Whiting responded with a nod that acknowledged what I’d said and yet somehow, at the same time, dismissed it as utterly irrelevant. “I understand,” she said, and then proceeded to demonstrate that she didn’t, in fact, understand and also didn’t care. “But surely you can understand that the university needs to prioritize risk management and damage control.”
“Can I?” I could feel my blood pressure ratcheting up. “My understanding has always been that the university’s priorities are the pursuit of knowledge and the education of students. When did those get replaced by playing it safe and covering our asses?”
She flushed, not from embarrassment but from anger. “Don’t play the simpleton,” she snapped, and I felt my own color rising. Before I could retort, she barreled on. “How much of our funding comes from the state?”
“A lot.”
“You’re damn right, a lot. A hundred fifty million dollars this year, give or take a few million. And if the state decided to take a few million—or more than a few—how do you propose that we fund the pursuit of knowledge and the education of students? You ready to teach for free?”
“What’s your point, Amanda? You want to cut off my salary?”
“No, dammit, but the legislature might.”
“Oh, please,” I said. “Now who’s playing the simpleton?”
The dean shifted in his chair, scraping the legs across the floor, as if the chair were clearing its throat for attention. “Hang on, both of you. Can we maybe dial this back a notch or two?” Whiting and I continued to glare at each other, and he tried again. “We’re all on the same side, remember? And you’ve both got a point. Amanda, Bill’s research has made the Anthropology Department one of the best in the country.” I felt better, but only until he added, “But, Bill, the hornets that the Channel Four story stirred up might be about to sting us bad.”
I turned my full attention on him. “Sting us how? What do you mean?”
He frowned. “You remember that state senator in the story?”
“That grandstanding dummy from Jackson? What about him?”
“Apparently he wasn’t just grandstanding. He’s drafted a bill for the next legislative session. If you don’t shut down your research program, it would cut the university’s state funding.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said, but I could tell by his expression that this was no joke. “Cut our funding? By how much?”
Amanda Whiting answered for him. “By one hundred percent,” she said. She no longer sounded angry; now she sounded demoralized and defeated. “Every damn cent.”
THE NEXT MORNING I GOT UP AT FIVE, AN HOUR before my alarm was set to go off, and slipped from bed. Kathleen lay motionless, her breathing steady, and I decided not to wake her—if, indeed, she was sleeping, though I half suspected she was not.
We had been off kilter and cross all through the prior evening, to a degree that was rare and perhaps even unprecedented for us. I still hadn’t told her about Satterfield’s threat, and withholding that information meant that I couldn’t tell her about Decker’s meltdown in my office, either. My secrecy almost certainly contributed to my testiness—partly because withholding anything from Kathleen ran deeply counter to my nature. I had tried several times, on the other hand, to talk about both the Janus case and the political assault on the Body Farm. But Kathleen, usually so solicitous and sympathetic, had seemed distant and preoccupied. By bedtime, our conversation had cooled to curt monosyllables, and we had slept, to the degree that either of us succeeded in sleeping, with our backs to each other.