Danny Tobey - The Faculty Club

In the sunlight, the grand hallway of the law school, its main artery, thrummed with life. Giant shafts of colored light-red, green, and gold-poured in from the vast stained glass walls spanning both sides of the hallway. Frescoes of Creation and Wisdom adorned the ceilings, powdery yellows and blues paying tribute to the great ceilings of Rome and Florence. Students bustled in every direction, talking and laughing with the energy of a Monday morning in the middle of the warmest November in recent memory. On most days I passed through the hallway somewhat anonymously, saying hi to the occasional acquaintance on my way to class; but today, the first class day after the mock trial, I was the source of my own energy. A buzz seemed to follow me and precede me, to propel me down the hall; people I’d never met stared at me, grinning, nodding, patting me on the back, offering congratulations and the occasional It was great, but why didn’t you argue X? I felt like a king coming home from battle.

The journey back from the woods had felt cleansing, like a purification ritual. I had been in the wilderness, but now I was home. The bikers turned out to be great guys. They thought the idea of leaving someone half-naked in the woods was hilarious. They considered adding it to their next initiation. They even decided not to kill me.

I found Daphne sitting at the front of the classroom, rereading today’s cases. Buoyed by the good spirits, I marched right up to her. I felt confident, empowered. She must have felt it too, it must have projected off me, because she looked up and gave me the most dazzling smile I’d ever received, her skin tan and flushed, bright amaranth lips, black eyelashes above the flawless whites of her eyes, the perfect Caribbean irises.

“Hey there,” she said, stretching her arms back over her head. “You look like you had a good weekend.”

“I did. And you?”

“I slept all day yesterday. I slept like I hadn’t slept in months.”

“Me too.”

“Which reminds me,” she said, giving me a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry about the other night. After the trial. I was so tired. I still owe you a celebration.”

“It was a big victory,” I said.

“It was.” She grinned. “Huge.” She leaned in. “You were awesome.”

“You were pretty amazing yourself. The way you handled Mrs. Reid… unbelievable. Two hundred people couldn’t take their eyes off you.”

“So”-she leaned forward, rubbing her hands together-“what should we do?”

“To celebrate? For starters, we should go out to dinner. Somewhere special. Somewhere expensive. How about tonight?”

“Sure,” she said, her face glowing. “Wait. Tonight?”

“Yeah.”

She was looking at me funny, like how could I possibly be available tonight? A very bad thought occurred to me. I tried to push it away. No way, I thought. It wasn’t possible. But, could it be she was looking at me like she’d gotten another invitation from them and was wondering-why hadn’t I?

No way.

“Maybe later in the week, then,” I said.

“Yeah, that could work. Let me check. I’ll let you know.” She gave me a hopeful smile, but it was thin.

“Daphne, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Daphne, come on. It’s me.”

The voice of Professor Gruber rang out behind me.

“Mr. Davis, I hate to interrupt the power couple of the year, but I was thinking about starting class. What are your thoughts on that?” A few people laughed. I looked around and saw that the room was full and Professor Gruber was at the lectern, his stubby arms crossed. The clock read two minutes past the hour. I mumbled an apology and slipped away to my seat across the room.

Couldn’t be, I thought. First event-the cocktail party: I came home and there was an invitation for the next event on my bed. Second event-the tea party: I came home, no invitation. So what? Who said the invitation had to come immediately after the last event? One example doesn’t make a pattern! And who said Daphne and I had to get the same invitation for the same event? No one! But that look in her eyes-surprise, disbelief. What else could it mean?

But I won the trial. Relax, I told myself. (Though Daphne’s words came back to me: winning the trial’s an edge, not a guarantee…)

I barely heard a word of class. Why start now? I kept turning things over in my mind. Don’t overreact. Don’t jump to conclusions.

When class was over, Daphne was out the door before I could reach her. A plump, good-natured woman with bright red lipstick and a green sweater was waiting at the doorway. Margaret Gleeter, Professor Bernini’s secretary for twenty-six years. As I passed, she held my arm and stopped me.

“Professor Bernini wants to see you in his office.”

“Okay.” I hesitated. “Margaret, you don’t know what about, do you?”

“I’m not sure,” she said.

She gave my arm a reassuring squeeze.

When I reached his office, Professor Bernini was on the phone, one hand in his thinning hair. He waved me in.

“Yes, I heard,” he said into the phone. “I think it’s best you speak now, before the article comes out. Mm-hm. Yes.” Professor Bernini scratched his scalp. “You’ll need to make five points. First, you are saddened by the situation. Second, your office is committed to honesty and fairness. Third, you are going to place him on paid leave. Don’t forget to say paid-you’re splitting the baby. Fourth, you are going to sponsor an independent and fair investigation into the matter. Say those words: independent and fair. Fifth, you’ll take appropriate action once the results of that investigation are in.” Bernini winked at me. “That gets you a month. After that, a human sacrifice may be required. Okay, very good. No, I’ve seen worse. Call if you need me.” He hung up the phone and pointed a remote over my head. He clicked a TV on and muted it. He nodded at the phone. “A former student of mine. Now,” he said, smiling, “to the matter at hand. It’s finished.”

“What’s finished?” My voice was weak.

“The draft. My History of Law. Nine hundred pages, give or take.”

He rested his fingers on top of a pile of paper.

“We did it, Jeremy,” he said. “I owe you my gratitude.”

He reached behind his desk and produced two glasses. The sprightly man popped open a bottle of champagne and filled the flutes.

“Congratulations and thank you,” he said, raising his glass.

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

We clinked glasses.

“Do you know what this is, Jeremy?” He tapped his fingertips on the immense stack. I was still reeling from my conversation with Daphne; I resisted the insane urge to say: a book?

“It’s a very important work…”

He waved my answer away.

“It’s glue. Social glue. There’s nothing original in this book. I’m not saying anything John Stuart Mill didn’t say. Or Jefferson or Lincoln. I’m just repeating it. We have to repeat it, Jeremy. Did you know Germany was the cultural center of Europe before the Nazis came to power? It happens so fast.” He leaned toward me. His eyes were wide. “Believe me. I was a child when the fascists took over.” I’d heard the stories. His father was a democrat who opposed Mussolini. He died in a political prison-no lawyer, no trial, no press. Bernini was eleven; after his father’s death, he fled the country with his mother, first to England, then to America. “It’s the same story,” Bernini said. “Point anywhere on a map, I’ll show it to you. There is always a man who would become a dictator. There is always a crowd that would become a mob. The law is a muzzle on an angry dog. We need it. But it’s a cold instrument, fragile and intellectual. Remember that, Jeremy: intelligence isn’t virtue. The law needs our goodness to give it life. Ah.” He unmuted the television. A prominent congressman was holding a press conference. We listened as he repeated Bernini’s words almost verbatim. He looked grave, honest. The wind whipped through his gray hair.