Don stepped in front of me to bring me to a halt. “You know something, Winston? I used to like you.”
“Thank you,” I interrupted. “That’s very nice to know.”
“You have an impressive resumé, you had a very good interview, I hear good things about you from the students,” Don continued.
“I feel a ‘but’ coming.”
“You’re damned right there’s a ‘but’ coming. ‘But’ you’re a smart ass. ‘But’ representing a teacher who may have been sleeping with and killed a student is a really odd way of endearing yourself to me. ‘But’ going out of your way to alienate yourself from me is not a good way to ensure a continuing appointment to this school or even this school district.” He was on a roll.
“Are you out of ‘buts’ yet?” I posed calmly.
“Don’t push me,” he hissed quietly, since a couple of teachers had rounded the corner and were doing a poor job of pretending not to listen to our exchange. I decided to take advantage of the audience to ensure the line was clearly drawn in the sand.
“I have no desire to push you. But endearing myself to you is not only not paramount on my list of immediate or long term goals, it would likely ‘unendear’ me to the rest of the staff, who are frankly more useful to me personally and professionally than you are. Since you’re bringing up my status as teacher, let me remind you of my continued status as litigator, and if you think you’ve got bad PR now, wait until you see what happens when I sue you, personally and the school board corporately should I not secure tenure because I failed to ‘endear’ myself to you. Have a nice day.”
I walked away in a self-righteous huff. After spending time with both Sandi and Furlo, I had a pressing need to ensure that the last word in a conversation was mine for a change. It took only thirty seconds for me to feel guilty about snapping at Don. Having all of this go down couldn’t be easy for him. I also knew I was going to face a very tough class first period: Law Twelve.
Law Twelve class is intended to serve as a general introduction to legal principles and perhaps interest senior students in a career in the practice of law or law enforcement. The class has the potential to be very interesting, intellectual and enlightening, unless, of course, school counsellors use it as a dumping ground for any student who needs a Grade Twelve credit. My three law classes contained an eclectic mixture of students, some of whom were generally interested in law and how the legal system worked, some who reluctantly did the minimal amount of work in order to get through the course, and a small spattering whose interest in law class was directly related to their perceived need to beat some kind of Youth Criminal Justice Act prosecution hanging over their heads. This morning, I knew one hundred per cent of my budding legal practitioners would have only one case on their mind.
Reaching into my letter box in the office, I pulled out a stack of those little pink-coloured “while you were out” message slips. Not only had every major and minor media outlet attempted to contact me at school that morning, but it seemed a fair chunk of my students’ parents had also tried. I have 214 students. Maybe I should have called in sick. Carefully sorting the messages from parents from the messages from reporters—and promptly depositing reporters’ requests for interviews in the garbage—I caught the stare of Fiona Bertrand, the head secretary. She was not pleased.
“Good morning,” I tried.
“Perhaps for those of you who aren’t charged with having to answer phone calls non-stop for the same teacher,” she huffed.
“Sorry. I’m certainly not pleased the media is hounding you at school. They were not invited.”
“I guess it can hardly be surprising when you take on a case like this one, can it?” She continued. “I thought you gave up law so you could work for the benefit of young people?”
Mental note. Ensure Fiona Bertrand never makes it onto a jury should Carl ever be brought to trial. Since I could think of nothing better to say, I turned and headed for my classroom. Fiona did not seem the type who would permit me to have the last word, even if I tried.
Walking down the stairs to my classroom, I was astounded as I rounded the corner and saw a most unusual sight: students, a whole bunch of them, waiting outside my classroom. This was unusual, because class didn’t start for nearly ten minutes. By November I had grown accustomed to having kids wander in at the last minute—or several minutes after the last minute. As of yet, my magnetic personality had never drawn an early crowd.
“Good morning,” I said, unlocking the classroom door and trying to sound non-plussed. I’m not entirely sure what plussed sounds like, mind you. They weren’t buying it. The group of about fifteen students poured into the room after me.
“Hi, Mr. Patrick. How are you doing today?” began Elizabeth Lawson, a brighter student on whom I could usually count to participate and lead discussion and debate about legal issues.
“Hi, Liz,” I replied calmly. “You’re all here early.” Even as the words came out of my mouth, other students in the class began to trickle in. I was heading towards perfect attendance.
“So?” Jillian Ballantyne had a penchant for understatement.
“So?” I responded. I imitate understatement when the need arises.
“So, what’s happening?” Liz pressed on. “With Mr. Turbot?”
“Liz, Jillian, everyone, look. We may have only been together for a few months, but I have to believe there are a few sacred things you’ve learned during our time.” They looked at me, then each other, then back at me. Doesn’t anyone study any more?
Virtually the entire class had entered by the time Sarah Kolinsky spoke up from her desk, where she had moved away from the growing crowd around mine. “Solicitor-client privilege.” The bell rang to punctuate her assessment of where I was attempting to lead them in the conversation.
“What?” Jillian asked.
“Solicitor-client privilege,” Sarah responded. “He can’t say anything about it because, as Mr. Turbot’s legal counsel, any information he has is strictly confidential.”
“Thank you, Sarah. Thank God someone’s been listening to me.” The class began to settle unusually quickly this morning. As much as I wanted to focus their attention away from Carl’s troubles, I had to remind myself that they had just lost a classmate, and a trusted teacher was suspected of killing her. They had to be going through all kinds of confusing emotions. As was I.
“We can’t talk about it at all?” Scott Harton demanded. Scott could be a bit of whiner when it came to doing his work, but he was also very bright and occasionally very funny.
I sighed. Why had it taken a tragedy to get the rapt attention of my law class? “I guess we can talk about it in very general terms. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll fill you in as much as I can. You can ask questions, but I reserve the right to decline to answer. Fair enough?”
“But don’t we have a right to know what’s going on, since it’s happening in our own school with one of our own teachers?” another student, Jessica, asked. I noted that Tricia had described Jessica McWilliams as her best friend. I was surprised to find her there—she should have been grieving at home.
“How much information the school releases to you is really up to the principal. You need to understand that I’m talking here not just as your teacher but also as a lawyer. I’m wearing two hats. I’ll tell you what I can, but I’m also retained as defence counsel. I have to protect the integrity of the case. I’m required to by law.”
A silence fell on the room as they considered their next move. I felt for them. I couldn’t help but lament that this “teachable moment” was essentially out of my reach because of my solicitor-client restrictions on speaking freely. Any other teacher in the school would have had much more freedom to pursue this line of conversation.
Finally,