“Well,” said Milo, “we can sure use people doing that.”
We walked past three more aisles. A car pulled out, the driver a girl no older than Cindy. We waited til it sped away.
“So Kenny’s in San Diego,” said Milo. “Thought he was at the College of the Palms in Redlands.”
She shook her head. “He decided not to go.”
“Why?”
“He needed to get his head straight.”
“So he’s not in school in San Diego?”
“Not yet. He’s interning at a real-estate office in La Jolla. Friend of his dad’s. So far he likes it a lot. He’s good at selling things.”
“I’ll bet.”
Cindy stopped again and snapped her head up at him. “He didn’t sell anything to me, if that’s what you’re implying! I’m not some gullible jerk and I wouldn’t settle for a relationship without equity.”
“What do you mean by equity, Cindy?”
“Balance. Emotional fairness.”
“Okay. Sorry if I offended you.” He scratched his chin and we reached the rear of the lot. The fence was backed by tall trees and a soft breeze blew through them.
Cindy said, “I feel good about Kenny and me. The whole reason I agreed to talk to you is because I wanted to do the right thing. Professor Devane’s murder was horrible, but you’re really wasting your time with me. She wasn’t a significant part of my life. Or Kenny’s. He only met her that one time and I just sat in on her class a couple of times before we talked about filing a complaint. She was nice, but even then I was ambivalent. The moment I got in there I knew it was a mistake.”
“Why?”
“The atmosphere—the three of them sitting there at a long table. Tape recorder and pens and paper. The whole thing was . . . inquisitional. Not at all what Professor Devane led me to believe—look, I’m sorry she’s dead and I admired her a lot, but I have to say she was . . . misleading.”
“How so?”
“She made it sound like it would be a counseling session. Everyone communicating their feelings, trying to reach a resolution. More like a discussion group. The moment I saw that table, I knew that was wrong. Kenny said there should have been black candles and he was right. They were clearly out to judge men.”
“Which of Professor Devane’s classes did you sit in on?”
“Sex-Roles and Development. I wasn’t even enrolled but some of my friends were taking it, they kept coming back to the house—the sorority—and telling everyone how great it was. How they were learning all about gender and human behavior. All about men. I had a free period on Tuesday so I figured why not.”
“Was Professor Devane a good teacher?”
“She was a fantastic teacher. Riveting. The lecture was in Morton Hall 100—that’s a huge room, six hundred seats. But she made you feel she was talking right to you. Which, believe me, is rare, especially when it comes to freshman classes. Some of the faculty just go through the motions.”
“She had a way of personalizing things,” I said. Just as she did on TV.
“Exactly. And she knew her stuff. Really a great lecturer.”
“And you sat in two, three times,” said Milo.
“Yes.”
“How’d you come to complain about Kenny?”
“The—what happened—the incident was on a Monday night and I was still very upset on Tuesday when I went to class.” She wet her lips with her tongue. “Professor Devane was lecturing on domestic violence and I started to feel like a victim. It was one of those stupid, impulsive things you do when you’re stressed-out. I went up to her after class, said I had a problem. She took me to her office and just listened, made some tea for me. I cried a little and she gave me a tissue. Then, when I calmed down, she told me she might have a solution for me. That’s when she described the committee.”
“What’d she say about it?”
“That it was brand-new. Important—in terms of women’s rights on campus. She said I could play a significant role in countering women’s helplessness.”
She looked at the book bag. “I had doubts but she seemed so caring. I can take the bag, now.”