No sooner had they had passed the MU than another group emerged from the front entrance…as if they’d been inside, waiting. Because this group was crowded near the door, Jillian couldn’t tell how many there were. She was sure, though, that they were a counter-group because of their diversity: men and women, people of color.
This second group waited for the first group to be well-past the MU, then fell-in 30 yards or so behind them. They were in no particular formation…just walking quietly, some with signs proclaiming messages like ‘Hate Not Welcome Here’ or simply, ‘Diversity.’ Jillian tried to make a count, but their lack of a formation made it difficult…she estimated that there were either 17 or 19 people. From their ages, she thought they were mostly students, although there were several professor-looking people mixed-in.
“Don’t look now,” Wes said, and motioned with his chin toward yet another group, this one approaching from the opposite direction…from over toward the Social Sciences Building. This was by far the largest group, probably more than the other two groups combined. Again, the diversity of members suggested a counter-protest group. They stopped short of the fountain which now separated the groups.
Wes and Jillian floated to their left, toward the end of the building on the Wilson Hall side. This gave them a better view of the stage, one that wasn’t blocked by the fountain. There also were more trees so they were less visible.
The marching men tried to execute some sort of a right turn two-by-two maneuver just before the fountain, which didn’t work so well, but they still made the turn. The marchers ended-up in front of the stage that was opposite the entrance to the MU. One of them—he carried a bull horn that Jillian hadn’t seen before—took the stage and addressed his followers. An above-ground portion of Hayden Library stood as a backdrop to the stage. The guy appeared to be their leader. He was a look-alike clone of Miller Sterling…just younger.
His first words were lost in the bull horn’s piercing screech, but he kept talking and the sound got OK. “…illegally and unconstitutionally denied our legitimate request to hold a lawful assembly to protest the murder of Professor Nelda Siemens.” At this point, he held-up a poster-sized photo…it was the one from the Professor’s ASU webpage.
He held the bull horn with one hand and continued to display the photo with the other. “And why did this woman, this professor die? She was struck down because she was at the vanguard of the cultural war against the moral dilution…”
Jillian was distracted by something in her peripheral vision…on her left. A contingent of several people swept by the fountain, headed toward the stage. Professor Naremore was in the lead, walking quickly, so they must have come from Wilson Hall.
She recognized at least one other professor, a younger man—she couldn’t recall his name—who was hired the year she graduated. There were several students, too, a couple who looked to be undergrads, and at least three who were older, probably grad students. Jillian recalled one guy—she didn’t remember his name, either—who was definitely a doctoral student. She thought he studied social movements, like the protest against the World Trade Organization. He walked beside Professor Naremore and seemed to have a cell phone to his left ear. She counted seven people in this contingent. She hoped that Professor Naremore and his group wouldn’t do anything crazy, but, at the same time, she was proud of them.
“And what has the university done?” here the man with the bull horn paused, and his men responded, as if on cue, “Nothing.” The speaker again, “Has the professor’s murderer been arrested,” he paused again, and his men screamed, “NO!”
The speaker continued, “No, apparently their only action has been to try to block our lawful demonstration. Apparently, constitutional protections don’t apply to everybody, or the laws of homicide, either.” His followers booed.
He continued, “We demand justice for Professor Nelda Siemens,” he said and displayed her photo again. Some of his men pumped their arms in the air, others moved their signs up and down.
Wes said, “These guys remind me of the villagers who stormed the castle, just without the torches, in Frankenstein. He pronounced it like in the Gene Wilder movie, and shook his head.
Before Jillian could respond, some students began heckling the speaker. They didn’t seem to be a part of either counter-demonstration group. They were just yelling insults and taunting the speaker. Several of his followers turned and started yelling at these students, and actually surged a few feet toward them.
Several things happened then, simultaneously. The group that had been trailing the marchers had initially moved behind them, before moving on to their right. The larger, counter-demonstration had turned left at the fountain, and stopped to the left of the protestors. Professor Naremore’s contingent had intermixed with the students who were heckling behind the protestors. Five ASU uniformed police, joined by another four or five Tempe uniformed police formed a half moon between the protestors and the counter-protestors. So, the protesters essentially were boxed-in: Hayden Library stood behind the stage; a counter-group to their right; a larger group to their left; a small crowd of students, now augmented by Professor Naremore’s contingent along with uniformed police officers, behind them.
Then someone (Jillian couldn’t tell which group) took-up the cheer from football and basketball games, “ASU, ASU, ASU.” Almost immediately, all the counter-protesters picked-up the chant, completely drowning-out the protestors, even the guy with the bull horn. The protestors glared, but it didn’t matter…the chant continued, if anything, louder because the hecklers had joined-in, too.
The guy with the bull horn tried to speak, but was distracted by the loud, rhythmic “ASU” chant. Then, obviously annoyed, he made some hand gestures to his lieutenant, and left the stage. The group re-formed a semblance of their double line, and marched back the way they’d entered the campus, with as much dignity as they could muster.
The other groups continued the “ASU” cheer for some time, waving their signs toward the departing protestors and also toward the TV cameras. Some students even held their signs up toward the helicopter hovering overhead.
Jillian and Wes breathed a sigh of relief, and Wes said, “I’d say that was a definite fizzle.” He looked at the receding marchers, then added, “The hate mongers were trumped by an ASU pep rally…you gotta love it,” he laughed and shook his head.
Jillian smiled, glad that there had been no violence, no real trouble, and proud of the Justice Studies contingent. She followed Wes’ gaze toward the departing protestors and saw that at least two media crews were accompanying them. A journalist walked alongside the guy with the bull horn, moving a microphone back and forth from her mouth to his.
Closer to Wes and Jillian and near the stage, she saw another crew interviewing Cedar Lanning, ASU’s PR guy and one of Jillian’s co-members on the Sexual Task Force committee. Cedar nodded an exaggerated nod toward the reporter…he seemed to be in his element.
Jillian saw other crews interviewing students, one near the fountain and another near the side door of the MU. Jillian did a double-take because the student being interviewed near the MU was Andrew Paxton, the English major who’d been a part of the grievance against Professor Siemens. Like Cedar Lanning, he seemed to be holding-forth. Jillian pointed him out to Wes and reminded him of who it was and what he’d done. She was struck by how much Paxton resembled the men who were marching away. The helicopter was gone, too.
CHAPTER 11
At first, after Jillian had successfully defended her MS project and graduated, she visited faculty and staff and grad student friends in Wilson Hall fairly often. Of course, as those things go, her friends graduated, the faculty moved on to other students and Jillian got busy in her job with the Tempe PD. So, her visits to Wilson Hall, a building where she had been going three or four times a week for several years, tapered-off.
That’s why she enjoyed taking the stairs to the third
floor, her third trip to Wilson Hall since they’d begun the investigation. It’s funny how you don’t notice when things fade. But, being here seemed so normal…she realized she missed it.
Still, she was here under different auspices. She’d just been to a campus demonstration…not as a participant, but as a detective, observing, making mental notes, seeing and interpreting everything through the frame of a murder investigation. Walking-up those stairs…everything was the same, except that it wasn’t.
Except for offices occupied by professors in the Asian Pacific American Studies program and the office for the Writing Mentor Program, most offices on the third floor were occupied by Women and Gender Studies faculty. ZZ’s office was in the left hallway and then on the right…the side of Wilson Hall that faced (at an angle) the MU, and opposite it, the area where she and Wes had just stood while they watched the demonstration.
ZZ’s desk was positioned on the left side of the office, and angled toward the hallway. She waved Jillian in even before she could knock. She stepped away from her desk, they hugged, and she gestured toward two chairs across from her desk.
ZZ was not a tall woman—around five six—but well-proportioned to her size. Her brown hair was long and thick. Her eyes were a vivid green. Her complexion was somewhat dark, and although she wore no make-up, her skin seemed to glow. She wore a gathered, loose-fitting cream-colored cotton skirt and a pale-yellow blouse, also loose. The short scarf around her neck was knotted in front; it was a burnt orange and mauve paisley. ZZ always wore the coolest earrings: today, they were bronze and dangly. Her shoes were sparkly gold sandals.
Her office always gave off a comfy vibe, in part because one of her windows was dominated by a bougainvillea that ran the length of the outside façade of Wilson Hall, from the ground to the third floor. It felt good to be partially enclosed by a giant green plant with red blossoms. The bougainvillea also seem to filter the glare of office lightening.
Their chairs were separated by a short rectangular wicker trunk with coasters on top for drink cups. Jillian remembered that inside the trunk was a batch of ZZ’s journal article reprints and copies of her four books. A three-drawer file cabinet, positioned against the bougainvillea side of the office and opposite her desk, was draped with a long, colorful silk scarf. Small wicker baskets atop the cabinet held a stash of loose teas, tea spoons and tea balls, and packets of honey. You wouldn’t describe her office as “minimalist” but it was definitely less crowded than Carolyn’s.
Jillian realized that the faculty offices she’d visited over the past several days visited reflected the lives of their inhabitants, or at least what’s important to them in their academic lives: posters on the walls—of their book covers or their heroes like poets or tennis players or novelists turned economic philosophers. ZZ’s walls revealed what was important to her, as well. They were filled with framed photos, all in black and white, and a little larger than a page of printer paper. Jillian wondered if they were in some European size. She remembered most of the photos because she’d visited ZZ often when she was a grad student.
One photo was of Stephen Grapelli and Django Reinhardt. Grapelli is standing, violin under his chin, looking down at Django, who’s seated, playing the guitar that’s resting on his lap. Grapelli is wearing an old timey suit; Django, with his pencil-thin moustache, is wearing a timeless, stylish sport coat.
A second photo is obviously a family photo; the men are dressed like Django and the women are in dresses. A young ZZ, late teens maybe, is smiling, but with intense eyes. Even if you didn’t know her, she captures your gaze. The background is an urban, European setting.
Several feet away was a photo of Simone de Beauvior. She’s maybe in her 40s, her hair is swept back, and her face is in close up…a leftish profile. She’s wearing hooped earrings and has a beautiful smile. Even her eyes are smiling.
The fourth photo is of French intellectual Pierre Bourdieu. He is seated at a desk, a microphone in front of him, and he faces the viewer if not the camera. He’s wearing a sport coat and a shirt with an open collar. His hands are steepled in front, almost as if he’s praying. As Jillian knows, the photo captures a moment from a TV broadcast, which is ironic because Bourdieu is on French television giving a lecture about television. The lecture is reproduced in his short book called On TV. They read it in ZZ’s grad seminar.
On the wall adjoining the left side of the door, another photo, essentially a DVD movie cover, depicts French feminist Louise Michel. The actress who plays Michel is kneeling on the beach. The sea, out of focus, is on her left. Above the actress, the film’s title is displayed: La Rebelle. Jillian saw the film, also in the grad seminar. Michel was deported from France to New Caledonia because she was a social activist. She was also a teacher, and founded a school that taught students about humanity and justice.
A photo to the right of the door was new to Jillian. She didn’t recognize the older-looking man depicted in it. He wore a tam, a heavy winter scarf, and a jacket. He faced the camera, and was standing in front of a storefront, which she could tell was French by the partial lettering.
“So, a new photo…who is he?”
ZZ stood and walked over to the photo, as if to introduce him to Jillian. “This is the American sociologist, Howard Becker.”
When Jillian’s expression indicated that she didn’t recognize the name, ZZ added, “He has also written about jazz piano and photography. But you may know of him either because of an earlier article he wrote called “Whose Side Are We On,” where he challenges social scientists to choose sides…either to conduct research from the perspective of elites or from that of marginalized populations.”
Jillian nodded, “I think Professor Naremore mentioned the article in his seminar on regulation.”
“Most certainly, knowing Ian. And, Becker wrote a famous book that teaches graduate students to write like humans, not like graduate students who are…” ZZ searched for a phrase…”who try to show off.”
As was the case with people for whom English is a second language, or in ZZ’s case, a third or fourth or maybe even a fifth language, conversations included pauses to search for the correct word or phrase, especially with slang or idioms.
“Right. OK, we read that book when I interned as an undergraduate Writing Mentor,” she said, and pointed behind her and down the hall toward where the Mentor office was housed. “But, why is he on your wall?”
ZZ, still standing by the photo, said, “Howie Becker is alive, living in Paris, and is very much in vogue. My generation of graduate students admired Bourdieu…” she said, pointing to his photo, “…because he freed us from Foucault. The current generation admires Becker because he’s freed them from Bourdieu. I am now intellectually passe. She returned to her desk, shrugged said, “C’est la vie,” and laughed.
“Never,” Jillian responded.
“You are too kind, Jillian. But, now, please, you must tell me about the demonstration.”
“How did you know that I was at the demonstration?”
“Two police dine in a building near the site of a campus demonstration…coincidence…no way.” She arched her eyebrows.
“Well, the first thing to say is that the counter-demonstrators outnumbered the demonstrators. And also, Professor Naremore and several others from Justice Studies were among the counter-demonstrators.”
“But, of course…Ian. Did he lead the ASU cheer? I could hear it.”
“No, I don’t think so,” she laughed, “but the cheer did diffuse a situation that could have turned bad.”
“That is a good thing, then. The demonstrators…they were making much of the murder, yes?”
Jillian nodded, and ZZ continued, “So, how is your inquiry proceeding?”
Jillian sighed, then said, “Oh, investigations are often slow and tedious, and we are in the middle of slow and tedious. Maybe some breakthrough is on the horizon, but honestly, it’s
too soon to tell. So, did you know Professor Siemens?”
“Not really. We were not…birds of a feather. She was conservative, very conservative, and I am not,” she said and arched her eyebrows. “I think we have not spoken.” She thought for a moment, then said, “I would think that such a woman would have many enemies. She was, you know, very…provocative in her ideas. But, I think we have not spoken.”
“How about Professor Jonathan Keefer—he’s Chair of the English Department?”
“So, yes, I know him. Why do you ask after him?”
Jillian had some qualms about how much she should say to ZZ, but she needed information. “He and Professor Siemens were having an affair, which makes him a person of interest.”
“I am not surprised…about the affair. They are similar…ambitious…opportunistic.”
“Hmm. We’ve learned that Professor Keefer is not going to be promoted to Associate Dean. He may even be out as Chair.
“Yes, but of course.”
“You knew this?”
“Yes…universities are like small villages, Jillian…there is much gossip. I have colleagues in English and they have told me already the news. He will not be elevated to dean and he will no longer be the chair.”
“I’m impressed. Do you know who the new chair will be?”
“Most certainly. It will be Naomi del Valle. She holds strong credentials and also enjoys the support of many of the faculty there. So, the…smart money is on her.” She smiled. Jillian had always observed that most of ZZ’s sentences were spoken with a smile; it was simply how she talked. In part, it is what made her so engaging.
Death of the Ayn Rand Scholar: Mystery Page 32