the Third Twin (1996)

She tried to collect her thoughts. “You can’t fire me,” she said.

“We just did.”

“No.” As she got over the initial shock, she began to feel angry and defiant. “You’re not tribal chieftains here. There’s a procedure.” Universities usually could not fire faculty without some kind of hearing. It was mentioned in her contract, but she had never checked the details. Suddenly it was vitally important to her.

Maurice Obeli supplied the information. “There will be a hearing before the discipline committee of the university senate, of course,” he said. “Normally, four weeks’ notice is required; but in view of the bad publicity surrounding this case I, as president, have invoked the emergency procedure, and the hearing will be held tomorrow morning.”

Jeannie was bewildered by how fast they had acted. The discipline committee? Emergency procedure? Tomorrow morning? This was not a discussion. It was more like being arrested. She half expected Obeli to read her her rights.

He did something similar. He pushed a folder across his desk. “In there you will find the procedural rules of the committee. You may be represented by a lawyer or other advocate provided you notify the chair of the committee in advance.”

Jeannie at last managed a sensible question. “Who’s the chair?”

“Jack Budgen,” said Obeli.

Berrington looked up sharply. “Is that already settled?”

“The chair is appointed annually,” Obeli said. “Jack took over at the start of the semester.”

“I didn’t know that.” Berrington looked annoyed, and Jeannie knew why. Jack Budgen was her tennis partner. That was encouraging: he ought to be fair to her. All was not lost. She would have a chance to defend herself, and her research methods, in front of a group of academics. There would be a serious discussion, not the glib superficialities of the New York Times.

And she had the results of her FBI sweep. She began to see how she would defend herself. She would show the committee the FBI data. With luck there would be one or two pairs who did not know they were twins. That would be impressive. Then she would explain the precautions she took to protect individuals’ privacy.…

“I think that’s all,” said Maurice Obeli.

Jeannie was being dismissed. She stood up. “What a pity it’s come to this,” she said.

Berrington said quickly: “You brought it to this.”

He was like an argumentative child. She did not have the patience for pointless wrangling. She gave him a disdainful look and left the room.

As she crossed the campus she reflected ruefully that she had completely failed to achieve her aims. She had wanted a negotiated settlement, and she had got a gladiatorial contest. But Berrington and Obeli had made their decision before she walked into the room. The meeting had been a formality.

She returned to Nut House. As she approached her office she noticed with irritation that the cleaners had left a black plastic garbage bag right outside the door. She would call them immediately. But when she tried to open her door it seemed to be jammed. She swiped her card through the card reader several times, but the door did not open. She was about to walk to reception and call maintenance when a dreadful thought occurred to her.

She looked inside the black bag. It was not full of wastepaper and Styrofoam coffee cups. The first thing she saw was her canvas Lands’ End briefcase. Also in the sack was the Kleenex box from her drawer, a paperback copy of A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley, two framed photographs, and her hairbrush.

They had cleared out her desk and locked her out of her office.

She was devastated. This was a worse blow than what had happened in Maurice Obell’s office. That was just words. This made her feel cut off from a huge part of her life. This is my office, she thought; how can they shut me out? “You fucking creeps,” she said aloud.

It must have been done by security while she was in Obell’s office. Of course they had not warned her; that would have given her the chance to take anything she really needed. Once again she had been surprised by their ruthlessness.

It was like an amputation. They had taken away her science, her work. She did not know what to do with herself, where to go. For eleven years she had been a scientist—as an undergraduate, graduate student, doctoral student, postdoctoral, and assistant professor. Now, suddenly, she was nothing.

As her spirits sank from despondency to black despair, she remembered the disk with the FBI data. She rummaged through the contents of the plastic sack, but there were no floppy disks. Her results, the backbone of her defense, were locked inside the room.

She pounded futilely on the door with her fist. A passing student who took her statistics class gave her a startled look and said: “Can I help you, Professor?”

She recalled his name. “Hi, Ben. You could kick down this goddamn door.”

He studied the door, looking dubious.

“I didn’t mean it,” she said. “I’m fine, thanks.”

He shrugged and walked on.

There was no point standing and staring at the locked door. She picked up the plastic bag and walked into the lab. Lisa was at her desk, keying data into a computer. “I’ve been fired,” Jeannie said.

Lisa stared at her. “What?”

“They locked me out of my office and dumped my stuff in this fucking garbage bag.”

“I don’t believe it!”

Jeannie took her briefcase out of the bag and extracted the New York Times. “It’s on account of this.”

Lisa read the first two paragraphs and said: “But this is bullshit.”

Jeannie sat down. “I know. So why is Berrington pretending to take it seriously?”

“You think he’s pretending?”

“I’m sure of it. He’s too smart to let himself be rattled by this kind of crap. He has some other agenda.” Jeannie drummed her feet on the floor, helpless with frustration. “He’s ready to do anything, he’s really going out on a limb with this … there must be something big at stake for him.” Perhaps she would find the answer in the medical records of the Aventine Clinic in Philadelphia. She checked her watch. She was due there at two P.M.: she had to leave soon.

Lisa still could not take in the news. “They can’t just fire you,” she said indignantly.

“There’s a disciplinary hearing tomorrow morning.”

“My God, they’re serious.”

“They sure are.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

There was, but Jeannie was afraid to ask. She looked appraisingly at Lisa. Lisa was wearing a high-necked blouse with a loose sweater over it, despite the hot weather: she was covering up her body, a reaction to the rape, no doubt. She still looked solemn, like someone recently bereaved.

Would her friendship prove as fragile as Ghita’s? Jeannie was terrified of the answer. If Lisa let her down who would she have left? But she had to put her to the test, even though this was the worst possible time. “You could try to get into my office,” she said hesitantly. “The results from the FBI are in there.”

Lisa did not answer right away. “Did they change your lock, or something?”

“It’s easier than that. They alter the code electronically so that your card no longer works. I won’t be able to get into the building after hours either, I’ll bet.”

“It’s hard to take this in, it’s happened so quickly.”

Jeannie hated pressuring Lisa to take risks. She racked her brains for a way out. “Maybe I could get in myself. A cleaner might let me in, but my guess is that the lock will no longer respond to their cards either. If I’m not using the room it won’t need cleaning anyway. But security must be able to get in.”

“They won’t help you. They’ll know you’ve been locked out deliberately.”

“That’s true,” Jeannie said. “They might let you in, though. You could say you needed something from my office.”

Lisa looked thoughtful.

“I hate to ask you,” Jeannie said.