Dante's Dilemma (27 page)

“Two possibilities. He knows something. Or he's feeling guilty.”

“Either one puts him on our list of suspects. What about Blum?”

“Do I think he could be our murderer, too? Hard to say. Reading between the lines, there was no love lost between him and his star grant-getter. But why kill the goose who's laying all the golden eggs?”

“Maybe the goose was kicking up too much dirt in the barnyard.”

“You're talking about the classroom controversy?”

“Right. These days, nothing cuts off grant money as quickly as charges that an institution is racist. I'm not saying the school is hostile to minorities, but Blum couldn't have been happy when Westlake refused to apologize. Or the administration. I'm sure the ‘modest suggestion' came as an order from higher up and that Blum was thoroughly embarrassed—if not in danger of losing control of his department—when he couldn't get Westlake to comply. If you recall, this would have been the second time in months that Westlake provoked a firestorm on campus.”

I nodded, remembering the news story about Breastageddon. “What about the
Maroon
message boards? Do you think that's worth following up on?”

“Yes. But I'll get Carter to do it. He and the other associates spend ninety-nine percent of their lives gossiping on the Internet, so it'll be right up his alley.”

Arriving at Amanda Pearson's office, we were disappointed to learn that she had just left—with apologies about missing our 11 a.m. appointment.

“Emergency meeting of the Women's Alliance,” her assistant reported. “On account of the Supreme Court ruling this morning. If it's convenient, she said she could meet with you there.”

We obtained directions and crossed the campus again, this time to the Student Center. In contrast to the churchlike quiet elsewhere, it was bustling with activity—the stamp of passing feet, students laughing and calling out to each other, a choral group rehearsing an
a cappella
number off to one side—all rising in symphonic echoes to the vast ceiling overhead. As we threaded through the crowd, I sniffed coffee and food wrappers, the fusty odor of old wood, and the acetone scent of freshly printed flyers. Hallie said the walls were littered with them, advertising everything from a Court Theatre production of
A Doll's House
to free checking at a local savings bank.

The office of the Women's Alliance was to the rear of the lobby, behind a modern, plate-glass door that whooshed on hydraulic hinges as we entered. The floors were carpeted in a bouncy material that smelled brand-new. Subdued lighting shone from overhead, and chamber music emanated discreetly from a speaker system, muting the bustle outside. Student activism had evidently undergone a change since my college days: the place felt more like an upscale corporate headquarters than a gathering place for the politically motivated.

“Wow,” Hallie said, echoing my thoughts. “This is a lot nicer than the closet we used to meet in.”

“Professor Pearson's doing,” came a bright female voice from what I deduced was the reception desk. “She shamed the administration into it after they spent twenty-five million dollars on an upgrade to a locker room for the football team. Like people actually come to this school to watch football. So you're an alum,” she said to Hallie.

“Just of the law school. My name is Hallie Sanchez. And this is Mark Angelotti.”

“And I'm Taylor. Fourth-year at the college. I know who you are. You're the lawyer who defended Olivia's mom. And you're the psychiatrist who testified for her. Amanda said you might be coming here this morning. We were all so thrilled.” She stopped awkwardly. “Do you think . . . would you mind giving me your autographs? I mean, if that's possible,” she added in reference to me.

Hallie answered for us, “We'd be glad to—if we knew the reason.”

“Are you serious? You guys are total heroes around here. I mean, even though you lost. Not just because of what you did, but also because it was Olivia's mom. A group of us came here every day to watch the trial with her. Amanda organized it and was here every day too. She said Olivia needed the support, to know we were all a hundred percent behind her. And her mom. Olivia's a friend, so I wouldn't have missed it. That prosecutor—what a pig! I don't know how you can stand dealing with him. I mean, it's your job and all, but still. The system's so sexist!”

I raised an eyebrow at Hallie. She caught my meaning and said, “Taylor, can we talk somewhere? If it's all right, I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“Oh sure, of course. Hang your coats on the hooks over there. And I'll get one of the other volunteers to cover the front desk.”

We retired to another room containing a television, a kitchen area, and from what I could tell, an abundance of sofas and chairs whose occupants were too absorbed in their laptops to pay us any attention. Taylor offered us cans of soda from the fridge and brought us over to a corner where we might have a little privacy. “This is where we watched, on the DVR, with Olivia.”

“Tell us more about that,” Hallie said. “To be honest with you, I was surprised that Olivia never came to court. Didn't she want to?”

“Oh, more than anything. But they told her not to.”

“Who told her not to?”

“Her mom. And Amanda.”

“Do you know why?”

“I only know what Amanda thought—that it would be too upsetting for Olivia to be there. And that she'd just be a show for the TV reporters who'd be shoving microphones in her face all the time. They're a bunch of pigs, too. Did you know that male anchormen on television outnumber women two to one? Amanda just did an amazing course on gender stereotypes in the media. It's all part of the culture of oppression and belittlement women face. And the LGBT community. And persons with disabilities,” Taylor added after a moment's thought.

Hallie gently brought her back to the subject of Olivia's absence at the trial. “It wasn't because Olivia and her mom were on bad terms?”

“Who told you that?” Taylor exclaimed heatedly.

Hallie paused, as if trying to decide just how forthright she could be. “Someone close to the family,” she ended up saying.

“Well, I don't know where they were coming from. It's not true. I mean, Olivia and her mom were like sisters. That's why this separation's been so hard on her—on them both. And now that her mom's going to prison for, like, forever . . .” Taylor stopped, sounding tearful. “There isn't anything you can do to help her now, is there?”

Hallie said soothingly, “There's still a possibility of overturning the verdict if people are honest with us. You said you're Olivia's friend. Have you known her a long time?”

“Just since first year. We were in the same house together, in South Campus. Not roomies, but only one suite away. I don't live there anymore. It's considered very uncool to stay in one of the dorms after second year. I'm over in what they call the ‘campus ghetto'—on Woodlawn just north of Fifty-Fifth. I share an apartment with three other students. Pretty big and we all have our own rooms. Olivia wanted to rent with us, but her father wouldn't pay for it. It costs more than a dorm room, but still.”

“So there were money issues between Olivia and her father?”

“OMG, yeah. Olivia's mom had to pay all her expenses. Except for her tuition, which was practically free because he was a professor. Books, clothes, everything. Olivia said it was because her dad hated her.”

This was news. “Hated Olivia?”

“Uh-huh. She hated him too.”

“Do you know why?”

Taylor was on the verge of answering when Amanda suddenly appeared.

“I don't wish to interrupt, Taylor, but I think your help is needed with the press statement we'll be putting out later. Thank you for keeping our guests company, but I'll take over now.”

It wasn't an overt rebuke, but I thought I caught a whiff of disapproval in her tone. “Sure, Amanda,” Taylor said meekly. Then to Hallie and me: “You won't forget about the autographs?”

After Taylor took herself off, I got up from my seat and introduced Hallie.

“I'm so very pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Sanchez,” Amanda said. “You have been such an inspiration for the young women here. And even more so for coming from the bastion of male privilege that is our law school. I commend you on your closing statement. It literally brought tears to my eyes. And thank you, Mark. I hope I may call you that. I feel we share some camaraderie after that awful episode at the dean's party. It's not often that a male member of the psychiatric community speaks up in support of women's rights.”

I wondered if I shouldn't say “aw shucks.”

“Though I might take just a tiny bit of issue with your paternalistic dismissal of Battered Woman Syndrome,” Amanda continued. “I see that Taylor has offered you refreshments. But how else can I help you? To be frank, I was surprised to get Candace's call. I thought the trial was over and that Rachel had decided not to appeal.”

There was no other choice but to level with her. Amanda sat down, and Hallie and I took turns explaining what we had learned about Brad Stephens's report, the missing police notes, and the ME's findings, leading us to believe that Lazarus might not have been her husband's killer.

“Why, that's wonderful news,” Amanda said, though her enthusiasm sounded forced. “Have you made any progress in identifying the killer?”

“We were hoping you might be able to help us with that.”

“Me?” Amanda said, a little too surprised. “I don't see how. Unless you think
I
had something to do with Gunther's murder.”

I was beginning to wonder. “We're not here to wring a confession out of you. Just background information. Back at the dean's party in December, you seemed to know something about the family.”

“If I gave you that impression, it was certainly false. No doubt a result of having had too much to drink.”

“I think you said Olivia was one of your students?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“And that you knew both parents?”

“Yes, but only well enough to say hello to. In this kind of small community—as in any other I imagine—you can't help becoming acquainted with colleagues and their partners.”

This was not the chatty Amanda I remembered. “You also said you thought Westlake had abused both his wife and his daughter. Was that based on something in particular?”

“As I said at the party, it was merely a guess on my part. Primarily from the kind of man Gunther was and . . .”

“Go on,” I prodded.

“. . . It's nothing. I didn't—don't—know Olivia all that well. As I said, she was extremely shy, hardly spoke a word in my class, although I'd made it clear that class participation would count for a third of the grade.”

“Was Olivia admitted to the college through the usual process?”

“I didn't mean to imply that she isn't up to the work, if that's what you're asking. No, intellectually she is very much her father's daughter. Her work on paper was thorough, well-researched, and in some respects brilliant.”

I thought Amanda was doing a pretty brilliant job herself—of shoveling a load of manure at us.

“So you didn't have any kind of special relationship with her?”

“None, other than the fact that she came here to the Women's Alliance often, for the companionship, I suppose, and also to study. I've tried to make this a haven for the young women, who still unfortunately suffer from the fear that intellectual ability and a desire to succeed will be considered unfeminine. This lounge, for example, frees them from having to do all their study in the residence halls or the library, where unwanted attention from male students is all too common.”

I was growing weary of whatever game Amanda was playing. So, apparently, was Hallie.

“Funny,” she jumped in. “I don't remember much unwanted attention when I was a student here. Everyone was so serious.”

Amanda said, “You're fortunate, then. As was I many years ago, before hookups became all the rage. That's one of the things I'm trying to combat—the idea that sexual promiscuity in young women isn't ‘liberating.' All it does is cater to male fantasies and feed their sense of entitlement. As I was saying to the students just the other day—”

“Excuse me,” Hallie said sharply.

Amanda stopped talking.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, but as one sister to another, isn't it time we cut the crap?”

“What do you mean?” Amanda bristled.

“We heard all about it from Taylor. We know that you set up a special support group for Olivia. And that you virtually held her hand throughout the trial. That implies something more than the usual professor-student relationship. What are you hiding from us?”

“I can't discuss my students. It's against university policy.”

“But only if it's something you learned in an official capacity.”

“I see it was a mistake to invite you here. I'd like you to leave now.”

Hallie said even more quietly, “It was only a mistake if you don't care about a woman going to prison for a crime she didn't commit. Or the daughter whose life will be ruined because of it.”

All at once, Amanda seemed to crumple. “But that's just the problem,” she said in obvious distress, “I care about them both.”

TWENTY-FIVE

“I've got a blister on my heel as big as the Goodyear Blimp,” Hallie said as we trekked across campus for the fourth time that day.

“I'd offer to carry you, but it might be regarded as caveman behavior,” I said with a levity I didn't feel.

What Amanda eventually confessed to us amounted to the following: during class the previous winter, she'd observed Olivia holding her torso in an odd manner and repeatedly rubbing her shoulder. As soon as the lecture was over, Amanda had approached the girl and asked her what was the matter. Olivia said it was nothing. Amanda refused to take this for an answer.