The Faculty Club: A Novel (11 page)

I looked at Sarah on the stand. I didn't want to hurt her. She'd trusted me. I liked her. Maybe more than like.

I don't want to do this,
I thought.
I won't do this.

I could see it now. It was a dead heat. All those weeks of sleepless nights, endless motions, skipped meals, nightmares, sneaking into the men's room to puke my nerves away. I hadn't talked to my parents in a month. I hadn't gone on a date, seen a movie, had a beer. I was so sure that
this
was the way to the V&D--to success beyond my wildest dreams--that I hadn't studied for my classes or even attended them. God help me if I had to rely on those grades! I had all my eggs in this one basket. This
case
. I couldn't lose. Not to mention Daphne, who hadn't laid a hand on me since that night outside my dorm room. Goddamn her lips! My career, my future, my
life
. The whole damn thing hung in the balance.

I don't want to do this.

On the stand, Sarah looked relaxed now, calm. She caught my eye, and there was a hint of a smile--a shared secret. She'd already decided I wasn't going to hurt her. It was almost smug when you thought about it. So confident in her power over me--that I would throw away my life, my future, everything--to cover up for her lie.

Who did she think she was?

I felt a shock of guilt, or pain--that voice saying
Please, I don't want to hurt her--
but somehow it lost out to other dreams and urges.

I made a decision.

"Dr. Casey, you are appearing as an expert witness, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And this jury is trusting your opinion because of your credentials, right?"

Suddenly she seemed wary.

"Yes."

She looked at me hard, searching.

"You are a neurosurgery resident in the top program in the country. Isn't that right?"

"Yes," she said softly.

"Getting this position, it shows you had top grades in medical school, correct?"

"Yes."

"And all of this--your grades, your position in a top residency--all of this is the basis for your expertise here today, isn't it?"

"Yes," she whispered, looking at me desperately, trying not to reveal anything, begging me with her eyes.

"And that's not all. Your
honesty
. Isn't that part of your expertise here today? The jury can trust what you say because you are an
honest
person?"

"
Yes,
" she said, her eyes starting to well up, perceptible only to me, standing so close.

I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath.

Daphne was swept up in my new rhythm. She looked curious, excited. I found my own righteous anger and turned back to the witness.

No going back.

"Dr. Casey, isn't it true that your application to this program contained serious misrepresentations about your abilities and accomplishments in medical school?"

John and Nigel erupted.

They had no idea where I was going, but they let out a string of objections.

"Yes or no?" I pressed.

Sarah froze, stunned.

"Yes or no, Dr. Casey? Why are you hesitating?"

She shook her head no.

"Dr. Casey," I said, the word
doctor
now sounding absolutely pornographic, "did you or did you not allow your father to cover up numerous failed classes during your medical school education?"

"I don't have to put up with . . . this isn't
real
."

Her lips were trembling.

"Yes or no, Dr. Casey?"

No answer.

"YES OR NO?"

Her face started to break.

"Did you or did you not get this prestigious residency as a result of lies and cover-ups?"

"Yes," she said softly, her voice cracking.

"Did you allow this cover-up to occur?"

"Yes,"
she repeated, now sobbing.

"Did you go from interview to interview, passing yourself off as something you are not--to get a job you did not deserve?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes."

The objections were raining down now, washing over me.

I didn't pay attention.

I didn't even listen for her last answer.

The damage was done. The witness was toast.

I sat back down at our table. Daphne gave me a look of such pride it was almost lustful.

I heard Sarah's steps as she left the courtroom. But I couldn't find the courage--not even for a single second--to look up and watch her go.

We won. That's what the head juror announced, holding a sheet of paper. The judges critiqued our performances, but I can't remember a word they said. I just kept repeating the phrase--part cheer, part question--over and over in my head:
we won, we won, we won.

The sun was nearly down, the courtroom filled with purple light. The judges were gone. Most of the crowd had gone home.

"Let's go celebrate," Daphne said.

"Sure. Hang on a second."

I walked toward John and Nigel. "Where are you going?" she called after me.

They were still sitting at their table. John was staring at his notes. Nigel looked ahead blankly, like a kid who has just learned his dog died.

"Come on," I said to them. "We're going out."

They looked at me like I was crazy.

"I'm serious. We're going out. It's over. We've been killing ourselves for a month. Come on. I'm buying."

"I don't feel like it," Nigel said.

"I don't care. I'm buying us a round of drinks. After that, you can leave if you want. You owe me that much."

I wasn't taking no for an answer. Somehow I bullied them into
joining us at The Idle Rich. Mostly, I think they were numb. The four of us sat around an oak table with the rapport of funeral directors, until the second round of drinks, when things loosened up a bit.

"Something about this place," I said. "It's corrosive, isn't it? When did we get so serious?"

"You didn't have fun destroying our case?" Nigel asked. His tone was only halfway bitter, a major improvement over the last hour.

"How did you know that about our witness?" John asked, shaking his head. We hadn't met each other's experts before the trial. We hadn't even known their names. He must have been baffled.

"I know her," I said. "We met on campus."

"Lucky her," Nigel said dryly.

I shook off a sinking feeling in my stomach, changed the subject.

"Seriously, though. Did you guys ever just hang out, act stupid? Or were you always future Supreme Court clerks?"

"John used to be crazy," Daphne said.

"Bullshit."

"What are you talking about?" John asked her, making eye contact with us for the first time since the verdict.

"You know, the table story?"

"You are
not
bringing that up."

"If you don't tell it, I will," Daphne said, grinning.

"Fine. Go ahead." John leaned back, closed his eyes, and held a bottle to his forehead.

"It's an Oxford story," Daphne said. "John and his friends decide they want to start a poker game. So after a few drinks, one of his brilliant friends--who was it, Tom?--suggests that one
of the big round tables in the dining hall would make a perfect poker table. You have to imagine it: these are giant wooden tables, maybe seven or eight feet wide. It took five of them to lift it. So after dinner one night, when the dining hall was empty, John and his friends snuck back in and carried out the table. That was their whole plan. Just walk out with it. Rhodes scholars, right?"

"Oh no," Nigel said, shaking his head. "You stole a table from Oxford?"

"We did," John said. I saw the hint of a grin.

"They almost made it too. They were halfway across campus, carrying this table in the middle of the quad, when a security guard stopped them."

"No."

"What happened?"

"That's the best part," Daphne said. "As the story goes, everyone's panicking except John. He looks right at the security guard and says with a straight face, 'Do you think I
want
to be carrying this table across campus?' He says it just right. The guard blinks at him for a few seconds. Then he lets them go!"

Everybody was smiling now, even laughing a little. "Confidence," John said happily, "the key to life." He took a drink.

"So you kept the table?"

Daphne laughed.

"They couldn't get it through the door of their apartment."

John turned red and looked down. The rest of us cracked up.

"You put it back?"

"Not exactly . . ."

Daphne shook her head.

"They left it on the squash courts."

I don't know why, but that's when I lost it. I laughed so hard I
nearly cried. It was like all the stress of the last two months came rushing out.

I felt the thaw come over our small group. It was almost like we were back at Nigel's dinner party, before everything went to hell with trials and mysterious clubs that can't be mentioned for some pretentious reason.

"This is what matters," I said finally. "Right here. Friendship. At the end of the day, none of the other stuff matters."

Everybody agreed, but nobody looked totally sure.

John and Nigel stumbled toward their homes. Daphne and I hung back. I didn't know what to say next. Somehow "Your place or mine?" seemed wrong.

"I guess I might see you tomorrow night," I said. Tomorrow was the eleventh, the night of the second event, according to the cryptic invitation on my bed.

Daphne smiled. "Maybe. Who knows what they have in store for us?" She rubbed my arm. "You were great today. I knew I was right to choose you."

"You were great too."

I felt a thrill in my stomach.

She made a big production of yawning and stretching. "Wow, I can't keep my eyes open." She leaned in and gave me a brief hug. Then she said good night and walked off, leaving me as confused and deflated as a star witness on the stand, freshly shredded and dismissed.

The next morning I checked my bank account. About a thousand dollars left to get me to the end of the semester and my next loan check. I withdrew eight hundred and bought a new suit.

November 11 marked day two of the Indian summer that arrived with the trial. I could almost forget the bitterness of October; the days were now bright and cheerful, warm in the sun, crisp in the shade. I got a haircut and asked for it short. I usually let my hair dry wavy. Today I parted it on the left and combed it straight. I put on my new suit. I looked in the mirror and hardly recognized myself.

Tonight's invitation had even less information than the first. Just a date and time. No address. No instructions.

The only option, I decided, was to return to 2312 Morland Street. I would get there early, in case I was wrong and had to improvise.

On the way, I wondered who I would see tonight. Would I encounter the elegant Mr. Bones again? Would he show me new items in his crazy-man collection?

Would I see the old man with the red toupee, the retired lawyer who asked all about my grandfather? The one who wondered if I wanted it bad enough? He wouldn't have to ask that tonight.

The gingerbread house on Morland Street looked the same. I rang the doorbell. A young woman dressed like a soccer mom pulled aside the curtain and looked at me through the window. Two kids chased a ball behind her.

"Yes?"

"Hi. I'm Jeremy Davis. I'm looking for"--I didn't even know his name--"the gentleman who lives here."

"I'm sorry,
who
are you looking for?"

"The man who lives here? He's about my height? Gray hair?"

"There's no one like that here." She picked up one of the kids who was pulling at her pants. She looked at my suit, sized me up. She closed the curtain and opened the door.

"We moved in two weeks ago. Maybe you're looking for the people who lived here before?"

"You moved in two weeks ago?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

She raised her eyebrows.

"Pretty sure."

I tried to think.

"Did they leave a forwarding address?"

"No. I never met them. I'm sorry I can't be more help."

She started to close the door.

"Are you sure I'm not supposed to be here?"

She looked me over.

"Sorry, sweetie. I don't know what to tell you."

"Thanks anyway."

"All right. Drive safe."

It was an odd thing for her to say, considering I walked here. But when I turned around to leave, I saw a car idling across the street. It was a nice car--I'm no good with names, but I was pretty sure it was a Bentley. The windows were tinted. A driver stood by the rear passenger door. He was straight out of another era--long coat, black chauffeur's cap, leather gloves.

We made eye contact, and he looked away almost instantly, lowering his head and moving to open the door. He stood beside it, holding it open and keeping his eyes down.

I looked around. There was no one else nearby. The street was silent, except for the quiet idling of the car. 2312 was closed again, the soccer mom in another universe behind the drapes.

I walked toward the car. The closer I got, the more the man seemed to lower his gaze.

What the hell, I thought. Why wouldn't I get in the car? It's not like they wanted to kill me. Although, my brain offered helpfully, most movie whackings did begin with the obligatory
Get in the car.
Was I crazy to get in? Was I crazy if I didn't? Frankly, I didn't have anywhere else to go. The interior looked nice. Tan leather seats. It appeared empty--was this all for me? One final question: would the driver karate-chop my neck as I tried to enter the car?

I slipped in. He shut the door behind me.

The windows were more than just tinted, it turned out; they were black. I couldn't see anything. Another amusing feature of this automobile was the absence of door handles on the inside of my doors. The driver sat on the other side of a closed divider. Wherever he was going, I was coming along. All I could do was fix myself a drink at the mobile bar. I sat back and enjoyed the hum of the ride.

By my watch, we stopped an hour and a half later.