Class Dismissed

by Kevin McIntosh

  Hanrahan’s onslaught against the character of this Mr. Lynch fellow washed over Patrick until the attorney fastened his attention with his conclusion. “…and the preponderance of evidence will show that Patrick Lynch is guilty of each specification charged and that there is just cause for his termination.” The heaviness with which Hanrahan landed on termination, the thrust of that solid jaw, gave Patrick the feeling he meant it in the CIA, not BOE, sense. That Mr. Lynch was unfit to live as well as teach.

  After a brief intermission, Sylvia Bartolino gave her opening statement in Patrick’s defense. She was, if not tiger-like, insistent on a different Mr. Lynch than Hanrahan had painted. She went lighter on his merits as an educator than she’d planned; the BOE attorney had deftly undermined this tack by stipulating to them. Ms. Bartolino emphasized, rather, his personal qualities: how often he met with students after school; that, on a teacher’s salary, he had purchased an in-class library of used books, going out of his way to find literature of particular interest to specific students; the unofficial conferences with the school social worker about family issues raised in his students’ personal narratives.

  She moved on to Josh, attempting to reframe this tortured student-teacher relationship. Sylvia began by re-casting the Huck Finn debacle as a Great Moment in Teaching. How Mr. Lynch met with Josh and his mother to offer strategies for developing his ideas. Then meeting after school with Josh to discuss his drafts, to help refine his essay. And, finally, giving Josh a chance to present his ideas, not only to his classmates, but to shine in front of his principal and the chancellor––which he did! Plan, develop, present: not just good pedagogy, she maintained, but, given the circumstances and the needs of this particular student, the thoughtful strategy of a caring, mature professional.

  “What followed the chancellor’s visit,” Ms. Bartolino said, throwing her brief arms wide, “could not have been predicted. As evidence will show,” she continued, “it was an unusual confluence of human movement and meteorological conditions––southeasterly winds, at twenty-one miles per hour––that resulted in this horrifying, freak accident––yes, accident––for which no one was culpable.” She leaned in toward Stankowski, made a professorial bridge of those little digits. “We like to place blame when things go unaccountably wrong; that’s a human instinct, completely understandable.” She took a deep breath. “Mr. Hanrahan has called this injury tragic.” Not what he said, thought Patrick, admiring the manipulation. “We can all agree with that. But, Hearing Officer Stankowski, let us not compound the tragedy by removing from service a gifted young educator, Patrick Lynch, who is precisely the kind of teacher this city desperately needs.”

  Stankowski, looking a little woozy during Ms. Bartolino’s impassioned plea, perked up as he thanked the counselors for their statements and ordered an hour break for lunch. After lunch, they would hear the testimony of two witnesses for the complainants.

  Angela Wong. When Ms. Bartolino had shown him the complainants’ witness list, he couldn’t believe it. Leading off for the BOE: Angela Wong. Angela Wong? Patrick thought she was going to be their leadoff witness. He was probably her favorite teacher. An English teacher who didn’t just see a smart, compliant Chinese girl, not a teacher who would toss a dusty copy of The Good Earth at her and be proud of his cultural sensitivity. He saw the muscular young woman whirling her feet through boards in after-school martial arts and later asked if she’d read The Woman Warrior. Discerning the unspoken conflict in Angela’s personal narrative between herself and her demanding immigrant mother, he’d left his own copy of The Joy Luck Club on her desk and watched her gobble it up.

  But he could see why Hanrahan chose her, credibility-wise, the hard-working, studious Asian girl from Central Casting. And, whatever Angela’s misgivings, her family wouldn’t have seen it as testifying against Mr. Lynch. Coming from Taiwan, they would have viewed it as honoring a request from the government. Her parents might also have gleaned from it a not-so-gentle suggestion by the City of New York that their daughter’s cooperation here could avoid a closer look at the “cousins” who worked at Wong’s Golden Dragon, that the health inspector would not show up unannounced.

  Angela looked pretty, as always, though girlier and more formal than usual in a knee-length black skirt, white blouse, and black flats. Her choir concert outfit. She glanced at Mr. Lynch, smiled nervously, then looked away. Stankowski swore her in and seated her to his right. Requiring Angela Wong to swear to tell the truth was redundant; Patrick would stake his life on Angela’s honesty. He had never worried about that before.

  As he had in his opening statement, Hanrahan began by raising general questions that allowed for positive statements about Mr. Lynch. Angela warmed to this role, displaying her small white teeth and smoothing her shiny black hair as she confirmed all that had been said of Mr. Lynch’s superior teaching skills, of his caring attitude toward his students. Hanrahan asked Angela about her grades in American Humanities. She looked down modestly and admitted that she got As but offered that it was easy to work hard in Mr. Lynch’s class, since he was so inspiring and made the subject so interesting. She looked up at Hanrahan; he nodded at her and smiled. Angela’s impeccability as a witness had been established.

  “Angela,” said Hanrahan, “let’s talk about April 7th, the day Joshua Mishkin was injured.” Her sunny aspect darkened, but he held her gaze. “What happened after Principal Silverstein and the chancellor left room 234? You were talking about Huckleberry Finn?”

  “We were talking about the end of the book––the novel––and Mr. Lynch asked Jamar––”

  “Jamar Robinson?” He was on their list, Patrick thought. Hanrahan’s ready.

  “Yes, Jamar Robinson, about what he thought of the ending.”

  “And where were you sitting?”

  “In the front row.”

  “Which aisle?”

  “In the center aisle.” She looked off. Another Asian girl cliché.

  “And where was Jamar sitting?”

  She thought, pointed. “On my left side.”

  Hanrahan was no Atticus Finch, Patrick thought, and you didn’t have to teach Harper Lee’s classic seven times to see where he was headed, why he’d chosen Angela Wong to testify. She had a straight shot to the door.

  “So Jamar was discussing the end of the book, the novel, and what happened then?”

  “Josh started making noises.”

  “What kind of noises?”

  “He was mumbling something. He sits in the back, at the editing table, so I couldn’t tell exactly. He sounded angry.”

  “Why was he angry?”

  “Objection,” said Ms. Bartolino, without looking up from the indecipherable notes she was scribbling on her legal pad. “Witness cannot speak for Joshua Mishkin.”

  “Angela is describing a classroom dynamic. She was part of the class.”

  “Go ahead,” said the arbitrator.

  “Why was Josh mad, do you think?”

  “Because Mr. Lynch called on him when the chancellor was there.”

  “Was that a punishment?”

  “No.”

  “Sounds like an honor.”

  “Yes, but––”

  Hanrahan smiled. “The chancellor’s here, let’s call on the smartest kid.”

  “Yes, but––”

  “Yes?” He nodded. “I’m sorry, go on.”

  “Kind of a, you know, a dis.”

  “Showing disrespect, you mean? Mr. Lynch was showing Joshua disrespect?”

  “No.” She looked at Patrick, then back at Hanrahan. “The other kids were.”

  “Who?”

  “Abdul and Julio.”

  Hanrahan consulted his list. “Abdul Phillips and Julio Aguilar?” She nodded. “What did they say when the chancellor was there?”

  “Nothing. But after he left.”

  “Yes?�
�

  “Just…making noises. Whistling through their teeth.” She put a hand to her cheek. “I think Abdul called Josh ‘professor.’”

  Ms. Bartolino looked up from her pad. “Hearsay.”

  “Again,” said Hanrahan, “she is describing how Joshua was perceived by the class. Her perception of her classmates’ response to Josh, whether or not her quotes are verbatim, is relevant.”

  “This is not a court of law, Ms. Bartolino.” Stankowski canted his head toward her. “As you well know. You can address it in your cross, counselor. Go ahead, Mr. Hanrahan.”

  “Angela, why did Abdul call Josh ‘professor’?”

  “Now she’s supposed to read Abdul’s mind?”

  Stankowski lifted those baggy lids at the UFT lawyer. “You’re trying my patience, Sylvia.” He turned to the witness. “Go ahead, Angela.”

  “As a joke,” she said.

  “To make fun of him? As a ‘dis’?”

  “Yeah. Yes.”

  “So they’re teasing him. He’s showing off for the chancellor? Being too smart?”

  “Yes.” She shrugged. “And I think maybe one of his parents, his mom, might be a professor. At NYU, somebody said. And his dad’s, like, a famous journalist.”

  “Did Mr. Lynch hear this ‘professor’ remark?”

  “Objection.”

  “Did Mr. Lynch react when Abdul called Josh ‘professor’?”

  “He didn’t say anything. I don’t know if he heard. It was kind of a whisper. A loud whisper.”

  “But you heard it?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the front row?”

  “Yes.”

  “Next to Mr. Lynch?”

  Angela hesitated. “Yes.”

  “So, Abdul’s teasing Josh for being too…”

  “White.” Hanrahan jerked his head back. As if he hadn’t left a blank next to question number four, with one right answer, and Angela, well-trained student, had given, surprisingly, the correct response.

  “But Joshua is white.” Dumbfounded.

  “Yeah. But he hangs out with the Black––African-American––guys at school. And he dresses like a…” She paused, not wanting to offend. “Like a rapper. Baggy jeans, puffy jacket, Tims.”

  “Tims?”

  “Timberland hiking boots.” Hanrahan nodded. “And he has, you know, dreads.” She moved her hands down her own silky tresses.

  The BOE attorney looked thoughtfully at the witness. “The kids in class ever tease you, Angela? Accuse you of acting ‘too white’?”

  “No. Too Asian.” She laughed and covered her mouth, then uncovered it as everyone, even the stenographer, smiled. She glanced at Mr. Lynch. This was the Angela he knew.

  The smiles disappeared as Hanrahan homed in on the “incident.” Angela described the wooden bathroom pass whizzing past Mr. Lynch’s ear. “Then Josh sort of screamed out the, you know, the f-word,” she said, darting a look at the stenographer, who might be printing a copy of the transcript for her mother. “I handed the wooden pass to Mr. Lynch and he took an office pass out of his pocket and gave it to Josh. Then he told Josh to go to Mr. Kupczek’s office.”

  Hanrahan took a sudden interest in his red-and-white striped tie. “How did you know it was an office pass?”

  “It’s yellow and it says Office Pass at the top. It had writing on it.”

  “What writing?”

  “Josh’s name was printed at the top and Mr. Lynch’s signature was at the bottom.”

  “You could see that?”

  “Mr. Lynch was holding it out to Josh in his fingers.” Angela mimicked Mr. Lynch, holding out an invisible office pass between her thumb and index finger. “In front of my face, kind of.”

  Hanrahan put a hand to his freckled Irish mug. This time, seemingly, in genuine thought. “You saw Mr. Lynch take the office pass out of his pocket.” Angela nodded. “You saw the pass, with his name and Josh’s on it, in Mr. Lynch’s handwriting.” She nodded. Patrick looked at Stankowski, suddenly wide-awake. “Did you see Mr. Lynch fill the pass out?”

  Angela wasn’t a straight-A student merely because she was a plow horse Chinese girl. She could see Hanrahan connecting the dots. And Patrick could tell, by the aggressive way she smoothed her skirt over her lap, that she resented being his pencil.

  “Has this alleged office pass been entered into evidence?” Ms. Bartolino snapped. “Does it even exist?”

  Hanrahan swiped a hand toward his opponent. “Witness is testifying as to what she saw.”

  “Continue.”

  “Did you see Mr. Lynch write on the office pass after he withdrew it from his pocket?”

  “No.”

  “It was already filled in, with his name and Josh’s.” Angela nodded slowly. Hanrahan looked at Ms. Bartolino, then Stankowski. “So, Mr. Lynch came to class with an office pass with Joshua Mishkin’s name already written on it. And with his signature.” He let a moment pass, as if he needed time to make sense of these disturbing details. “Mr. Lynch came to class planning to throw Josh Mishkin out of room 234.”

  “Objection.” Ms. Bartolino raised her voice for the first time. “The BOE counsel is now reading the respondent’s mind. And testifying for the witness. And his language is inflammatory: no student was thrown anywhere.”

  “I’m not trying to read anyone’s mind, Hearing Officer Stankowski,” Hanrahan said, calmness itself. He’d been given a gift and was a gracious recipient. “Just trying to establish a pattern, a pattern of conflict. And a teacher’s response to that conflict.”

  “You’ve made your point, Mr. Hanrahan. Move on.”

  He had made his point. Patrick’s sides grew clammy, the way they did when a lesson headed south and a class began to turn on him. He listed toward Ms. Bartolino, who was unrumpling her black pantsuit, clicking her ballpoint pen, tapping it on her legal pad. The arbitrator’s body language had changed, too—stiffer, straighter, and a harsher cast fell over those weary eyes.

  Pre-filled-out office pass? He’d been doing it for years. It saved time. You knew who the usual suspects were. You never planned to use it, but, if you needed it, there it was: no break in the flow of the class; no time wasted rewarding a pissed-off student with negative attention. It was an expedient, not a punishment. And it wasn’t about Josh; if he’d reached in the wrong pocket, he would’ve given him Abdul’s pass. But there was no way to supply this context; only a teacher would understand. This was the missing ingredient in Hanrahan’s case: Mr. Lynch’s animus toward his client, malice aforethought.

  The temperature in the stuffy little room had changed. If this hearing had ever been the pro forma exercise in due process Sylvia had previewed it as, a small slip of yellow paper had surely made it something else.

  “So, Angela, after Mr. Lynch handed the office pass to Joshua, what happened?”

  “Josh kind of grabbed it from him and kicked the waste basket in front of the door.”

  “In front of the door?”

  “Mr. Lynch used it as a doorstop. Somebody stole his rubber one. The door kept slamming that day. It was windy.”

  “And then what did Joshua do?”

  “He went out the doorway.”

  “Did he go to the office?”

  “No. He stood out in the hall, looking at the class.”

  “Just looking?

  “He was kind of…dancing. And waving the office pass over his head.”

  “Did Mr. Lynch see––” Hanrahan caught himself before Ms. Bartolino could. “Did Mr. Lynch react to what Josh was doing?”

  “No. He––Mr. Lynch––was facing the class. Holding the door, with his back to the doorway. And Josh did it quiet, kind of like a, a pantomime.”

  “But you could see––”

  “Only for a second––”

  “How did you kno
w––”

  “Kids behind me were looking at the hallway, smiling.”

  Hanrahan nodded. “Did Mr. Lynch react to them?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “He just closed the door.”

  Hanrahan waited. “Hard?”

  Patrick felt Sylvia flinch with him.

  Angela shook her head. “Like usual. He just kind of,” she waved her hand behind her, “and moved back into the room.”

  “Toward you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then?”

  Angela bit her lower lip, smoothed her skirt. “There was a big breeze, and Josh ran toward the doorway, shouting something––”

  Patrick had replayed this moment a thousand times––after a third pint at Marty’s, in the Rubber Room, awake on Susan’s couch in the middle of the night. He hadn’t watched Josh after he left the class. He hadn’t. But how could he not know Josh was in the hallway? Abdul and his boys were smiling…but not at Mr. Lynch. And Josh would never leave without the last word.

  And was there anger in that door-closing? How could there not be? He would never be able to weigh his responsibility for that moment, for the blood and pain Angela was now recounting, tears in her eyes. It was an instant he would take back––had taken back––in his thoughts, so many times. So full of mixed, unsure intentions, that no amount of wishing or regretting or self-justification could untangle it. Like tortured Lord Jim, he’d… jumped…it seemed…and could never jump back.

  Poor Angela, honest and loyal, was given a brief break and some water before being cross-examined by the UFT attorney. Ms. Bartolino was gentle but thorough. No one, Patrick thought, could better clarify the angles in his classroom, what was said or done for certain versus what was an impression left by trauma. But Sylvia Bartolino, for all her legal skills, could not undo the impression left by the office pass. That fucking office pass. And after a twenty-minute break, Stankowski announced, rising, they would hear the testimony of Joshua Mishkin.