Tenure Track Preview

Tenure Track: A Novel                            Author: Victoria Bradley

Prologue

A Seminal Event

 

    “Caution,” Dr. Donald Pfeiser warned, “Never, ever, use this form if ε ≠ 0!” To emphasize the dangers that could result from such a mistake, the esteemed nuclear engineer flashed the image of a skull and crossbones on his overhead Power Point. The 50 or so students listening to his dry lecture on particle reactor design dutifully noted this important point, so as not to make a fatal error of mass destruction in their future careers.

    Most of the students were so engrossed in their note taking or efforts to stay awake that they failed to notice petite, freckle-faced freshman Jessica Hampton calmly walk down the center aisle at 10:23 a.m. One witness later testified to observing Hampton only because he found it odd for a student entering class so late to seek a seat right in front of the professor.

    Hampton did walk all the way to the front of the classroom, but she never took a seat. Instead, she carefully raised a 9mm Glock handgun and shot Donald Pfeiser strategically in the groin and abdomen, immediately severing his aorta.

Pow! Pow!

    Dr. Pfeiser bled out within minutes, with the ominous skull and crossbones still projected above his dying body. Chaos erupted as students dove under chairs and anywhere they could to avoid getting shot in the windowless room with only one exit door. Perhaps thinking that the skinny young woman was no match for a couple of rugged, tank-sized athletes, two senior varsity wrestlers lunged almost at once to try to take her down. But the gun proved to be a great equalizer as Jessica Hampton dispatched both would-be heroes in quick succession, one with a shot to the heart, the other to the head.

    Pow! Pow! 

    The next gunshot came quickly and only had one target. A few students who were watching from their hiding places testified that Hampton stared at the two fallen athletes with deadened eyes, then quietly placed the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger, splattering blood and brain matter across three rows of seats and the south wall of the lecture hall.

    Pow! For a split-second afterward, the stunned room was so quiet that every survivor recalled hearing the big hand on the ancient wall clock click into place, marking 10:24 a.m., February 14.

 

 

 

 

Part One:

Present and Past

Chapter One

A Test Case

 

    “I don’t care if he dunks like Jordan, we can’t pass him if he failed his final,” Dr. Jane Roardan said firmly, but calmly. The outcome of this summer course meant the difference between the forward guard being academically eligible to play this semester or sitting out almost half of the regular season, presuming he could make eligibility for spring.

    “Well, perhaps you can at least let him retake the final,” Athletic Director Doss pleaded, to no avail.

    “Now you know with the fall semester beginning today, that would entail a retroactive grade change,” she reminded the sputtering A.D. on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry. I’m not inclined to play that game. I suggest you take advantage of all the fine opportunities we provide your athletes to help him retake the class and pass this time. Just apply a little basketball muscle to memorizing some historical facts and improving his writing skills.”

    After a few more terse words, the conversation ended abruptly. Jane took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. She sat back in her chair, silently fingering the strand of pearls around her neck, a long-ago anniversary gift from Mark. She rarely wore them to school, but they went well with the new pale blue suit she was sporting. The outfit hung nicely on her tall, 60 year-old frame, accentuating her short-cropped silver hair with a look of authority. Dressing the part helped give her an air of confidence as she tackled this new position.

    She needed all the help she could get. Despite her firm, composed stance on the telephone, such unpleasant conversations always rattled her a bit. Dr. Roardan was used to dealing with coaches who wanted her to cut their star players some slack on their grades. This time it was easier than usual to refuse, since she was not the professor in charge of the class in question but rather the new History Department Chair backing up a fellow colleague. After 32 years as a professor of British and Women’s History at this university, it still chapped her how much the school placed sports above academics. The godlike status of athletes had only been exalted by the martyrdom of two mediocre wrestlers who had had the misfortune of meeting their end three and a half years earlier on what was now known as “Bloody Valentine’s Day.”

    The reverence with which many students still spoke of the two young men, hailed by A.D. Doss as the finest examples of student athletes, successfully deflected attention away from less impressive facts, such as the paltry academic performances of most male jocks. For years Jane had listened with annoyance as Doss made the dubious claim of high graduation rates for the school’s scholarship players; a fudging of data she recognized as skewed by the women’s programs — especially the basketball team, which had maintained an astonishing 100 percent graduation rate for more than 20 years under the auspices of the country’s winningest female coach. The athletes with ovaries allowed Doss to create the allusion that sports enhanced education at the university. Jane knew better and she was not inclined to play his game.

    Jane wondered what her undergraduate mentor, Women’s History pioneer Gerda Lerner, would make of this post-Title IX development. Dr. Roardan’s eyes panned across the framed diplomas that aligned the dark-paneled walls of her tiny office — bachelor’s degree from Sarah Lawrence, Ph.D. from Lerner’s alma mater Columbia — before falling on the signed photograph of Dr. Lerner that she often stared at for telekinetic inspiration. Gerda would know what to do with Doss, Jane told herself.

With her mind focused on athletics, another photograph soon drew Jane’s attention. Her hand fell upon the desk-framed image of a thin, bespectacled man, with a graying shock of frizzy hair, his arms around two teenagers — a similar-looking boy in a T-shirt reading “Super Geek” and a muscular girl dressed in a basketball uniform.

    Jane’s children served as a fine metaphor for the split nature of the university. The fraternal twins had shared a womb and an environment, but had grown up to have completely different priorities — Dennis, of the mind; Dana, of the body. Athens and Sparta. History taught that Athens paved the way for the rise of western civilization while Sparta defeated its enemies with physical might, then faded into oblivion like hot shot athletes who peaked then declined at an early age. Jane feared the same future for her athletically inclined daughter, whose greatest wish was to play for the system that her mother so despised. Dr. Roardan grimaced at the irony.

    Her contemplations of athletics and education were interrupted by another telephone call. Isobel, the department’s administrative assistant, announced that Dean of Students Gary Jones was on the line. “He sounds nervous,” she reported.

Jane had to stifle a chuckle. Despite his generally jovial manner when things were going well, Gary was known to dissolve into a nervous wreck whenever something went wrong. It could be as minor as a report of students dropping water balloons on rival frat members, or as serious as a massive cheating scandal. He would react the same way, initially uncertain of what to do, and scared to death of any situation that might incur negative publicity for the school. With his rotund body and habit of constantly wringing his hands when nervous, the image of Piglet from the twins’ childhood books always popped into Jane’s head when she discussed a problem with Gary. Only his colleagues ever observed such nervousness, though. In front of students, he usually emitted an aura of extreme calm and control, save for profuse amounts of sweat dripping off his brow.

    Jane took in a final cleansing breath as she picked up the receiver. “Hello Gary,” she greeted, trying to sound upbeat. “What can I do for you today?”

    “Jane, we have a problem,” he sputtered.

    “Already? It’s only the first day of the semester. What’s up?” she replied, trying to sound positive. Internally, she was quickly running through the list of issues that could possibly be a problem for both the Dean of Students and the Chair of the History Department, unless A.D. Doss had already snagged Gary to plead his case about the poor unfortunate student athlete.

    “I need to see you right away,” Gary said, sounding agitated. “I received a call this morning from the mother of a female student, claiming her daughter has had an inappropriate relationship with one of your History professors.” Jane could envision the sweat popping out of the brow on the other end of the telephone as she tried to remain calm and reasonable.

    Hot damn! Horndog finally got caught! She was torn between feeling gleeful that the most notorious letch on campus was finally getting busted, while dreading having to deal with the crisis, since the letch in question was in her department.

    Rather than make it obvious that she knew exactly who the culprit probably was, she asked innocently, “Who?”

    “I hate to tell you, but it’s Lewis Burns.”

    She felt a sinking sensation in her stomach.

    “Jane, are you there?” Gary queried.

    “Oh, uh yeah.” She tried to shake off her initial shock. “What are the details? Is this just an overreacting parent or are we talking about something serious?”

    “Oh, it’s serious, and they have proof,” he said. “This could be very bad, Jane. Very bad. But I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. Can you meet me here on the hour?”

    She agreed, then spent the next 25 minutes trying to convince herself that this would all turn out to be a mistake.

    No way. Not Lewis, of all people.

 

    Jane told Isobel that she would be out for an unspecified amount of time. Walking out the door of the department’s administrative office, she passed beneath a security camera camouflaged by a sign reading: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it—George Santayana, 1904.” It was her favorite pithy response to obnoxious students who dared ask why they were required to take History courses.

    She left Hammond Hall and quickly made her way across campus to the phallic limestone tower that housed most of the main administrative offices. The afternoon was sweltering, typical for the first day of classes under the hot August sun. The smell of freshly cut grass filled her nostrils. In the distance rumbled the faint sounds of weed whackers and leaf blowers used by the Hispanic lawn care men who worked practically nonstop at minimum wage to keep the campus looking immaculate. It had been years since Jane had seen a non-Hispanic maintenance worker on campus. She often thought that students in the Spanish Department would do well to immerse themselves in the language by volunteering to help these men, most of whom were non-English speaking immigrants.

    Just outside the main administrative building, she crossed the Commons — a large, grassy expanse where dozens of young men and women were lounging about, taking advantage of the sunshine to keep up their summer tans.  Aah, youth. Skin cancer be damned. Let’s try to get as brown as those maintenance men we never acknowledge.

    It was amazing to her how, no matter how much changed in the world, some things always remained the same. Throughout her career, she had found that college students from generation to generation shared a propensity for testing their mortality. They had the impulsiveness of teenagers, coupled with the sudden freedom of living beyond the watchful eyes of their parents. The more parental types said that something was bad for them, the more they wanted to try it. As one of her otherwise well-disciplined students once explained about his smoking habit, “Ya gotta die of something, why not lung cancer?” Jane had frequently overheard the same comment about cirrhosis of the liver from obviously heavy drinkers. At their age, death from a slow, painful disease was far away and abstract.

    As a teacher, she had always found this aspect of student behavior to be just an amusing curiosity. As the parent of two high school seniors, it terrified her. Many times she had heard Gary exhort to nervous parents during frosh week: “Mom and Dad, it’s time to let your children pursue their own dreams, even if they differ from your own.” Next year she would be one of those parents. Increasingly these days she thought about the twins whenever she observed students on campus. In just one year her babies would be in the same position as these young bodies roasting themselves on the Commons.

    God help them all.

    Ironically, concerns about the decision-making skills of college students had indirectly resulted in her current trek — concerns born of the darkest day in the university’s 150-year history. Maintenance workers had expertly covered the physical stains left by Bloody Valentine’s Day, but the psychological marks remained. Campus violence experts declared the school lucky, in that the death toll had been limited to four, but the incident had forever shattered the collective sense that this campus was a safe haven in a violent world.

    Revelations in the days following the murders had been even more shocking. From the start, experts had been baffled by Jessica Hampton’s deviation from the typical profile of most campus shooters. For one thing, she was female. The notoriety of having been the country’s first female campus mass murderer led to huge media scrutiny of Hampton’s life. The presence of Donald Pfeiser’s skull and crossbones drawing overlooking the crime scene lent an air of the supernatural to the event, further fueling public fascination. Then the lurid motivation became public, revealed in a videotaped recording Hampton had posted on her Web page about one hour before the shooting. Police investigations verified the troubled student’s claims on the video.

    It seemed that the 52-year-old Donald Pfeiser, married with four children, had been carrying on an affair with Jessica Hampton. It had not been his first, as it turned out. The tall, balding engineering professor had a long history of bedding students, both male and female. In the weeks following the shooting, numerous former and current students came forward with their tales of “Don the Juan,” as he was apparently known. Seventeen year-old, virginal freshman Jessica Hampton had simply been one of his more emotionally fragile conquests. As Jessica recounted in her video, he had approached her during the first week of the semester, as she sat alone at a popular coffeehouse just off campus. Shy and homesick, she had been easily flattered by the attentions of the older man, whose initial fatherly concern helped ease her into seduction. “He was in my pants before mid-terms,” she had testified with shame.

    The affair had lasted throughout much of the girl’s first semester at college, until Pfeiser tired of her increasing clinginess and attempts to contact him over Christmas break. He had finally ended the relationship in late January, coldly advising Jessica to use the sexual knowledge he had conferred upon her to become more popular at frat parties.

    The girl had been devastated, especially when, a few days later, a campus health center nurse informed her that she had contracted gonorrhea. The nurse later recalled how Jessica broke down in the examination room, crying and confessing exactly who had given her the disease. The veteran health care professional indicated a lack of surprise.   Over the years she had seen numerous cases of unwanted pregnancy and disease caused by randy professors, but the center’s privacy rules prevented her from saying anything other than recording Jessica’s case as another campus STD statistic. However, as many critics noted after the shootings, the nurse could have referred the clearly distraught student to one of the campus’s many mental health counselors. Instead, she merely sent Jessica home with a prescription, a handful of condoms, three STD pamphlets, and the advice to learn from her mistakes.

    The used, confused, and now diseased teenager quickly spiraled into a deep depression. Her roommate complained to their dorm R.A. that Jessica was acting “creepy,” not going to classes or showering, wearing nothing but sweatsuits, eating only junk food, and listening to “angry chick” music constantly. The R.A. did nothing other than lecture Jessica that she needed to get to her classes or face academic probation. The roommate effectively moved out, sleeping on the floor of a friend’s room down the hall.

     Police found that Jessica did venture outside the dorm at least once, to withdraw the remainder of her summer job savings from an ATM, then walk to a nearby gun shop to purchase the handgun and ammunition. Her father had owned a similar handgun, which he had insisted she learn to use for her own protection against dangerous people like rapists. Her rambling video indicated that, in Jessica’s mind, Don the Juan was equivalent to the rapists her father had warned her about, “destroying innocence and spreading pestilence.” Even though Jessica’s STD was entirely treatable, she might as well have been afflicted with advanced AIDS. In her rapidly unhinging mind, her life was over.

    Never in the video did Jessica say that she was planning to kill Pfeiser. Her purpose in leaving the document seemed more to warn other students to stay away from him and other similar predators. But few who viewed the video would ever forget the eerie words with which she ended. “Well,” Jessica had said blankly into the camera, “at least he won’t be able to give it to anybody else.”     

    Most experts who endlessly analyzed the incident concluded that Jessica was not a true mass murderer in that she had probably only intended to castrate Pfeiser and kill herself in front of him. The shooting of the two wrestlers was likely just a defensive reaction to seeing two large men coming at her. In her mind, the theory went, they had been potential rapists, too. Despite this conclusion, Jessica Hampton would forever be known in the public consciousness as the first female campus mass murderer. And the university would forever be known as the site of “Bloody Valentine’s Day.”

    Hampton’s parents and those of the two wrestlers sued the university, arguing that it had failed to protect a mentally unstable young woman from a known sexual predator, thus indirectly contributing to her violent breakdown and the deaths of two innocent young men. After months of scrutiny, the veteran nurse was pressured into retiring; the R.A. transferred to another school; and the university reached an undisclosed monetary settlement with the families. As part of the agreement, the administration agreed to beef up campus security and take action to discourage sexual relationships between faculty and students. Out of months of debate grew the No Fraternization Policy.

    Despite Internet rumors started by some either ignorant or snarky students, this regulation had nothing to do with abolishing the Greek system.  In an effort to show the world that they were serious about protecting students, the Board of Regents implemented one of the most stringent sexual harassment policies among major colleges. Jane had  served on the committee that initially devised the rule, though the final wording went far beyond the committee’s original intent.

    Noting that Dr. Pfeiser seemed to have had a strong psychological hold over Hampton, the debate had moved from sexual harassment into the realm of whether or not faculty members had implied power over students just by virtue of being faculty. In the aftermath of the shooting, many people, especially several vocal female faculty members, supported this argument.

    By the time the new No Fraternization Policy worked its way through various levels of committees, administrators, and the Board of Regents, it had become a rule that forbid all sexual relationships between students and faculty members, unless it could be proven that a previous relationship existed prior to the two parties becoming student and faculty (such as if a faculty member’s spouse or significant other decided to take some courses). State law already held a similar policy for public high schools.

    The final committee vote on No Fraternization had been very close, falling mainly along gender lines. The Chancellor and the Board of Regents unanimously favored it, largely because several key state lawmakers were threatening to pass similar legislation if the university proved unable to regulate itself. As much as the liberal arts faculty liked to think of the campus as an independent island within the state capital, as a public university it was often at the mercy of politicians who worked across town. Many in the Republican-led legislature despised the perceived liberalism of the flagship U. Some lamented the shooting as an inevitable result of the faculty’s lack of morality. Many voters agreed, as public support for the new policy ran high.

    Jane had been torn over the final wording of the rule. On the one hand, she understood the ethical need to discourage faculty-student relationships. Her department housed its own version of “Don the Juan” in the form of Henry Gould, a.k.a. “Horndog Harry.” Although there had never been a single formal complaint lodged against him in 40 years, Gould’s nickname and reputation were well-known subjects of campus gossip. Married three times, his last two wives had been undergrads, one of whom was pregnant while he was still married to another.

    Jane often wondered if the secret to Horndog’s success in avoiding complaints was his ability to pick weak-minded targets whom he could easily control. His first wife had been very timid; the second committed suicide; and the third had been confined to a mental institution for several years. For Jane, Horndog was exactly the type of professor the new policy was designed to ferret out. If a clear prohibition against sexual relations with students did not change his behavior, perhaps his conquests might at least be more willing to speak out.

    On the other hand, from a practical standpoint, Jane thought the new policy was far too broad, and to be honest, except for the occasional child prodigy, they were talking about consensual activities between legal adults. Yet she agreed there was a big difference between an impressionable 18 year-old frosh and a 40 year-old grad student. She worried about her daughter becoming susceptible to seduction by someone like Horndog or Don the Juan. Catching herself being somewhat sexist, Jane realized that she did not have such concerns about her son, partly because he was male and partly because she just could not envision her nerdy boy as the object of an older woman’s desires.

    Despite objections voiced only in private meetings, Jane publicly stood behind the policy, which had been supported upon legal challenge by the state Supreme Court. Behind closed doors, administrators and leaders of the faculty senate agreed that enforcement would only be initiated by student complaint. They had no intention of closely scrutinizing the sex lives of teachers or students, but hoped the new policy would give them more leverage to purge tenured predators like Don the Juan. It was the school’s version of “don’t ask, don’t tell,” in place for a year but yet to be tested in a real case.

    Now, on the first day of classes, instead of the notorious old goat of the History Department, it was mild-mannered young Lewis Burns being accused of violating the policy. Jane secretly hoped this would turn out to be a false accusation. This was not how she intended to start her tenure as Chair. 

 

    Upon reaching the second floor of Hyde Tower, Jane motioned to Gary’s secretary, who waved her into a spacious, well-lit room carpeted in familiar, trademark school hues, walls covered by framed newspaper clippings quoting renowned psychologist Dr. Gary Jones. Gary’s famous studies on adolescent impulse control had influenced his hiring by the U. following Bloody Valentine’s Day. As Dean, Gary had worked very hard to rebuild a sense of trust on the campus, proving himself that rare academic capable of top-notch administration and research while still connecting well  with students. No one could question his dedication to duty, though Jane often worried that Gary’s career success came at the expense of his own well-being. He had never married, weighed about 300 pounds, and breathed heavily through his nose. Jane fully expected him to keel over from a heart attack one day while sitting behind his desk, just as he was perched when she entered the office.

    Right then, Dean Piglet was too engrossed in his computer screen to keel over or even to wring his hands. Jane noticed that he had strategically placed the monitor at a slight angle, so that she could not see what he was viewing. Gary had taken off his jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves. Looking more serious than usual, he took one last squint at the monitor through his brown-rimmed glasses before turning to face her.

    “How are you, Jane?” he asked, somewhat wearily.  Good old Gary. He could always be counted on to start even a difficult conversation off with a friendly gesture. It was one of the many reasons people liked him.

    “I’m good, and you?” she said, trying to hide her concern.

    He shrugged his shoulders slightly and gave her a sad, gentle smile, more reminiscent of Eeyore than Piglet.

“What’s going on, Gary?”

    He clasped his hands together on the desktop. “Well, like I said before, I got a call from the mother of a female undergrad this morning. She was very upset. It seems she just discovered that her daughter’s been romantically involved with Lewis Burns. The girl is starting her junior year. Apparently, she worked as Lewis’s research assistant last year and at some point they began a sexual relationship. I didn’t ask for details. Anyway, the mom’s a lawyer with political connections, so there was a lot of talk about sexual harassment, accusations of Lewis serving the girl alcohol, trouble for the school at the capitol, yadda, yadda. Anyway, it’s a mess. We need to fix it.” By now he was propping one elbow on his desk, rubbing his right temple with a thumb.

    “Does she have any proof of this relationship?” Jane asked.

    “Unfortunately, yes,” Gary replied. “She and the whole wide world. That’s what I was just looking at.”

    Uh-oh. This does not sound good.

    He motioned for Jane to come over to his side of the desk. “This is from the girl’s Web page.”

Jane stood dumbfounded as her eyes beheld a photograph of Dr. Lewis Burns, lying in a well-lit bed, with obviously little or no clothes on, one eye starting to open, as if just waking up. His bare chest was exposed, as well as most of one leg. While a thin sheet covered his private parts, the drapery could not mask evidence that Lewis clearly had an erection that lifted up a triangle of fabric like a small tent. Jane could feel her face flush in a combination of embarrassment and arousal. She had to admit that Lewis had one fine body underneath his scholarly attire.

    Rather than express her admiration, she responded more appropriately, “Hmm. You’re right. That does not look good.”

    “Yeah,” said Gary. “According to my student spies, the kids are already calling him ‘Puptent.’”

    “Oh, definitely not good.” Jane then read the photo caption: “’YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK. Guess how this Prof at the capital U spent his summer? Screwing his student, then dumping her by text message! MOFO! Avoid this prick!’”

Jane hated revealing her ignorance, but had to ask, “MOFO?”

    “Shorthand for one having a sexual relationship with a maternal type,” Gary translated diplomatically.

Following was a list of posted responses suggesting various punishments for the offending professor, ranging from “pulling a Hampton” to filing charges, as if some criminal offense had taken place. Jane spent several minutes reading through the very explicit commentaries. “Lovely language there,” she whispered sarcastically. “Does the lawyer mother know about this?”

    “’Not sure,” Gary replied. “I looked it up myself.”

    Jane gave him a puzzled look.

    “It’s really the best way to find out about anybody, Jane. You should check it out regularly. I’m up to 5,000 friends on my page.”

    “I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, quickly scanning other information on the page, whose author identified herself as “Yellow Rose.” When she read the pseudonym out loud, Gary explained, “Her full name is Amanda Rose Taylor.”

    Jane read on, learning that Amanda Rose Taylor “likes any music you can dance to, romantic comedies that aren’t lame, vodka martinis, cute older guys and hangin’ with my BFFs.”

    Sitting back down on her side of the desk, Jane gave Gary a skeptical look.  “Have you talked to Lewis about this? It may not even be a real photo, the way students can alter digital images these days. Maybe all this is just a joke or an unhappy student trying to get revenge for a bad grade. We should really get his side of the story.”

    Gary turned away from the computer. “Uh, no, I haven’t. That’s why I called you. You’re his Chair and you know him better than I do. I thought you should approach him first.”

    Jane felt slightly defensive towards her junior colleague. “I have to tell you, this really seems out of character for Lewis. I know he’s had a rough time since his divorce, but I can’t believe he be so stupid as to get involved with an undergrad.”

    “That may be,” Gary responded. “But mom sounds pretty mad and we can’t afford more bad publicity about professors and students, especially a student connected to the legislature. That’s the worst of it.  Her stepfather is none other than Rick Benedict, remember him?”

    Jane knew full-well who Rick Benedict was: majority leader of the state senate; conservative, family-values Republican; one of the university’s most vocal critics and a major backer of No Fraternization. Surely the gods could not be so cruel as to have his stepdaughter serve as the first test case for the policy.

    “Is it possible this is some political trick he’s orchestrated?” she said, hopefully. Stranger things had been known to happen at the capitol. “This wasn’t the type of teacher I thought we’d wind up going after.”

    Dean Jones removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. “At least he doesn’t have tenure, so that makes it a little easier.”

“Well, he’s up for final approval this semester. He passed the preliminary phase last spring,” Jane revealed.

    “Oooh,” Gary whistled. “Bad timing. Look, I think I can pacify the mother into not doing anything publicly until we’ve talked to her. She lives in the Metroplex but wants to come down in a couple of weeks for a face-to-face. I don’t think she’ll do anything until then. In the meantime, I want you to talk to Lewis Burns and get his version of the story. Right now, as far as I know, the two of us are the only people who know about the complaint. After I find out what the mom wants, I’ll consult with the President and legal.”

    They discussed a few more details before she left his office. Stepping back out into the sunlight, she shook her head in disbelief.

    Lewis, how could you be so stupid? 

 

              Copyright 2010