“You refuse to answer my questions?”
“Not at all. I will answer every question. But I’ll answer them the same way.”
“My record is going to show that you have been unco-operative, Mr. Bockus. This will not help you. Would you like to reconsider?”
Richard sees Jordan clench his jaw.
“Dean Hunt, I mean no disrespect to you or to the college,” he says carefully. Like he’s practiced the lines. “But if she decides to pursue this criminally, everything I say here can be used against me in court. From your point of view, and the college’s point of view, it probably seems like I’m uncooperative. But from a legal point of view, it’s what I have to do. I hope you understand.”
“Jordan.” The switch to the first name surprises Richard. So does the tone. He’s changing tactics. “I’m not out to get you. I want to hear your side of the story. If you refuse to tell me, then the only side I’ve heard is Jenny’s.”
For a nanosecond, Jordan hesitates. It’s so incredibly obvious that he wants to talk. He’s so full of self--justification, he could burst. He wants to talk and talk and talk. Richard sees him, hovering at the brink of a deep abyss of words that will sink him.
Then, as if there were an invisible rope wrapped around his waist, pulling him back—Uncle Bruce’s voice in his ear?—he recovers.
“I’m sorry, Dean Hunt, but that’s all I’m prepared to say about that night.”
The dean’s gaze lingers over Jordan as he considers his next move. He seems to make a decision and returns to the pile on his desk. He pulls out another sheet. Reads it over, puts it down.
“All right then. Why don’t we move on to the amended portion of the complaint. Ms. James says you went by her room and wrote obscenities on her door. She’s also claiming that you started a cyberbullying campaign against her using a smartphone application. Now, I know you’ve met with the college’s human resources officer, Carole Patterson, and also responded to these new charges in writing, but why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
Jordan leans forward. Like a dog, moments before the leash comes off. “I have not gone anywhere near her room. I haven’t stepped foot in that building all semester, actually. As for the phone thing, wasn’t me. When Ms. Patterson called me into her office and told me about it, I handed my phone to her on the spot. She could see I don’t have that app, so I couldn’t possibly have done it.”
“Well, you could have used your computer, couldn’t you?”
“Not without first having the phone app.”
Dean Hunt scribbles something on his pad. “Do you have any idea who would have done this?”
“No.”
“None of your friends? No one you know is talking about this?”
“I can’t control what people say. Since those witness lists went out, everyone is talking.”
Dean Hunt drums his pen lightly on the pad as he thinks.
Changes direction abruptly.
“Which of your friends has the app?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask them yourself.”
The dean nods. As if this is an excellent idea he had never considered before.
“Well, I think we’re done for today, Mr. Bockus. But do know I intend to meet with you again. I’m nothing if not hopeful.”
The boys stand, Jordan leaning over the wide desk to shake the dean’s hand. Richard follows suit. But Dean Hunt waves him back to his chair.
“Actually, as long as you’re here, Mr. Brandt, why don’t you and I chat now? Saves us the trouble of scheduling something later.”
Jordan doesn’t even attempt to disguise his panicked expression.
“I’m not on the witness list. I wasn’t there that night,” Richard says.
Dean Hunt looks at him with wide, innocent eyes. “The investigation is not limited to the names Mr. Bockus and Ms. James provided,” he says. “And as Mr. Bockus points out, I should ask his friends myself.” Dean Hunt’s eyes move to the door, willing Jordan to follow suit.
For a moment, it looks like he won’t budge. When Jordan finally does turn to leave the room, he flashes Richard a severe look.
Don’t screw me over, it communicates in no uncertain terms. He strides to the door, closes it loudly.
Dean Hunt smiles pleasantly. “Well. Richard. I hope this will be a more productive conversation.”
. . .
Exley drains his cup. He tosses the empty.
He shoulders through the crowd. She has her back to him, but the friend sees him approach. She signals with a glance, a smile, assenting tilt of the head. Look, it says.
Tamra turns.
As if on cue, as if in time to the music, as if choreographed, as if rehearsed . . . Marliese fades into the others.
Exley and Tamra begin their dance.
. . .
23
Haley
The three insistent raps on the door don’t surprise Haley; she’s been waiting for Gail and Carrie. They’re moving Jenny to a different room today.
The short woman planted on the other side, red dreadlocks sprinkled with small brass clips, is completely unexpected.