Dean Hunt does not respond to the question. “It’s quite a responsibility you’ve signed on for, advising Mr. Bockus. And unusual. It’s actually never happened before. Respondents usually ask a faculty member or lawyer to accompany them.”
It’s an opening. Disguised as small talk. Go on, he’s inviting Richard. Tell me something I don’t know. Explain to me why this kid, who must be lawyered up, because there’s no way in hell his family would send him into the lion’s den unprepared, is dragging you into this meeting.
Dean Hunt is smart. He smells a rat.
“It’s not a problem,” Richard replies, rejecting the bait.
Dean Hunt smiles with his mouth closed, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watches Richard.
Jordan clicks the pen shut and drops it on top of the desk. “Richard’s a close friend,” he interjects. “We’ve known each other since, what? Freshman year? And now we live in the same house. It may be a little out of the box to ask another student to do this, but the fact is, Dean Hunt, I’m getting plenty of advice from my family. I wanted a friend to come with me to these meetings. And Richard is a solid guy. Math tutor. Honors student. He’s a . . . really solid guy.”
Richard tries to imagine the expression on Uncle Bruce’s face if he were witnessing Jordan right now. This is what the guy was worried about. His nephew spontaneously combusting. It’s a possibility.
Dean Hunt raises his eyebrows. “Well. A math tutor. Imagine that. Shall we begin?” He picks up the yellow pad and the pen, crosses one ankle over the opposite knee, and leans back comfortably in his chair. “Mr. Bockus, did you read Ms. James’s statement concerning the events of October seventh?”
“Yes.”
“And how do you respond to that statement?”
“I don’t agree with it.”
“What parts don’t you agree with?”
Jordan’s face looks frozen. “Parts?”
“Yes, Mr. Bockus. Ms. James gives a very detailed account of the night in question. Which parts of that statement do you disagree with?”
Two lines form across Jordan’s forehead. He was doing semi--okay until now.
“You say one thing. One thing.” Uncle Bruce had beat that point like a drum the night before. “I did not rape Jenny James. That’s the answer to every single question. If he asks what you ate for breakfast, you say, I did not rape Jenny James. If he asks what color the sky is, you say, I did not rape Jenny James. He will not be happy with you. But that’s not our concern. He has to walk out of there empty--handed. Don’t give him even an inch of rope to hang you with.”
Last night, watching Uncle Bruce make his point again and again, Richard thought it seemed simple enough. Now, as Jordan is effectively backed into a corner—because he can’t just say it’s all a lie, since some of it, like their having been at the Conundrum party, is not—he realizes that this is hard. You can get tripped up.
Dean Hunt has played a great opening move.
“Mr. Bockus?” he prompts.
“I . . . disagree with all of it.” Dean Hunt tilts forward in his chair and pulls a couple sheets of paper from the stack on his desk. The room is silent as he scans the sheets.
“You do not agree that you were at a party at Conundrum House the night of October seventh?”
“Excuse me?”
“You do not agree that members of your residence, Taylor House, hosted that party at Conundrum House?”
Jordan’s jaw tightens. Two red patches begin to appear on his cheeks.
“You do not agree that a highly alcoholic punch was served to underage guests, among them Ms. James, at that party?”
Still, Jordan does not reply.
Dean Hunt tosses the papers onto the desk and leans back again. “Taylor residence members subverted a ban on house parties by hosting an event at Conundrum. You and Ms. James both attended that event on October seventh. These facts are all contained in her statement. So I’m curious: which parts of her statement do you disagree with?”
Richard sees Jordan’s shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. “Dean Hunt, I did not rape Jenny James.”
“Actually, Mr. Bockus, Ms. James does not use the word rape anywhere in her statement. She says the two of you engaged in ‘nonconsensual sexual intercourse.’ ”
“I don’t agree with that.”
“Are you saying it was consensual?” Dean Hunt asks smoothly. His expression is bland. The guy could be watching a public television documentary on butterflies for all the emotion he reveals.
But even Richard knows: he just asked the key question. If Jordan says anything that confirms that he and Jenny had sex, he’s cooked.
It took, what? Sixty seconds to get to this point?
Then, Jordan surprises him.
“Dean Hunt, I did not rape Jenny James.”
A flicker, just a flicker, of irritation passes over the dean’s face. He thought he had this fish on the line.
“Well, why don’t we move on from Ms. James’s statement to your version of events. Why don’t you tell me what happened that night.”
Jordan clears his throat. “I don’t have anything to say except I did not rape Jenny James.”
“Yes, I understand that. Tell me what did transpire between you and Ms. James.”
“I have nothing to add.”