Part 13 (1/2)

”Which reminds me,” she said, giving me a sheepish smile. ”I'm sorry about the other night. After the trial. I was so tired. I still owe you a celebration.”

”It was a big victory,” I said.

”It was.” She grinned. ”Huge.” She leaned in. ”You were awesome.”

”You were pretty amazing yourself. The way you handled Mrs. Reid . . . unbelievable. Two hundred people couldn't take their eyes off you.”

”So”--she leaned forward, rubbing her hands together--”what should we do?”

”To celebrate? For starters, we should go out to dinner. Somewhere special. Somewhere expensive. How about tonight?”

”Sure,” she said, her face glowing. ”Wait. Tonight?”

”Yeah.”

She was looking at me funny, like how could I possibly be available tonight? A very bad thought occurred to me. I tried to push it away. No way, I thought. It wasn't possible. But, could it be she was looking at me like she'd gotten another invitation from them and was wondering--why hadn't I?

No way.

”Maybe later in the week, then,” I said.

”Yeah, that could work. Let me check. I'll let you know.” She gave me a hopeful smile, but it was thin.

”Daphne, is there something you're not telling me?”

”No. Nothing.”

”Daphne, come on. It's me.”

The voice of Professor Gruber rang out behind me.

”Mr. Davis, I hate to interrupt the power couple of the year, but I was thinking about starting cla.s.s. What are your thoughts on that?” A few people laughed. I looked around and saw that the room was full and Professor Gruber was at the lectern, his stubby arms crossed. The clock read two minutes past the hour. I mumbled an apology and slipped away to my seat across the room.

Couldn't be, I thought. First event--the c.o.c.ktail party: I came home and there was an invitation for the next event on my bed. Second event--the tea party: I came home, no invitation. So what? Who said the invitation had to come immediately after the last event? One example doesn't make a pattern! And who said Daphne and I had to get the same invitation for the same event? No one! But that look in her eyes--surprise, disbelief. What else could it mean?

But I won the trial. Relax, I told myself. (Though Daphne's words came back to me: winning the trial's an edge, not a guarantee . . .) I barely heard a word of cla.s.s. Why start now? I kept turning things over in my mind. Don't overreact. Don't jump to conclusions.

When cla.s.s was over, Daphne was out the door before I could reach her. A plump, good-natured woman with bright red lipstick and a green sweater was waiting at the doorway. Margaret Gleeter, Professor Bernini's secretary for twenty-six years. As I pa.s.sed, she held my arm and stopped me.

”Professor Bernini wants to see you in his office.”

”Okay.” I hesitated. ”Margaret, you don't know what about, do you?”

”I'm not sure,” she said.

She gave my arm a rea.s.suring squeeze.

When I reached his office, Professor Bernini was on the phone, one hand in his thinning hair. He waved me in.

”Yes, I heard,” he said into the phone. ”I think it's best you speak now, before the article comes out. Mm-hm. Yes.” Professor Bernini scratched his scalp. ”You'll need to make five points. First, you are saddened by the situation. Second, your office is committed to honesty and fairness. Third, you are going to place him on paid leave. Don't forget to say paid--you're splitting the baby. Fourth, you are going to sponsor an independent and fair investigation into the matter. Say those words: independent and fair. Fifth, you'll take appropriate action once the results of that investigation are in.” Bernini winked at me. ”That gets you a month. After that, a human sacrifice may be required. Okay, very good. No, I've seen worse. Call if you need me.” He hung up the phone and pointed a remote over my head. He clicked a TV on and muted it. He nodded at the phone. ”A former student of mine. Now,” he said, smiling, ”to the matter at hand. It's finished.”

”What's finished?” My voice was weak.

”The draft. My History of Law. Nine hundred pages, give or take.”

He rested his fingers on top of a pile of paper.

”We did it, Jeremy,” he said. ”I owe you my grat.i.tude.”

He reached behind his desk and produced two gla.s.ses. The sprightly man popped open a bottle of champagne and filled the flutes.

”Congratulations and thank you,” he said, raising his gla.s.s.

”Thank you, sir,” I said.

We clinked gla.s.ses.

”Do you know what this is, Jeremy?” He tapped his fingertips on the immense stack. I was still reeling from my conversation with Daphne; I resisted the insane urge to say: a book?

”It's a very important work . . .”

He waved my answer away.

”It's glue. Social glue. There's nothing original in this book. I'm not saying anything John Stuart Mill didn't say. Or Jefferson or Lincoln. I'm just repeating it. We have to repeat it, Jeremy. Did you know Germany was the cultural center of Europe before the n.a.z.is came to power? It happens so fast.” He leaned toward me. His eyes were wide. ”Believe me. I was a child when the fascists took over.” I'd heard the stories. His father was a democrat who opposed Mussolini. He died in a political prison--no lawyer, no trial, no press. Bernini was eleven; after his father's death, he fled the country with his mother, first to England, then to America. ”It's the same story,” Bernini said. ”Point anywhere on a map, I'll show it to you. There is always a man who would become a dictator. There is always a crowd that would become a mob. The law is a muzzle on an angry dog. We need it. But it's a cold instrument, fragile and intellectual. Remember that, Jeremy: intelligence isn't virtue. The law needs our goodness to give it life. Ah.” He unmuted the television. A prominent congressman was holding a press conference. We listened as he repeated Bernini's words almost verbatim. He looked grave, honest. The wind whipped through his gray hair.

When it was over, Bernini clicked the TV off.

”You should be proud of this book, Jeremy. You are very much a part of it. It was a pleasure to work with you.”

I felt a cold sensation.

”Professor Bernini, you said it's just a draft, right?”

”Yes.”

His eyes danced around, reading my expression, my body language, betraying nothing.

”Won't you be revising it?”

”Yes,” he said after a pause. ”Almost certainly.”

”Well, if you need more research, I'm happy to do it.”

”I appreciate that, Jeremy,” he said kindly. ”But you've done so much. And a book could always benefit from a fresh perspective in the next round.”

He folded his hands and waited.

”I understand.” I stood. I felt like layers of myself were melting away. I just wanted to get out of his office before there was nothing left. ”Thank you for the opportunity.” I started to walk out quickly.