The Faculty Club Part 7

"A big f.u.c.kin' a.s.shole, that's who."

The artery on his temple was prominent, pulsing. He leaned into me, and I realized only then how wildly drunk he was.

"He says, you think you can do my job better than me? And I said, yeah, I do. So he tells me to get the f.u.c.k out of his office. He doesn't care if fifteen people are waiting for the f.u.c.king Care Flight. He's got his own a.s.s to cover, the f.u.c.king jerkoff. I say enough talk, just do it." His voice was rising now, almost to a soft yell. "Just DO IT, I tell him. I was ready to tear his f.u.c.king HEAD off." The artery was really popping now. People around us turned to see what the commotion was. Was he going to take a swing at me? Would his blood vessel explode first?

"Are you hearing what I'm saying?"

"Yes," I said softly.

"I'm sorry, am I disturbing you?"

"No, you're not. Not at all."

He stared at me then like I'd just told him to go f.u.c.k himself.

"Look, can I get you a drink?" I asked, pulling away a little.

"You think I can't afford my own drinks?"

"No . . . I didn't say that. I was just trying to be friendly."

"You some f.u.c.king queer?" he said.

At that point, it became clear that I wasn't going to win. More people were looking at us, but they hadn't yet circled us into that timeless point of no return. Bet this was going over great with the boys behind the mirror. Were they munching on popcorn and placing bets?

I backed away and hoped the drunker, more oblivious partiers would fill in between us a bit. He took a couple of lurching steps toward me, then stumbled and caught himself on a surprised man. I took that moment to turn and walk as fast as I could, as indirectly as I could, toward the other end of the room. I was feeling more sober by the second. The room was still packed, which was good. I prayed that Derrick's friend was so drunk that his rage had already found a new target. Maybe a coatrack or a bar stool.

I came out the other end of the thriving, rowdy crowd, back to the far corner where I'd started. It was still a quiet little enclave, and I stood against the wall and tried to think of ways the night could have gone worse. I felt someone looking at me. The tables around me were empty, except for an old, lonely-looking man sitting by himself. He was staring at me with inquisitive eyes under folds of pearly skin. He had a bad reddish toupee. He didn't look away when I saw him. He held my gaze, and finally I went over and sat down at his table.

"Having fun?" he asked pleasantly.

"Not really."

He smiled.

"Me neither. I don't like parties."

"That makes two of us."

He chuckled, and then we sat quietly for a while.

"Are you a student?" he asked, after a bit.

"I am. I'm a law student."

"Oh," he said, as if he had guessed as much. "So, tell me, why law?"

"That's easy," I said. "My grandfather."

"A lawyer?"

I nodded.

"And you're close?"

"We were."

"Oh." He studied my face. "He pa.s.sed?"

"Last year."

"I'm sorry. What was he like?"

I smiled.

"Tall. Really tall. He scared the h.e.l.l out of people, he could seem really serious, but he was a teddy bear. He had this smile that was mostly in his eyes. Kids loved him. The first time I saw his wedding picture, I couldn't believe it. He and my grandmother looked like movie stars. He was that handsome. People were drawn to him. He was shy, but people always came up to him. It's hard to explain.

"When I was a kid, I used to sit in a chair behind his desk and watch him talk to clients. He knew how to talk to people. He could joke with them, get them to open up. When people were upset, he could talk them through it. He was always calm. His eyes told you everything was going to be okay."

"I bet he was excited you were going to law school."

"I remember when he was sick . . ." I was startled to feel my eyes welling a little. I tried to swallow it down. "He said to me, 'I'm sorry I won't be around to help you.'"

"What did you say?"

"I told him . . ." I paused, pinched my nose, and closed my eyes. "I told him he already taught me everything I knew about being a good person." Why was I losing it in front of this guy? Why did I have so many drinks? "I told him I remembered a time we went to a football game. This small man in a bow tie took our tickets. And my grandpa said to him, 'I know you. You've worked here a long time, haven't you?' The man said yes. My grandpa said, 'You used to stand over there, but now you stand over here.' You have to understand, this is the guy who tore the tickets. Hundreds of people pa.s.sed him every day and didn't say a word. I saw it in that guy's eyes. It meant something. My grandpa was telling that man he mattered. That's the kind of person he was."

I didn't know what else to say.

The man considered me for a minute. Then he looked behind me and said, "I think your ride is here, Mr. Davis."

I turned around. Behind me was the man from the house, Mr. Bones, still wearing his jacket and open-collared shirt. He put his arm on my shoulder and said, "Time to go."

I stood, but I turned back to the old man.

"How did you know my name?" I asked him.

"I know everything about you, Mr. Davis."

I felt a chill pa.s.s through me, a shiver.

"I know where you live. I know what you do. I just wonder . . ." He said this last part quietly, almost to himself. He looked down at his hands on the table, as if I were already gone.

"Wonder what?" I asked him.

Mr. Bones was tugging on my arm now. He had the blindfold in his other hand. He was unrolling it to put it on me.

"Wonder what?" I asked.

Mr. Bones was trying to pull me away. But the old man looked up and met my eyes. The tug on my arm paused.

"I just wonder if you want it badly enough," he said.

The blindfold came over my eyes, and I was left to ponder that question in the dark.

I never saw the person come out of the shadows in the hallway in front of my door, after my walk home from 2312 Morland Street. It must have been four or five in the morning. I really had no idea. I was freezing. My ears were ringing from the cold. I just felt the hands close over my eyes, smelled the alcohol, felt the warm b.r.e.a.s.t.s press up against my back. I heard Daphne whisper in a husky voice into my ear that she'd been waiting for me. Her cheek was hot against my neck. Her lips were full and soft, moving in my ear, working her words in soft vibrations on my skin. "I have an offer for you," she said. She turned me around with her hands in my hair, on my waist, until I faced her.

"I'm not going to lose," she said softly, urgently, her sapphire eyes boring into mine. I tried not to look at the deep shadow between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her dress that clung to a perfect, full body. "I won't leave it to chance," she whispered. "It's too close." She moistened her lips with her tongue. "But . . ." She smiled. "I've done my research. I know how to win." She ran her hand down the side of my cheek, down my neck. She whispered into my ear. "The Thomas Bennett Mock Trial--it's not perfect," she said, her lips humming, "but I've traced the winners. It's an edge. It can break a tie.

"Think," she said, looking down, letting her forehead touch mine, her lips moving inches from my lips. "Nigel and John are the talkers. You and I--we're the brains. Pair the talkers with the brains, you have a compet.i.tion. Maybe I have a good day, maybe you have a good day, who knows . . . But . . ." She met my eyes and smiled. "Put the two brains together, and the talkers have nothing to say. We crush them. They're just two puppets with their hands up each other's a.s.ses."

I saw it. "We take two spots, they fight over the third," I whispered.

"I knew you were smart," she said, letting her lips graze mine. She pressed me against the door, her body pushing into mine. I felt points of warmth all down my front, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s on my chest, her stomach on mine, her thighs hot against my legs. G.o.d I wanted her. I wanted her like I've never wanted anyone. I wanted to pull her dress up over her waist right here in the hall, slide into her right here. "I read your article," she said in that husky, teasing voice. She let her thighs slide back down against the bulge in my pants, then up again. "You did?" She let her hand trace lazily down my stomach, over my belt. "A little superficial," she murmured, her nails grazing up the zipper of my pants, "otherwise, it was pretty good." I grabbed her hand and jerked it away. "How many articles have you published?" I snapped.

She pulled herself off me, swept her hair from her eyes. "Think about it," she said. "It'll be a good chance to get to know each other."

I watched her walk away down the hall, swinging her a.s.s and taunting me.

When I got to my room, not sober, not fulfilled, h.o.r.n.y and furious and thrilled and bewildered, I found another envelope on my bed. This time, I didn't even bother to feel surprised that my doors and windows had been locked. I'd seen bigger tricks tonight. I tore it open and read it quickly.

It said, simply, in typed letters: NOVEMBER ELEVENTH. SEVEN THIRTY P.M.

And below it, a quick, handwritten addendum: Get a new suit.

9.

I threw myself into the mock trial. Daphne's logic was appealing. Her eyes, her lips, her rosewater scent were overwhelming. I would guarantee our entry into the V&D. I would win her admiration. I would win her. Did it matter that I knew, on some level, that these were exactly the ideas she wanted rolling around in my brain?

The case was fascinating: a war hero had suffered a terrible head injury and come home changed. Suddenly, this mild-mannered husband was capable of murdering his coworker in cold blood. It would all come down to mens rea: what had really caused this violent crime--was it the war hero? Or was it the injury that changed him?

Word had already spread across the cla.s.s: this year, the judges' panel would include a retired Supreme Court justice, a former United States Attorney, and, as always, the famous professor Ernes...o...b..rnini. Dozens of students were drafting briefs, hoping they would be selected to compete in the final trial, to show off their skills in front of this stratospheric panel. Daphne and I spent weeks in the library, revising our motions and studying trial tactics. Outside, the days got darker and colder.

I pa.s.sed the ancient man who worked the front door at the library. As usual, it seemed that if I breathed too hard, he'd blow away like sand.

Moments later, I was back at my favorite table, watching Daphne read my section of a new brief, her hair pulled back in a long ponytail, a pen tapping against her mouth. She didn't make a single mark. She read the entire thing and looked up.

"Start over," she said, and went back to work on her own section.

I hadn't slept more than a couple of hours in days. I'd developed a searing headache I couldn't shake. Twice in the last two weeks, when I stood up too quickly I felt the world go blurry. Between the trial prep and the endless research for Bernini's opus, I wasn't even attending cla.s.s anymore. What did it matter? I asked myself. I've discovered the real channel to success in this place, and it has nothing to do with the straight A's and summer jobs my cla.s.smates are pursuing like lemmings.

Around midnight, I was in one of the darkest corners of the library, looking for a rare volume. But on the shelf, I found an empty s.p.a.ce where the book should've been. I felt a surge of panic, then anger: was someone using my book? Or worse, had someone hidden it?

I started walking the deserted floor, searching for the book.

That's when I heard the strange sound of crying.

I followed it to a deeper recess, and through a crack in a shelf of books, I was shocked to see Nigel bent over a table, his eyes red, his hands slamming a stack of books off the table onto the floor. The crash was jarring. Without thinking, I walked toward him. He looked up, and a wave of humiliation and anger spread across his face.

"What do you want?" he snapped at me.

"Nigel, what's wrong?" I took a step toward him.

"Don't patronize me," he said.

"Nigel, we're friends, right?"

His eyes burned right through me.

"Friends." He turned the word over like a moldy peach. "I thought you and Daphne were friends now."

"It's not like that."

"You think I don't see what you're doing?"

"I'm not doing anything."

He ignored me and turned back to one of the books he hadn't knocked to the floor.

What the h.e.l.l, I thought. "Say, you don't have Goldman's Theory of Criminal Justice, do you?"

Nigel laughed bitterly. "Like it would help." He smirked. "I've already read it."

"Look, Nigel, it's after midnight. Let's call it a day. We can grab a beer. Get some food. Sal's is still open."

Nigel shook his head without looking up. His movements were quick, jerky. What happened to the suave, graceful gestures of Nigel Manning, son of an amba.s.sador and a movie star?

"How can I call it a day," Nigel said, "when it takes an hour to read a case, and I've got a hundred more cases to go?"

I did a double take.

"Why does it take an hour to read a case?" I asked.

He looked wounded. "How long does it take you?"

"I don't know. Ten minutes? Twenty?"

"That's impossible. Half the time it's not even apparent what they're talking about. Who taught these judges to write? It's all gibberish."

He sounded frantic. All the pressure and strain of three months of law school was pouring out of him like bile.