Tenure Blues: a Soap Opera

By Frederic White

Sex, Money, Bad Faith,Laughter, Power Struggles, Betrayal, Politics and even death -- in a law school. Who Knew?

Three bright young professors all vie for promotion and tenure at a law school. Not unusual, except all three have secrets that could threaten their careers as well as their personal lives.

One, a seemingly happily married father of two, is plagued by the fear that his long-ago brief affair with the dean's son will be discovered. Now the dean's son has returned home and threatens to expose him. Another, a single black female, is having a torrid affair with the president of the university board of trustees. Complicating matters is his wife's suspicions, his quest to be the next governor of the state and the dean's son's possible knowledge of his infidelity. The third candidate is a married woman desperately trying to escape her blue collar past. When her long-estranged husband shows up on the scene to threaten trouble, the situation gets complicated, especially since the dean's mean-spirited son begins to torment her about her past. Suddenly, the dean's son winds up dead. Who's to blame?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 7, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452081922

Frederic White

Frederic White has been a lawyer, as well as a law professor and dean at three different law schools in various parts of the country for over 30 years. In that time, he has become a keen observer of legal education, including the diverse personalities that populate the field. Needy Students, Eccentric Faculty Members; Power-Hungry Alums; Manipulative Trustees, and Cheating Spouses, all form the backdrop for his tongue-in-cheek examination of what really goes on in law schools.

Book preview

Prologue: Car Trippin’

Patrick Marquain whistled, almost spilling his coffee as he read the morning paper’s blaring headline:

Law School Dean’s Son a Hit and Run Victim

Evelyn! he shouted, Come and look at this! Hurry! Hearing her husband’s unusually shrill voice, Evelyn Marquain padded down the hallway, her hair in disarray, and her eyes red. She had gotten in late the night before from her self-defense class and had to drink her coffee before she could be anything near coherent. Despite having two energetic young children Evelyn was still not a morning person. Her husband’s yelling irritated her.

What is it, Pat? This better be good. You just rang my ears.

Take a look at this. His hands shook violently as he handed her the paper. She took it from him and began to read.

Richard Werner, son of law school Dean Harold Werner, was found slain last evening on High Post Road, the apparent victim of a hit and run driver. The accident occurred at approximately 10:30 p.m. near The Founders Inn. Police report that the evening’s heavy rain may have contributed to hazardous road conditions throughout the area. While there are no suspects at this time, the police are continuing their investigation. Witnesses state that a dark colored car skidded near Mr. Werner as he walked on the shoulder of the road, hit him, stopped momentarily, and then drove off. Dean Werner and his wife could not be reached for comment… .

Not bothering to finish the rest of the article, Evelyn handed it back to her husband.

This is terrible, she whispered. I better call and see how Lauren is doing. Hal, too. They must be so broken up. She paused for a moment, looking at her husband.

Patrick, are you going to call Hal?

Yes, but not yet. What do I say at a time like this? I’m not sure. Patrick slumped down into his seat at the kitchen table.

Lord, this is bad, real bad. Rick was an asshole, and I hated him, but I didn’t want him dead! Just away from me and my family. What the Werners must be going through. What happened out there?

Evelyn showered, dressed and gave Patrick some instructions about caring for the kids. Then he watched from the front window of the house as she drove her car, a dark blue Ford Taurus, out of the driveway and onto the street.

After his wife left, Patrick read the article again, then, contrary to what he had told her, he walked slowly toward the phone to place a call to Hal Werner. But what was he going to say?

Besides Patrick, at least two other people had just read the same headline. Neither was particularly sorry about the news.

Waiting Game

The first time he tailed her he noticed immediately that she drove a new, nicely detailed car, quite a change from the beaters and pick-up trucks used by some of the people he usually was hired to follow. Still, while well maintained and richly polished, the car’s medium blue paint job rendered it practically indistinguishable from all the other late model, medium blue, medium gray and steel gray automobiles populating the well-lit indoor garage. Especially at night.

In his business, so many similar looking cars created the potential for what they called car recognition confusion. That’s why license plates were so important in his line of work. Once he made a car’s plate he could follow anyone for just about any period of time—minutes, hours, days, months. His days as a police detective had taught him that lesson. When he retired from the police force after putting in more than twenty years, his work as a private detective confirmed what he already knew—people—whether they were well-to-do and upstanding citizens, criminals of the lowest order, or something in between—all of them were creatures of habit. He knew that almost everybody even when they bought a new car seldom discarded their old license plates. That singular habit always made his job a lot easier. So tonight he waited in the garage for her arrival.

Since she always parked her car in the same space, her license plate—a vanity plate at that!—made it simple for him to determine if and when she was making her usual rendezvous. The indoor parking garage was not restricted to residents so all it took him was a quick drive into the facility and a sharp glance at her customary parking space. If her car was there he could take a swift drive back out of the garage where he could sit in his car and wait until she drove out. If she wasn’t there, he either could choose to wait a while longer, or go on to another assignment, then, come back and wait some more. He was covered in any case.

But, since he knew she was a creature of habit, he usually didn’t have to come back to check—she was so predictable. Just about every two to four weeks, on either a Tuesday or a Thursday, he could find her car parked in the same spot from about four or five until just after nine, sometimes as late as eleven. He could count on it and he counted on it tonight. The private investigation business was not always as difficult or as dangerous as some folks made it out to be. The hours could be long and frequently they were boring. But the work would always be there for him.

Long ago he discovered that his clients liked to be in control. It was in their nature and they would pay dearly for the privilege. If that meant having their friends or their enemies followed, photographed and their private conversations recorded, then, so be it. In that respect this case was standard. Routine. A run of the mill extramarital affair. Just like all the others. All it would take—unless the client wanted more—was a couple of routine tails and some additional surveillance. Following that he’d write up a quick and concise but detailed report. After that, of course he would collect a nice fat check.

She’ll be here. They always come back. I’ll just have to be patient and wait.

The Greens Men

On a late Saturday afternoon in September, Stanley Stan Orocz squinted down from his outdoor terrace seat at the Cool Waters Golf and Tennis Club onto a sun-drenched putting practice green. As he watched some of the club’s other members he was once again assured that this was the best time of the year for golf. Truly it was.

In much of the Midwest, the vagaries of winter often defeat the best-laid golfing plans for spring. After what is left of the spring season comes to a soggy halt, June’s promise is often unfulfilled. July and August are way too hot, too humid, or both. Of course, winter play is impossible except for the occasional groups of idiots who insist on playing with parkas, snowshoes and red golf balls.

But this time of year—the fall—was different. Today, in the second week of September, the ground was not too soggy, the fairways weren’t beat up, and the greens were firm and true. It wasn’t muggy, like it could be for much of the summer. Further, even though the weather was temperate, the course always seemed less crowded during this time of year. All the young golfers were back in school. Family summer vacations were over so mom and dad had put up their clubs and returned to their offices. Tee times were no problem in the fall, especially if the university football team was hosting a Saturday afternoon home game.

Stan continued to watch the putting green activity as his best friend and golfing partner, Linden Chiles, silently signaled their waiter to approach them.

Another drink, gentlemen? Edward offered, already knowing that the twosome would order at least a second round.

’Course, Eddie, answered Stan. Edward London, their server and a longtime employee of Cool Waters, hated to be called Eddie, but he was sophisticated enough to know how to play the humble black servant game. Eddie it was.

Bombay Sapphire and tonic. Same for him. Stan gestured toward Linden. With a dark scowl, Linden just nodded, and then buried his head in the golf score sheet he was still perusing. Drink orders taken, their server swiftly turned on his heel and retreated to the clubhouse to get their refreshments. Edward walked toward the bar with a broad smile on his face, but his private thoughts betrayed him.

I can’t stand those two middle-aged, pompous white assholes, but this job pays!

Damn it, Stan! I can’t see how in the hell you managed to squeak by me again! If only I hadn’t shagged my freakin’ wedge at that freakin’ eleventh hole!

Quit your complaining. As usual, I won fair and square. Besides, you beat me only a few weeks ago.

Yeah, and I guess I should count myself lucky. One out of nine this year is something I should be proud of—I guess, Linden responded in mock seriousness. Stan looked at Linden’s face and laughed at his friend’s frustration. Soon Edward returned with a fresh round of drinks and despite Linden’s fit of pique, the two of them still managed to toast each other. It was a familiar ritual that they had repeated many times over the years. They were longtime friends, confidants and business associates.

Stanley Stan Orocz and Linden Lindy Chiles had known each other for years, going back to their college football playing days. Orocz was a rough and tumble offensive lineman out of Chicago, Illinois. He was of Polish-Catholic descent and the first of his family to attend college. Chiles, a moderately quick halfback and wide receiver, was the first-born son of a stereotypically stuffy and patrician upper class Presbyterian family from Westport, Connecticut.

Stan had grown up in a comfortable working class family. He had never been poor, but still he had always wanted more. More of everything. Early in their acquaintance Stan saw through the eyes of Linden Chiles the great things that could be accomplished with money. That revelation provided Stan with a never-ending thirst for wealth and all the trappings it could provide. Over his years with Linden he had learned one of the cardinal rules of asset acquisition: you can buy a lot of stuff with nothing; you can acquire more if you have the right sales pitch. The key to success was never to spend your own money if you could manage it.

The two men first met during summer football practice just before their college freshman year. A betting man would have considered them an unlikely match if for no other reason than the roles they played on the team. Offensive linemen are not well known for hanging out with position players. Any further alliances were considered unlikely given their contrasting personal backgrounds and lifestyles.

The odds makers would have been wrong. Stan and Lindy soon became almost inseparable, drawn together by their intensely aggressive personalities, as well as their mutual love of sports, drinking, women and money. Where Stan went Lindy soon followed, whether it was into the end zone after a sweep, to a frat party, or on the trail of a hot money-making scheme.

During their college years as they began to build up a mutual talent for increasing their personal wealth, they forged so many systems that their teammates began to refer to them as The Green Men. They had not played Big Time college football, only Division II, but their team was blessed with a long history of an adoring student body, a supportive central administration, and an intensely loyal group of alumni. In that kind of atmosphere there was always money to be made if you were smart, cunning and enterprising enough. And they were.

The fortuitous combination of a small loan from Linden’s mother and his early-acquired sound business acumen, blended with Stan’s laser-like sales pitches and general all-around chutzpah, soon enabled both of them to earn obscene amounts of money during the football season—chiefly by using underlings to market sports souvenirs and memorabilia as well as work the food concessions. Not content on solely making money during the football season, in the off-season they set up a student laundry service as well as a discount course book enterprise. Over time, they quickly found a way to listen to the popular will, learn what the people wanted, and then cash in. According to one of Linden’s business associates, If the internet had existed when you two were in college you probably would have invented eBay.

They were also lucky. All through college opportunities to cash in kept dropping into their laps. Once as she made her way across campus one bleak winter evening, a female undergraduate narrowly escaped being raped by an unknown assailant. Confronted by a much larger adversary, she viciously fought back and was able to flee from the perpetrator, especially after breaking his nose with a swift blow from her knee. Later after her attacker was apprehended, she confidently identified him from a police lineup. His eyes, blackened and puffy, as well as his crushed and bloody nose, made the task of identification fairly easy for her. As a result of her confident and unwavering description of the incident the criminal was quickly convicted and carted off to jail.

Responding to the news of the incident and sensing an immediate cash opportunity, the Green Men organized a few of their jock friends on the football and baseball teams to provide—for a service charge—an escort service for any woman on campus who requested it. Feeding on the fears of many female students—their slogan was You’re Only Safe with Us!—they rapidly began to accumulate more cash.

Alas, Stan and Linden were forced out of the escort business only after the university belatedly chose to do some badly needed public relations damage control by providing a free, university-operated escort service. Undaunted, the Green Men cut their losses and moved on to a new source of revenue by marketing purse-size Mace Defense Kits to a still-frightened female undergraduate population. Their motto for this business was Zap Them Before They Slap You! The slogan worked; the kits sold out overnight.

Their entrepreneurial zeal had allowed them to come a long way in the thirty years since college. Linden’s real estate development business was thriving, and, according to his finance people, most of the forecasts and projections for his company looked bright, even in an unsettled economy. Stan, on the other hand, had become a sort of politician-businessman. He controlled a number of enterprises. His construction company often worked in tandem with Linden’s development company. Since Stan also served as speaker of the house of the part-time state legislature, their business dealings often took them to the brink of impropriety and conflict of interest. Somehow they always managed to escape unscathed from either legal trouble or bad publicity. The part-time nature of his public occupation allowed Stan time to maintain more than a merely nominal reign over his various business enterprises. Linden was also able to make quite a lot of cash, but despite his business successes, he still thirsted for some of the political life that Stan already had enjoyed for years. Only on a grander scale.

As the evening September sun began to fade, Stan and Linden were coming close to finishing their second drink. Linden put the score sheet down, stopped scowling and addressed Stan Orocz directly.

So, Stan, what do you think? Do I have a chance?

"Are you kidding me? Hell, Lindy, what do you want to be governor for? Nobody actively seeks a pay cut. Especially you!"

Linden frowned at Stan’s tart response then he continued. "It’s not about the money, Stan. You know I haven’t had any real money worries in years. In fact, ever. Neither of us has. I just think I’ve got something to offer to the public and the best way to do it is in the governor’s chair. Besides, I won’t be the first person with money and no political experience to run for high office. Remember a while back that guy in Ohio who owned a string of legal clinics? He ran for senator and his only claim to fame was marrying well. The late Senator Metzenbaum’s daughter as I recall. And let’s not forget about the ‘Governator’ Arnold in California. He won big!"

"I seem to recall that the Ohio guy lost. And he lost big! And Arnold. Who ever knows what those freaks in California will do? Besides, Arnold was a big name movie star, married to a Kennedy and campaigning against lightweights. All different from you. By the way, just look at the trouble he got into."

"Oh shut up! My situation is different than any of those people. One: that guy in Ohio lost because the people couldn’t get a real take on who he was. He had character issues. Two: his campaign stunk. Three: everybody wants money, but they don’t trust people who seem to have a lot of it, except maybe Mayor Bloomberg in New York. My approach is going to be different."

Do tell. How so?

First, I’ve got money, but everyone will know that I worked for it. Just like you.

"What do you mean, like me? What about those loans from your ‘mommy’ and ‘daddy’? Didn’t your family have its own groundskeepers on retainer? Some undocumented aliens, I seem to recall."

For your information, Linden hissed, "Manuel and his sons only came to work for us once a week and they were legal. Besides, that was a long, long time ago. You damn well know I’ve been virtually on my own since we set up that campus laundry business. Besides, nobody knows much about my family out here anyway!"

Yeah, but if they’re enterprising enough they can find out. Anyway, don’t get excited, pal. I’m not asking you anything the press won’t be asking. And don’t you bet that they won’t ask. Mark my words, some hotshot young reporter trying to make a reputation will find out that you didn’t start out exactly ‘dirt poor.’

"Yes, I know.