Wrecked(46)

Jordan’s mom turned a color approximating her nails. “No one finds that amusing, Bruce.”

“Sorry. But in my experience, these folks are either incompetent or out to get you. It blows my mind when colleges don’t cough up the cash to pay a pro to get the job done right. But, that aside . . .” He trained his eyes on Jordan. “This guy could be one of the Marx Brothers. Or, he could be the Terminator. We can’t predict what you’ll get. So stick to the script.”

As Richard sits in the reception room waiting for Jordan, he imagines the dean dismissing them from his office with “Hasta la vista, baby.” He laughs to himself. Definitely not the script Uncle Bruce has in mind.

Just then, he sees Jordan enter and announce himself to the young woman at the front desk. His wet hair is slicked back, and his trousers have been ironed to a neat pleat running down the front of each leg. Uncle Bruce must have advised him to abandon his usual Vineyard Vines and go for the Young Republican look. His expression is grim as he crosses the room toward Richard.

“Something funny?” Jordan asks.

Richard realizes he’s still grinning and attempts a somber expression. “No. How’s it going?”

“How do you think it’s going? Rest of my life pretty much depends on what I say in the next hour.” Jordan runs his fingers across his scalp, his eyes darting toward the stairs at the back of the lobby. “The girl at the desk said we could go right up.”

Richard rises.

“One sec,” Jordan says. He seems reluctant to leave the room. “I told my folks I didn’t want them sitting down here, waiting. I think that would make me nuts.”

Richard nods. He can see that. He waits, but Jordan is still rooted to the floor.

“So, you’re good?” Jordan asks suddenly. His eyes bore into Richard’s.

Richard doesn’t flinch. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m just supposed to sit there and look respectable.”

He’s petrified. All that swagger. Guy’s just a little chickenshit.

Richard almost feels sorry for him.

They mount the stairs to Dean Hunt’s office on the second floor. Jordan knocks.

“Come in,” a deep voice beckons.

Richard’s first impression is . . . wood. Polished wood. Cherry bookcases line every inch of wall space that isn’t taken up by windows, while a dark wood desk dominates an entire corner of the room. Two gleaming college chairs, the ones your parents might buy you as a graduation gift, are positioned before the desk.

A man who looks around his father’s age, with a close--trimmed beard and wire--rimmed glasses, sits backlit by a tall window. A stack of papers and a blank yellow pad of paper are lined up neatly on the smooth surface before him. He stands, walks around the side of the desk, and extends his hand.

“Good morning. Elliot Hunt,” he says.

“Good morning, Dean Hunt,” Jordan begins. “I’m Jordan Bockus. This is Richard Brandt, who will be my advisor today.”

Elliot Hunt’s eyes flit down the length of Jordan’s pleats. When he shakes Richard’s hand his grasp is warm, firm. But not overly firm. His smile is polite. He gestures toward the two chairs, returns to his own.

He doesn’t seem ridiculous. Or menacing. He seems utterly at ease.

This should be interesting.

“Thank you,” Dean Hunt begins, “for being punctual. You’d be amazed how many students think an appointed time is merely a suggestion.”

Jordan laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. As if he couldn’t possibly imagine ever being late for anything.

“Before we begin,” Dean Hunt says, glancing at the papers on his desk, “we have a few formalities. I’m going to ask several preliminary questions, Mr. Bockus, just to confirm that you are fully informed about our proceedings today. First: have you been apprised as to the nature of this meeting?”

“Uh . . . you want to interview me?” Jordan replies.

The dean stares at him for a moment, then nods. “I’ll take that as a yes. Have you been informed about the complaint made against you?”

“Yes.”

“Including the amendment to that complaint, which includes cyberbullying as well as violating the college’s protection order that bars you from entering Ms. James’s dormitory?”

“Yes,” Jordan says without hesitation.

Richard can’t help it—he sort of gasps. Audibly. Jordan hadn’t said anything about new charges. What the hell?

“And I understand you have responded to that amendment?”

“I responded that she’s out of her mind. No way would I go near her dorm, and I have not been posting stuff about her. I don’t even have that app.”

“Just a simple yes or no would be fine, Mr. Bockus.”

“Yes. I responded.”

“And do you understand that I have been appointed as the college’s sole investigator in this matter?”

“Yes.”

“And have you been informed that during today’s meeting I will ask you questions related to the claim against you for the purposes of filing a report with the MacCallum College Judiciary Committee and making a recommendation as to whether sanctions against you are warranted?”

Jordan shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Excuse me?”