“He's terrible,” said Rachel. “Why do we have to read that crap? With millions of good books, Mr. Gilbert, all we did was say that the book portrayed women as criminals, not as victims of the male society norms at the time. Hester Prynne would be a suffragette in another time. She'd probably be an abolitionist, and a feminist. That's a pretty important discussion, if you ask me.”
Nicole chimed in, “And if you want to teach about romantic literature, why not read Jane Austen instead. She's no more boring than Hawthorne.”
“Because the curriculum is American literature and that's what I'm supposed to teach,” Mr. Cumber answered. “Do you think teachers always like the material? We don't have a choice.” He shouted the last sentence.
I turned to Ms. Rapstein. “What about you, Shelley. What do you want to say to them?”
“Only that they shouldn't make fun of people who have trouble with French words. We don't use it every day, so tenses and even pronunciation can be difficult.”
Nicole jumped on her. “Jack didn't do the reading over vacation, and Gail doesn't ever do your grammar homework. Ever. She's only taking French because her parents made her. She wanted to take Spanish, so she can work in Acapulco next summer. And we have to put up with that.” She stood up and, in clear, fluent French, told her teacher that her class was dull, and that the work wasn't worth the reward. Ms. Rapstein put her hand over her mouth, and I couldn't tell if she was shocked or angry, or both, because I had no idea what Nicole said.
“That sounded like French to me,” I said.
Rachel answered, translating, her teacher's hand remaining over her mouth, firmly in place. I asked how she knew. She told me she had a language program on her computer. “So do I,” said Nicole.
“Which one do you use?”
“Fluenz.”
“Me too. What one are you on?”
“Level four.”
“Me too.” The two enemies quietly eyed each other, while we teachers watched, furtive glances passing between us. I asked Barb Lucas if she had something she wanted to say.
Still mesmerized by the previous exchange, she said, “Only that I wish you would both stop talking in class.”
“Ms. Lucas, I'm sorry about that,” said Rachel. “I was arguing about the formula with Bob. Until you told us what it was. Then I stopped. I was right and he got mad.”
“Joe, do you have something you want to say?”
“Just that when we're doing experiments, I want everyone to stay seated. Some things are dangerous in the lab.”
Nicole looked at the ceiling. “Mr. Rosenberg, you really should watch what your students are doing. I hit Tom because he was turning the gas on and off when you were writing on the board. Steve was about to light a match, so I pulled the box out of his hands. I don't know about you, but I didn't dress for an explosion today.”
Rather than wait for Joe to respond, I asked the teachers if they wanted to say anything more. They all said no, so I said I'd see them tomorrow. When the girls stood up, I said, “Not you. We have more to discuss.” The door closed behind the teachers and I asked if they wanted a soda. Nicole shrugged and Rachel said sure, so I told them to follow me. Behind a bush just outside, I had left a small cooler, out of sight and buried in the snow. A couple of steps in and out, and now I had them without interruption. I took cups from my bottom drawer, and told them to sit.
“You won't need ice. Let's talk about what you can do for me.” I asked them about themselves, about what they're plans were for college, and why they had such bad reputations among the teachers and staff.
Rachel went straight to the point. “Mr. Gilbert, school's boring. Half the time, no one does homework, or participates. When so much is happening in the world, you'd think the teachers would talk about some of it. I think I know more than they do. At least about some things, but they all seem to get lost with the kids who don't care.”
“I've been taking classes at the community college. Since last year. Stuff I can't get here. I could teach the teachers some things about computers, and all the new apps that we can get on our phones. It pisses me off not being able to use phones in class. They think we're not paying attention. Think of all we could add to discussions if we could.” Rachel's frustration reflected on Nicole's face.
“Then explain to me why you two tried to kill each other only a couple of weeks ago.”
“That's personal,” Nicole said, glaring at Rachel.
“Bullshit. You were trying to steal my boyfriend.”
“Bullshit, yourself. I was just talking to him.”
“He told me what you said.”
I stepped in. “This isn't why you're here. But we'll get that straightened out too.”
Nicole asked, “Then why are we here? I want to go home.”
“Me too.”
“I need two seniors to be my assistants. I want you both to help me. I hand-picked you because I know that you're both smart, and that you have a lot of influence, good and bad, on a large number of kids.”
“Doing what?” Rachel asked, her belligerence mixed with curiosity.
“Class preparation, test grading, liaising with teachers and Mr. McAllister, and coordinating a major project, and we don't have much time.”
“What project?” Nicole asked.
“The history baseball tournament. This one needs to be a success. I need more questions, I need to get the kids and teachers involved. My tenth graders need guidance to organize, in and out of school.”
“They started over vacation,” Rachel said.
Nicole said, “A bunch of stores downtown refused to display their signs. I heard they tried going door-to-door to raise money for a scholarship, but that didn't work either.”
“I'll have to check into that. Look, I'm not asking you to volunteer. I'll pay you both a hundred dollars a month until graduation, but you'll need to work together. If one or the other doesn't do it, neither of you get paid. Now, do we have a deal?”
“What if I say no?” Nicole asked.
“Are you testing me?” She looked at my face and could tell I wasn't kidding. “If you say no, you can expect to be in detention every day until the end of school. That work?”
“Both of us?”
“Five of your teachers were here only a few minutes ago. Do you really think they won't join me? Do you both think you can behave so perfectly every day that one of us won't find a reason? Think about it.”
After a minute of silence, where they glanced back and forth, Nicole said, “You drive a hard bargain, but here's my offer. Instead of paying me, pay me each week with weed.”
“Not a chance. That guy is no longer here.”
“I'll do it,” said Rachel. “Come on, Nicole. We already run this place. Between us, we might get something done.” Then she looked at me. “Mr. Gilbert, do you think we might be able to get something done about what they make you teach?”
“I don't know, but I think you'll have a lot of fun trying, and you'll make some people very uncomfortable. I might know someone who could help you. Now go home and tell your parents I said thank you.”
Chapter 32
Fritz
CHRISTMAS BEHIND BARS, but almost certainly not the only day. Kate had left, all except her words, which I could recite from memory. I shoved the note out of my conscious mind. Because of the holiday, my lawyer, who'd been promised, hadn't shown up and no one could decide what to do with me. The Feds wanted me, but McNamara, or more probably, Flynn, had created a tidy jurisdictional snafu, keeping me here. I'm not sure why, but I trusted Flynn, my wild-haired, red-headed guardian angel, to look out for me. The image of him as a tree topper brought a momentary smile.
For most of the eight years I've been here, I've ignored Christmas. With no concept of time in my other life, I had abandoned all contact, but my mind still held the memories. I only remember one Christmas with TJ but he'd grow up comfortably. Tim Miller would see to it. I put him back in the vault and locked it. A quick glimpse of Linda
and she went with him.
Over the years, I'd worked as many holidays as I could. Avoiding happy people had helped. I should have gone with Kate. Just as I had found a new life, with friends, my past caught up. Put it away, Russ. Down the hall, the clang of a cell door opening helped. The footsteps were too many. Tim McNamara and another man stared in.
“Merry Christmas,” the man said. Tim opened my door. “My name is Michael X. Corcoran. I'll be your attorney.” The short and balding man stepped past Tim, who grinned at me, as the cell lock clicked back into place.
“Nothing better to do?”
“I'm Jewish. So, no. Flynn Connolly asked me to look in on you.” He handed me his business card. Removing a yellow pad from his briefcase, he said, “Tell me in detail who you are. Flynn's already told me his version.”
“An Irish Jew. On Christmas. What could be more ironic? What do you want to know?”
He pulled the chair over from the corner, sat and leaned in to whisper. “Flynn wants you kept away from the Feds until after Inauguration Day. After that, the heat should die down. I need to know everything, so I can have a plan for court tomorrow. Judge Sweeney and I have crossed paths many times, and I think he'll be cooperative. But he's hoping for a bump to a Federal court, so I'll have to be persuasive.”
“Get ready to write. I've got a long tall tale to tell. My name used to be Fritz Russell. I'm a time traveler.”
“That's a good start. Your name now is?”
“I use the name Russell Furst.”
“Ah, so you're 'Russ.' I've been told a lot about you. Flynn's tale lacked specificity. Now tell me the rest.”
For the next couple of hours, I talked and he wrote. He got Tim to bring us sodas and sandwiches, and he continued to write, the pad resting on his thighs.
“So did you really shoot the Kopplers, or is this a very imaginative story?”
“Take your pick, counselor. You saw the picture of me. They say it's me, but I don't seem to look any different, eight years later. The weapon doesn't exist. I doubt the so-called eyewitnesses could identify me. But no matter, I'm stuck here, in this cell, in this universe. And I can't be like E.T. and call home.”
“Do you want to go home?”
“I left home to put an end to the Kopplers. They were the worst kind of animals—ruthless, deadly and above the law. I didn't expect to go home. But I didn't expect I'd change the world either.”
“You didn't answer my question.”
“A few weeks ago, I might have said yes. Now, I'm not sure.”
“And Kate is the reason?”
“Yup. And Flynn. And the rest. It's like I've found a new family.”
“And maybe a woman who cares about you?” I raised my head to see him staring. “She does, you know. I had a long talk with her before she left. I always go to the airport with her. Just in case. But don't tell Flynn.”
“I don't expect to be seeing him. Don't worry.”
“You'll see him tomorrow. He'll want to know what the judge decides and he'll be ready to do whatever he needs to do. Kate will want to know.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“I'll be back early tomorrow with my suggestions. My goal is to keep you here. We go to court at 11 AM.”
“What about bail?”
“If you get bail, the Feds get you the minute you step outside. I'm sorry, but there's no other way. But we need to convince the judge. I'm sure that between Flynn and me, we'll succeed. Do you want anything? I'll see what I can do.”
“How about some books. Paper and pen.”
“What books?”
“How about this week's New York Times best sellers, three or four. Or a Civil War book.”
“I'll try. Maybe one at a time. I'll talk to Tim.”
“All right, counselor. See you tomorrow.”
“Call me Mickey. After all, I am Irish.”
With nothing more to do after he left, I started making a list, of course, outlining the activities available to me. Never having experienced the luxury of jail, accessible distractions came to me slowly. I tried to remember all the movies and books about prison life I'd seen or read. Even the Count of Monte Cristo and Cool Hand Luke had other people around. I didn't know if I did.
“Is anyone else here?” I thought I heard a grunt. “Hello?” The clank of a key in a lock vibrated down the hall, preceding Tim McNamara's arrival. “Is anyone else in here, Tim?” He shook his head, and handed me a legal pad, and a felt-tipped marker. “You're kidding, a marker?”
“Rules. No sharp points. You can't attack or kill yourself with that.”
“And you think either of those is likely?”
“Probably not. But we don't take chances anymore. A long time ago, one of the academic intelligentsia killed himself with a pencil. Stabbed himself in the neck and laid down on the cot. The pillow absorbed the blood. We found him too late. Since then, markers.”
“I'd never thought about that.”
“Neither had we. He was a writer. We didn't consider him a threat. Dinner will be along shortly.”
“You got anything up front I can read?”
“Besides the girlie mags? I'll look around. Sorry, Russ. It's just how we do things.”
The smell of cigarette smoke wafted in. I hadn't had a smoke for a couple of days, so I asked. He shook his head again. I had quit, the last time, before Linda and I got married. Another place, another time. Maybe this time I could do it again.
After what could have been a frozen dinner of holiday portions of turkey and gravy, stuffing, peas and carrots, with some kind of berry-topped cake, I began to write my list. With nowhere to go, an exercise regimen would at least keep me busy, and perhaps put a little tone back in my body. I hadn't done push-ups or sit-ups in years, and I could walk and run in place. All my time on my feet made my legs less of a concern, but they hadn't been pushed hard either. Without a watch, I couldn't time anything, so I decided to do as much as I could for as long as I could each day. At least I had a plan.
Once dinner had settled, setting a baseline occurred to me. First, push-ups. I did eighteen. Sit-ups. Twenty-three. I did forty leg thrusts. I counted to two hundred running in place. Dinner didn't like any of it, and told me so.
When day one of my new workout ended, and my dinner resumed its position, I sat with the pad, thinking about writing something, anything, to kill time. In my former life, I'd started to write a history book, but my life had changed. Instead of a history teacher, I'd graduated to jailbird, a prisoner of my own misguided passion. Maybe an autobiography? I couldn't help but chuckle at the twist, a true story that would be read as fiction. At that moment, I wanted a book. Just to have an idea of where to start. Tim came by again to announce lights out, blessing me with the almost-dark that carried me away from my dubious literary future.
I rose early and waited for the lawyer. The cop on duty ignored my questions, my requests to take a shower. He wouldn't even tell me the time. I remembered from the movies that jail time was slow. Doing nothing made it sloth-paced. I thought of exercising, but moving reminded me that I had abused my body, first by not exercising, and then by trying to get in shape in one night.
The bang of cell doors opening and closing, then footsteps, had me at the bars straining for a view. Another face preceded Corcoran, Flynn Connolly in a three-piece suit and dour countenance. When they were in and the cop had left, I asked to hear the plan.
“Russ,” Flynn began, “sorry for this. I am. I had no time. At least, we can control things better.”
“Not now, Flynn. We need to get him prepped,” Mickey said.
“I need some food, some aspirin, a smoke, and a shower.” My nose wrinkled at my smell. “And a watch. What time is it?”
“Seven,” said Flynn. “We have clothes for you up front.”
“We'll get to that,” Mickey said. “We don't have a lot of time, and you need to get cleaned up. They will move you in two hours, and then we wait.”
“I do a lot
of that.”
He flashed a silly grin and said, “Here's the plan.”
I arrived at the courthouse shortly after nine. Soon after, Mickey joined me in a holding area. “The judge is grumpy this morning. He's moved you up on the schedule. He wants your case processed before the reporters are awake. The prosecutor is a new kid, and she'll be trying to score points. You have to do exactly what I told you.”
“Tell them the truth, I know. I don't know what they're talking about.”
“Then I'll move for dismissal. We won't get it. Then I'll ask for bail. We won't get that either. Then he'll set a trial date. But no matter, you have to follow the script.”
Rows of unoccupied benches greeted my arrival in the courtroom. Not like the movies, with all the seats full, everyone on edge. In the back row, three elderly women chatted. I thought the judge must have his own groupies. My handcuffs were removed, but as I shook the circulation back in my hands, the officer slapped the cuffs on again, attaching me to the table.
“Is that necessary?' Mickey asked.
“Judge's orders.” I glanced back and forth. Mickey shrugged.
The bailiff called the case, the judge returned to the courtroom, everyone stood, and he stared at me. He read the charges and asked how I would plead. Mickey elbowed me and whispered, “You're on.”
“Your honor, you have the wrong guy. I'm innocent. I wasn't even here when those men were shot.”
“Mr. Corcoran, this is inappropriate.”
“Sorry, your honor, but he has a point. I've seen no evidence other than a blurry picture. I move to dismiss.”
“Not quite yet, counselor. Mr. Furst, how did you come to be in this situation?”
“Your honor, I'm a time traveler, and I'm stranded here, unable to get back to my universe.”
The judge gave a snort, holding back a laugh. “Mr. Corcoran, Miss Wellesley, approach the bench.”
“It's Pennington, your honor. I went to college at Wellesley.”
“Whatever.” He waved the lawyers to the front.
“Mr. Corcoran, did you tell him to say that?”
The Portal At The End Of The Storm (Quantum Touch Book 6) Page 20
