1 Picking Lemons (10 page)

“But to kill? Over a letter?”

“This isn’t just a letter, Betsy. This is a career. And a brilliant, very public one at that.”

Betsy picked up her crocheting again. She had completely lost count of the
number of stitches in the chain and felt too befuddled to recount them. This poor grandchild was going to have some very uneven squares in his or her blanket. “So…how do you think Jefferson killed Edmund?” asked Betsy as she tried to come to terms with the new theory.

“Well, that is interesting,” said
C.J. “The police say the time of death was after one and before two. So Edmund was alive at noon when Jefferson says he left for his run. And Jefferson says he ran around campus twice. When Jeffie came into seminar at two, he was out of breath and in running clothes, which backs up his story. I think, if he is our lemon, the highest probability event is that Jefferson stopped off in the econ building between laps, went up to Edmund’s office and strangled him.”

“He could
have,” said Betsy uncertainly, “but surely someone would have seen him.”

“I’m not convinced that someone didn’t. Mary Beth
, God love her for trying to wear an analog watch, is very confused about the time she saw Jefferson that afternoon. First, it was ten past one. Then, it was ten to two. If she did in fact see him at ten past one, he could have ducked up to Edmund’s office, been the person that Edmund argued with, killed him, and then continued on with his run. Jefferson sure had the motive to kill Edmund.”

Betsy looked down at the trapezoidal, baby-blue shape she had crocheted and frowned. “Well, I think you’re wrong. I really like Jefferson
, and he’s been really upset that Edmund died. You can’t fake that. I don’t think he could be our lemon.”

*****

FROM: Peter Johansson

TO: All faculty

SUBJECT: RE: Edmund DeBeyer Memorial Foundation

Walter,

I appreciate the importance of the DeBeyer Foundation project to the faculty and the University. I look forward to being able to contribute my time and expertise at some stage in the future. However, at the moment, my time is committed with my role as Chair of the Hiring Committee. I am sure you understand.

Pete
r

*****

C.J. sat on the grey plastic bucket chair in the visitors’ room of the Elm Grove City Jail, anxiously tapping a tuneless song with the heels of her cowboy boots. Really. Did PETA ever visit jails? They were so against cattle ranches, but the local jail had by-passed their attention? This was inhumane. Everything was so grey, so sterile. Not to mention invasive.

Five minutes earlier, C.J. had held her arms out
in a giant T shape, allowing a guard to wand, scan or pat down every possible body part that could possibly carry contraband. The guards had been very clear at the reception desk. No guns. No knives. No food. No cell phones. No letters. No hard cover books. No pens. No pencils. C.J. got the message. In a jail, anything was a potential weapon.

Now, cleared of being a smuggler, C.J. sat uncomfortable and irritated.
Her growly mood of earlier was back with a vengeance. She continued to tap out a rhythm with her shoes, which only served to annoy her further. What was that song she was tip-tapping with her feet? The theme to M*A*S*H? No, that wasn’t it, though it would have been apt.

Just then, a
nother guard showed Stephen into the room, bringing an end to C.J.’s game of “guess this tune.” Dressed in an orange jumpsuit, Stephen looked small, disheveled, and in need of a long, hot shower.

C.J. looked at the man, exasperated.
“What did you get your Ph.D. in? Economics, or stupidity?”

Stephen looked back, rather stunned by this unexpected attack.

C.J. continued. If she could break a temperamental stallion, she could sure handle the tangerine hamster sitting before her. “I know where you were the hour before Edmund’s death. You understand me? And it wasn’t killing Edmund.”

“You can’t know,” said Stephen quietly.

“Oh, get over yourself Stephen. I don’t know what weird, ritualistic honor code you are trying to respect, but the time for that has passed. I know and unless you want to go to jail for the murder of Edmund, which, by the way, will let a murderer roam free, a whole lot of other people need to know. So tell your lawyer or I will.” C.J. paused and took in a deep breath.

Really. People. More proof
that they lacked rationality. In the cute, little model of the used car market, no one was trying to make his good car look like crap. But here was Stephen, letting himself look like the lemon. Who knew what everyone else was doing?

*****

FROM: Walter Scovill

TO: All faculty

SUBJECT: Edmund DeBeyer Memorial Foundation, AGAIN

Dear Colleagues,

I feel I wasn’t clear in my first email as not a single person has volunteered to assist with the Edmund DeBeyer Memorial Foundation.

I need three faculty members working on this project ASAP. If I don’t have three volunteers by eight tomorrow morning, I will be informing three lucky faculty members that they will have the honor.

Walter

*****

FROM: Jefferson
Daniels

TO: All faculty

SUBJECT: RE: Edmund DeBeyer Memorial Foundation, AGAIN

Dear Walter,

I guess this is as good a time as any to mention that I submitted my resignation to the Dean of Arts and Sciences today. Therefore, while I would love to be one of the three lucky faculty members chosen for your committee, at the end of this semester, I will be leaving Eaton University. Before you start calling around, I am not going to Harvard or Princeton. I am moving to New Mexico to become an alpaca farmer. I have never actually cared for the discipline of economics. It is rather dull, especially in large quantities, don’t you find?

Jefferson

*****

C.J. rang Betsy as soon as she read Jefferson’s email. She could hear Betsy’s husband and his friends in the background, yelling wildly.

“Sorry about the noise,” apologized Betsy. “It’s only preseas
on football, but New England is down by three.”

C.J. understood football.
Her daddy had been a big football fan. So, her Sundays had been spent ‘watching and learning the game,’ which involved little more than sitting around as her father yelled plays at the T.V. set and screamed obscenities when the coach of the Dallas Cowboys didn’t listen to the advice that he couldn’t possibly hear. What was not to love about the game? “Not a problem. Have you got time to talk?”

“Sure thing. Hold on a moment. I’m going to move somewhere quieter.”

C.J. hung on and listened as Betsy wheezed her way up the stairs. Eventually, the sounds of the football game died away, and Betsy’s breathing returned to normal.

“So,” said Betsy
, “I always like to talk to you, but you don’t normally call at ten on a Thursday night. Anything the matter?”

“You, my friend, are not going to believe the news I have.”

“Try me.”

“Jefferson
Daniels, the man I thought had murdered Edmund because Edmund was trashing his professional reputation, just resigned and is going to be an alpaca farmer in New Mexico!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“No!”

“I’m forwarding you the email as we speak, in case it didn’t get sent to the adjuncts.”

“Wait. I’m logging on to my email. Wait. Wait. Oh my goodness. That poor man. Imagine being an economics professor if you didn’t like economics. That is rather tragic. Well, it doesn’t seem likely he
cared much about Edmund’s letter writing campaign if he was planning on quitting. That lemon’s gone.”

“I know. But still...
”

“But still what?”

“Nothing. What if Jefferson’s cracking up? What if Jefferson just can’t handle academic life without Edmund? You see it in the barn sometimes. You have a cow and a goat that were raised together. The cow dies, and the goat dies heartbroken within weeks. Jefferson could be the goat.”

Betsy hummed into the phone. Jefferson didn’t strike her as a goat. The man had managed to scrabble
from the projects to Eaton University. If he didn’t fall apart during that process, she didn’t think Edmund’s dying was going to do it. “I’m not sure. But there must be some reason he wants alpacas instead of economics.”

“You’re right. I’m going to talk to Walter tomorrow.
I’ll make sure he gives Jefferson leave without pay. So Jeffie can change his mind after a year of shoveling alpaca poo. He doesn’t know what a ranch is like. I don’t think it’s the solution he is looking for.”

*****

It was just after ten on Thursday night when Stephen finally broke down and confessed the existence of an alibi. It wasn’t clear whether it was the fact C.J. was going to tell anyway, the bedbugs were enjoying the all-you-can-eat buffet at his feet and ankles each night, or the small issue that he was looking at serving life in jail for a crime he didn’t commit, that caused Stephen to change his mind.

When Stephen told his lawyer where he actually was in the hour leading up to the discovery of Edmund’s body, the man snorted coffee out his nose.

“No effing way! Please tell me you weren’t going to sizzle in the electric chair for this.”

Stephen looked back coldly. It was good that one of them had ethical standards. And knew the law. There was no death penalty in Connecticut any more.

“No. Seriously, man. That’s where you were?”

Stephen nodded.

“How many people were there?”

Stephen looked uncomfortable. He didn’t want to say.

“Oh. Jesus and his Virgin Mother. I am not asking for their socials. Just how many?”

“Five, including me,” said Stephen.

Stephen’s lawyer let a squirt of tobacco juice fly from the side of one cheek. Most of his clients invented alibis. They sure didn’t keep them hidden. Professors. They pulled the craziest crap this side of the Mississippi. What a bunch of weirdos.

“Well, bud. We’ll need a name.”

Stephen shook his head.

The lawyer breathed in deeply.
“Do I need to explain how this works to you, boy? Your alibis are as valuable as an ice cube in Hell unless they are actual people with actual names who talk to actual district attorneys.”

Just over an hour later Stephen, head in his hands, gave a name.

FROM: Walter
Scovill

TO: All faculty

SUBJECT: Edmund DeBeyer Memorial Foundation, YET AGAIN

Dear Colleagues,

Yesterday, I received two offers of assistance for the Edmund DeBeyer Memorial Foundation. Two.

So today I have the pleasure of appointing the third committee member.

It is C.J. Whitmore
.

Walter

*****

When Jose had arrived at Eaton University, two years before, Walter had made the situation clear. He, Walter, had been responsible for Jose’s acceptance into this world class educational institution. This esteemed bastion of higher learning. This portal to a brighter future. Jose had been given a scholarship. He didn’t have to pay a single penny for this wonderful education. In fact, Eaton University was going to pay Jose a stipend. Not a fortune, but enough to live on.

“The only wrinkle in this situation,” Walter
had said, his hand stroking his chin as he perched on his desk looking down at Jose, who sat in the chair in front of him, “the little wrinkle is that you would not have been accepted but for me. You would not have these opportunities, this money, this gateway to the world beyond.”

Jose had watched Walter with steady eyes. Walter
had thought he was being very smooth, but Jose had lived on the streets of Tijuana since he was orphaned at age six. He had seen everything. He had done most things. This man was pathetic.

“So, Jose,” Walter continued, with a greasy smile, “the way I see it is that you will need to…pay me some student fees, as i
t were. To make sure I am happy and don’t change my mind about your application.”

“You want money?” asked Jose, even though he knew money wasn’t the issue here
.

“No, no. I don’t want your money. I have plenty
, and you have so little.”

“Oh,” said Jose. He wasn’t going to make this easy for Walter.

The two men sat across from each other in silence.

“You want
the sex?” Jose finally asked in a tired voice. It seems it was always the sex. It did not matter how rich or poor men were or what nationality, they always wanted the sex.

Walter blanched. “No! No. No,” he hastened to clear up this issue right away. “I don’t like…um…I am not
…um…attracted to men…not that there is anything wrong with that.”

Walter tried to
regain his composure. He never said no to an eager young undergraduate, but they were always female students. He thought that was obvious. “Jose. I am expecting you to…exchange your… laboring skills…for your place in the graduate school at Eaton University. A simple economic transaction. You need an education. I need a…houseboy. Understand?”

Jose nodded. He understood. Slavery wasn’t the right term, as he
was sure it would end when he graduated. Indentured servitude seemed a better definition. A contract to be at Walter’s beck and call for the duration of his Ph.D. 

Which was why this Friday
, Jose responded to Walter’s summons and arrived at his office just before eight-thirty.

Surprisingly,
Jose did not despise Walter. If Jose needed to shine Walter’s shoes, rake his leaves and polish his car so he could stay at Eaton University, then he could pay that price. Jose viewed Walter as he had every man that he serviced on the streets of Tijuana. Something to step on as he worked his way up the ladder of success. One did not despise a rock, a dog turd, the ground beneath his feet. In Jose’s mind, this was what these men were.

This particular Friday, Walter was
enjoying his morning shoe shine. Jose was wearing a leather shoe shining apron and a blue and white striped cap. Walter was reclining in his leather office chair, and Jose was kneeling before him. Walter’s right leg was stretched out and his right foot was resting on Jose’s apron-covered leg. Jose was working up a sweat polishing Walter’s right shoe, rubbing it vigorously with a polishing cloth.

Walter, always one to enjoy a position of power, was yelling instructions at Jose.

“More polish on the toe!”

“Rub harder
, boy!”

“Make ‘em shine boy. Make ‘em shine.”

Somewhere in the midst of Walter’s commands, an outraged C.J., ready to do battle over her appointment to the Edmund DeBeyer Memorial Foundation, flung open the door.

Silence filled the room. With
a horrified look, C.J. looked from Walter to Jose and back to Walter again. Walter remained frozen in position, right leg outstretched. Jose turned his head away. It was one thing to work for Professor Scovill. It was another for Professor Whitmore, whom he respected greatly, to know. What could he say? He wasn’t smart enough to earn his place at Eaton University on his own merits.

“Walter
. We need to talk. About this Memorial Committee business. And about Jefferson. But clearly now is not the time. Send me an email when you are not …” C.J. stumbled to find the right word. Walter wasn’t busy, as he wasn’t doing any work himself. To say “exploiting people” seemed a tad aggressive. C.J. just left the sentence unfinished. “And Jose,” Jose looked up, his face flaming red. “Don’t forget you are taking recitation section at nine today.”

*****

Stephen Choi’s lawyer had earned his hefty retainer by working through the night to confirm Stephen’s alibi and secure his release. While this news was personally exciting to Mr. Choi, in the view of the general public, an innocent person is just like every other innocent person. Boring. Therefore, Stephen Choi was released from jail at ten o’clock on Friday morning without having a single photo taken or question asked of him by the vigilant media. However, had anyone bothered to ask what his time in jail had been like, Stephen would have told them the startling truth. He had learned more economics during his brief incarceration than in the five years of his doctoral education.

Ramen was the basic currency of the jail. Coffee was a gold coin. A hair cut could be bought for three packs of ramen, unless the guy
who did the haircuts was running low on food. Then the price dropped to just one ramen. Or even a half, depending on how long it was to commissary day and how desperate the guy was for non-prison food. Protection during a shower…five ramen. A smuggled cell phone…a cup of coffee. There was no surplus in a jail economy. Everything could be used for something. A ball point pen? Contraband but excellent for tattoos. A sheet of paper? Depends on how much you liked the guy.

It was somewhat of a waste that Stephen had
finally gleaned such a deep understanding of economics, as what Stephen was not going back to, at least for now, was his job. The Dean of Arts and Sciences had dropped by the jail earlier that morning, as soon as he had been made aware of Stephen’s innocence and impending release.

“Stephen,” t
he Dean had begun with a strong handshake and a politician’s smile. Never a sign of good news. “I, we, all of the university are so pleased to hear that your innocence had been proven.”

Stephen nodded. The Dean didn’t a
ctually look that thrilled. Stephen understood. If you were going to have a murdering professor, a junior professor already on the way out was optimal. Now that Stephen was innocent, who was it?

“But we need to discuss your return date.”

“I rather thought that would be today, sir.”

“Yes, yes. I appreciate your good intentions. But we must thin
k of the university first. There are some parents, some…influential parents…who would prefer not to have…someone…arrested for murder…on the campus with their precious babies.”

Stephen opened his mouth to object.
It wasn’t even like he was teaching any classes this semester.

“Now Stephen, y
ou and I know such an attitude is ridiculous. You are, after all, not a proven murderer. But we must cater to the client. So take a sabbatical. The less time you are in the department in the next few days, or even...weeks, the better. Am I clear?”

Stephen understood perfectly. A man w
as innocent until proven guilty or condemned by wealthy Eaton donors.

So now, as he stood at the curb waiting, it was not to go back to work. But rather, it was for a taxi to take him to the airport. If
Eaton University was going to run him out of town, then he was going to enjoy some time with his much-ignored girlfriend. There was going to be something good that came of all this
.

*****

The Eaton University administration was right to be unhappy about Stephen’s release. Stephen’s innocence heralded the return of an unwelcome spotlight back on Eaton’s campus. A spotlight, the President thought bitterly, that could only slow the growth of the endowment. The police returned, somewhat like stubborn bathroom mold, questioning faculty and students.

“Where were you exactly on the day Edmund was murdered?”

“Can anyone corroborate that?”

“Talk us through the day in question just one more time.”

The media, singularly uninterested in Stephen’s innocence, re-camped their reporters on the most magnificent street in America in the hopes of capturing the bigger story. Who was the murderer? Would he strike again?

Charles Covington was in his office at
41 Knollwood, being interviewed by two rather unhappy and paunchy police officers, aged in their late thirties. At the station that morning, the cases on the board were the drive-by shooting of a fifteen-year-old boy, a drug overdose death of a thirty-two-year-old mother of five, and the Edmund DeBeyer murder case. The boys in blue drew straws to see who got to work on what. The gentlemen in Charles’s office drew the short straw.

Charles was glaring across his desk at the two officers, wondering how old they were.
Fifteen, sixteen? They certainly looked like children. Why were they so interested in him? He didn’t kill that annoying termite of a man.

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with us again, Professor Covington.”

Police officers were always so polite, Charles thought churlishly. Charles ran his fingers through his white hair, causing it to stand up at an even more startling angle than usual. He just grunted a response to their comment.

“We are interested in what you did after lunch on the Monday that Edmund DeBeyer was killed.”

“I told you already. I stopped at home and spent the afternoon with Mildred.”

“Yes. We realiz
e that is what you said. But someone at the funeral overheard Mildred saying you went back to work that afternoon. So you can see our dilemma. Where exactly were you, Professor Covington? At home or at work?”

Charles huffed into his mustache. A man
has no privacy these days. He couldn’t even walk to work without that C.J. gal stopping him to ask him how he was feeling. How did she think he was feeling? He was eighty-seven years old. He was hardly a new model. A few things were rusty and breaking down. But try getting a washing machine or one of those fancy ne
w
Apple pad things to last 87 years. Hah! Not likely.

But again, all these questions. Questions, questions, questions. What was it now? Where was he exactly the afternoon Edmund died?
“None of your damn business,” Charles answered gruffly.

“Sir…” began one of the policemen. He did not get paid enough for this. The drug overdose would
have been so much easier. It was very unlikely this elderly man strangled his workmate. But he did need an answer.

“That’s Professor to you, you whippersnapper. And I think our time is up. I have to teach class.” With this, Charles
went and held open the door, and the two men, needing to rethink their strategy of dealing with Charles, left meekly. Charles, who did not teach class that day, eased himself back into his desk chair to think. What was the best thing to do?

*****

While C.J. did not teach class on Fridays, Jose was in charge of the recitation sections for her undergraduate class, and she was concerned he might not show. So she decided to pop in on the nine a.m. class that morning. Despite having their cell phones surgically attached to their bodies, her students seemed to have terrible trouble telling time. At nine o’clock, C.J. and a very quiet Jose had little more than half the recitation section sitting before them in the room. C.J. just smiled at those who were on time and said, “Actions speak much louder than words, don’t ya’ll think?”

The students arriving later were surprised to find the door to the roo
m locked and a note placed up. “Hope you can join us next class. It begins at nine.”

Having just re-enacted the shaking of the door handle, the bemused faces peering in the little glass square in the door, and the terrified faces of those inside the room for the benefit of Betsy
over their morning coffee, C.J. paused for breath. “If I’m perfectly honest, I prefer a smaller class size. Can I start locking the door earlier and earlier?”

Betsy, her entire girth shaking with laughter, just shook her head. “Oh Lord. Only you would lock them out.” Today, Betsy was knitting a pink and purple striped scarf and hat for her ten year old granddaughter. Once the laughter settled down, the sound of the needles clicking resumed.