The Clinic

4

As we walked through the garden to the shop, Milo stopped to look at the fish in the pond, then trudged on. His back was bowed and his arms dangled heavily. I wondered when he'd last slept well.

Robin was at her bench shaping the rosewood sides of a flattop guitar. The new maple floors were spotless except for a pile of shavings swept into one corner. Spike had been sleeping at her feet and he looked up and cocked his broad, flat head.

Milo gave him a mock-hostile look. Spike came over for a rub.

Robin held up a finger and continued clamping the sides to a mold. A dozen other instruments in various stages of repair were arranged around the room, but the project she was working on had nothing to do with business. The fire had destroyed my old Martin dreadnought along with a beautiful parlor guitar she'd built for me years ago. I bought another Martin from Mandolin Brothers in Staten Island. Replicating Robin's was her New Year's resolution.

One last clamp and she was done. Wiping her hands, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed Milo's cheek, then mine. Under her apron she wore a black T-shirt and jeans and her hair was wrapped in a red bandanna. Safety goggles and a mask dangled from her neck, both coated with dust.

Spike started baying like a hound and rolled over. I kneeled and scratched his tummy and he snorted in entitlement. French bulldogs are miniature versions of the English variety but with upright bat ears, a more athletic disposition, and delusions of big-dog grandeur. The best way to describe Spike physically is a Boston terrier on steroids, but his personality's more chimp than dog. He waddled into our lives one day and stayed, deciding quickly that Robin was worth knowing and I was expendable. When he's unhappy about something he pretends to choke. Milo pretends to despise him and always brings treats.

Now he fished a sandwich bag out of his sportcoat. Dried liver.

“CanapÉ time, pancake-face.”

Spike sat motionless, Milo tossed a nugget, and the dog caught it midair, chewed, and swallowed. The two of them glared at each other. Milo rubbed his face. Spike barked. Milo muttered and gave him more liver.

“Go away and digest.”

Spike head-butted Milo's foot. Rolling his eyes and grumbling, Milo bent and petted him.

More barking and butting and feeding. Finally, Milo showed him the empty bag. Spike jumped for it, shook his head, and scattered drool.

“Enough,” said Robin. “You're increasing the humidity.”

Spike gazed up at her with big brown eyes. The Orson Welles look- genius disturbed.

“Stay,” she commanded quietly. The dog obeyed and she added, “Darling.” Slipping her arm around my waist, she said, “So what's new, Milo?”

More than just good manners. We'd talked more about the murder last night.

“Plodding along,” he said. “Thought I'd borrow Alex tonight. If you don't need him.”

“I always need him. Just make sure you return him in one piece.”

“One piece, fueled, washed, and waxed.”

After he was gone, I turned to the transcripts of the conduct committee.

The documents were red-stamped CONFIDENTIAL on each page and preceded by the University's lawyers' warning that publicizing the contents could bring civil prosecution. Next came the lawyers' assessment of blame: sole credit, Professor Hope Devane.

But two other people had sat as judges along with her: an associate professor of chemistry named Julia Steinberger, and a psychology graduate student named Casey Locking.

I turned the page. The format surprised me. Face-to-face confrontations between accuser and accused. Hope's academic version of a talk show?

Case 1:

Deborah Brittain, a nineteen-year-old sophomore French major, accused Patrick Allan Huang, an eighteen-year-old sophomore engineering major, of following her around in the college library and making “lascivious and suggestive” expressions. Huang denied any sexual interest in Brittain and said she'd “come on” to him by requesting help operating the library's search computers and repeatedly telling him how brilliant he was.

Brittain said she had indeed asked for help from Huang because “he looked like the kind of guy who'd know about computers,” and had complimented his proficiency because that was “good manners. Why can't a woman be nice without getting harassed?”

PROF. DEVANE: Any answer to that, Mr. Huang?

MR. HUANG: My answer is she's a racist, figuring an Asian guy would be a techno-geek and then taking advantage of me. She bugged me, not the opposite. Coming on all friendly, so, yeah, I asked her out. Then she shuts me down and when I don't want to be her data slave anymore she gets pissed and files on me. What a hassle and a half. I didn't come to college for this.

PROF. DEVANE: What did you go to college for?

MR. HUANG: To study engineering.

PROF. DEVANE: There's more to learning than what goes on in the classroom.

MR. HUANG: All I want to do is study and mind my own business, okay? What this is about is she's a racist.

MS. BRITTAIN: He is lying! He offered to help. All I needed was a start, I didn't know the program, I was fine after that. But every time he saw me, he'd slither over. Then he asked me out and wouldn't take no for an answer- several times. I'm empowered to say no, right? Why should I have to put up with that? It got to a point where I didn't even want to go to the library. But I had a paper to write on MoliÈre- what's he doing there, anyway? Engineering books are in the Engineering Library. He obviously hangs around to hit on women.”

More he-said, she-said, no witnesses. Devane asking all the questions, Devane summing up- pointing out that Deborah Brittain had come to her “suffering from extreme stress.”

She affirmed Brittain's right to study anywhere she pleased, free of harassment, advised her gently to be aware of racial stereotypes that might “elicit miscommunication. Though I'm not saying that's what happened here, Ms. Brittain.”

Then she lectured Patrick Huang about respecting women's rights. Huang said he knew all that. Devane suggested he think about it, anyway, and warned him that he'd face suspension and possible expulsion if anyone else complained about him. No disciplinary actions taken.

Case 2:

A freshman English major named Cynthia Vespucci had attended a pre-Christmas-break party at the Chi Pi Omega fraternity house where she encountered a freshman business major named Kenneth Storm Jr. Recognizing him from high school, she danced with him. “Because even though most of the other guys were getting drunk and freaking out, he was a total gentleman that night.”

Vespucci and Storm began dating. Nothing sexual occurred until their fourth date, when Vespucci claimed Storm drove her to a remote spot in Bel Air, three miles above campus, and demanded intercourse. When she refused, Storm grabbed her arm. She smelled liquor on his breath, managed to pull away, and told him to let her drive. He then kicked her out of his car and threw her purse out, breaking the strap and scattering the contents, some of which, including her spare change, rolled into a storm drain. Driving off, he left her stranded. She tried gaining entrance to a residence, but all the houses were fenced and gated and no one answered her rings. She was forced to walk home to her sorority, ruining a pair of shoes and “causing me incredible fear.”

When asked to respond, Kenneth Storm refused, stating, “This is bullshit.”

Further prodding from Professor Devane produced “What the hell do you expect me to say?”

At that point, the graduate student, Casey Locking, entered the dialogue: “Look, guy, I'm a man but I don't have any sympathy for men who rough up women. If what she says is true, you've got a lesson to learn and you're lucky to be learning it young. If you disagree, speak up. But if you choose not to defend yourself, don't complain later.”

Storm responded with “a train of expletives.”

Then, surprisingly, Cynthia Vespucci seemed to have a change of heart: “Okay, okay, let's just have nothing to do with each other. Let's just end this.” [Crying]

PROF. DEVANE: Here's a tissue, Ms. Vespucci.

MS. VESPUCCI: I'm okay. Let's just forget it.

PROF. DEVANE: Are you sure, Ms. Vespucci?

MS. VESPUCCI: I don't know.

PROF. DEVANE: When you came to me you were very upset.

MS. VESPUCCI: I know. [Starting to cry] But I… now I want to stop it. Okay? Please?

PROF. DEVANE: Of course. We're out for your best interests. You should remember, though, that a process has been set into motion.

MR. STORM: I don't believe this! She said end it! What're you going to do, kick me out? Fine, do it, go ahead and fucking do it, I don't give a shit about you or this place or-

MR. LOCKING: Take it easy, man-

MR. STORM: No, you take it easy, asshole! This is bullshit, I'm out of here!

MR. LOCKING: I'm warning you, ma-

MR. STORM: About what, asshole? You think I give a shit about you and your fucking college? Fuck this place! Fuck you! You, too, Cindy- how could you do this to me? First thing I do when I'm out of here is call your mother and-

MS. VESPUCCI: Kenny! Please- no- I'm sorry- Kenny, come on, please!

PROF. STEINBERGER: What about her mother, Mr. Storm?

MR. STORM: Let her tell you.

PROF. STEINBERGER: Cindy?

MR. STORM: What a laugh! This is ancient fucking history!

MR. LOCKING: Professors, it seems to me that before we go further, this guy's going to have to-

PROF. STEINBERGER: Is there something else going on between you two that you haven't told us about, Cindy?

MS. VESPUCCI: [Sobbing] It's my fault.

MR. STORM: Damn fucking strai-

MR. LOCKING: Watch your mouth!

MR. STORM: Fu-

PROF. STEINBERGER: Please, sir, we'll hear you out. But please let her talk. Okay? Thank you. Cindy?

MS. VESPUCCI: It's my fault.

PROF. DEVANE: What is, Cindy?

MS. VESPUCCI: I- was- I was mad at him… maybe partly because of my mom.

PROF. DEVANE: He did something to your mom?

MR. STORM: Yeah, right, I'm a rapist. Tell them, Cindy, go on. Come on- what's the matter, cat got your tongue? Bringing me here with that letter, I thought I was being suspended. What total and complete bull-

MS. VESPUCCI: Stop! Please!

MR. STORM: Then tell them. Or I will.

PROF. DEVANE: Tell us what?

MS. VESPUCCI: It's stupid.

MR. STORM: That's for sure! Her mom and my dad had a- they were dating. Til my dad shut her mom down because she was too left-wing. Her mom can't hold on to a man, Cindy probably blamed my dad. So when she saw me at the party, she decided to hit on me and get even.

MS. VESPUCCI: No! That's not true! You came up to me first! I danced with you because you were acting like a gentleman-

MR. STORM: What a crock! You were wearing that nothing little black-

PROF. DEVANE: Hold on. When you say left-wing, do you mean politically?

MR. STORM: What else? Radical feminism. Her mom's a flaming extremist. Hates men, taught Cindy to. She was just setting me up for-

MS. VESPUCCI: I wasn't, Kenny! You were a gentleman. Not like-

MR. STORM: Not like my dad? Don't you fucking put him down!

MS. VESPUCCI: I didn't mean that. I meant the other guys at the-

MR. STORM: Right.

MS. VESPUCCI: Kenny-

MR. STORM: Fuck this!

PROF. STEINBERGER: Kenny, does your dad approve of your swearing?

MR. STORM: Okay. I'm sorry. I'm just super-steamed. Because this is totally unfair. My dad and her mom had problems so she set me up. It's-

MS. VESPUCCI: I didn't! I swear!

MR. STORM: Right. You just picked me 'cause of my cute face-

PROF. DEVANE: Let's regain our focus. Whatever the motivation for your initial meeting, Mr. Storm, you did go out with Ms. Vespucci. And she claims you attempted to force her to have sex with you.

MR. STORM: Bul- no way. No… blanking way! Sure I asked her. Why not? We'd already been out a bunch of times. But I didn't touch her without permission- right, Cindy? So I asked her if she wanted to do it. Is that a crime, now?

PROF. DEVANE: Shoving her out of the car when she turned you down is, sir.

MR. STORM: Yeah, except I didn't shove her. She freaked and got out herself, fell down. Actually, I tried to stop her- that's the only time I grabbed her arm.

PROF. DEVANE: That's not what she says- correct, Ms. Vespucci?

MS. VESPUCCI: Just forget it.

PROF. DEVANE: Cindy, I really don't-

MS. VESPUCCI: Please.

PROF. DEVANE: Let's talk about that purse, Cindy. Can we agree that it got thrown?

MR. STORM: Hell, no! After she got out, I gave it to her because it was hers and-

PROF. DEVANE: So you threw it at her.

MR. STORM: Not at her, to her. What did I need a purse for? Jesus. She refused to catch it so it fell into the street.

MS. VESPUCCI: But then I told you I did want to get back in and you just drove away!

MR. STORM: I didn't hear you.

MS. VESPUCCI: You weren't that far away!

MR. STORM: Read my lips, Cindy: I did not hear you. I'd already asked you ten times and you refused so I split. This is rank, Cindy. You set me up and you know it and now your mom's going to know it.

PROF. DEVANE: There's no call for threats-

MR. STORM: What do you think this is? Fuck this place-

MS. VESPUCCI: I'm sorry, I'm sorry- I'm sorry, Professor Devane, but I want to stop this. Now! Please!

PROF. STEINBERGER: Perhaps-

PROF. DEVANE: Cindy, right now you're under a lot of stress and pressure. This isn't the right time to make important decisions.

MS. VESPUCCI: I don't care, I want to stop this! I'm leaving. [Exits]

MR. STORM: [Laughs] What now?

PROF. DEVANE: Is there something more you want to say for yourself, sir?

MR. STORM: Not for myself. For you- to you: Fuck you, lady! And you, too, clown- don't like it, man? Come on outside and get it on.

MR. LOCKING: You have no idea who you're dealing-

MR. STORM: Then come on out, brain-boy. Come on- hah, bullshit walks- fuck you, fuck this college and this bullshit left-wing garbage. I'm phoning my dad, he's in real estate, knows lots of lawyers. He's going to have your asses for breakfast. [Exits]

A note by the University lawyers indicated that Kenneth Storm Sr., an alumnus and member of the Chancellor's Associates, had indeed contacted an attorney, Pierre Bateman, who, four weeks later, drafted a letter of complaint to the University demanding immediate dissolution of the conduct committee, a written apology, and one hundred thousand dollars for Kenneth Storm Jr. The young man had dropped out of the University and applied for transfer to the College of the Palms, in Redlands. The University lawyers noted that his first-quarter grade point average had been 1.7 and that he'd been on academic probation. His second-quarter marks were no better and he was on the verge of flunking out. Nevertheless, it was deemed advisable to settle and a deal was worked out: The Storm family agreed to drop the matter in return for payment of Kenneth Jr.'s tuition for three and a half years at the College of the Palms.

Additionally, it was recommended that the committee be dissolved.

Bad feelings in both cases, but the rage level of the second nearly scorched the paper.

Kenneth Storm Jr. had a bad temper, even taking into account his being hauled up during an especially hard time in his college career.

Had the deal failed to appease him?

Paz and Fellows had never known about the committee. I assumed Milo had at least skimmed the transcripts, but he still preferred Philip Seacrest as prime suspect.

Because of the money and the way Seacrest twanged his antennae.

But Storm had obviously hated Hope.

A nineteen-year-old carrying a grudge that far?

Bicycle tracks on the sidewalk.

Students rode bikes to campus.

I wrote down K. Storm Jr. and turned to the third transcript, dated one week after the Vespucci-Storm debacle and three weeks before Kenneth Storm's lawyer wrote the letter that killed the committee.

Only Devane and Casey Locking sat in judgment, now. Had Professor Steinberger lost her taste for inquisition?

As I read, it became clear that this was the most serious of the three complaints.

A sophomore psychology major named Tessa Ann Bowlby accused a graduate student in theater arts named Reed Muscadine of date rape. The two of them agreed on several initial points: They'd met in the student union during lunch and had gone out on a single date that night, viewing the movie Speed at the Village Theater, followed by dinner at Pinocchio, an Italian restaurant in Westwood Village. Then, they'd returned to Muscadine's apartment in the Mid-Wilshire District to drink wine and listen to music. Heavy petting and partial disrobing commenced. Here their stories diverged: Bowlby claimed she wanted things to go no further but Muscadine got on top of her and entered her by force. Muscadine said intercourse had been consensual.

MS. BOWLBY: [Crying, shaking] I…

PROF. DEVANE: What, dear?

MS. BOWLBY: [Hugs self, shakes head]

PROF. DEVANE: Do you have any further comment, Mr. Muscadine?

MR. MUSCADINE: Just that this is rather Kafkaesque.

PROF. DEVANE: In what way, sir?

MR. MUSCADINE: In the sense of being cast under suspicion with no justification and no warning. Tessa, if what happened somehow hurt you, I'm truly sorry. But you're dealing with your feelings the wrong way. You may have changed your mind, now, but what happened then was clearly what we both wanted- you never indicated otherwise.

MS. BOWLBY: I asked you to stop!

MR. MUSCADINE: No, you really didn't, Tessa.

MS. BOWLBY: I asked you! I asked you!

MR. MUSCADINE: We've already been back and forth on this, Tessa. You feel you objected, I know I heard nothing that was even close to objection. If I had, obviously, I would have stopped.

PROF. DEVANE: Why is it obvious?

MR. MUSCADINE: Because I don't force women to be with me. Apart from being repugnant, it's unnecessary.

PROF. DEVANE: Why's that?

MR. MUSCADINE: Because I'm able to get women without forcing them.

PROF. DEVANE: Get women?

MR. MUSCADINE: Pardon the clumsy usage, I'm a little shaken up by all this. Women and I relate well. I'm able to obtain companionship without the use of coercion. That's why this whole thing is-

MR. LOCKING: You're a theater arts major, right?

MR. MUSCADINE: Yes.

MR. LOCKING: What speciality?

MR. MUSCADINE: Acting.

MR. LOCKING: So you're pretty good at disguising your feelings.

MR. MUSCADINE: What's that supposed to mean?

MR. LOCKING: What does it mean to you?

MR. MUSCADINE: You know, I came in here determined to be calm and rational, but I'm finding it a bit difficult with things getting this personal.

PROF. DEVANE: This is a personal issue.

MR. MUSCADINE: I know, but I already told you-

MR. LOCKING: Do you have a temper-control problem?

MR. MUSCADINE: No. Never. Why?

MR. LOCKING: You sound angry.

MR. MUSCADINE: [Laughs] No, I'm fine- maybe a little baffled.

MR. LOCKING: By what?

MR. MUSCADINE: This process. Being here. Am I a little angry? Sure. Wouldn't you be? And that's really all I have to say.

PROF. DEVANE: The intercourse. Did it proceed to climax?

MR. MUSCADINE: It did for me. And I thought you enjoyed it, too, Tessa.

MS. BOWLBY: [Crying]

MR. MUSCADINE: Obviously, I was wrong.

PROF. DEVANE: Did you wear a condom, sir?

MR. MUSCADINE: No. It was kind of- the whole thing was spontaneous. Impetuous. We really hit it off- or at least I thought we had. Nothing was planned, it just happened.

PROF. DEVANE: Have you ever been tested for HIV?

MR. MUSCADINE: No. But I'm sure I'm-

PROF. DEVANE: Would you be willing to be tested?

MR. MUSCADINE: Why?

PROF. DEVANE: For Tessa's peace of mind. And yours.

MR. MUSCADINE: Oh, c'mon-

PROF. DEVANE: You relate well to women. You've gotten many, many women.

MR. MUSCADINE: That's not the point.

PROF. DEVANE: What is, sir?

MR. MUSCADINE: It's intrusive.

PROF. DEVANE: So is rape.

MR. MUSCADINE: I never raped anyone.

PROF. DEVANE: Then why all of the anxiety about a simple blood test?

MR. MUSCADINE: I- I'd have to think about it.

PROF. DEVANE: Is there some fundamental problem with it, sir?

MR. MUSCADINE: No, but…

PROF. DEVANE: But what, sir?

MR. MUSCADINE: I don't know.

PROF. DEVANE: These are the facts: You had unprotected sex with a woman who claims you raped her. The very least you can do is to-

MR. MUSCADINE: It just seems kind of… drastic. Have sex and prove yourself healthy? I've slept with lots of other women and it never came up.

PROF. DEVANE: That's the point, sir. In effect, Ms. Bowlby has now slept with every one of those other women. The precise details of what occurred that night may never be proven, but it's obvious that Ms. Bowlby is experiencing some real trauma.

MR. MUSCADINE: Not because of me.

MS. BOWLBY: You raped me!

MR. MUSCADINE: Tessa, I didn't. I'm sorry. You've twisted this-

MS. BOWLBY: Stop! Please! [Cries]

MR. MUSCADINE: Tessa, if there was some way to undo it, believe me, I would. We didn't need to make love, we could have just-

PROF. DEVANE: Please stop, sir. Thank you. Are you all right, Tessa? Casey, get her a fresh tissue… thanks. As I was saying, Mr. Muscadine, the precise details may never be known because there were no witnesses. But Ms. Bowlby is clearly traumatized and she's entitled to some kind of closure. Given your sexual history, she'd feel a lot better if you were tested and shown to be HIV-negative. And so would this committee.

MR. MUSCADINE: Is that true, Tessa? Tessa?

MS. BOWLBY: You just said you sleep around!

MR. MUSCADINE: Wow. From Kafka to Dracula- give up my body fluids. Okay, I have nothing to hide- do I have to pay for it?

PROF. DEVANE: The testing can be done at Student Health with no charge. I've got an authorization form, right here, that will release all results.

MR. MUSCADINE: Oh, boy- okay, fine, I've got nothing to hide- but she should get tested, as well.

MS. BOWLBY: I already did. Right after. So far I'm negative.

MR. MUSCADINE: You'll stay negative. At least from me- listen, Tessa, I'm really sorry this whole thing has gotten to you, but I- forget it. Sure, fine. I'll get tested, tomorrow. How's that? If that's all I have to do.

PROF. DEVANE: You should also give some serious thought to the issue of rape.

MR. MUSCADINE: I don't need to.

PROF. DEVANE: Sometimes we're not aware of-

MR. MUSCADINE: I'm telling you- okay, fine. I'll think about it. Now can I go?

PROF. DEVANE: Sign these release forms, go to Student Health, and get tested within twenty-four hours.

MR. MUSCADINE: Fine, fine. What an experience- thank God I'm an actor.

PROF. DEVANE: Why's that, sir?

MR. MUSCADINE: To an actor, everything's material. Maybe I can put this to use someday.

PROF. DEVANE: I trust not, sir. As we told you at the outset, everything that goes on here is confidential.

MR. MUSCADINE: Oh… yes, sure. It had better be. For my sake, too.

PROF. DEVANE: What I'm saying is you're enjoined against using it. That's part of the agreement.

MR. MUSCADINE: I didn't mean use it directly. I meant subconsciously. Never mind… bye, Tessa. Let's keep our distance from each other. Let's stay a planet away from each other.