Richard rises.
“One sec,” Jordan says. He seems reluctant to leave the room. “I told my folks I didn’t want them sitting down here, waiting. I think that would make me nuts.”
Richard nods. He can see that. He waits, but Jordan is still rooted to the floor.
“So, you’re good?” Jordan asks suddenly. His eyes bore into Richard’s.
Richard doesn’t flinch. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m just supposed to sit there and look respectable.”
He’s petrified. All that swagger. Guy’s just a little chickenshit.
Richard almost feels sorry for him.
They mount the stairs to Dean Hunt’s office on the second floor. Jordan knocks.
“Come in,” a deep voice beckons.
Richard’s first impression is . . . wood. Polished wood. Cherry bookcases line every inch of wall space that isn’t taken up by windows, while a dark wood desk dominates an entire corner of the room. Two gleaming college chairs, the ones your parents might buy you as a graduation gift, are positioned before the desk.
A man who looks around his father’s age, with a close--trimmed beard and wire--rimmed glasses, sits backlit by a tall window. A stack of papers and a blank yellow pad of paper are lined up neatly on the smooth surface before him. He stands, walks around the side of the desk, and extends his hand.
“Good morning. Elliot Hunt,” he says.
“Good morning, Dean Hunt,” Jordan begins. “I’m Jordan Bockus. This is Richard Brandt, who will be my advisor today.”
Elliot Hunt’s eyes flit down the length of Jordan’s pleats. When he shakes Richard’s hand his grasp is warm, firm. But not overly firm. His smile is polite. He gestures toward the two chairs, returns to his own.
He doesn’t seem ridiculous. Or menacing. He seems utterly at ease.
This should be interesting.
“Thank you,” Dean Hunt begins, “for being punctual. You’d be amazed how many students think an appointed time is merely a suggestion.”
Jordan laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. As if he couldn’t possibly imagine ever being late for anything.
“Before we begin,” Dean Hunt says, glancing at the papers on his desk, “we have a few formalities. I’m going to ask several preliminary questions, Mr. Bockus, just to confirm that you are fully informed about our proceedings today. First: have you been apprised as to the nature of this meeting?”
“Uh . . . you want to interview me?” Jordan replies.
The dean stares at him for a moment, then nods. “I’ll take that as a yes. Have you been informed about the complaint made against you?”
“Yes.”
“Including the amendment to that complaint, which includes cyberbullying as well as violating the college’s protection order that bars you from entering Ms. James’s dormitory?”
“Yes,” Jordan says without hesitation.
Richard can’t help it—he sort of gasps. Audibly. Jordan hadn’t said anything about new charges. What the hell?
“And I understand you have responded to that amendment?”
“I responded that she’s out of her mind. No way would I go near her dorm, and I have not been posting stuff about her. I don’t even have that app.”
“Just a simple yes or no would be fine, Mr. Bockus.”
“Yes. I responded.”
“And do you understand that I have been appointed as the college’s sole investigator in this matter?”
“Yes.”
“And have you been informed that during today’s meeting I will ask you questions related to the claim against you for the purposes of filing a report with the MacCallum College Judiciary Committee and making a recommendation as to whether sanctions against you are warranted?”
Jordan shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Excuse me?”
Richard detects a sigh from Dean Hunt. “I’m going to ask you questions today, Mr. Bockus. I’m going to take notes. I’m going to use these notes in my report to the committee. I’m going to tell them whether I think you have violated the college’s code of conduct. I’m going to suggest whether they should sanction you. Then they’ll decide what happens. Is that your understanding as well?”
The furrow on Jordan’s forehead smooths. “Oh. Yeah. Yes.”
Dean Hunt pushes a sheet of paper and a pen across the desk toward Jordan. “Would you please sign this, attesting that you have responded affirmatively to each question.”
As Jordan signs, Richard’s eyes trail over the book spines displayed in the cases. There’s a lot of literature. Poetry. More like a professor’s office. Not that he knows what a dean’s book collection is like.
He meets Dean Hunt’s gaze.
“How are you doing today, Mr. Brandt?”
He’s not sure what he thinks about the way Dean Hunt keeps calling him and Jordan Mr. So--and--So. Is he old--school or ironic?
“I’m well, thanks. You?”