at me again for approval, which I granted with a very slight nod. “Tricia is—was . . .” he corrected himself, “a very capable, bright student. She was having some trouble with a few assignments and concepts lately, but that’s not uncommon in senior biology. It’s very demanding.”
“When you say she was having trouble, how much trouble? Was she failing?” Smythe pressed.
“Well, no. That’s just it. Trouble for Tricia was slipping slightly below an ‘A’. I mean slightly. I could show you her standings.”
“That’s okay. What else can you tell me about why she would have made this accusation?”
“I just don’t understand. Look, I can tell you that Tricia was a very driven student. She set high standards and was a perfectionist. I understand she felt the same way about athletics. She could be stubborn about learning a concept. If she didn’t understand, she would stay and get help and beat herself up until she understood. But she was never a problem. She never had disciplinary issues. I never had to reprimand her or throw her out of class. I can’t tell you just how shocking it was to have her throw this threat from out of left field.” Carl’s voice had begun to rise to a level approaching frantic.
“Okay, Mr. Turbot. That’s fine for now.” Smythe pulled a business card out of her leather carry case. “If you think of anything else, anything at all that strikes you about her recent behaviour, please give us a call.”
“That’s it? I can go?” Carl asked.
“Sure. Thank you for speaking with us. I know this must be a very hard day for you and all of Tricia’s teachers today.” She pushed her chair back from the table and rose.
“Yes,” Carl replied with a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” He and I both rose from our seats. I had turned to shepherd my client to the door when Furlo broke his self-imposed silence one last time.
“Hey, Turbot. Look. Just between us, okay?” He actually winked conspiratorially. “Even if you were bangin’ her, it doesn’t mean you killed her. It would just help us rule out any loose ends if we were sure you were being straight with us. It doesn’t have to leave this room. Were you and she going at it?”
Carl was horrified, and as he opened his mouth to speak, I jumped in. “Don’t dignify that juvenile outburst with a response. You asked my client that question already, and it was answered.” I pushed him out the door and turned to face Furlo. “Not only are we talking about a teenager here, Detective, in schools we tend to frown on discussions of ‘banging’ students. If that’s the best you can do, I don’t hold a whole lot of hope about you actually apprehending her killer. Detective Smythe,” I nodded towards Smythe, who looked positively embarrassed by her partner.
I could feel Furlo’s stare burning into the back of my skull as I left the conference room. I heard him mutter something about asshole lawyers as I shut the door.
Nine
The rest of the day was exactly how it looked on the television news. And television news was everywhere. Unlike many lawyers, I had never developed any special love for cameras and press conferences. My cases had generally been low profile, attracting little interest from the broadcast media. So many of my clients were among the downtrodden that they didn’t present a lovely image on camera. If it ain’t pretty, let’s not put it on air. On the flip side, I had never particularly disliked the media either, as many of my prosecutorial colleagues and many cops did. Reporters just had a job to do, though they often did it in as superficial a manner as they could. But generally if they wanted a quote, I gave them a quote. If they didn’t, I didn’t go looking for them. Today I didn’t have to look far. People often comment about how crass and insensitive it is for television news cameras to show up during a time of grief, particularly when there are kids involved.
It wasn’t a productive day. Many more kids came to school than I thought would. Even those who were most upset could get the comfort they needed by being around the people closest to them in their lives. Often, those people were their friends at school or even their teachers, rather than their families.
Don McFadden had gone on the P.A. system to make the gruesome announcement just after we had finished speaking with him. By then, most of the kids had already heard; dozens had been interviewed by reporters outside the building. If there was any plan of breaking it to them gently, the throngs of police and media personnel greeting them upon arrival pretty much spoiled it.
Classes were limited to “seat work”, having kids do limited brain activity by “read this and answer the question” type assignments. Even at that, big chunks of class time were consumed with me asking how everyone was feeling, which was usually followed by a fresh round of flowing tears. I like to think I’m a terrifically sensitive guy. Apparently either I’m not, or I haven’t figured out how to allow my sensitivity to manifest itself appropriately. New teachers have it drilled into their heads that they need to keep an enormous professional and especially physical chasm between teacher and student. Accusations like Tricia’s are pretty much evidence of the reason why those practices are so drilled into us, but it’s almost impossible when a student collapses into your arms grieving the loss of a friend to step back and say “Whoa! You’re not supposed to make physical contact with me.”
But I tried. I thought it would be best if I could keep my distance and direct my students into working on actual curricular objectives. It just made me come across as cold. As many times as I tried to go over the homework, or assign a new task, I was met with “Mr. Patrick, how can you expect us to think about school?” I couldn’t really. But hanging out all day with grieving kids was making me so uncomfortable and awkward that I felt a need to attempt to redirect their emotions into something productive. It didn’t work.
The staff room was a quiet, numb space at lunch. It wasn’t a place I really wanted to be, but I had an ulterior motive: I wanted to find out if word of Carl’s alleged transgressions had travelled through the school. As his lawyer, I might have to attempt some damage control if rumours had begun to fly. Though conversation was relatively subdued, no one appeared, at least, to be discussing Carl or any other staff member as potential suspects in Tricia’s death.
It took all the energy I could muster to make it through the afternoon. The tears began to dry up somewhat as the day progressed, but the entire school was cloaked in a blanket of emotional exhaustion by the end of the day. The principal commanded a brief meeting at the end of the day to discuss means by which we could attempt to bring the place back to relatively normal operations the next day.
“As much as possible, we need to get kids back into the school routine so they are not focused on these issues,” Don stated to the assembled faculty. “We need to let kids know that we’re still here if they need support, but that school needs to carry on.” Even he didn’t sound very convinced.
At the end of the meeting, I caught up with Carl in the hallway as he headed for the door. “How are you holding up?” I asked him.
“I’m all right, I think,” he replied quietly.
He didn’t seem so. I stopped him and looked him directly in the eye. “Carl? Are you sure you’re okay?”
He looked slowly at me. “I don’t know if I can tell you this.”
“Yes, you can, Carl. You can tell me whatever you want. It’s privileged.”
“No,” he countered. “It’s nothing legally damaging, I don’t think. It’s just that . . .” his voice trailed off.
“What
