Craig Smith - Cold Rain

He was a man in his late fifties with the indelible signs of a man worn out by routine. I was therefore a rather interesting exception to his day. ‘Dr Albo,’ he said with something akin to a sigh, ‘my impression is that last night was a bit out of character for you. Would you say that is the case?’ I looked at Gail. Her expression indicated I should answer the judge.

I tried to assure him that it was, but my voice cracked, and it took a couple of tries.

He looked down at his notes. ‘Joseph Elder, Buddy, is one of your students?’ I said that he was. The judge considered this fact for a moment. ‘You have any idea how the two of you can avoid another incident of this nature?’

‘I’d be surprised if he didn’t drop my class.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

‘We’re not going to have any problems, Your Honour.’

‘Make sure you don’t, Dr Albo. You come into my court with another incident involving that young man and I’m going to feel like I made a mistake this morning.’

I felt a flutter of hope.

‘I don’t like to make mistakes. What is more, the voters don’t like it when I make mistakes. Are we clear on that?’

‘Yes, Your Honour.’

‘I’m going to ask you to make two promises to me this morning. First, that you’ll stay out of The Glass Slipper for as long as I sit on this bench. Second, that you’ll avoid any sort of confrontation with Mr Elder.

Can you do that?’

‘I can.’

‘Can you promise it?’

‘I promise, Your Honour.’

‘If you break your promise to me, son, if you so much as get in a shouting match with Mr Elder, I will spare no effort in attempting to ruin your life, in the legal sense of the word, of course.’

It occurred to me that I should attempt to explain to the judge that Buddy Elder had apparently decided to ruin my life, in an illegal sense of the word, and that I might not have much choice about how I dealt with the young man, but I very wisely followed my instinct and kept my mouth shut. I had made my promise and meant to keep it. At that moment I could not imagine ever going back to The Slipper or crossing paths with Buddy Elder again. I had the best intentions that morning, jail will do that, but as things turned out I would end up breaking both promises.

‘Ms Etheridge, kindly take your client out of my courtroom. All charges are dismissed.’

We had to wait for an escort back to the city jail so I could reclaim my property and return my orange jumpsuit, though I would have liked to keep it for a souvenir. While we waited, I ran through the incident for Gail’s benefit, beginning with the diary. I described everything I could recall reading. I omitted only the fact that my wife had very nearly unloaded her revolver before showing me the door.

A fairly good friend who also happened to be getting paid to listen, Gail appeared to accept everything I said. I had the feeling, though, that she didn’t really believe me. She was neither stupid nor naive. If a diary existed which described an affair, then no matter what I said she was going to assume there was an affair.

Why else would a young woman write twenty or thirty s in her diary about it? My wife, after all, who knew me better than anyone, believed it. Why shouldn’t my lawyer?

‘One thing,’ Gail said. ‘Do you think Leslie Blackwell will get a copy of this diary?’

I shrugged. ‘What if she does?’

Gail’s expression grew sombre. ‘That’s the question, isn’t it? The affair started last summer?’

‘There was no affair.’

‘Right.’ Gail tried hard not to roll her eyes. ‘The alleged affair allegedly started…’

‘Last summer. That’s the way I understood it anyway.’

‘According to her she takes a class with her lover.

The live-in boyfriend makes a fuss when he finds out.

He wants revenge, and maybe an insurance policy against the two of you getting back together again, so he has her file her bogus complaint of sexual harassment. Is that about how it works out?’

‘There are rules against vendetta complaints.’

‘If life were only so simple. Unfortunately, the affair, sorry, alleged affair, lends credibility to Johnna Masterson’s complaint.’

‘I don’t follow. What does Johnna Masterson have to do with it? You said yourself her complaint is groundless.’

‘Look at it from Leslie Blackwell’s point of view, David. You’re engaged in an adulterous affair with a student, teaching students that married men who have affairs with unmarried women are not committing adultery, and you’re hooting it up with the unindicted co-defendant at the Student Union.’

‘Hooting is probably not the word we want to use under the circumstances.’

Gail rewarded me with an impatient smile. ‘Johnna Masterson’s complaint is that you have created a hostile environment for her. Her complaint cites a single example. On the face of it, Blackwell should never have investigated Masterson’s complaint, but Denise Conway’s complaint made it impossible for her to ignore it. So she digs around a little, and suddenly she discovers Denise Conway’s diary. In other words, Ms.

Masterson’s complaint now has substance. You’re banging students in your office and bargaining blow jobs for grades, even if it’s all in good fun. In that light, anything you might have said about Johnna Masterson forms part of a larger pattern of behaviour.’

‘All that is assuming I said something in the first place,’ I grumbled irritably, ‘and that the diary has some legitimacy.’

Gail’s expression suggested my objection was irrelevant, but she very kindly agreed with me. ‘True or not, David, if Leslie Blackwell finds out about the diary she’ll feel obliged to push the case forward to the vice president. Which means we could be in for a hell of a fight.’

I had to suppress the urge to vomit as I put my clothes on. My leather jacket was ruined. The clothes needed to be washed. Throughout the morning, I had been watching the time, thinking I could make my afternoon class. With an hour remaining, I left the police station and got into a taxi. On the ride to my truck, I called the department and cancelled my class.

Unavoidably delayed, I said. I talked to a student worker, so there was no cross-examination. I then called Molly. Her cell phone was off, so I left a message on the home answering machine. I was out of jail, I said, but I needed money and clothing. I added gratuitously that I hadn’t slept with ‘that woman.’ The cabdriver, who neither appeared to notice the peculiar stink of my clothing, nor reacted to the word jail, checked me out in the mirror as I made this final protestation.

That gave me a pretty good idea how Molly would receive it.

Walt Beery wasn’t in my truck. Nor was his Scotch.

He had, however, left the truck without taking the beer. That fact alone was sufficient for me to call Walt a good friend. I went back to Walt’s apartment on the off chance he was there. Since I didn’t have a key and there was no answer when I phoned him, I decided to go out to the farm. I called ahead, if only to avoid a shootout with Molly. When she didn’t answer, I left another message: ‘I’m going to the farm to pick up some things. I’ll be gone by three o’clock.’

I saw the farm differently when I drove out that afternoon. I had been in the habit of seeing the things we needed to do. Now I saw what I was about to lose. Barnard Place had been in Molly’s family since the 1930s. When Doc and Olga abandoned the farm for the comforts of suburbia, settling just off the thirteenth fairway adjacent to the country club, Doc was not the sole owner of the property, nor could he get an elderly sister to agree to sell. So he did the worst thing possible: he broke that beautiful mansion into apartments. When he gave up the apartment building idea, Doc left the house vacant without even bothering to close the place up properly. Pipes froze and burst. The basement flooded. Trees grew up through the eaves. The windows became target practice for kids who wanted to go out and see the haunted house.