“Right. And?”
“The seller is no dummy. Whoever stole it is an A student.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it wasn’t like reading a MySpace page. It was like chatting with an honor student.” Anthony twisted his face in disgust. “Like Donald, the computer freak.”
“Geek,” I corrected.
“Huh?” Anthony shrugged. Whoops! I’d forgotten who I was talking to.
I waved my hand impatiently. “Maybe the seller wanted to appear professional, so buyers wouldn’t question the price.”
“No, this dude was just way smart.”
I rose from my desk and shook Anthony’s hand. “I’m really, really sorry this happened. Thanks for coming to me.”
“No prob, Prof.”
I was already dialing Donna before Anthony left my office. She picked up on the first ring.
“Hey, Donna, it’s me.”
“Hey, me. You got dirt?”
I told Donna about my meeting with Anthony, and we went back through my class list and reevaluated the students, given this new bit of information. If the thief was a top-notch student, that narrowed the class by about two-thirds. Rodney was out of the running. He really couldn’t risk his football scholarship, and he wasn’t all that bright. Naomi might have taken it and not even realized it. No malice intended, and no motivation to sell it online. Anthony was in the clear, while poor Eddie was an absolute victim in this mess.
“What can a kid get for two hundred dollars these days? I don’t think money is the motivator,” Donna said.
“That’s a good point.”
“Whoever stole the test wanted to embarrass you or maybe take away some of your power,” Donna continued with her line of thought.
“Okay, so I’m looking for a student who maybe I embarrassed in class. A smart student I took down a notch.”
“Exactly.”
“You know, Donna, that’s really perceptive. Sometimes the bright kids try to challenge you. If a teacher gets defensive, she may shoot back at the student even harder. In the end, the student usually loses.”
“Is it that easy to crush them?” Donna asked.
“Well, when you’ve taught the same lesson a hundred times, it’s not hard to outwit even a savvy student.”
“The problem is,” I continued, “I can’t remember doing that this semester. It does happen, but so far this semester, it’s been smooth sailing. I don’t really have any aggressive students this term.”
“Maybe the slight wasn’t obvious to you, but the student took it hard.”
“Could be, but that doesn’t help me now.”
I hung up the phone and looked at my watch. Time for class. Too late to beg the union for help.
WALKING to class was like walking the Green Mile. By this time, every student on campus had heard about Eddie and THE TEST. I’m sure the gossip was taking on mythic proportions. A reality show was probably in the works. I slithered down the hall, feeling like the rat I was. I rounded the corner and forced myself over the threshold, only to be met by Dean White, already holding court in front of my class.
“Good morning, Professor Johnstone.” The dean reflexively stuck out his hand. We shook. Professional, but cold.
The dean launched into a lecture on ethics, humanity, academic freedom, religion, and good ole American ingenuity. I had no idea how he connected the themes, but the end result was spectacular. He made each student feel individually responsible, yet empowered the group to fix the problem. He laid blame on me, but helped the students appreciate and empathize with the plight of an authority figure. And finally, he praised Hudson College for embracing differences head-on, even if it was hard to navigate the new social structure. His speech was the greatest public relations address ever! Of course it had nothing to do with me or Eddie or the test. It was a highly orchestrated attempt at saving the reputation of the college. And if that wasn’t enough, the dean dismissed the class after his twenty-minute oratory. How could the students not love him? Go Hudson!
The dean gave me a perfunctory nod and asked me to see him later.
Some of the students came up and shook my hand. A few students made plans to visit Eddie. Anthony winked at me and tilted his head toward Donald the Computer Freak/Geek. I said my goodbyes and walked back to my office with my chin held high.
So high in fact that I missed a three-foot, two-year-old running head first into my shins.
“Randy?” I kneeled down and gave my son a great bear hug. “What are you doing here?”
“Hey, honey.” Donna brought up the rear, dragging her two kids and Bob behind.
“Donna, this is not good. You can’t show up with the kids. I’m already persona non grata around here.”
“I know, sweetie. We were headed to the park, but the kids really had to pee. Bob took Randy to the bathroom, and we hung out in his office for a bit.”
“All right. Can we just move the party to my office before the dean sees us?”
“Sure thing,” Donna said, and waved goodbye to Bob.
“Glad I could help.” Bob gave us the thumbs up and scooted off.
Donna grabbed my upper arm with a kung fu grip and spit in my ear. “Your office, now!”
We hustled down the hall while I rubbed my arm. She was strong. We had barely moved the crew into my cramped office when Donna whipped out a Wiggles cassette and popped it into the VCR. She put the volume on low and passed out a bag of M&Ms to each of the three children. Randy’s eyes lit up.
“Park it,” she ordered me. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“Shoot.”
“On the day of the test, did you stop anywhere between the classroom and your office?”
“No. I mean yes,” I stammered. “I went to the ladies room.”
“How many stalls?”
“It’s just a single bathroom, and the door locks.”
“Okay, then you went back to your office?”
“No, I stopped by the teachers’ lounge and picked up my mail.”
“Do the students have access to the lounge?”
“Yeah, it’s an open room. Students come in and out all the time to drop overdue papers and homework in our mailboxes.”
“Besides the random student, who else was in the lounge?”
“Oh god, Donna, I don’t remember. I think some of the secretaries were having a cup of coffee. I had a quick conversation with an English adjunct and a math professor.” I tried to stretch my memory, but those nine months staying home with Randy had killed one too many brain cells. “I think Bob was goofing on me about my coffee addiction. The usual stuff.”
“So you fixed yourself a cup of coffee. And you left the stack of tests where?”
“Near my mail slot.” I said the words very slowly. “Out— of—my—sight.”
“Zoe, why did Bob tell you to come clean and approach the dean before it got out of hand?”
“I told you already. He thought it would help me save face.”
I could feel the anger welling up in my chest. “Donna, don’t even go there.”
“Exactly how many law firms did Bob work at before he came here?”
“Donna, stop now.”
“Nine, Zoe. He worked at nine different firms and never made partner.” Donna shot her hand out at me. “Don’t argue. I called the American Law Association this morning and checked.”
Then she asked, “Who is your competition for tenure and promotion?”
I refused to speak.
“Say it, Zoe. Your competition is all the people who started the same year as you.”
I spun my chair toward the wall. Real mature, but I didn’t want Donna to see me lose it. If she was right, and I prayed she wasn’t, then I was a complete fool. Losing the test and endangering one of my students had already killed my credibility on campus. Getting backstabbed by a friend, and a good friend at that, was like rubbing salt in a deep wound. I turned back toward Donna, ready to face the music.
> “Honey, Bob set you up.” I could see Donna was trying to soften the blow. “Unfortunately, he probably didn’t know it would explode like this. My guess is he was just going to post the test on that website and put a wrench in your reputation.” I watched as Donna leaned down to take something out of her bag. She put my test on the desk.
“I wasn’t headed to the park,” she said. “I never take the kids to the park. I was looking for a way to get into Bob’s office. Randy really did have to pee, though. Bob offered to take him while we waited in his office. The test was right in his top drawer.”
Donna and I sat quietly for some time. It was tough. I watched the Wiggles perform one of their inane dances and tried to control my breathing. I wasn’t sure if it was the pounding of my heart or Donna’s voice that broke the silence.
“Zoe, it’s time. Go see the dean and tell Bob he needs to go to the union.”
“I can’t go to the dean. I have no evidence,” I blurted out. “I can’t just plunk down the test and tell him my babysitter finagled her way into Bob’s office and took the liberty of searching through his drawers.”
“Hmm,” Donna pondered.
“Yeah, hmm,” I pondered back. I rubbed my face and stood up abruptly. Then I sat back down and repeated the routine two more times. On the third round, I picked up the phone and dialed Bob’s office. I put my finger over my lips and whispered shhhh to Donna.
“Oh, Bob, I’m so glad you’re there. Look, it’s all coming down, and I really need you.”
Donna eyed me curiously.
“Yeah,” I continued. “The dean just called. He’s on his way here. He wants to meet with me, but the union rep is up in Albany for a conference. I need you to stand in. Can we meet in your office? I’ve still got Donna and the kids here.” I winked at Donna. “Great. See you in ten.”
I hung up and dialed the dean. His secretary patched me right through. Sometimes it pays to be a pariah.
The dean came on the line, and I tried to channel my old self—that aggressive, fast-talking, quick-thinking advertising exec who could pull together an impressive presentation in the snap of a finger. Yes, that was me. I was that savvy woman in a tight skirt, maneuvering a multimillion-dollar client into a record-setting deal. I still had it. I worked my mojo on the dean and he agreed to traipse across campus and meet me on my own turf. I was back, baby.
I turned on my computer. Last part of the plan. One catch. Bob needed to be logged off from his office computer for this house of cards to remain standing. A crucial fact I should have checked minutes ago. My blue computer screen asked me for Bob’s school password. I typed in “Buster,” the name of Bob’s cat, remembering back when we were friends. This was the kind of stuff we knew about each other. Bingo. He was off. I was logged in as Professor Bob Carlin. I logged onto Word and frantically scanned Bob’s documents. If Bob was selling my test, he’d need an electronic copy. Shit, there were hundreds of documents here. I glanced at my watch. No way I’d have time to search through the haystack. Instead, I typed in the web address for TestSwap.com, my exam’s new home. I found the tab for morons who forgot their password and turned toward a mystified Donna.
“Okay, here’s where you come in.” Donna suddenly snapped to attention.
“Bob isn’t on his computer, so I was able to log on as him. I thought I’d find my test, but I’d need a week to weed through these files, and the dean is already on his way over. Instead, we have to show that Bob has an active account at TestSwap.” Donna nodded skeptically. “If Bob is the seller, then he must have an active account with TestSwap. Right?” I pointed to the computer screen.
“Look, I need you to fill out the ‘Forgot Your Password’ form.” I jotted down some notes for her. Like Bob’s mother’s maiden name being Marsh. Again, from back when he and I were friends.
“Here’s the most important part. You need to log off as quickly as possible.” I stood up and glanced at the kids curled up on my ancient office couch and headed out.
I met Dean White in the hall fresh from his hike across campus. I stuck my hand out with confidence and led him to Bob’s office.
“If it’s okay, Dean, I feel better having a friend with me.” The dean nodded and we all sat down.
“Bob, do me a favor.” I smiled calmly. “Will you go to TestSwap.com?”
Bob shot me a curious look. “I’m not sure that is advisable, Zoe.” Ah, ever the lawyer. Amazing he had never made partner.
“No, no. I think it’s important to show the dean how this whole thing works.”
I turned to the dean and in my most innocent and self-deprecating voice, gave him the full-court press.
“First, I’m so embarrassed I was careless enough to let a test go missing. The fact that my knee-jerk reaction in class caused physical harm to a student is something I’ll have to live with for a very long time. You may not be aware, but the test has since ended up on one of these black market sites. Clearly, this is mortifying. But I think it’s important to see how insidious and damaging these sites are to our profession. I’m not the only victim.”
“You’ve piqued my interest, Professor Johnstone,” the dean said. “Go ahead and turn on your computer, Professor Carlin.”
The minute the dean gave the command, I could see a slight quiver in Bob’s hands on the keyboard. I watched as his fingers labored over the word “Buster.” Then with even more hesitation Bob typed in “TestSwap.com.” TestSwap’s homepage opened with a Welcome Back! posting. I crossed my fingers, hoping the dean would see where this was going.
“My, my, it looks just like eBay,” the dean remarked. “And they’re welcoming you back, Bob. I guess you’ve been here before. Have you got a password?”
Bob faltered. On some level he must have known I was on to him, but he clearly couldn’t figure it out. He cleared his throat and addressed the computer screen.
“A password? No, I think that is only if you are buying or selling, just like on eBay.” Bob tilted his shoulders slightly toward the dean with his eyes still focused on the screen. “Out of curiosity, I have checked out the site, but anyone can do that without a password.” Bob’s twisted body language screamed guilty. I turned toward the dean. The dean looked at Bob, and Bob looked at the computer. We held our Bermuda Triangle formation for an entire minute until it happened.
“Professor?” the dean whispered.
Bob grunted.
“Your password.” The dean pointed to the flashing blue Outlook box in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. Then the dean stood up and came around the desk still pointing at the glowing Outlook box hovering on the screen.
“Right there. You just received a reminder email from Test-Swap with your password.”
The dean addressed me in a fatherly tone. “Zoe, would you mind stepping out and giving Bob and me a chance to chat?”
I rose to leave as Bob’s eyes swayed my way.
I smiled politely at him as I passed and silently mouthed the name, “Donna.” He deserved an explanation as well as a swift kick in the butt.
NYPD DAUGHTER
Triss Stein
JOE had a plan for his children’s lives, and it didn’t include following him into the police force. They were going to take their hard-earned college degrees and get jobs that were safer. And better paid. And cleaner.
The plan for his argumentative daughter, Ellie, was law school. Now she had just told him she’d be taking her degree in sociology straight to the police academy.
His wife said, “Somewhere up there, your parents are laughing.”
“It’s not the same.” He said it loudly. “It is not at all the same.”
“It’s exactly the same. Your mother used to call me up crying every time a cop was hurt. She thought I could persuade you to give it up.”
It was true, he admitted to himself. The NYPD had never been his parents’ plan for him either. He was supposed to take his hard-earned diploma and get a job where he wore a tie every day
“Yes, b
ut that was me,” Joe said to his wife. “I could handle it. I was a big, tough guy, even if Mom couldn’t see it. Street smart. It was different. She’s five-foot practically nothing. I wish they would have kept the old height requirement.”
“It’s not different. Ellie isn’t your baby, any more than you were your mother’s. She can press two hundred pounds and she’s got a mouth on her that’ll rip off skin. She’ll do fine.”
“What if . . . what if she gets involved with another cop? You don’t know what scum some of those guys are. Most of those guys.”
That’s when she started laughing at him. “You know, that’s exactly what my brother said when you wanted to ask me out. ‘I don’t care if he’s my partner, I don’t want you dating a cop.’” She patted his shoulder. “Remember? It worked out okay, didn’t it?”
“But . . .”
“And now, “ she said, putting down her dish towel, “I’m leaving before I start screaming at you.”
He admitted to himself, at last, that there was not a damn thing in the world he could do to stop this. He couldn’t keep his daughter from chasing some scumbag across a roof or mouthing off to a punk who’d take offense with violence. He couldn’t protect her from the temptations or the despair that sometimes hit good cops. And he couldn’t stop thinking he was supposed to.
All he could do was use his many connections to watch out for her. And he could never let her know.
That was the best he could do, being a father.
ACTUALLY, my old man wasn’t as good at keeping his watchfulness a secret from me as he thought. I caught on, when he knew I was being transferred before I did. Then I blew my stack to my mother. I might have used the word “spying.” I certainly used the word “respect,” combined with “lack of.”
My mom told me all about how my father felt and said I had to try and understand. So I tried. Sometimes I succeeded, and sometimes I just yelled at him.
One day, when I’d been on the job about a year, working in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, I walked into Rivera Ace Superette, a little grocery on my beat. I was through with work, not in uniform, and I just wanted a cold soda. To tell the truth, Dad was right about just one thing: I was five-foot nothing, and I didn’t look like a cop in my jeans and sandals and baseball cap. I looked like any kid on the street.
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