were waiting for Ezra Sonnenschein, and for Maude, whom Sonnenschein thought ought to be present. The lawyer and the housekeeper arrived together, ten minutes late but unruffled, and took seats . Sonnenschein accepted a cup of the desk-temperature coffee everyone else appeared to be drinking. Maude declined.
Edna convened the meeting. “Good of all of you to be here. Thanks especially to you, Mr. Sonnenschein, for traveling up here from Denver. You’re all here because each of you is in some way involved with the Dunwoodie Foundation bequest to the University to establish the Dunwoodie Chair and Center for Women’s History, and to donate the Dunwoodie papers to the Archive. I want to start out by asking the University counsel to bring us up to date on the legal situation. For those of you who don’t know her, this is Virginia Minor.”
“As you all know,” Minor began, “a group of faculty has threatened to file a class action suit alleging that the terms of the Dunwoodie bequest and the execution of those terms constitute violations of academic freedom. On those grounds, the plaintiffs will ask that the University be compelled either to refuse the gift and terminate all arrangements stemming from the bequest, or to renegotiate the terms of the arrangement with the foundation in accordance with nationally standard academic practices regarding hiring, acceptance of donations, archiving of document collections, and execution of the terms of the bequest. I am informed by counsel that his clients are willing to drop the suit, if the University agrees to renegotiate terms as stated.”
“Which means what in English?” Maude asked.
“Which means,” said the University’s lawyer, “that they haven’t filed yet, but t
hey will. Unless we either give back the money and fire Professor Alder immediately, or we simply void Professor Alder’s contract, and try to talk the Foundation into doing an open search for the Chair, to be conducted under the authority of the history department, and relinquishing control over the monies, the Dunwoodie papers, and the biography project, in favor of management by a joint committee representing the University, the archives, and of course, the history department.”
“So with one alternative, the University loses the bequest. With the other, Byron Bosworth comes in as a main player,” said Sally.
“And either way,” Maude told Sally, “you get canned.”
“Hey,” said Sally, “if the University and the Foundation want to cave in and let the Boz pick the next Dunwoodie Professor, I would be willing to be a candidate. I’m sure my chances of being hired would be excellent.” General laughter.
“I understand,” said Sonnenschein amiably, “that the faculty group bringing suit includes a number of members of the department of history.”
“Indeed,” Edna told him, eyes glittering, “but not exclusively. There are, as far as we know now, approximately twenty plaintiffs.”
“Not bad,” Sonnenschein observed. “I would imagine that in any university in the country, you could manage to find twenty people willing to file a lawsuit alleging that the sun rises in the west.”
Sally suppressed a giggle. She hadn’t had much contact with Ezra Sonnenschein, but she liked the hell out of the guy. He fit her definition of suave. He was slim, tall, and graceful, with salt-and-pepper hair and blue eyes she’d have described as both friendly and piercing. She’d never seen him dressed in anything except perfectly tailored suits he probably bought in London. He carried the air of always knowing things nobody else knew, but not making a big deal about it. She felt that he was on her side, and the feeling comforted her immensely.
“These plaintiffs are more the flat-earth crowd,” Maude noted.
“In this great free country of ours,” pronounced Sally, “even flat-earthers have their day in court.”
The vice president announced that he had to rush off to another meeting, shook hands all around, said he knew that they’d work something out, and exited. Edna had been wrong. Seven minutes flat, from the time Sonnenschein and Maude walked in. The trustees exchanged a “what do we pay him the big bucks for?” look.
“I’d just like to say a word or two about the Dunwoodie Collection,” Egan interjected in the wake of the VP’s departure.
Everyone looked at him.
He thrust out what he called a chin, and took the plunge. “As representative of the archives, I must inform you that we hold it to be in our interests to preserve harmony among those we consider our constituencies. At the same time, we also wish to retain our rights to the Dunwoodie papers. We would not be averse to participating in some sort of cooperative arrangement, including the one proposed by the plaintiffs. A lawsuit would of course be appallingly costly and time-consuming.” He looked around the table. “I’m sure we can come to some accomodation with these chaps.”
“Neville Chamberlain speaks,” muttered Maude.
“We understand your position,” Edna told Egan, carefully taking the edge out of her voice, “but we haven’t yet discussed the University’s position with regard to the proposed lawsuit, so it seems to me premature to be planning how to cooperate with the plaintiffs.”
Egan looked sick, but said no more.
“Who’s representing the plaintiffs?” asked Sonnenschein.
“A Casper law firm, Whipple, Hipple and Abernathy.”
Sonnenschein thought a moment. “Why W, H and A? I thought they were an oil and gas firm. Some railroad and insurance and tax business. Right-of-center Republicans. Hardly the kind of attorneys who take on the civil liberties claims of penurious college professors.”
“Well, this is a shot from the right,” Sally said.
“More to the point,” said one of the trustees, a lawyer himself, “it’s five million bucks.”
“Right,” Sonnenschein conceded, “but there are conservative law firms in the Rockies that usually handle this sort of thing. Mountain States Legal Foundation is the most famous, but there are plenty of others, and I’ve never heard that Whipple, Hipple was doing that sort of litigation. Who’s the lead attorney on the case?”
Minor looked at her notes. “A fellow named Bobby Helwigsen.”
Sally’s eyes narrowed.
“I haven’t actually met him,” Minor continued, “but according to what I’ve been able to learn, he’s a specialist in tax and estate litigation. He just came back to Wyoming last year, but he’s handling some of the biggest money in the state.”
“A guy like that doesn’t come cheap—who’s paying his tab?” the lawyer trustee asked, making a note on a yellow pad.
“The plaintiffs aren’t saying, but we’re trying to find out,” Minor replied.
“That’s fine,” Sally put in, “but what do we do now?”
Maude looked at Sally, around the table. Nobody quite knew why Maude was at the meeting, but when she wanted to speak, no one was prepared to tell her to shut up.
“You’re the Dunwoodie Professor, Sally,” she said quietly. “You’re the one who was hired to set up the Center, write Meg’s biography, teach women’s history at the U. These guys want to get rid of you. If you say you don’t feel like fighting, you can always go back to UCLA and chalk this all up to foolishness. You can save the University a lot of time, money, and trouble if you bail out, and you don’t really lose anything by it. So Boz and the boys win a round—big deal. They’re not the only ones who think they have a right to Meg’s money. You can save yourself a hell of a lot of problems if you just give up. What do you want to do?”
“At the moment,” Sally answered, with fierce and surprising calm, “I want more than anything else to write about Meg Dunwoodie’s life. I’ve found some puzzles I can’t leave until they’re solved. This is going to sound crazy—maybe you have to be a historian to understand. But I’m beginning to feel Meg’s somehow watching me. I don’t understand who or what it is that wants to stop me, why some shirttail cousin of Meg’s vandalized my car, broke into my house, Meg’s house, and beat you up. That makes me furious. I can’t imagine who’s willing to spend big money paying lawyers to get me out of here, but that kind of ticks me off, too.
“To be honest, this is all a little daunting. But I’m damned good and sure I’m the right person for the job. If you all think it’s expedient to try to compromise with these guys, I’ll tell you I’m sorry you feel that way. Byron Bosworth and his group have absolutely no interest in seeing Meg Dunwoodie’s story told at all, much less told with care and compassion and critical judgment. I do. I’d like to fight them, and I’m not afraid. I’m fully prepared to stand up to anybody who wants to prevent me from writing that story.” It was a brave speech; she hoped she meant it.
Maude had heard what she wanted to hear. She and Sonnenschein exchanged a glance, and he began, “As designated representative of the Dunwoodie Foundation, I would like to introduce to you the chairwoman of the Dunwoodie Foundation, Maude Stark.” Maude inclined her head. Nobody had known, of course, but neither was anybody all that surprised. “The Foundation consists entirely of Maude and me,” Sonnenschein continued, surprising them a little more. “The chairwoman will now outline to you, the representatives of the University, the Foundation’s terms,” he finished, turning to Maude.
“Take it or leave it,” said Maude.
“Beg pardon?” said Minor, who’d picked up a fountain pen, all ready to write copious notes on her own yellow pad.
“Take it or leave it,” Maude repeated. “The University can either take the bequest, including the terms that Sally continue as Dunwoodie Professor, that the papers remain in the Dunwoodie house so that Sally can go on with her work uninterrupted and unimpeded”—here she glared briefly at Egan, who shrank a little. “The management of all monies and other asset
s continues as it has, jointly administered by the Foundation, the Archive, the College of Arts and Sciences, and the Center Director”—Sally inclined her own head—“all that. No changes. No negotiations. If they don’t like it, too bad. If the University doesn’t like it, well then, we’ll just take back the money, cut the University out of the deal and start paying Sally directly for the biography.”
“And I would be willing to represent Professor Alder in the event that she chooses to bring action against the University for breach of contract,” Sonnenschein added smoothly.
Nobody spoke. Egan looked much sicker. Minor stared at her yellow pad, drew little flowers with her expensive fountain pen. Edna frowned, thinking hard. Sonnenschein smiled faintly.
“Wait a minute.” Sally broke the silence. She couldn’t imagine suing the University. She must be a lousy American. Her thoughts were elsewhere. “I’m not sure I like the idea of writing the in-house biography, Maude. Suppose I write something you won’t like? I don’t want you or anybody else deciding they have the right to censor or suppress this book.”
Sonnenschein answered for Maude. “Sally, nobody knows better than Maude and me that Meg Dunwoodie wasn’t anybody’s angel. She was a complicated, magnificent woman, who doubtless did some terrible things you’ll have to tell the world about. But Maude assures me we can trust you to be truthful, and fair, and to care about her, and to be stubborn enough to write a damned good book. And that’s what we’ve agreed we want.”
I will not cry, Sally told herself.
The trustees whispered to one another. One handed Edna a cellphone, and she punched in the president’s number. After a rapid conversation, she handed the phone back to the trustee, and said, “The president wants to go for it.”
The counsel looked at the determined dean, at the archivist, who was ghost-pale, at the trustees, faces full of care, at the Dunwoodie Professor, whose lips were pressed so tightly together they were white around the edges. “Having reviewed precedents, I can tell you they run both ways. Most challenges to bequests to universities never get beyond the stage of bad publicity and hurt feelings. But when they do end up in court, it’s anybody’s guess which way they’ll go. I am perfectly willing to fight this one, if that’s what you all decide.”
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