Look Closer(22)

“I hope you understand that I had your best interests in mind, truly,” says he.

I nod my head, because if I tried to give a socially acceptable response, I’d probably vomit.

“Simon.” With that, he leans back in his big leather chair. “I’m sure you can understand that these days, the law school has to be exceptionally careful about questions of character among its faculty.”

Then why are you here, Dean?

“Of course,” I say.

“These days, as you know, we have to be exceptionally careful not only about a candidate’s character but about his . . . his past.”

I blink.

Then I do a slow burn, as he watches me.

“Why, we’ve all seen examples of people losing their positions of prominence these days for things that happened as long as . . . twelve, even fifteen years ago.”

Twelve years ago. Fifteen years ago. He didn’t pick those numbers at random.

You’ve been busy, Dean.

“Particularly when the choice of candidates is so close, such as between you and Reid,” he says. “The smallest thing could make the difference.”

He’s smiling. He’s actually enjoying himself.

“Of course, if the choice were obvious, as it might be if you were to apply next time,” he says, with that condescending ponderous look, “it might not be necessary to dig so deeply. Why, I doubt anyone would so much as inquire what a young fellow was doing with himself some twelve years ago.”

Some twelve years ago. Some twelve years ago.

“But in a close competition like this one . . .” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

He opens his hand. “People naturally look for tiebreakers, for a slight edge to one side. They dig more deeply. They look into the candidate’s entire history. Even things that the candidate forgot to mention back when he first applied to the school.”

My jaw clenched so tight it hurts. My teeth grinding together. Black spots clouding my vision.

“I was under no obligation to disclose that,” I whisper.

“Understood, Simon, understood,” he says. “And the presumption of innocence, as well. Nothing was ever proven, obviously. I just wonder . . . how things will go for you if that were to be publicly disclosed? The whole court fight and everything.”

Yes, the whole court fight and everything.

“Which is why I say again, I have only your best interests in mind when I suggest that now might not be the best time to apply for the position.”

My eyes slowly rise to his. To his credit, he doesn’t look away. He holds that smarmy smirk, but he doesn’t look away.

“And if I withdraw my application?” I say.

“Well, then, there’s no need for anyone to be concerned with ancient history,” he says. “Which, as far as I’m concerned, is exactly what it is.”





19

Vicky

I get back from the day shift at the shelter—buying groceries, a group counseling session, trying to fix the broken A/C window unit in the dorm upstairs—near six o’clock. I pull into the alley behind the house and park in the alley garage. I walk through the backyard, the tall shrubbery and its privacy, and through the rear door of the house to the alarm’s ding-dong and sultry electronic female voice, Back door.

I don’t hear Simon banging around. Not downstairs in the den or upstairs.

“Hello?” I call out.

I put down my bag and wander toward the stairs. “Simon?”

Nothing. The shower isn’t running. I’d hear the water.

“Simon Peter Dobias!”

Maybe he’s not home. He said he would be. Maybe he decided to go for a run. That boy and his running.

I walk up the stairs. “Hello-o,” I sing.

I hear something. Something above. I go into the hallway. The stairs have been pulled down from the ceiling. He’s on the rooftop deck.

I take the stairs up, open the storm door, and step onto the wooden deck. Simon is sitting on one of the lawn chairs he’s put up here, gripping a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

“Hey,” I call out.

He turns, waves me over. “Didn’t hear you,” he says, but he’s slurring his words.

“You okay?”

I sit in the other lawn chair but turn to face him. Yep, glassy eyes. He’s thrown a few back, all right.

I take the bottle from his hand. “What happened?”

“‘What happened’?” He pushes himself out of the chair, opens his arms as if preaching to the masses. “What happened? What happened is he knows, that’s what happened.”

“Who knows what?”

“Dean Cumstain, as you call him.” He raises his chin and nods. “Come to think of it, I’m gonna call him that, too.”

“Knows what, Simon? What does the dean know?”

“He knows.” He turns and stumbles. He’s not close to the edge of the roof, but he’s starting to make me nervous.

“Simon—”

“Twelve years ago, I believe it was!” he calls out like a circus announcer, whirling around to his audience in all directions.

Twelve year—

Oh, no. Oh, shit.

“The year of 2010! I believe it involved a grand jury looking into the murder of a prominent—”