by Owen Thomas
“That’s the very least of what you have brought to the production.”
“I would have marred your perfect story.”
“The story is all about being marred.”
“Not Ivanova.”
“No.”
“I would have cheapened her integrity.”
“Maybe. But Ivanova’s not real. We live in the real world. We pretend we don’t, but we do anyway. And besides, as far as cheapening Ivanova’s integrity goes, I can hardly cast any stones in that direction, can I?”
I didn’t answer. He didn’t expect one.
“If I had any doubts about your suitability, you vanquished them when you submitted the written audition.” He closed his eyes, pulling from his memory. “‘Love will not be banished, nor longing consumed; fates reserved for the heart and the will.’ That was brilliant. No one understood that story – no one understood her better than you, Matilda. I don’t even think you understood just how well you understood. If the damned movie had to be made, then I wanted you in it. I always did. Getting rid of everyone else was easy.”
He turned again, walked to the door and opened it. Daylight flooded the hall and washed into the living room. I winced in pain.
“Can I take this as a parting concession that you think I’m a good actor?”
“I never said that. You were the only one who wasn’t acting. That’s the point. And if you stick with this silly racket of a living you will no doubt become much more accomplished at pretending to be other people, and your self-abasement will no doubt reach new heights. But you will miss your true calling.”
“Which is what, in your humble opinion?”
“Don’t insult me, Matilda. Nothing about my opinion is humble. Why do you think I’m a goddamned writer?”
CHAPTER 76 – David
“Your Honor, I do not think this is really necessary.”
Melvin Etus is speaking a half-octave higher and a half-decibel louder, gesturing generally in the direction of the large lavender-clad lawyer at my table.
“Mr. Shepherd is not the person being terminated. He is simply providing testimony. We have had no advance notice that Ms. Laveau intended to enter an appearance in this matter.”
Glenda Laveau leans back in her chair, the one that used to be my chair, and snorts. She looks at me and rolls her eyes. Then she stands.
“Judge…”
“Counsel, we take turns here, remember?”
Glenda sits on the very edge of her chair, as if to show Judge Archoni just how temporarily she intends her compliance.
“Thank you. Mr. Etus, you are objecting to Mr. Shepherd having counsel?”
“It’s unusual, your honor. I’m not objecting to his having a lawyer, or even that she is here to observe, but I don’t think she is entitled to ask questions of the witness or to participate actively in a proceeding in which her client is not even a party.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, Judge.”
“Ms. Laveau? Now it is your turn.” Judge Argoni smiles wryly and nods at Glenda who rises and gestures toward Etus.
“I suppose an apology is in order. It was not my intention to show up and make Mr. Etus nervous or to throw him off his game.”
“Play nice, counsel,” says Archoni.
“I know this is unexpected, Judge. But the fact remains that my client has been subpoenaed to testify by his employer. To the extent his legal interests are implicated, then he is entitled to representation and that representation means nothing if I cannot be present, observe and participate.”
“Are his legal interests implicated?”
“I have no idea, Judge. I guess that depends on Mr. Etus’ questions.”
“Is it your intention to cross examine other witnesses in this matter?”
“No, your Honor. But I cannot make promises until I hear the testimony.”
“Very well. Mr. Etus, I will permit Ms. Laveau to observe from counsel table and to participate as reasonably necessary to protect her client’s legal interests. While it is unusual in this sort of proceeding, I see no basis or reason to exclude her. Now, Mr. Shepherd, please raise your right hand.”
As Shepp takes the oath, I resist the urge to turn and look again at my father in the back of the courtroom, sandwiched between angry parents who believe I have intellectually corrupted their children and who are here to see justice done. My eyes forward, I can only imagine him back there. But it is just as easy to imagine that he is not really there and that I had imagined him the first time. Maybe I saw what I wanted to see. Maybe I saw what I did not want to see and feared the most.
Just to torture myself, I wonder how long he has been back there and how much he has witnessed of this spectacle. Did he hear Walter Green testify that I was a godless history teacher trying to turn morality on its head? Did he hear Pamela Knox testify that I am what is wrong with this country? Did he hear Principal Robert B. Robertson III testify that I am corrupting children? That I am recruiting them to my radical left wing agenda? That I am a “person of interest” in a criminal investigation into a missing student? That I have been indicted on felony drug charges?
Because I am a sucker for the worst-case scenario, I answer each of these questions in the affirmative. I try to imagine the emotion playing across my father’s face as he listens; the anger and disappointment pulling at his eyes and the corners of his mouth. My heart races. I feel like I will be sick.
I turn my head just enough to check on Ben. He is utterly transfixed by the presence of Glenda Laveau. He is slack-jawed and slumping forward on the padded bench, making him even shorter than he really is. The two rows behind him – separating Ben from my father – are fairly packed with sizeable adults. My father probably has no idea that I have brought his younger son to witness the professional dismemberment of his older son. Maybe if he gets up and leaves in disgust he will never know Ben is here.
Ben’s trance is unrelenting. A shift of half a degree of his focus and our eyes would meet. But he is oblivious and thoroughly entertained. He may as well be at a 3-D screening of Fantasia.
I face forward and close my eyes and listen to Melvin Etus inquire into Shepp’s credentials as a teacher. Outside, six floors beneath the strip of small windows, I can hear the static of applause and muffled amplified voices. Still no music.
“Mr. Shepherd, are you acquainted with Mr. Johns’ views on the use of recreational drugs.”
Glenda is on her feet. “Objection. Lack of foundation. Calls for speculation. Assumes facts not in evidence.”
Melvin Etus sighs and looks at the floor.
“Your Honor…”
Judge Archoni cuts him off.
“Ms. Laveau, this is not a murder trial. I do not want to spend the afternoon arguing about objections to the hearsay rule. That said, Mr. Etus, while the strict rules of evidence are relaxed, I think you can do a little better than that. I’ll sustain the objection.”
Glenda sits down and rummages through her leather satchel. She extracts a thin laptop and powers it up. Etus essentially starts over, asking questions to establish the elementary facts about my relationship with Shepp. Glenda watches her client testify, typing in quick, clean keystrokes. I feel her knee beneath the table making contact with mine. I pull my leg away, but her knee is back in seconds looking for more. I am quick to assume the worst and wonder how Judge Archoni will react if I object that the lawyer for the man who stole my girlfriend is now aggressively flirting with me in the middle of my termination hearing.
She taps the table with her forefinger and then uses it to adjust the computer screen. I cannot help but read.
Mel Etus is a putz. A few early objections and he’ll stay rattled for the rest of the afternoon. Disciplined twice – client trust fund problems.
I look at Glenda, who still appears riveted to the testimony. I look back at the screen. She has erased the message. She is working on something new.
Case with him once. Dump truck v. Yamaha. Settled. Tells client after mediation tha
t I’m a “fat bitch.” Also thinks…apparently…that I am hard of hearing.
“So, having established all of that, let me go back to my initial question. You and Mr. Johns have discussed his views regarding recreational drugs…”
“Objection. That’s not a question.”
“It is a question, Counsel. And if you would just…”
“No it isn’t. Questions seek information, they don’t supply information. And they tend to have rising intonations. Like this: does this blouse make me look too skinny? Rising intonations, counsel. Unless you’re from Dublin. Or Liverpool. Are you a Beatle, Mr. Etus?”
There is a wave of open laughter that breaks behind me.
“Your Honor.” Etus approaches the high-pitched whine of an eight year old. Judge Archoni is suppressing a smile.
“Ms. Laveau. Are you quite through?”
“Good question, your Honor. That depends on whether Mr. Etus intends on working that rising intonation into his dialogue with my client.”
“Judge, if counsel will stop interrupting and allow me to finish my question and to conduct my examination…”
“Okay, everybody calm down.” Archoni has straightened his posture and deepened his voice. “Observers in the courtroom will keep their mirth to themselves. This is not a Punch and Judy puppet show. Ms. Laveau, you’ve made your point. Please be seated. Mr. Etus, please continue with a proper question.”
“Thank you, Judge. Mr. Shepherd. Have you and Mr. Johns ever had occasion to discuss the subject of recreational drugs?”
“Yes.”
“How frequently?”
“I don’t know. Couple of times. Maybe.”
“Has Mr. Johns told you that he uses recreational drugs?”
Shepp falters. He darts a glance my direction and exhales. He leans back in his chair and pulls his fingers through his hair. He is trying to force himself back into his skin; back into the relaxed vibe that is his trademark.
“No.”
“No?”
“He’s never told me he uses recreational drugs.”
“Well in your couple of conversations about recreational drugs, what did he say?”
“I can only really remember one. We weren’t at school. He said once that it was a lot easier to find pot in college than it is here. He went to Tulane, I think, so… yeah.”
“And you did not take that to mean that Mr. Johns uses recreational drugs?”
“You asked me if he had ever told me that he uses recreational drugs. He hasn’t.”
Etus tightens his lips.
“Okay, Mr. Shepherd, well now I am asking you if you understood Mr. Johns to mean that he was looking for a supply of marijuana here in Ohio.”
“Objection,” says Glenda, not bothering to stand. “Calls for speculation.”
“You understand, Mr. Shepherd, that I am not asking you to speculate about what Mr. Johns meant, I am asking for what your impression was at the time.”
“My impression about what he meant when he asked that question?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No.”
“Yes it is, your Honor. Mr. Etus wants my client to read Mr. Johns’ mind.”
“Overruled. The witness will answer the question and then, Mr. Etus, you will move on because, frankly, this line of questioning is not particularly illuminating of the salient issues regarding the school and its students. Mr. Shepherd?”
“I guess I assumed that Dave was interested in finding some good pot.”
“And did you tell him where he could find some good pot, Mr. Shepherd?”
“This was like, a couple of years ago. I don’t remember telling him, no.”
I can feel myself holding my breath. Because I do remember. He is correct. Technically. He did not tell me where I could find good pot. He had simply pulled a small baggie out of his backpack. I had offered to pay, but he had made it a friendship thing; as if introducing cash into the equation was contrary to the surfer-dude ethic. I took it, but I never asked him again. Months later he offered again. I declined. Told him I had stopped. Not because I didn’t want it, but because it just felt wrong. Not morally wrong. Risky wrong. Shepp was more colleague than friend. The school itself was our bond, to the extent we had one. I did not want the David Johns who liked an occasional joint to be walking around in the shoes of the David Johns who reported for work every day at a high school. Those two Davids are, were, different people. They should never meet each other. They should not have the same friends. Bad things might happen. Heaven forbid.
Mel Etus moves on. I exhale.
“Have you ever heard Mr. Johns state,” Etus looks up at Judge Archoni, “state on school property, that he thought marijuana should be legalized?”
“Yes.”
“Where and when?”
“Last year. A bunch of us were debating the question. In the teachers’ lounge.”
“At Wilson High School.”
“Yes.”
“And are you sure it was in the teachers’ lounge and not, say, on the bleachers waiting for the Homecoming game to start?”
Shepp closes his eyes, trying to picture it. Etus is right. It was on the bleachers.
“I … think… it was in the teachers’ lounge.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“No. I guess not. Guess it could have been at the game.”
“With students sitting all around you.”
“Well, yeah, if that’s where we were, but they wouldn’t have been part of the conversation.”
“But they could hear their teachers talking. Debating.”
“I don’t know. I’m not even sure it was on the bleachers. Might have been the teachers’ lounge.”
“And was Mr. Johns advocating a particular viewpoint?”
“Yes.”
“And what was that viewpoint?”
“He thought marijuana should be legalized. He was arguing about the cost of interdiction on…”
“I’m not interested in his rationale, Mr. Shepherd. What about prostitution?”
“Prostitution? Never really needed it myself. You?”
“Mr. Shepherd,” scolds Archoni.
“Sorry Judge.”
“Have you ever heard Mr. Johns state whether he thought prostitution should be legalized?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Same debate.”
“The one at the football game.”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“I still think it was in the lounge.”
“Fine. The lounge. And what was his position on the issue of legalizing prostitution in the lounge?”
“Well, I don’t think he took a position on prostitution in the teachers’ lounge.”
I can see that Shepp desperately wants to follow his own words back to that rhythm of insouciance, that flippant groove that so fully and effortlessly inhabits in his normal life. But life this afternoon is not normal and he is not convincing.
“Mr. Shepherd,” Etus intones, “this is not a game.”
“I know. Sorry. He thought it should be legalized. Regulated.”
“I see.”
Shepp looks up at Raymond Archoni.
“I thought this hearing was about Dave as a teacher.”
“It is about Mr. Johns as a teacher,” snaps Etus.
“Doesn’t sound like it to me.”
Etus smiles, slipping his hands into his pockets. Takes a slow breath.
“Do you have something you would like to say about Mr. Johns as a teacher?”
Shepp looks stunned, not expecting to be accommodated in this way. I am rather stunned myself, as if the opposing team has simply handed Shepp the football and stepped out of the way.
“Yes. I do. He’s an excellent teacher. Excellent. One of the best. I guess that’s a matter of opinion, but that’s my opinion. The school is lucky to have him. He really knows his stuff and he’s not afraid t
o really teach the subject. You know? It’s easier for me because I teach natural sciences. I don’t get into the political issues like Dave does. Well, you know, I guess there’s the whole evolution and Intelligent Design thing but I’ve never had much trouble with that stuff. I mean, basically, I’m all about scientific fact. Basic reproduction. Mammals, fungi, taxonomic ranks.”
“Taxonomic …”
“Taxonomic ranks. Species, genus, family, order, class, phylum, kingdom, domain. Dave I think gets pressured sometimes by parents or the administration to … kind of… I don’t know. To teach a certain way. To teach their version rather than his version. They want him to be all politically correct. But he doesn’t cave in. Like I said, he just teaches the subject. I find that admirable in a teacher.”
“Hmm. So then he is known to you as someone who does not worry about the controversy that is perhaps inherent in the subject matter and teaches whatever he feels is important to teach.”
“Definitely. And I think that’s admirable.”
“Yes, so you said. And you also said that even if he is pressured to teach a different way, Mr. Johns resists that pressure and teaches the way he wants to teach.”
“Right.”
“Even if that pressure comes from parents or, say, the Principal.”
“Yeah. A teacher is hired to teach. That’s what we do. We have the knowledge. The parents are not the teachers. The principal is not the teacher. Dave is the teacher and he is a damn good one.”
“Do you consider Mr. Johns a friend?”
“Yes.”
Friend?! Ask him how long he has been fucking my girlfriend! Ask him about Mae Chang! And then call her disloyal ass up here! She’s right over there!
I want to say this, but I don’t. I want to scream it. But I clench my jaw instead, which is not nearly as satisfying.
“Okay. Very good. Anything else that you would like to add on the subject of Mr. Johns as a history teacher?”
“Uh… no. I guess, you know, he’s just a really good teacher.”
“Have you ever witnessed Mr. Johns conduct one of his history lectures?”
“No.”
“Not a single one?”
