Paul Madriani: The Jury Part 15

"We'll use Dr. Crone's office," he tells us.

The university has not yet tried to replace Crone. Caught in a pickle, wondering which way to run, university administrators take a wait-and-see att.i.tude. The official word is "no comment while the case is in the courts," though they have engaged in some fast footwork over Jordan's s.e.xual hara.s.sment claim. "Maybe we should have looked into it sooner." This was one of the comments reported in the press from an unnamed source close to the administration. Defending Crone has definite downsides. Abandoning him publicly might push the case toward a conviction, leaving the university facing wrongful-death, or some other civil crisis. Love him or leave him, they are caught in the middle.

Tash unlocks the office door with a key from his pocket, and flips on the lights. Inside, Crone's office has the look of a museum. There is dust on the desk thick enough to plant potatoes, along with a few sc.r.a.ps of paper that haven't been moved since the day the cops searched the place. They would have swept everything into plastic garbage bags and rolled all the filing cabinets into a waiting van, except for the fact that I and two lawyers from the university rode herd, forcing them to adhere to the particulars of their warrant. The search took four hours and was not pleasant. Several torrid arguments erupted along the way. I recognize the notes on a yellow tablet in the center of the desk, the same pad that was there that afternoon. Now it has dust around it to mark its footprint on the wooden surface.

Tash looks at me staring at the pad on the desk and reads my mind. "We have orders from the chancellor's office not to touch anything. Just in case the police want to come back and look again. The university seems to be treating this place like the scene of the crime. You would think they would have more confidence in their own people."

"You would, wouldn't you?" says Harry. "Just the same, maybe we shouldn't be in here." As he says the words, Harry starts picking through some books left on a stand on the other side of the room.

"I figure to h.e.l.l with the cops," says Tash. "If they can't do a good search the first time, they shouldn't be in the business."

As soon as the words clear Tash's lips, I notice Harry smiling. A university man he can finally agree with.

"The chancellor's lawyers can talk to the D.A. if they like. None of my concern," says Tash. "Besides, my office is far too cramped for meetings like this."

He takes out a handkerchief and wipes the dust from the executive swivel-back chair behind the desk, then takes a seat and leans back. The high top with its black leather makes a stark contrast to the white baldness of Tash's head, like an inverted exclamation point.

Harry takes one of the chairs across from him and I slide into the other.

"So what is it you want to know?" asks Tash. "You do understand that if it has to do with our work here, I can tell you nothing."

"What is it with you guys?" asks Harry. "Sooner or later you're gonna be called to testify. If not by us, by Evan Tannery. What are you going to tell him when he asks you what you do here all day long?"

"We do genetics research," says Tash.

"And what if he wants particulars?"

"Then he will be dealing with an army of university lawyers. I would imagine in conference in the judge's chambers. That is what they call it? Chambers?" Tash looks at me.

I nod.

"They're prepared to obtain court orders, from other judges, to protect the substance of our work if that becomes necessary. I believe that Mr. Tannery will ultimately be persuaded that the specific nature of our work is irrelevant to anything in this trial. If he persists, all that will happen is that he will delay a verdict."

"The way you say that, it sounds like you don't believe Dr. Crone is going to be acquitted," I tell him.

"On the contrary. I don't think they have a thing on him."

"You haven't been in court," says Harry.

"You don't sound terribly confident yourself," says Tash.

"My confidence level when it comes to clients," says Harry, "is in direct relation to the truths they tell us."

"And you think Dr. Crone is lying to you?"

Harry doesn't answer, except with his expression that says it all.

"Why don't you start by telling us about Kalista Jordan and your boss? What kind of working relations.h.i.+p did they have?" I ask.

"Is that what you came here for?" says Tash. "You could have saved yourself the trip. I would have told you that over the phone. What do you think went on?"

"Why don't you tell us?" I say.

"Actually it's a very dull story. It was the typical problem you have in any organization. David Crone is brilliant. Kalista was ambitious." He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out an apple, s.h.i.+nes it on the sleeve of his coat, and from the pocket on the other side takes a small Swiss Army penknife.

"What about the complaint?" I ask "You mean the s.e.xual hara.s.sment thing?"

I nod.

"I saw it. Reads like a fairy tale. The woman would have said anything to get ahead. She was claiming a hostile work environment. If there was any hostility in the office, she brought it with her when she came. Unless, of course, you think they were having an affair." He looks up at me and smiles at the very thought. "Trust me, the only part of her David ever saw that was naked was her ambition, and he only saw that when it was too late."

Methodically he opens the razor-sharp blade on the knife and just as quickly cuts the apple in half, then quarters it deftly with all the pieces in one hand.

"Was she after his job?" I ask.

"That and other things."

"Other things?"

"The product of his work. The fruits of his labor." He slices the skin off the apple with thin precision so that you can see the reflection of light through it as it lands on the desktop in front of him in curling sinews.

"The papers she took from his office?" I ask.

"That was part of it. And don't ask me what they were, because I won't tell you." He hasn't been looking at us for over a minute, concentrating on the apple.

"Of course not. We wouldn't think of it," says Harry.

"It's not that she was above using s.e.x to get ahead," says Tash. "It's just that she was an icicle. If she touched you, you'd get frostbite." Listening to Tash describe her is like hearing an iceberg describing a cube. "And she knew how to manipulate the system."

"What system is that?" asks Harry.

"The thought-control process that now pa.s.ses for liberalism in higher education. And I'm not talking open-mindedness," says Tash. "In the sciences you live in a political bunker. You constantly measure your words for fear that you might utter some political blasphemy that can end your career. Undergraduate courses are the worst. Fortunately for us, we don't do any of that. Some of the students are like the Red Guard: ready to report you to the administration at the first sign that you're not sufficiently inclined toward proper dogma. You can find yourself enrolled in a mandatory course of thought correction just to keep your job. Of course they call it 's.e.xual hara.s.sment guidance' or 'minority sensitivity training.' And they can never get too much women's studies," he says. "Today if you want to take a survey course in biology, you're required to take Women's Political Thought and Marxist Ideology as prerequisites. Jordan was into all that c.r.a.p. She used it whenever it suited her needs. When David gave her a subpar evaluation after her first six months at the center, she had the regular roster of feminists calling the chancellor's office to complain. She played the gender thing like a harp, and when the tune went sour she tried s.e.xual hara.s.sment. You want my guess, she was working her way up the chain toward race discrimination when somebody did us all a favor."

"Sounds like you didn't like her," says Harry.

"I didn't. I told the police that when they asked me."

Harry and I have seen this in the police reports, Tash's statement the day after they arrested Crone.

"In some ways she was like many young women today. Focused on what she wanted."

"Sounds like a lot of the men I know," I tell him.

"Hardly," says Tash. "The young men we see, even the best ones, are constantly distracted by the pursuit of s.e.x. No, no. Most women of Ms. Jordan's generation view that as simply one more gift, like brains, or grades or a good degree from a name university, just another arrow in their quiver. And they know how to use it."

"Are you saying Jordan was loose around the office?" says Harry.

"I'm saying she was ambitious, to a fault."

"Did she ever try to come on to you?"

Tash gives Harry a look as if this doesn't merit an answer. "No. She was self-absorbed, arrogant and dishonest, and absolutely shameless in the pursuit of publicity. The university would hype her to the alumni in their publications. Dr. Crone was never mentioned, nor was anyone else at the center. You would think she worked here alone. I remember the blazing headline, DR. KALISTA JORDAN ON THE CUTTING EDGE OF THE HUMAN CELL. Her picture on the cover. She was not the slightest bit embarra.s.sed or apologetic. As far as she was concerned, it was her due. She got the cover photo framed and hung it in her office. You would have thought it was the cover of Time."

"We want you to be candid," says Harry. "We wouldn't want you to sugarcoat it."

Tash grimaces at him. "You wanted to know what I thought, so I'm telling you. The fact is, I told David, Dr. Crone, not to hire her. He wouldn't listen to me."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. You'd have to ask him."

"No, I mean why did you tell him not to hire her?"

"Call it instinct. I sat in on the interview. There was just something that wasn't right about her. Besides, I felt we could have had someone more qualified."

"In her field?"

"That's right."

"And what was her field?" I ask.

"You know very well." Tash looks at me for the first time. "Molecular electronics."

"Which is?" says Harry.

"If I'm going to do all your homework, I'm going to want a consulting fee," says Tash.

"How about we just put you on the stand as a percipient witness and ask you?" says Harry.

Tash gives him a look, nothing you could call friendly. "It's a new field. Basically, it involves the use of atoms and molecules to replace more conventional transistors in electronics."

"And how does that fit into genetics?"

"It holds promise for medical science," says Tash. "And that's all I'm going to say on the subject."

"Fine. Tell us about Jordan and Dr. Crone?" I ask.

"What do you want to know?"

"What was she like when she first came to work here?"

"She was personable. She seemed eager to get along. Worked long hours. She was often here when I closed up."

"By herself?"

"Sometimes."

"How well do you know David Crone?" says Harry.

"As well as anyone here at the Center. We've worked together, let's see"-he looks up at the ceiling tiles-"I guess it's going on fifteen years now."

"Did he and Dr. Jordan socialize at all, outside the office?"

"No."

"You seem pretty sure," says Harry.

"I am. Outside of work they had nothing in common. Different types completely."

"In what way?" I ask.

"She was a social climber, into cultivating friends who could do her some good, move her career forward. David hated that c.r.a.p. You couldn't get him to attend a chancellor's function, a dinner or c.o.c.ktail party if his life depended on it."

"Maybe he had a secret side? A life you didn't know about?"

"If he did, it didn't involve Kalista Jordan. As far as I know, all their contacts were here at the Center. I don't think either of them even knew where the other lived."

"Still, there must have been some social interaction between the people who worked here," says Harry. "I mean, a drink after work? Christmas parties? Beer and pizza? Something to celebrate, a birthday party, new breakthrough in whatever it is you do here?"

"Oh, sure."

"But you never saw Dr. Jordan or Dr. Crone socializing?" I ask.

"Not in the way you mean," says Tash. "They were sociable, at least in the beginning. What you would expect of professional people. They would talk, chat."

"About what?"

"Who knows what people talk about? Hobbies. Work."

"What kind of hobbies?"

"I don't know. I didn't pay that much attention. David played tennis. I don't think she did."

"But at some point the relations.h.i.+p deteriorated?" I say.

"Yes."

"And when was that?"

Tash thinks for a moment, scans the ceiling with his eyes as if the answer is printed there. "I think it was about a year ago last May." He is now nibbling at the edges of a quartered and peeled apple.

"David told me that he'd had a problem with Kali. He called her Kali."

"Was that usual? Did he call other people by their first names or use nicknames?"

"Sometimes."

"Who?" says Harry.