MS. VESPUCCI: But then I told you I did want to get back in and you just drove away!
MR. STORM: I didn’t hear you.
MS. VESPUCCI: You weren’t that far away!
MR. STORM: Read my lips, Cindy: I did not hear you. I’d already asked you ten times and you refused so I split. This is rank, Cindy. You set me up and you know it and now your mom’s going to know it.
PROF. DEVANE: There’s no call for threats—
MR. STORM: What do you think this is? Fuck this place—
MS. VESPUCCI: I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I’m sorry, Professor Devane, but I want to stop this. Now! Please!
PROF. STEINBERGER: Perhaps—
PROF. DEVANE: Cindy, right now you’re under a lot of stress and pressure. This isn’t the right time to make important decisions.
MS. VESPUCCI: I don’t care, I want to stop this! I’m leaving. [Exits]
MR. STORM: [Laughs] What now?
PROF. DEVANE: Is there something more you want to say for yourself, sir?
MR. STORM: Not for myself. For you—to you: Fuck you, lady! And you, too, clown—don’t like it, man? Come on outside and get it on.
MR. LOCKING: You have no idea who you’re dealing—
MR. STORM: Then come on out, brain-boy. Come on—hah, bullshit walks—fuck you, fuck this college and this bullshit left-wing garbage. I’m phoning my dad, he’s in real estate, knows lots of lawyers. He’s going to have your asses for breakfast. [Exits]
A note by the University lawyers indicated that Kenneth Storm Sr., an alumnus and member of the Chancellor’s Associates, had indeed contacted an attorney, Pierre Bateman, who, four weeks later, drafted a letter of complaint to the University demanding immediate dissolution of the conduct committee, a written apology, and one hundred thousand dollars for Kenneth Storm Jr. The young man had dropped out of the University and applied for transfer to the College of the Palms, in Redlands. The University lawyers noted that his first-quarter grade point average had been 1.7 and that he’d been on academic probation. His second-quarter marks were no better and he was on the verge of flunking out. Nevertheless, it was deemed advisable to settle and a deal was worked out: The Storm family agreed to drop the matter in return for payment of Kenneth Jr.’s tuition for three and a half years at the College of the Palms.
Additionally, it was recommended that the committee be dissolved.
Bad feelings in both cases, but the rage level of the second nearly scorched the paper.
Kenneth Storm Jr. had a bad temper, even taking into account his being hauled up during an especially hard time in his college career.
Had the deal failed to appease him?
Paz and Fellows had never known about the committee. I assumed Milo had at least skimmed the transcripts, but he still preferred Philip Seacrest as prime suspect.
Because of the money and the way Seacrest twanged his antennae.
But Storm had obviously hated Hope.
A nineteen-year-old carrying a grudge that far?
Bicycle tracks on the sidewalk.
Students rode bikes to campus.
I wrote down K. Storm Jr. and turned to the third transcript, dated one week after the Vespucci-Storm debacle and three weeks before Kenneth Storm’s lawyer wrote the letter that killed the committee.
Only Devane and Casey Locking sat in judgment, now. Had Professor Steinberger lost her taste for inquisition?
As I read, it became clear that this was the most serious of the three complaints.
A sophomore psychology major named Tessa Ann Bowlby accused a graduate student in theater arts named Reed Muscadine of date rape. The two of them agreed on several initial points: They’d met in the student union during lunch and had gone out on a single date that night, viewing the movie Speed at the Village Theater, followed by dinner at Pinocchio, an Italian restaurant in Westwood Village. Then, they’d returned to Muscadine’s apartment in the Mid-Wilshire District to drink wine and listen to music. Heavy petting and partial disrobing commenced. Here their stories diverged: Bowlby claimed she wanted things to go no further but Muscadine got on top of her and entered her by force. Muscadine said intercourse had been consensual.
MS. BOWLBY: [Crying, shaking] I . . .