Tash is wearing a black cotton turtleneck top under a dark herringbone sport coat and dark slacks, so that he looks like a character from a sci-fi flick with undersized production values. Thin is not the word. The turtleneck hangs on him with wrinkles like ribs on a skeleton.
He looks at his watch. “You’re on time.”
“Guess that’s why we’re lawyers and not professors,” says Harry.
Tash gives him a look, sly, off-centered, everything dead from the eyes to the mouth, John Malkovich.
“Come in,” he says. No greeting or handshake. He is not a social animal. Tash would not think to offer coffee, or small talk. He lacks the social grace of his boss. There is not the slightest hint of warmth from the man. From our few meetings, his most admirable quality appears to be loyalty. He reports dutifully to Crone at least once a week. This to a man who is under indictment for murder and who has been suspended without pay by the university. If Tash feels threatened by fidelity to his mentor, he shows no sign of it.
He’s had easy access to Crone at the jail since our earlier meeting, traveling there twice, once with Harry and the second time with me. On both occasions Tash was silent to a fault, all the way up in the elevator and into the small cubicle with its inch-thick acrylic partition they use for attorney-client consultation in the slammer. I had to assure Tash that it was safe to talk on the receiver hanging from the wall, that no one would monitor this during meetings with counsel.
On each trip, Tash treated Harry and me as if we were furniture. Even with his antennae up, Harry was unable to pick up anything. He told me that Crone and Tash perused more numbers, scientific mumbo jumbo, according to Harry. Tash pressed a single sheet of paper up against the acrylic so that Crone could read it. Then Crone wrote a few formulas on a sheet of paper on the other side and held it up while Tash made notes. It was a repeat of the session I’d had a week earlier with the two of them. Tash would then leave, as silent as a six-foot mouse, while Harry or I spoke to our client.
We follow Tash down the long, narrow hallway, past a door with a small plate-glass window in it. Inside I can see stainless-steel tables, glass beakers and electronic equipment. This, I assume, is one of the laboratories.
“We’ll use Dr. Crone’s office,” he tells us.
The university has not yet tried to replace Crone. Caught in a pickle, wondering which way to run, university administrators take a wait-and-see attitude. The official word is “no comment while the case is in the courts,” though they have engaged in some fast footwork over Jordan’s sexual harassment claim. “Maybe we should have looked into it sooner.” This was one of the comments reported in the press from an unnamed source close to the administration. Defending Crone has definite downsides. Abandoning him publicly might push the case toward a conviction, leaving the university facing wrongful-death, or some other civil crisis. Love him or leave him, they are caught in the middle.
Tash unlocks the office door with a key from his pocket, and flips on the lights. Inside, Crone’s office has the look of a museum. There is dust on the desk thick enough to plant potatoes, along with a few scraps of paper that haven’t been moved since the day the cops searched the place. They would have swept everything into plastic garbage bags and rolled all the filing cabinets into a waiting van, except for the fact that I and two lawyers from the university rode herd, forcing them to adhere to the particulars of their warrant. The search took four hours and was not pleasant. Several torrid arguments erupted along the way. I recognize the notes on a yellow tablet in the center of the desk, the same pad that was there that afternoon. Now it has dust around it to mark its footprint on the wooden surface.
Tash looks at me staring at the pad on the desk and reads my mind. “We have orders from the chancellor’s office not to touch anything. Just in case the police want to come back and look again. The university seems to be treating this place like the scene of the crime. You would think they would have more confidence in their own people.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?” says Harry. “Just the same, maybe we shouldn’t be in here.” As he says the words, Harry starts picking through some books left on a stand on the other side of the room.
“I figure to hell with the cops,” says Tash. “If they can’t do a good search the first time, they shouldn’t be in the business.”
As soon as the words clear Tash’s lips, I notice Harry smiling. A university man he can finally agree with.
“The chancellor’s lawyers can talk to the D.A. if they like. None of my concern,” says Tash. “Besides, my office is far too cramped for meetings like this.”
He takes out a handkerchief and wipes the dust from the executive swivel-back chair behind the desk, then takes a seat and leans back. The high top with its black leather makes a stark contrast to the white baldness of Tash’s head, like an inverted exclamation point.
Harry takes one of the chairs across from him and I slide into the other.
“So what is it you want to know?” asks Tash. “You do understand that if it has to do with our work here, I can tell you nothing.”
“What is it with you guys?” asks Harry. “Sooner or later you’re gonna be called to testify. If not by us, by Evan Tannery. What are you going to tell him when he asks you what you do here all day long?”
“We do genetics research,” says Tash.
“And what if he wants particulars?”
“Then he will be dealing with an army of university lawyers. I would imagine in conference in the judge’s chambers. That is what they call it? Chambers?” Tash looks at me.
I nod.
“They’re prepared to obtain court orders, from other judges, to protect the substance of our work if that becomes necessary. I believe that Mr. Tannery will ultimately be persuaded that the specific nature of our work is irrelevant to anything in this trial. If he persists, all that will happen is that he will delay a verdict.”
“The way you say that, it sounds like you don’t believe Dr. Crone is going to be acquitted,” I tell him.
“On the contrary. I don’t think they have a thing on him.”
“You haven’t been in court,” says Harry.
“You don’t sound terribly confident yourself,” says Tash.
“My confidence level when it comes to clients,” says Harry, “is in direct relation to the truths they tell us.”
“And you think Dr. Crone is lying to you?”
Harry doesn’t answer, except with his expression that says it all.
“Why don’t you start by telling us about Kalista Jordan and your boss? What kind of working relationship did they have?” I ask.
“Is that what you came here for?” says Tash. “You could have saved yourself the trip. I would have told you that over the phone. What do you think went on?”
“Why don’t you tell us?” I say.
“Actually it’s a very dull story. It was the typical problem you have in any organization. David Crone is brilliant. Kalista was ambitious.” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out an apple, shines it on the sleeve of his coat, and from the pocket on the other side takes a small Swiss Army penknife.
“What about the complaint?” I ask
“You mean the sexual harassment thing?”
I nod.
“I saw it. Reads like a fairy tale. The woman would have said anything to get ahead. She was claiming a hostile work environment. If there was any hostility in the office, she brought it with her when she came. Unless, of course, you think they were having an affair.” He looks up at me and smiles at the very thought. “Trust me, the only part of her David ever saw that was naked was her ambition, and he only saw that when it was too late.”
Methodically he opens the razor-sharp blade on the knife and just as quickly cuts the apple in half, then quarters it deftly with all the pieces in one hand.
“Was she after his job?” I ask.