Catch a Falling Knife

by Alan Cook

  I wore my blue pantsuit and hoped I looked like an observing professor, but I suspected from the dress of the students, which had deteriorated from my days at Duke, that I needn’t have worried about my clothes. Mark, however, looked sharp in creased slacks and a sweater.

  I spotted Mark’s accuser as soon as she entered the hall, even though my eyesight isn’t as good as it used to be. Mark had said he didn’t know whether she would show up, but I hadn’t been able to think of any reason why she wouldn’t, since if he said or did anything to her he would probably be fired on the spot.

  I had no doubt that it was she. Although Mark hadn’t told me her name, and thus hadn’t violated his gag order, he had given me enough information to recognize her. He and I had communicated in code before. We were attuned to each other’s thought processes. I glanced at Mark, who was already standing at the podium, but he was going through his notes, or pretending to, and he apparently hadn’t seen her.

  She took an aisle seat in the very top row. She wore jeans and a jacket, like many of the other students, women and men alike, but the combination of her delicate face, luxurious dark hair and slim body set her apart. Would she also have the audacity to attend the next Physics lab, which was in a much more intimate setting, if Mark still had his job then?

  The raised seating in the small auditorium reminded me of a story I had heard several times in my teaching days. Male architects, the story went, designed most buildings and they made the angle of ascent in these raised classrooms such that the male professors had the optimum opportunity to look up the coeds’ skirts. This was probably an urban legend, but in any case it didn’t take into account today’s relaxed dress code. Most of the students, female and male, wore jeans in winter so there wasn’t much leg for Mark to see.

  Mark started the lecture promptly at eight. Before he had a chance to say many words, a young woman in the middle of the front row raised her hand. Mark recognized her. She stood up and said in a loud voice, “Dr. Pappas, I just want you to know that a lot of the students support you. We believe that you have been wrongly accused. We will do everything in our power to help you.”

  She sat down and applause broke out. Mark looked flabbergasted, the way I felt. Wasn’t this Star Chamber proceeding supposed to be secret? I looked at the audience; about half of the students were applauding. I craned my neck to see Mark’s accuser in the back row. Her eyes were cast down. One curious thing: I was the only one looking at her. Could it be that they knew about the charges but not who had made them?

  Mark continued with his lecture, stumbling a few times before he got a rhythm going. My heart went out to him.

  ***

  Somehow, Mark got through the lecture in one piece and even impressed me. He gave a coherent presentation that I understood. He told a couple of jokes and elicited some chuckles from the audience. When he finished he received another round of applause, again from about half the students. He didn’t acknowledge it, pretending to be busy putting his notes into his attaché case. By the time I stood up and looked around, his accuser had disappeared.

  The students filed rapidly out of the lecture hall. Mark remained occupied until they were gone and then looked up. In answer to my unspoken question he said, “Nobody is supposed to know about this. They told me it was completely confidential.”

  “Somebody didn’t get the word,” I said. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Bad news has a way of leaking out, especially if someone has a reason for wanting it to be public.

  As we walked up the sloping aisle toward the exit I heard loud, human-sounding noises coming from outside the hall. Now what? We reached the back and could see outside. A bunch of students, mostly women but also a few men, paraded in front of the entrance, carrying placards and shouting. I couldn’t make out what they were shouting because they drowned each other out, but the placards had words written on them.

  Samples were: “RAPISTS ROT IN HELL,” “HARASS THE HARASSER,” and one particularly nasty one carried by a coed who looked like a sumo wrestler: “DO UNTO OTHERS: FUCK MARK PAPPAS.”

  The signs reminded me of the Free Speech Movement in Berkeley in the sixties, but the words on these signs were intensely personal. Did they have constitutional protection here at Crescent Heights College? Was it only Mark who didn’t?

  Mark clearly wanted to get away from this. I said, “Go on. I’ll see you later.” He gave me a questioning look, but I said, “I’ll be all right.” I didn’t think the students would attack me, but I didn’t have the same confidence in regard to Mark.

  He left the scene at a fast walk. Some of the students followed him, but they had to practically run to keep up. The number thinned and when there were only a few left he stopped and confronted them. He talked to them for a few seconds. Apparently, whatever he said made an impression because when he went on and disappeared around a building they came back to the group.

  The others had stopped chanting now that the object of their wrath was gone. I went up to the sumo wrestler and said, “What’s going on?” She looked at me suspiciously. I didn’t know whether she associated me with Mark because we had come out of the hall together. I said, “I’m Professor Morgan.”

  “Hi, Professor,” she said. “Dr. Pappas has been charged with sexual harassment.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Everybody knows it.” She waved her hand in a big circle, indicating the whole world.

  “Do you know the specifics of the charges?” I asked, trying to sound professorial.

  “Uh…no, but harassment is harassment.”

  “Who preferred the charges?”

  “That information is confidential.” She looked shocked that anybody would even ask. She obviously didn’t know.

  I wanted to ask her why the name of the harassee should be confidential if the name of the harasser wasn’t, but that would just get me tied up in my underwear. Instead, I said, “To summarize, you know that a charge has been filed against Dr. Pappas, but you don’t know who filed it. You also don’t know the nature of the charge. You have no idea whether Dr. Pappas is guilty of the charge. And yet you have the right to harass him with your obscene shouting and obscene signs.”

  A circle of placard-carrying students formed around me as I spoke, and the expressions on their faces were not pretty. I looked from one to another and tried not to panic. They wouldn’t hurt an old woman—would they?

  The sumo wrestler appeared to be their ringleader. She spoke slowly, emphasizing each word. “We will not tolerate male pigs on this campus. You have been oppressed your whole life and are used to being oppressed, but our generation isn’t. Do you understand me?”

  I didn’t know I had endured a lifetime of oppression. I also couldn’t picture anybody oppressing her, but I understood her all too well. I also understood that it was time for me to leave. Mustering all the dignity I could, I walked between her and another student and on toward the administration building. I resisted the desire to run and tried to heed the words of Satchel Paige: “Don’t look back because somebody may be gaining on you.”

  As soon as I had put enough distance between me and the demonstrators so that I could breathe I started to look around. Mark had given me a map of the campus, which had modern buildings and was set among hills that would be green as soon as leaves appeared on the trees. The well-kept lawns were already green. Yellow forsythia and yellow daffodils had started to blossom in flowerbeds beside the walks.

  The bright greens and yellows put me in a better mood. I walked up marble steps and through doorways with glass doors into the Administration Building.

  Chapter 3

  A functional and impersonal counter greeted me as I entered an office directly opposite the entrance. A student type sat behind the counter, busily staring at a computer monitor. I wondered what she was looking at. I had used computers when I was a professor, but I had never owned one and I didn’t derive much pleasure from watching a screen. I preferred reality.

  She
reluctantly dragged her eyes away from whatever enthralled her and said, “Can I help you?”

  I repressed a desire to say, “I don’t know, can you?” and to give her a lecture on the difference between “can” and “may,” but that job belonged to an English teacher. I said, “Yes. My name is Professor Lillian Morgan. I would like to speak to Priscilla Estavez.” Mark had given me her name.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “ No. I just need five minutes of her time.”

  “What’s it in regard to?”

  “I would like to ask her some questions about your sexual harassment policy.” I tried to say that in a positive way.

  “She’s in a meeting.”

  “That’s okay. I’m in no hurry; I’ll wait.”

  “I don’t know how long the meeting will last. You can have a seat if you want to,” she said, doubtfully.

  Everybody was always in a meeting. I took a few steps to a chair set against the wall, with thin metal legs and a molded seat and back in one piece. I sat down and noticed that its lack of comfort was not conducive to waiting. I hoped my presence would motivate my helper to contact Ms. Estavez.

  After several minutes I heard her talking to somebody on the phone. She spoke softly and the counter intervened so I couldn’t understand what she said. But then her head appeared above the counter and she said, “Ms. Estavez will see you now.”

  She directed me down a hallway that started at one end of the counter. I passed several doors until I came to one with a sign beside it that read, “Patricia Estavez, Student Affairs.”

  The door was open so I walked in. Ms. Estavez sat behind a metal desk, reading a document, but she looked up and smiled as I entered. She stood and said, “I’m Priscilla Estavez.” She offered me her hand across the desk.

  “Lillian Morgan,” I said, as I took it.

  She said, “Nice to meet you,” and motioned me to a seat in front of the desk, which I accepted. It was more comfortable than the one in the waiting area. “What school are you with, Professor Morgan?” she asked.

  “Duke.” I said it almost without thinking and hoped I didn’t look too old to still be teaching. By contrast, she looked young and earnest. She had pulled her reddish-brown hair back into a knot and she wore frameless glasses. Her white blouse was buttoned up to the neck.

  “I attended Duke,” she gushed. “What department are you in?”

  “Mathematics.”

  “Oh, I could never do math.” She laughed and I smiled in what I hoped wasn’t a condescending manner. She looked me over for a few seconds. “What can I help you with today?”

  “I understand that you’re in charge of the Sexual Misconduct Office.”

  “That and a few dozen other things. This is a small college. We have to wear many hats. It’s not like Duke.”

  I chose my words carefully. “I’m doing a study of harassment policies—on the side, of course—and I’d like to find out something about yours. I’ve heard it’s unique.”

  “Oh, is Duke thinking of changing its policy?”

  Be careful. I had only a vague idea of Duke’s current policy. “No. That is, not right away. I’m doing this pretty much on my own.”

  “Well, let me give you a brief outline. The reason we implemented a new policy is because it was very difficult for a student to file charges of rape or similar abuse. We needed an approach that was more sensitive to the needs of the victims. When you say our policy is unique, it isn’t really. We have modeled it on those of several larger schools. But I believe that we’ve added several features that are logical extensions of the other policies. I like to think that we’re on the cutting edge.”

  Said she, modestly, but as if she were reading from a script. I suspected her brief outline might go on for some time. Maybe I could shortcut the process.

  “Can you give me an example of something that you’ve added?” I asked.

  Ms. Estavez leaned forward, her elbows on the desk. “Well, one thing we decided is that the sexual harassment policy for students should apply equally to the faculty. We don’t want our students protected halfway. Faculty members are in a position of power and you know what they say about power corrupting. Our students come here, still innocent of the outside world—innocent and impressionable. A faculty member with the wrong attitude can do immeasurable damage to a student.”

  I tried to remember how many students I had damaged in my career. I noticed that her words so far had been gender-neutral. I said, “It’s interesting that you’ve extended the policy to faculty members. Have you had occasion to use the policy with a faculty member yet?”

  Ms. Estavez peered at me, but I had an innocent look on my face. “As a matter of fact, we had a complaint filed just this week. Of course, you understand that I can’t tell you any specifics about it. It’s a test case for us, to see how the policy works with regard to a faculty member. If we can nail this one, we’re on our way.”

  “I’ve heard that the defendant isn’t allowed to confront his accuser or to cross-examine witnesses. Aren’t those provisions unconstitutional?”

  Ms. Estavez looked at me sharply. “This is a private school. The constitution doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

  The voice of the girl from the reception area spoke to Ms. Estavez from the doorway behind me: “Your 9:30 is here.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  I had one more thing to say before she dismissed me. “On my way over here I saw students carrying signs, apparently as part of a protest. The signs contained messages about harassment. The name Dr. Pappas was mentioned on some of them. Is Dr. Pappas the faculty member who is accused?”

  Now Ms. Estavez looked at me with open hostility. She didn’t say anything.

  “I guess my question is, if the harassment proceedings are confidential, how did the name of the defendant get to be public knowledge?”

  She abruptly stood up. “This discussion is over,” she said.

  I decided not to paste Ms. Estavez in the face, but to retreat as gracefully as I could. I stood up and offered her my hand across the desk, as I said, “Thank you very much for your time, Ms. Estavez. You’ve been very helpful.”

  At first I thought she wasn’t going to shake hands with me, but I kept my hand out and kept a smile on my face. She resisted for a few seconds, but then she quickly shook my hand, sat down and started fiddling with some papers on her desk.

  Feeling the thrill of a minor victory, I walked out the door and back down the hall to the reception area. There, standing at the counter and chatting with the receptionist, was Mark’s accuser. Like the first time I saw her, I didn’t have any doubt about her identity. She glanced at me without interest, but I took a good look at her.

  Close up, she was striking. The vivid contrast between her dark hair, dark eyes and white face was enough to turn any man’s head. A touch of red on her lips added just enough color to the picture. I was sure she wasn’t wearing any other makeup. She had unzipped her synthetic jacket and I got a hint of a shapely body underneath, but I couldn’t tell specifics because of the bulkiness of the sweater she wore. However, her jeans were tight and skinny.

  I had a sudden urge to ask her why she wanted to destroy Mark’s life. I hesitated in front of her. She looked at me again and it occurred to me that speaking to her here would blow any chance Mark had for redemption. But I almost couldn’t resist. I had to physically shake myself into moving again.

  I headed out through the front doors of the Administration Building, knowing that Ms. Priscilla Estavez would shortly summon this girl into her office to plot the demise of Mark Pappas.

  ***

  As I retraced my path down the marble steps I considered lying in wait for Mark’s accuser and having it out with her on the spot. I am a direct sort of person and I like to face difficulties head-on. I saw a bench sitting beside the walkway she would take when she left the building. It would be easy to spot her from there when she appeared and then interce
pt her.

  If I could get her to admit that she had framed Mark, maybe she would drop the charges. Whatever the specific charges, there couldn’t be any truth to them. When she saw the error of her ways my impetuousness would be justified.

  On the other hand, if she refused to drop the charges it would be curtains for Mark when my relationship to him became known because Ms. Estavez would be able to say that he had revealed his accuser to me, despite the gag order. And although that could be argued, I knew what chance we had of winning the argument. Zero.

  “Professor. Professor.”

  The voice behind me called twice before I understood that I was the one being hailed, among all the people walking by, perhaps including other professors. I stopped and turned around as the girl from the Administration Building reception area ran up to me, panting.

  She was dressed in a style similar to Mark’s accuser, wearing jeans and a sweater, but no jacket. I couldn’t help comparing them. They were about the same height, but her hair was an indeterminate brown color, her eyes and face normal but unremarkable, her body slightly chunkier than the other. Small differences, perhaps, but huge in the way the world would treat her.

  “Professor,” she said again, somewhat out of breath. “I wanted to talk to you.” She gulped some air and continued, “When I poked my head in Priscilla’s office to tell her about her next appointment I heard you mention Dr. Pappas.”

  She hesitated and I figured I’d better not say anything.

  After a few seconds she continued, “I’m taking a class from Dr. Pappas.”

  She hesitated again so I said, “How do you like him?”

  “He’s great. He’s the best.”

  I didn’t know whether she referred to his teaching style or his looks so I waited.

  “I think he has been unjustly accused.”

  “Why do you think that?”