The Faculty Club Part 3

"Well, he's twenty-seven, and his last book won the Cushman Prize. So, yeah, I guess it probably is." Suddenly, my one publication in a lonely, obscure journal didn't seem so special anymore, despite what Bernini had told me.

I felt someone watching me, and I looked over to the last person in the room. I'd never seen Daphne Goodwin up close before. Her eyes sparkled even brighter, reminding me of that clear blue ocean water you saw in brochures. Her skin was light, the color of soft tan sand, and her lips were painted a rich plum color. She looked away.

"Let's get you a drink," Nigel said, placing his arm around me.

The conversation at dinner was amazing. I'd never heard people move so quickly from one topic to another.

"Of course we should legalize prost.i.tution," Daphne was saying, her cheeks flushing as she made a what are you thinking? gesture with her hands.

"That's ridiculous," John replied. "A good society can't allow people to be exploited."

"Okay, fine. Say you have a women who's fifty years old, single, and a millionaire. She likes having s.e.x. And she's really good at it. So she decides to make a business out of it. Is she being exploited?"

"No, of course not. You said she's a millionaire."

"Fine. So you're not against prost.i.tution. You're against poverty. You might as well be arguing against coal mines or sweatshops. You have no problem with prost.i.tution per se."

"Wrong. I don't think we should let your rich lady be a prost.i.tute either."

"Why not?"

"Some things are priceless. n.o.ble. You can't pay for s.e.x without demeaning it."

"Well, doctors heal for a living. That's n.o.ble. Does that mean they can't charge for it? Or teachers? Priests? You think people should only make a living doing slimy things?"

"No, but . . ." John looked around for help, but everyone was watching Daphne. She leaned in for the kill, her hair a little wild and her blue eyes fierce.

"Let me tell you what I think is really going on. You don't like prost.i.tution because deep down, you think women are fragile and need protecting."

"What?" John said. "That's ridiculous. I never said that."

"Is it? First you attacked prost.i.tution because it demeaned poor people. We took care of that argument! Then you said we're demeaning s.e.x. Well, we dealt with that too. So, answer me this. Who do you feel more sorry for: a male prost.i.tute or a female prost.i.tute?"

John looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. Suddenly, Daphne turned and looked directly at me.

"What about it, Jeremy?" she said, fixing me with those startling eyes. "Who do you feel more sorry for: a male prost.i.tute or a female prost.i.tute?"

I didn't know what to say. She had me paralyzed.

"I feel sorry for them both, the same," I lied.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Then I wonder why you're blushing," she replied, abruptly flipping her gaze back to the rest of the table.

I was gradually aware that I had stopped breathing. I allowed myself to suck in some air before I pa.s.sed out with my head in my soup.

Nigel came through the swinging doors with a tray of steaks, which were sizzling in red wine and garlic. The room filled with hazy smoke from the kitchen. "On that awkward note . . ." he laughed, setting the tray down. "Let's eat."

Moments later, Dennis the vulture had taken the debate in a new direction.

"The definition of marriage goes back thousands of years. It's the bedrock of western civilization. You don't go messing around with that," he said, jabbing his fork in the direction of the rest of us.

"Why not?" Nigel asked. "Definitions change all the time. 'Citizen' used to mean 'white man with property.' We changed that, didn't we?"

"Marriage means one man, one woman," Dennis shot back, "so spare me the politically correct guilt trip."

"Marriage used to mean one man, one woman of the same race," Daphne replied. "So even that definition has changed."

"It's about equality," Nigel said. "Gay couples should have the same rights as straight couples. Period."

"What's next?" Dennis replied. "Polygamy? Incest? b.e.s.t.i.a.lity? It's a slippery slope. You have to draw the line."

"But," I said quietly, before I even realized I was talking, "by your logic, we would have to ban straight marriage, because it might lead to gay marriage."

Dennis froze. He looked at me for a second, blinking. He looked at Daphne, then back at me. He threw his fork down. "You just don't go messing around with the basics," he mumbled.

"Bravo!" Nigel cried, clapping his hands and grinning my way.

Just for a moment, Daphne smiled at me.

An hour later, the table was covered with empty plates and wine bottles. Dennis and Nigel were arguing pa.s.sionately about some movie I had never seen. John and Daphne were talking softly to each other at the other end of the table. Earlier, they'd reminisced about their Rhodes scholar days at Oxford: favorite bars, which professors they kept in touch with; but now they spoke quietly, and I couldn't make out the words.

I spent the time pleasantly buzzed, staring at the flickering candles on the table and reflecting on the most interesting observation of the evening: John Anderson didn't seem that smart. Don't get me wrong: at any other law school he would probably dominate the cla.s.sroom. But here, during the hours of debate over dinner and wine, he was mostly quiet, and when he did speak, he just didn't seem to move as quickly as the others. I wondered how much of his success--his debating championships and Oxford adventures--had more to do with his overwhelming physical presence, his infectious good nature and extraordinary charm, than what he actually said or did. Was John Anderson the ultimate vessel, already being groomed to become a handsome, vacant politician, surrounded by teams of speechwriters, a.n.a.lysts, stylists, pollsters? Now more than ever, I was reminded of high school, of the empty-headed popular kids who ruled the school. It was the same then--it didn't matter what they said or did; it was cool because they were the ones who said or did it. As the alcohol worked its way deeper into my brain and the conversations around me swirled into a mild hum, my thoughts drifted back to high school, and for the first time in many years, I thought about Amy Carrington.

Amy was a cheerleader freshman year, but unlike some of our other cheerleaders, she was also exceptionally smart and thoughtful. Her grades were almost as good as mine, and she always treated me with kindness. We were on student council together, and I remember how stunned I felt the first time she walked up to me and asked for a ride home. Soon, it was an afternoon ritual, driving to her house and talking in her room after school, with the door slightly ajar to appease her parents. She had a boyfriend named Russ, the quarterback at another high school, but every afternoon it was me who sat on her bed, talking about our futures and what we wanted to be, or sometimes--though it took all my energy to pretend not to mind--hearing about her s.e.xual experimentations with Russ. There is no single memory more alive to me today than the side of her face, turned away from me, daydreaming out the window of my car, a soft smile on her lips. When I heard the gossip that she and Russ had broken up, I immediately asked her to the spring dance. But, she told me, she had already agreed to go with Bryan Collins, a senior at our school nearly identical to Russ in every way. Bryan went on to take her virginity and then break up with her a week later. I learned about it at lunch, from a bunch of freshmen who snickered as she walked by. I felt no satisfaction then. And I realized now, sitting in this warm room surrounded by bright, fascinating people, that I hated John Anderson. I hated everything about him.

I was awakened from this by a slight pressure on my foot below the table. It was gone as soon as it came. Nigel and Dennis were still arguing.

"Eyes Wide Shut was a piece of c.r.a.p," Dennis said, a look of amazement on his face. "You know, just because Kubrick directed something doesn't make it good."

"Yes, yes, you keep saying that," Nigel replied. "But why?"

Again, I felt the pressure on my foot, almost teasing in the way it came and went. It traced itself back and forth along my leg. I looked over at John and Daphne, who were still whispering intensely. Maybe it was the alcohol, but it seemed like either Daphne Goodwin was playing footsy with me, or Nigel had a cat.

"The acting, Nigel. Think about how terrible the acting was!"

Nigel threw up his hands.

"The acting was supposed to be terrible," he cried.

"What! What! Are you all hearing this? Supposed to be terrible?"

I was beginning to think I had imagined the sensation, when something soft slid down the side of my leg, then back up, slowly moving past my knee, still creeping up toward my inner thigh.

"Think about it," Nigel explained patiently. "People came to see Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman play a married couple because they wanted to see what the real Tom and Nicole's marriage was like. But instead of something fake--the movie--revealing something real--the marriage--they got fake leading them to faker--a movie that was less real than most movies! It was a joke, a parody of the audience's desires. Kubrick was mocking us."

Daphne suddenly smiled at me, and the pressure on my thigh disappeared. She turned back to John and resumed her whispering.

"Mocking the audience?" Dennis said, shaking his head. "Yes, Nigel, you've convinced me, that does sound like a great movie."

The table was quiet. Nigel sat back in his chair, his eyes half-shut, a sleepy, satisfied look on his face. Dennis poured himself another gla.s.s of wine, then thought better of it and pushed it away. Daphne had gone to the bathroom to take out her contacts, and when she came back, she wore thin black frames that matched her dark hair. John sat at the window, staring out at the lights across the valley.

"I'd like to thank you all for coming," Nigel said softly, leaning forward in his chair. "I think we have a special group here, and I'm enjoying getting to know each of you." He paused and met eyes with us, one at a time. "I think we are going to have a wonderful three years together.

"I'd like to propose that we do this again, and soon. Perhaps a meal out next time, no?" He smiled, and seemed to savor what he said next. "In fact, I have a surprise. A friend of my father's has invested in a new restaurant in town. When the review comes out this week, you won't be able to get a table for six months. And, through no small amount of name-dropping and arm-twisting, I've arranged to close down the back room just for us, a private dinner next Friday."

My first thought was holy s.h.i.t, this is gonna be awesome. And then I felt a jolt. Next Friday. The night of the V&D c.o.c.ktail party. I felt Nigel's eyes on me.

"Sure," Dennis said. "I guess I can put up with you communists for another night."

"Excellent," Nigel said. "Daphne?"

"Oh, Nigel, I'd love to. It sounds wonderful. But . . . I can't that night."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Nigel said. "What about you, John?"

"I'd like to, Nigel. I really would. But, I don't guess they could still change it to another night, could they?"

"I'm afraid not," Nigel said, looking at me again, curiously.

"Jeremy? Surely you'll join me?"

To my surprise, my voice came out hoa.r.s.e and barely audible. "I can't," was all I managed to say. Nigel wasn't smiling anymore. There was a strange look in his eyes, and suddenly it dawned on me: Nigel had no intention of hosting a dinner that night. He had a secret invitation to the V&D, same as I did. He just wanted to find out who else would be there.

John was staring down at his hands. Daphne was watching me, her lips barely suggesting a smile.

Four people. Three spots.

The game had begun, and I hadn't even realized it. At least now we knew who the players were.

6.

How was I supposed to keep my mind on school? Friday night was coming up! What would it bring? What would they want?

And Bernini! He was heaping more and more a.s.signments on me. I was spending entire nights in the library, running home to shower as the sun came up, then stumbling into cla.s.s and fighting to keep my eyes open. I came to know every nook and cranny of Edwards Library: the grand facade with columns so high you had to crane your neck to see the capitals; the upper floors with shelves lit by naked bulbs; the shaved-pencil smell of books that hadn't been touched in years.

Soon, Bernini would write his magnum opus: a colossal work, modestly t.i.tled The History of Law. My job was to summarize thousands of pages of text, obscure works that existed only in the dustiest corners of Edwards: first editions; treatises with margin notes by famous readers; memoirs so frail they were housed in argon and handled by permission of the dean only.

I'd be halfway through one a.s.signment when my phone would buzz and that familiar Italian accent would sing, "Jeremy, do you have a minute?"

The answer was always yes.

Wednesday night I was delivering papers to Bernini's office when he glanced up from his desk.

"Jeremy."

"Yes, professor?"

"Take this."

He placed something in my hand. It was a small key.

"I'm going to begin writing soon. I won't want to be disturbed. Let yourself in when the lights are off to deliver your research. You understand?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

I backed out of the office.

My law school training was already kicking in: I immediately starting thinking of worst-case scenarios. He trusted me with a key to his office. What if I lost the key? What if I had to bother him to replace the thing he'd given me so I wouldn't bother him? I decided to go directly to a locksmith in the morning to copy the key and put it somewhere safe.

A day later, the duplicate key was hidden on my bookshelf in the middle pages of Crime and Punishment. How could I possibly have known, at that point in time, that this would one day save someone's life?

Arthur Peabody was one of the top stars at the most prestigious law firm in Boston when he cracked. They put him on sabbatical for six months and tried to rehabilitate their golden boy, but it was no use. Whatever had broken in his brain during those 300-billable-hour months couldn't be fixed. It was for that reason, and also maybe because of his storybook face, that students over the years had come to call him Humpty Dumpty.

In the end, he was cradled back into the fold of the law school and given emeritus status as the head tutor of Legal Method. Now Humpty Dumpty was an old man, with droopy eyelids and hangdog cheeks. He wore the same soup-stained bow tie every day, and you could usually catch him stomping through the library, muttering to himself. Each year, he taught first-year law students how to do what he did best (and perhaps the only thing left he could do): take a legal question and dive into the endless sea of case law to craft an answer.

You see, in law, it isn't enough to find the perfect case that makes your argument. You then have to find every case that came afterward and that refers back to your case. Maybe your case was overturned. Maybe it was expanded or transformed. And it doesn't stop there. Each of those cases had cases that came after them. What if someone overruled the case that overruled your case? It was this endless branching chain of cases that could drive a man insane--or in the case of Humpty Dumpty, hold him together.

In 1873, a man named Frank Shepard was smart enough to create a book that cataloged this chain of citations for every case, making the process infinitely easier. Lawyers have been updating it ever since. Now you could go to his book and see every case that cited your case and whether it helped or hurt. It was such a good idea that his name become immortal: all over the country, thousands of lawyers are Shepardizing their cases every day.

And that's what we were practicing in the gothic main hall of the library, while my mind was on Friday and what might happen. In fact, I was getting pretty grumpy flipping through volume after volume of Shepard's, tracking my cases.

"This is ridiculous," I whispered to Nigel, who sat next to me.

"Shh," he said, not looking up.

"I mean, I get it. This isn't rocket science. Do we actually have to go through every single stupid case?"

"Quiet," Nigel said, barely moving his lips.

"Why can't we do this on the computer? It takes seconds on the computer. Why is he making us go through twenty old books wasting our entire day?"

No response from Nigel, but now I knew why.

The stained gla.s.s wall behind us made a rainbow across our table, and a pudgy shadow had appeared in the middle of it.

"Suppose, Mr. Davis," said a voice from behind me, "that the electricity fails the night before your motion is due in court . . ." Humpty Dumpty placed his gnarled hand on my shoulder. I looked down and saw wiry white hairs on the knuckles. "Suppose you work not at a large firm, but at a small office with limited computers . . ." His mouth was just behind my ear. "Or suppose, G.o.d forbid, that you represent not corporations but actual humans, who cannot afford the thousands of dollars computer research requires . . ."