“Dean Mitchell?” Hope said, peeking her head through his door. “You wanted to see me?”
In her time at the school, she had spoken with Stephen Mitchell perhaps a dozen times, maybe less. They had served on a committee or two together, in years past, and she knew he had happily attended a championship game she had coached, although his own preference was generally for the boys’ football team. She had always thought him to be funny, in a grumpy prep school, Mr. Chips sort of way, and never thought of him as judgmental-which was her standard for most people. If they could accept who she was, then she was willing to go more than the extra mile to accept them. It went with the territory of living an alternative lifestyle, which was the odious phrase used where Sally and she lived, and which she despised, because it seemed utterly devoid of romance.
“Ah, Hope, yes, yes, yes, please do come in.”
Dean Mitchell spoke with an antiquarian’s wondrously precise sense of words. No slang words or verbal shortcuts for him. He was known to write comments like I frequently despair for the intellectual future of the human race on student papers. He gestured toward a large red overstuffed leather wing chair in front of his desk. It was the sort of chair that swallowed one up, making Hope feel ridiculously small.
“I got your message,” Hope said. “How can I help you, Stephen?”
Dean Mitchell fumbled around for a moment, then spun and looked out the window, as if gathering himself to say something. She did not have long to wait.
“Hope, I believe we have a significant problem.”
“A problem?”
“Yes. Someone has lodged an extremely serious complaint against you.”
“A complaint? What sort of complaint?”
Dean Mitchell hesitated, as if already offended by what he had to say. He ran a hand through thin, gray hair, then adjusted his eyeglasses, before speaking in a heartbreaking tone, as if he were telling someone of a death in their family.
“It would fall under the unfortunate and common rubric of a sexual harassment complaint.”
At nearly the same time that Hope was seated across from Dean Mitchell and hearing the words that she had dreaded almost all of her adult life, Scott was finishing up a session with an upperclassman from his Revolutionary War Readings seminar. The student was struggling. “Don’t you see caution in Washington’s words?” Scott asked. “But at the same time, isn’t there a sense of determination?”
The student nodded. “It still seems too abstract. To deduce motive, opportunity. All the things that we believe Washington innately understood.”
Scott smiled. “You know, the temperature tonight is supposed to really drop down. Frost expected, maybe even some flurries of snow. Why don’t you take some of Washington’s letters outside and read them by flashlight, or even better yet, by candlelight, around midnight right in the middle of the quad. See if they make some additional sense to you then.”
The student smiled. “Seriously? Outside in the dark?”
“Absolutely. And, assuming you don’t catch pneumonia, because you should only take a single woolen blanket out there to keep you warm and you should wear shoes that have holes in the soles, we can continue this discussion, say, middle of the week. Okay?”
The phone on his desk rang and he picked up the receiver as the student’s back disappeared through the door. “Yes? Scott Freeman here.”
“Scott, this is William Burris down at Yale.”
“Hello, Professor. This is a surprise.”
Scott stiffened in his seat. In the world of teaching American history, receiving a call from William Burris was similar to getting a call from the heavens. Pulitzer Prize winner, bestselling author, seated at an endowed professorship at one of the nation’s leading institutions, and adviser, upon occasion, to presidents and other heads of state, Burris had impeccable credentials, with a taste for $2,000 Savile Row suits, which he had custom-made when he lectured at Oxford or Cambridge, or anywhere that could meet his six-figure fee.
“Yes, it has been some time, hasn’t it? When did we last meet? At some society meeting or another?” Burris meant one of the many historical societies that Scott was a member of, and all of which would kill to have Burris list his name on their roster.
“A couple of years, I would imagine. How are you, Professor?”
“Fine, fine,” Burris replied. Scott pictured him seated, gray-haired and imperious, in an office much like his own, except considerably bigger, with a secretary taking messages from agents, producers, editors, kings, and prime ministers, and shooing away students. “Yes, I am fine, even with the looming despair of a pair of losses by the football team to the evil empires of both Princeton and Harvard, an awful possibility this year.”
“Perhaps Admissions can come up with an improved quarterback for next year?”
“One would hope. But, ah, Scott, that is not the purpose of this call.”
“I did not think so. What can I do for you, Professor?”
“Do you recall a piece you wrote for us at the Journal of American History some three years ago? The subject was military movement in the days directly after the battles of Trenton and Princeton, when Washington made so many key and, dare I say it, prescient decisions?”
“Of course, Professor.” Scott did not publish much, and this essay had been particularly helpful at influencing his own department not to cut back on the American history core courses.
“It was a fine piece, Scott,” Burris said slowly. “Evocative and provocative.”
“Thank you. But I fail to see what-”
“The work, ah, the writing, ah, did you have any, ah, outside assistance on formulating your themes and conclusions?”
“I’m not sure that I understand, Professor.”
“The work, the writing, it was all your own? And the research, as well?”
“Yes. I had a student assistant or two, mostly seniors, help with some of the citations. But the writing and the conclusions were my own. I don’t understand what you are driving at, Professor.”
“There has been a most unfortunate allegation made in regard to that piece.”
“An allegation?”
“Yes. A charge of academic dishonesty.”
“What?”
“Plagiarism, Scott. I’m most sorry to say.”
“But that’s absurd!”
“The allegation in front of us cites some troubling similarities between your piece and a paper written in a graduate seminar at another institution.”
Scott took a deep breath. Instantly dizziness circled around him, and he grasped the edge of his desk as if to steady himself.
“Who has made this complaint?”
“Therein lies a problem,” Burris replied. “It came to me electronically, and it was anonymous.”
“Anonymous!”
“But regardless of its authorship, it cannot be ignored. Not in the current academic climate. And certainly not in the public’s eye. The newspapers are voracious when it comes to misdeeds or missteps in the academy. Likely, I hesitate to say, to jump to many erroneous conclusions, in a most embarrassing and ultimately incredibly damaging fashion. So, it would seem to me that the best approach here is to nip this allegation in the bud. Assuming, of course, that you can find your notes and go over every line, chapter, and verse, so that the Journal is satisfied that the allegations are incorrect.”
“Of course, but…,” Scott sputtered. He was almost at a loss for words.
“We must, in this day of rampant second-guessing and dreadful microscopic analysis, seem purer than Lot’s wife, alas.”
“I know, but…,” Scott was stammering.
“I will send you by overnight courier the complaint and the actual verbiage. And then, I suspect, we should speak again.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“And, Scott”-the professor’s voice was even, suddenly cold and almost devoid of tone and energy-“I do hope that we can work all this out privately. But, please, do not underestimate the threat involved. I say this to you as a friend, and as a fellow historian. I’ve seen once promising careers destroyed for far less. Far, far less.” The emphasis in the final words was unnecessary, but undeniably true.