Murder in the English Department (19 page)

Before Nan knew it, they had each finished three drinks and were waiting for their entrees in the plush dining room. She was confiding in Rose about New Year's Eve and Rapunzel's escape.

‘So you saw all of it,' Rose sighed and leaned back into the brown leather booth. ‘That's just the way Margie described it.'

Rose seemed tired. Nan noticed for the first time that she and Rose were about the same age. She quite liked this Eastern lady. She admired the spirit and honesty which had weathered the best finishing schools.

‘Poor Margie,' said Rose. ‘She was always such a moral, guileless child. I know this is my fault. She never had to take care of herself. Never had to clean her room or pack her bags. I wanted to do so much for her. But I never prepared her for anything like …'

‘No,' said Nan, reaching for Rose's hand. ‘You can hardly take responsibility for this. Angus Murchie was a selfish, harmful man. Angus Murchie is the one to blame.'

‘How comforting it would be to believe in right and wrong and retribution,' said Rose, who was more composed now. ‘To believe that guilt was punished and innocence, in all its different forms, was protected.'

‘I don't know about all that,' said Nan. ‘But I know that what happened isn't your fault, isn't Marjorie's fault.'

‘Of course,' said Rose. ‘Margie spoke of your compassion …'

Yes, a rather sympathetic character,
thought Nan on the way back over the bridge. Totally devoted to her daughter. No thought of family reputation, like the bastard father.

Tonight wore that kind of clear blackness brought by winds of early spring. Nan could see the Campanile from the bridge and, way beyond, up to the top of the hills.

What an innerspring, thought Nan. No wonder Marjorie is so reserved. As a child, she must have had to hold back tides and tides of Rose's ebullience. What was the father like? A real villain, incredible, to be withholding support for his own daughter's defence.

That was the hardest part to digest. Apparently Harold Adams, a very religious man, did not understand how Marjorie could get herself into such a compromising position. Rose Adams was still trying to talk with him, making pleading phone calls every night. She was going back to Maryland next week to stop him before he legally disowned Marjorie.

Families, what would she have to endure tomorrow with Joe and Shirley? Who would they invite? It was a sweet idea, but after a month in prison, thirty days of wall-to-wall people, all she wanted was to be left alone.

Alone to think, especially about Marjorie's trial. What could be done now? Margie, thought Nan. ‘My Little Margie' with Gail Storm. No, not Margie, no diminutives for Marjorie Adams.

The next evening Nan found
a number of cars parked in front of the jellybean yellow house. That horrible bright shade. She had hoped that the spring rains might have paled the colour, but no such luck.

Nan's attention was caught by a broad wave from the kitchen window. Shirley smiling and waving and saying something Nan couldn't decipher. Everything was the same, except the two broken-down Ford sedans in the driveway had grown a little more rusty. The door opened before Nan reached it. Lisa ran out, hugged Nan and took her by the arm into the crowd of well-wishers.

‘For she's a jolly good fellow. For she's …'

A lot of people. Off key. Very loud. At first Nan was too overcome by the volume of noise and goodwill to notice faces.

‘Hello, Nan.'

‘Welcome, Nan.'

‘Bravo, Nan.'

Nan focussed in on the faces of Lisa, Joe, Shirley, Bob, Debbie (was she going to have the baby any moment?), Lynda, Tom. Amy was leaning against the well. Nan nodded sheepishly. Warren smiled. And Matt, Matt waved from the back of the chorus next to, my god, next to Rose Adams. How bizarre, thought Nan. Perhaps the balloon
had
exploded. Well, what the hell, she took a glass of champagne and drank it down in one long, thirsty swallow.

The drinks flowed freely, and soon everyone seemed to be great friends. Joe and Matt swapped stories about the best fishing spots in Northern California. This was a side of Matt she hadn't known.

‘Oh, yes,' Matt turned to her, blushing, ‘Knut and I have gone fishing the last three weekends in a row.'

‘Congratulations,' said Nan.

Matt smiled and nodded.

‘Well,' said Joe. ‘Maybe me and you and your friend there can all go sometime, maybe to that place up by Donner Pass you mentioned.'

‘Yes, well,' said Matt, ‘perhaps.'

Rose Adams was leaning across the burlwood table accepting a piece of homemade cheese crumb cake from Shirley.

The Yosemite picture calendar was turned to a photo of snow melting down to Tuolumne Meadows. What were these two ladies discussing, Nan wondered. They both looked comfortable enough, much more comfortable than she was. By now, Nan had guessed that she owed the presence of their Eastern visitor to Amy. Earlier that day, she had been persuaded by Rose Adams to take her daughter's case.

Amy and Lisa seemed absorbed in each other. Nan overheard Amy trying to recruit another good woman to the bar.

‘Rape law,' Lisa was saying, ‘now that's something I could get interested in.'

Shirley's house felt cosy tonight, not at all confining. Of course, what could be as confining as an eight-foot by six-foot cell? No, it was more than that. This cosiness had something to do with her people being there—Matt, Amy, Warren, and even Rose Adams. Tonight she was more than Aunt Nan or Sister Nan. The family had to speak in a neutral dialect. And so Nan could imagine an open door between her two sanctuaries.

Noticing that Amy and Joe were engaged in a lively battle over the Equal Rights Amendment, with Matt moderating, Nan pulled Lisa into the kitchen. The bright overhead light caught a shine on the faucet and the aluminium counter edge. They sat across from each other at the familiar linoleum dinette table.

‘There's so much to catch up on,' Lisa was saying.

‘Yes, like Marjorie Adams, for instance,' said Nan, carefully watching Lisa's face.

‘Mmmmarjorie Adams,' asked Lisa, opening her eyes wide.

‘Yes,' said Nan. ‘How did Marjorie learn about my hearing in far off Maryland?'

‘Why ask me?'

‘Oh, I don't know, just intuition.'

‘Well, maybe she read about it in the papers,' said Lisa.

‘Lisa, honey, we know the case didn't go national until after Marjorie's confession.'

Lisa shrugged.

‘Maybe you wrote to Marjorie?' suggested Nan.

Lisa was tracing the linoleum swirls with her thumb.

‘Lisa,' Nan spoke slowly, ‘how on earth did you know about Marjorie?'

‘Nan, you used to talk about her all the time.'

‘Did I?'

‘Sure, you were always going on about her clothes and how smart she was. I guess I was even a little jealous.'

‘Oh, Lisa.'

‘And then all of a sudden you stopped talking about her. Right after the murder.'

‘Sherlock Holmes,' said Nan.

‘Nope. Agatha Christie,' said Lisa. ‘I read ten of her novels when I was home. The only escape from daytime television.'

Nan was shaking her head, abashed by that mixture of pride and awe that Shirley and Joe always had for their daughter.

‘So I got Marjorie's home address from school. At first I was afraid she was too much of a snob to register in the student file. But there she was. So I sent her some
Chronicle
clippings and then phoned her three days later.'

‘Why didn't you tell me, or Amy?' Nan asked.

‘Marjorie told me not to. She was afraid you wouldn't let her into court.'

‘Oh, Lisa, honey, how do I thank you?'

‘But
I
have to thank you,' said Lisa. ‘You really did save me, Nan. Your hearing got me out of myself, out of my troubles.'

Nan was shaking her head in confusion.

‘This got my mind off the illness,' said Lisa. ‘It made me think of someone besides myself; it got Mom and Dad to lay off for a while.' Nan couldn't respond. She shook her head again to keep back the tears, but they came again anyway. Now it didn't seem to matter. ‘And who knows?' said Lisa. ‘This might be the beginning of my career. Amy's offered me a clerkship in her office during my first year of law school.'

Chapter Twenty

‘WE HAVE A RIGHT
to protect ourselves,' the young woman was shouting. Sunlight gleamed in her fair curls and in the silver threads of her cowgirl blouse, giving Lisa a gentle fluorescence on this early summer day.

‘In fact, society requires us to protect ourselves,' Lisa's voice reached down Sproul Steps and across the plaza with the strength of a seasoned propagandist.

‘Rape was not taken seriously as a crime against women until the last decade. Until then, it was an offence against property, against the male owner.'

Nan listened, off to the side of Sproul Steps, under one of the late-budding sycamores, as her niece gave this final speech in the rally for Marjorie Adams's defence. Self-defence. She had explained that she never intended to kill Murchie. He attacked her. She fought back. In self-defence. The preliminary hearing would begin tomorrow, and still they had so much more money to collect for the Defence Fund, so much more attention they needed from the press.

Perhaps two dozen people were listening to Lisa. Most of the summer school students passed through the plaza with a lazy June gait. But what ‘The Marjorie Adams Defence Committee' lacked in members, it had in spirit. Their red and black banners proclaimed, RAPE IS A CRIME AGAINST WOMEN. WOMEN STUDENTS UNITE. FIRST SEXUAL HARASSMENT, THEN RAPE.

‘We have heard the same story again and again,' Lisa was chopping the warm afternoon air with her right hand. ‘Inez Garcia; Yvonne Wanrow; Joanne Little.' Nan felt proud. Who would have imagined that all those rhetoric classes might come to this? A little nervousness, a few stammers, but great determination. Amy was wise to invest in Lisa's legal future.

And this was the same Lisa Growsky, hospitalized for two weeks in winter? The kid who couldn't weather the stresses of Berkeley?

The spring had filled Nan with more hope than she had known for years. Some people recover from disease. Some people escape Hayward. And maybe, just maybe, some people are acquitted of murder.

They were applauding Lisa. Nan looked up. Applauding something Lisa had said. Such guts, thought Nan. Here was Lisa addressing people from Sproul Steps like Mario Savio and Tom Hayden did in the sixties. Of course
now
you could be a Lisa Growsky. Today, plenty of women spoke from Sproul Steps.

Not Nan. She felt a twinge of guilt at her absence, mixed with envy at Lisa's exhilaration. But Matt was right. She must keep a low profile on campus now. As an ex-professor she would be little use to anyone. And it was best to leave this work to the students.

Interesting, no astonishing, the way Lisa and Marjorie had taken to each other after their meeting at Nan's hearing. Lisa had immediately joined Marjorie's Defence Committee. Perhaps it was natural because Lisa had long ago inherited a feminism from Nan, and public speaking was her forte. More importantly, Lisa had come to
like
Marjorie Adams. They were
friends
. Shirley and Joe had no time to object. They were still breathless from Lisa's apparent recovery, Nan's hearing, all the press coverage. And now Lisa visited Marjorie at Santa Marta more often than Nan did.

‘As we pass these cans among you,' Lisa was saying.

Over forty people had now gathered around the steps.

‘Just think, about what it would be like if you were arrested for the crime of defending your own body.'

Nan checked her watch. Almost one o'clock. She had better get back to work. She felt tired as she walked through Sather Gate. In the nine weeks since Marjorie's dramatic surrender, all of them had been caught in an avalanche of activity. Two months in Santa Marta, Nan shook her head. The DA was determined to make an example of Marjorie, before or after her lawful hearing. Originally, they formed the Defence Committee as a means of earning legal expenses. (Marjorie's father was unrelenting about the money. Beth Beale had reported that he blamed Marjorie for the rape as well as the murder. Rose Adams was back East with him now, trying to break through his born-again Christianity, but she would return for the hearing tomorrow.) The Defence Committee was also a good method of consciousness-raising. But Nan hadn't expected it to turn into a travelling road show.

As Nan opened one of the heavy wooden doors into Wheeler Hall, a woman student whom she didn't know smiled at her. This had happened a lot lately. In the past month, Nan had appeared on four local television programmes. The publicity about the case wasn't always the right kind of publicity. Many reporters still wanted to interview Nan on what Matt called ‘The
Tale of Two Cities
' angle, or How-the-Feminist-Professor-Covered-for-Her-Woman-Student. Eventually, Nan learned how to turn around the questions to the prevalence of sexual harassment and to the frequency of ‘civilized rape' that goes unconvicted and often unreported. With this amount of coverage, Marjorie might as well be running against Dianne Feinstein for Mayor of San Francisco.

Nan stopped at Matt's office. But he was out, probably at the Pogo Cafe where he had been spending a lot of time during Summer Quarter. Dear friend Matt, the cautionary chorus in this long drama. Not only did he keep her off Sproul Steps, but he warned her to drop the Defence Committee. What more could Nan do for Marjorie? he demanded. What could Nan accomplish that a dozen other people couldn't? She had no delusions of omnipotence, but the Defence Committee needed workers, phone callers and stamp lickers. Ultimately, it was Matt who gave in, donating money and spending an evening typing labels. Who knows, thought Nan, with a camp like this, maybe Marjorie could beat Dianne Feinstein.

Nan had just closed the door to her office when she heard an impatient rap and a familiar voice, ‘Professor Weaver. Professor Weaver.'

‘Yes,' said Nan, summoning her friendliest tones. She was attempting to make as few enemies as possible this summer. ‘What can I do for you, Lawrence?'

‘I've been looking for you all quarter,' he said anxiously.

‘I was, er, out of town for a while,' said Nan evenly. ‘And since then, I've been working away from the office.'

‘I know,' he smiled at her. ‘I just wanted to say how brave I think you are.'

‘Oh, well,' said Nan, embarrassed and ashamed that she had underestimated him.

‘And to tell you,' he continued, ‘that I enjoyed your course, even if I did get a B-. I think you're the best professor I've ever had, even if you're not, uh, um, the most objective.'

She nodded wearily, but, she hoped, graciously.

‘I should let you get back to work,' said Craigmont, mistaking her fatigue for impatience. ‘I just came by to, well, to pay my respects.'

Quickly, he pumped her hand and shut the door.

‘Objective,' thought Nan. There was that word again. Objective. Dispassionate. Objective. Nan sat at her desk remembering how Nelson, the chairperson, had greeted her return to campus.

‘Now, Professor Weaver,' he had said, ‘we're delighted to have you back with us. And if I may offer some advice, do try to keep your politics off campus. Do try to stay as objective as possible.'

Nan had answered simply, ‘I understand your concern.' She was tempted to ask if he would advise a black professor not to discuss poverty in regard to the Harlem Renaissance.

Nan looked out the window at the Campanile now, considering all the words she had not said.

Was she a coward? No. Just a survivor. Let Nelson think she was cooperating. Let him remember her publications, her celebrated lectures. They could argue academic decorum after tenure. Perhaps. Nan sometimes worried that she had lost the distinction between double entendres and lies, between being a survivor and being a hypocrite.

She tossed her pencil on the desk. She could not concentrate on this damn journal article. Nan closed her folder, locked up the office and hurried across campus to pick up Isadora.

She would be driving out to Santa Marta alone today; Lisa had an examination. Now, as often happened when she passed the Doe Library, Nan thought about her spring of six months before, through the dark campus, chasing the gold thread of Marjorie Adams. What would Nan have said if she caught up with Marjorie that night? ‘I'm glad you did it.' No. ‘Don't worry, I'll take care of you.' No. Somehow, she still didn't know what to say to Marjorie.

Nan went to visiting hours at Santa Marta out of a sense of duty. But, as time passed, she did begin to feel more and more affection for Marjorie. Rose had helped with that, explaining how Marjorie had always been a wholly honourable girl, whose reserve came from cautious inexperience. Logic and hard work had always been her defences against a world that might overwhelm her. Abstractly, Nan knew that Marjorie was grateful for her visits. But Nan wished for more emotional connection. She had never seen Marjorie Adams laugh, smile, maybe, but not really laugh. She could not even conceive of Marjorie crying. Surely, these last six months must have changed her, must have broken through some of that inner reserve.

When Sergeant Fernandez escorted Marjorie into the waiting room, it was the Sergeant who smiled at the visitor. Nan still cherished the matron's kindness during her hearing. She hoped Sergeant Fernandez was also kind to Marjorie. Did she see through her sophisticated veneer to Marjorie's fear?

Even here in the austere prison clothes, without make-up, it was difficult to perceive the real Marjorie Adams. She still looked like a movie star. Young Ingrid Bergman in ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls', her hair in a modest bun, her face scrubbed and shining.

Marjorie smiled at Nan as they both settled stiffly on their chairs.

Maybe Nan was touching her, but Nan, in turn, could not feel Marjorie Adams.

‘I've done ten more pages on the thesis. They're with the guard. She'll give them to you as you leave.'

‘Perhaps we should forget sending students to the library, and direct them all to Santa Marta.'

‘The hours are not quite as flexible.'

The two women managed quick smiles.

‘Besides,' Marjorie added matter-of-factly, ‘I have to do something with all this time. I can't just sit around thinking about myself.'

Nan wondered how Lisa had reached through this cool practicality. She didn't understand the friendship between the two young women. Perhaps age made a difference. Yes, more than she liked to admit.

‘You do amaze me,' said Nan. ‘The hearing starts tomorrow and you're reading Iris Murdoch. I'm sure she'd be flattered, but …'

‘What else can I do?' asked Marjorie. ‘I've already confessed, so I don't have to spend time practising an alibi. It's all in Amy's hands. She's a very competent attorney.'

Competent attorney, thought Nan. Yes, she is a very competent attorney and you are a very confident defendant.

‘But,' Nan blurted, ‘you're too objective about it. Aren't you … I mean, aren't you …'

‘Scared?' finished Marjorie finally. Her voice was husky now—with anger or sadness Nan could not tell.

‘Well, yes,' said Nan. ‘Maybe it would do you good just to admit you're afraid, to say how you feel.'

‘But I'm
not
scared,' answered Marjorie. ‘When Angus jumped on me, I was scared,' she said bitterly. ‘When he pulled up my dress, I was scared. Since then, since I picked up the letter opener and defended myself, I have not been
scared
.'
Marjorie put her head in her hands and wept softly.

‘I'm sorry,' said Nan. ‘I didn't mean to make it any worse.'

‘No,' said Marjorie, ‘it's good to talk about it. The panic and the desperation. At first, I couldn't believe it was happening. Then everything became very clear. I had to stop him. I had to. My screams were useless. And my fists. I didn't think the letter opener would hurt him badly. I didn't know my strength. And then he was, oh my god,' she sobbed, ‘and then he was lying there limp and bleeding. All I could think of was to get away. Every day since then I've wondered why I didn't call an ambulance. But it didn't occur to me. I was frozen. No room for anything. Except panic. Except escape.'

As Nan watched Marjorie's tears, she felt drenched by the memory of her own fear and loneliness at Santa Marta. ‘I just wish there was something I could do.'

‘Something you could do,' repeated Marjorie, wiping her eyes in astonishment. ‘But look at all you have done, with your silence, with your own hearing, with the Defence Committee, the fund raising, the visits out here to see me, the criticisms of my thesis…'

‘Your thesis!' Nan laughed nervously.

‘That's been very important,' said Marjorie. ‘It's given me hope that there's life after all this, that there's some kind of continuity.'

Nan was smiling at Marjorie, with a kind of admiring pride.

‘Oh, that reminds me,' said Marjorie. ‘Remember Judy Milligan?'

‘My old cellmate,' Nan said. ‘Sure, I remember her.'

‘Well, she's back in again. And she sends best regards.'

On the last day of
June
, the Yosemite picture calendar was turned to sunflowers at Bridal Veil Falls. Everyone laughed at the baby trying to shake a pink rattle in her crib. Life in Hayward moved at a more predictable pace (pregnancy, motherhood, infancy) than in Berkeley. The baby was a month old, and Marjorie Adams was out on bail.

‘My first grandchild,' Shirley was explaining to Marjorie. ‘Her mother drops her off for several hours every day.' Marjorie laughed and tickled Katherine Growsky under her double chin.

Nan was amazed at Marjorie's even spirits since the hearing. Of course getting bail helped. And now she had a two-month respite, because the trial was scheduled for September. Maybe her good mood was explained by all those support letters from Europe and Latin America and Maryland. Or maybe it was simply that Marjorie, like Nan, held a firm belief in innocence.