The Faculty Club: A Novel (2 page)

"I would do nothing," she said, folding her thin hands in front of her.

"Nothing, Ms. Goodwin?"

"If I pull the lever, I am causing the death of a child."

"And if you
don't
pull the lever, five children will die."

"But I didn't
cause
that. I didn't create the situation. But I won't pull the lever and, by my action, kill a child."

"I see. Are you sure?"

She paused, looking for the trap. Then she said, "Yes."

"So, Ms. Goodwin, by your logic, if there were five children on your track, and
no
child on the other track, we couldn't blame you for not pulling the lever, because you didn't
cause
their death?"

She froze. "I didn't say that . . . I mean, that's not what I meant."

"Mr. Davis, can you help us?"

I was still looking at Daphne Goodwin's bright blue eyes when it dawned on me that Ernesto Bernini had called my name. Two hundred faces were now following his gaze and turning to look at me. Silence filled the room. I felt my heart stop like a needle skidding off a record. Four hundred of the most brilliant eyes in the world were now burning holes in me.

"Yes?" I answered weakly.

"What would you do?"

I felt panic in every nerve of my body. My future was sitting all around me, watching.

I paused and chose my words carefully.

"I can't say what I'd do, sir. It's a terrible situation. Either I cause the death of a child by my action, or I allow five children to die by my inaction. Any way I choose, I lose something. If I had to decide, I would. But as long as it's just an academic exercise, I respectfully decline to answer."

Those flickering elfish eyes were boring right through me. I was pretty sure I was about to get sent home to Texas, possibly with idiot tattooed on my forehead.

Finally, he spoke.

"Fair enough, Mr. Davis. In here, it
is
just an exercise. But someday, you may have to choose. Should you send soldiers to war? Should you sign a law that will help some and harm others? And I wonder, Mr. Davis. Will you be ready?"

"Amazing," Nigel said to me as we packed up our books. "He actually called on you. You must hang the stars! But who are you? I mean, no offense, but I know everybody, and I've never heard of Jeremy Davis."

"I'm no one. Really. No Rhodes scholarship, no editor in chief of anything. And I botched that question anyway. Refusing to answer! What was I thinking?"

"Hey, I thought it was cool. Buck the system and all that. The point is, he knew your name. On the first day! That man makes
presidents
. All I can say is, you're generating quite a buzz for yourself. She doesn't cast her glance casually."

Nigel nodded across the room. I looked just in time to catch the blue eyes of Daphne Goodwin, before she tossed her hair and turned away.

"Anyway, you remind me of a young Bill Clinton," Nigel said,
rising and ruffling my hair on his way out. "And I'm going to ride your coattails the whole damn way."

I spent the afternoon running errands. The campus bookstore was a two-story building nestled between an old-timey tailor and a hamburger place called Easy's. I needed to buy books for the rest of my first semester classes: Contracts (taught by Professor Gruber, a round man with short arms and thick square glasses that made his eyes look a hundred yards away), Property (with Professor Ramirez, a severe woman with a long pinched nose and watery eyes), Constitutional Law (Professor Mueling, accent of undetermined origin), and of course, Torts. It would take me almost a week to figure out what a tort even
was,
but basically, if I punch you in the face, or if you slip on some ice while crossing my yard, that's a tort.

I searched for a book called
Trial Skills
and grabbed it. I planned on trying out for the Thomas Bennett Mock Trial, one of the law school's oldest traditions. Whoever won that was basically guaranteed a Supreme Court clerkship, as long as they didn't find some other way to flame out.

I carried the heavy stack of books, and it seemed like I had the whole universe of human behavior in my hands: what we promise each other and how we harm each other; what we can take and what can't be taken away.

I bought three boxes of highlighters and a package of those colored sticky tabs.

When I checked my mailbox that evening in the student lounge, it was empty, except for a handwritten note:

Come to my office,
it said.

Signed, --
E.B.

Ernesto Bernini's office was filled with books--on the shelves, on his desk, on the floor. It would take a hundred years to read all those books, I thought. There was no computer, but stacks of paper were everywhere. The overhead lights were off, and a lamp cast a small orange circle on his desk. The moon shone in through the window, throwing a blue-white glow over the rest of the room.

"Sit down, Mr. Davis," the professor said kindly, stepping toward me and extending his hand toward a chair. He sat close by on the edge of his desk and fixed me with those rapacious eyes.

"How tall are you?" the professor asked.

"Six-one, sir."

He nodded.

"Can you guess the last time we elected a shorter than average president?" He didn't wait for me to answer. "William McKinley. One hundred and six years ago. Isn't that funny? In a world of ideas, height still matters."

He shook his head.

"I didn't know that, sir," I said, then cursed myself for sounding so stupid.

"That's okay," he said, chuckling. "The potential is there."

I wasn't sure I was being complimented, but I said thank you anyway.

He leaned in closer.

"Good bone structure," he said, his eyes moving over my face. Suddenly, I wished I could somehow move my chair a couple of inches without being rude. There was nothing sexual in the way he was looking at me; rather, I felt like a prize heifer being appraised by a rancher. "Strong jaw. Cheekbones could be a bit more prominent, but oh well. You can't have everything, can you?"

For some reason, I thought of an old friend of mine whose dad was a music teacher. He said his dad could tell what instrument a student would be good at, just by looking at the bones of his face.

Bernini smiled, satisfied, and leaned back.

"I read your article in the
Coleman Law Review,
" he said. "Very impressive, publishing in a law review as a college student."

"You read that, sir?"

"You seem surprised."

"I just . . . it's kind of an obscure journal. I'm not sure the people who work there read it."

Professor Bernini laughed and clapped his hands. "Nevertheless, I was impressed. Interesting ideas. I'm thinking of citing you in my next article. That will raise your stock a little, eh?" He hopped off the desk and opened a window, letting a burst of cold air into the room. His breath came out in plumes of white mist, and he pushed the window closed against the wind.

"When did it get so cold out there?" He rubbed his hands together briskly. "Now, you're probably wondering why you're here." He grinned at me. "I think you have potential, Jeremy. I liked your answer in class today. It was honest and thoughtful. I'd like you to be my research assistant this semester, if you're willing."

"Yes, sir. Of course."

"Good. It's settled then. For tomorrow, I'll need a summary of every case that has cited
Marshall v. City of Allegheny.
That's all for now, Mr. Davis."

He turned his attention to papers on his desk, as if I were already gone. I thanked him and backed out quickly. Research assistant?
Holy shit!
I thought.
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit
. This was it. This was the transformation. I'd always thought of law as a way to help people, the way my grandfather had helped people, but this was something totally different. A window had just opened to power, the good kind of power, greatness even. My grandfather helped a dozen clients a year. I could pass a law and help
millions
of people. I could negotiate peace between two countries and end a
war.
That was the game I was being asked to join now. And--I let my mind wander just a bit--there could be travel, to foreign capitals on important missions, perhaps escorted by beautiful women like Daphne Goodwin who one week ago were in a different universe than I was, but now it was suddenly plausible. More than plausible. I imagined myself in a tuxedo in exotic places with Daphne pressed up next to me--Spanish castles, Italian villas, Greek islands . . .

I had to catch myself. It was a research assignment. I had a long night ahead of me in the library. I wasn't sure I even knew how to do what he'd asked. I hoped the librarians were helpful.

I was halfway down the hall to the elevator, when, from behind, I heard the professor say something strange to himself.

"V and D, perhaps?"

V and D? What was he talking about?

"We'll see," said a second voice.

I looked back, just in time to see the door close.

"In his
office
?" Nigel was leaning back in his chair in the student lounge the next day, polishing an apple on the lapel of a three-piece-suit. "My friend, you are in the catbird seat!"

"Nigel, did anyone ever tell you you talk like a 1940s movie?"

"Jeremy, I am a renaissance man in an age of specialization."

"I don't even know what that
means
."

Nigel laughed and slapped me on the back. His good nature was infectious. Even strangers on the sofas around us looked over and smiled. Most people were studying. A few were hovering around, watching a chess game by the window.

"Ryan Groon," Nigel said, inclining his head toward one of the chess players. "First in the nation in competitive chess for his age group. He can play blindfolded."

"Where are you
from,
Nigel?"

"England, originally. My father was in the foreign service. My mother is an American actress. Penny James, have you heard of her? No? She was very well known in the seventies. Anyway, I grew up in London and Connecticut, went to Princeton, and now I'm here."

I could picture Nigel on a beach somewhere, splashing around as a kid while people stared at the gorgeous American
actress stretched out under an umbrella. Maybe in the background, his father loomed in a white suit and straw hat, speaking into a phone some waiter held for him on a silver tray. I could see both parents in Nigel's face: the strong, forceful features of the diplomat, the graceful good looks of the movie star. It all made sense now.

"Say," Nigel said. "I want to show you something."

He pulled a book from his bag.

"With your permission," Nigel said, "I'd like to ask Daphne out before you get your claws into her. Eh? Of course she'll say no, but I'm not one to look back in eighty years and wonder
what if
? Whad'ya say?"

I admit, the idea of Nigel asking Daphne out annoyed me a little bit. After all, wasn't I the one she was looking at in class? But still, Nigel and Daphne made
sense
together. Daphne and me . . .

"Sure, why not?" I told him.

"Excellent! Good man! I'm going to present her with
this,
as a symbol of my intentions."

He produced a book. It looked like an antique, leather-bound with gold edging on the pages. It was a collection of essays.

"Nigel," I said slowly. "Are you sure
that's
what you want to give her?"

"What's wrong with it?" he asked. He actually looked a little hurt.

"Nothing, nothing. It's really nice. I'm sure she loves political theory. I was just thinking, maybe you could go for something a little more romantic. Flowers, maybe?"

Nigel grinned at me. He waved his finger in my face.

"A Casanova to boot! Yes, that's exactly what I'll do. Flowers. Brilliant!"

I sort of shook my head and changed the subject.

"Nigel, can I ask you a question?"

"Anything."

"Have you ever heard of something called 'V and D'?"

Nigel looked up from polishing his apple. He seemed to pause for a second.

"No."

Then he smiled, an easy, casual smile. "I'm having some friends over for dinner this weekend. Would you like to come?"

"Nigel, did you hear my question? V and D. That seemed to mean something to you. I just thought, with your background . . . you seem to know about everything . . ."

"Nope, never heard of it," Nigel said, rising and taking a bite from his apple. "I think I'm going to watch Groon finish trouncing this young man over here, and then I'll take a walk. Think about my dinner invitation. I promise good wine."

One day, curiosity is going to kill me. Once an idea gets into my head, I can't let it go. What was V and D? Why did Nigel get so weird when I mentioned it? He was such a know-it-all. V and D seemed like the only thing he
didn't
want to brag about knowing.

I searched on the web and didn't find anything useful, mostly sites about venereal disease. The world's largest library was a hundred yards from my room, and I didn't find anything there either.

That night, I met one of my oldest friends, Miles Monroe, in a dark booth at the back of The Idle Rich, a pub near my dorm. Miles was a man of voracious appetites. I found him with a pint of Guinness and a few empty glasses, a basket of onion rings next to a basket of fries, a cigar burning in the ashtray, and his head buried
in a thick book of Durkheim essays. His leather satchel sat next to him in the booth, bulging with books. Miles was immense, nearly six-seven with the physique of someone who read philosophy and ate onion rings all day. Miles might not live to be forty, but he was having a great time.

"How's the search for the holy PhD going?"

Miles looked up and saw me. A smile opened in the middle of his shaggy philosopher's beard.

"Great," he said. "Just twelve more years to go."

He rose and gave me a giant bear-hug and slapped me on the back. I smelled a faint hint of marijuana on his tweed jacket.

"It's good to see you, Jeremy."