the Third Twin (1996)

Jeannie was bewildered by how fast they had acted. The discipline committee? Emergency procedure? Tomorrow morning? This was not a discussion. It was more like being arrested. She half expected Obeli to read her her rights.

He did something similar. He pushed a folder across his desk. “In there you will find the procedural rules of the committee. You may be represented by a lawyer or other advocate provided you notify the chair of the committee in advance.”

Jeannie at last managed a sensible question. “Who’s the chair?”

“Jack Budgen,” said Obeli.

Berrington looked up sharply. “Is that already settled?”

“The chair is appointed annually,” Obeli said. “Jack took over at the start of the semester.”

“I didn’t know that.” Berrington looked annoyed, and Jeannie knew why. Jack Budgen was her tennis partner. That was encouraging: he ought to be fair to her. All was not lost. She would have a chance to defend herself, and her research methods, in front of a group of academics. There would be a serious discussion, not the glib superficialities of the New York Times.

And she had the results of her FBI sweep. She began to see how she would defend herself. She would show the committee the FBI data. With luck there would be one or two pairs who did not know they were twins. That would be impressive. Then she would explain the precautions she took to protect individuals’ privacy.…

“I think that’s all,” said Maurice Obeli.

Jeannie was being dismissed. She stood up. “What a pity it’s come to this,” she said.

Berrington said quickly: “You brought it to this.”

He was like an argumentative child. She did not have the patience for pointless wrangling. She gave him a disdainful look and left the room.

As she crossed the campus she reflected ruefully that she had completely failed to achieve her aims. She had wanted a negotiated settlement, and she had got a gladiatorial contest. But Berrington and Obeli had made their decision before she walked into the room. The meeting had been a formality.

She returned to Nut House. As she approached her office she noticed with irritation that the cleaners had left a black plastic garbage bag right outside the door. She would call them immediately. But when she tried to open her door it seemed to be jammed. She swiped her card through the card reader several times, but the door did not open. She was about to walk to reception and call maintenance when a dreadful thought occurred to her.

She looked inside the black bag. It was not full of wastepaper and Styrofoam coffee cups. The first thing she saw was her canvas Lands’ End briefcase. Also in the sack was the Kleenex box from her drawer, a paperback copy of A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley, two framed photographs, and her hairbrush.

They had cleared out her desk and locked her out of her office.

She was devastated. This was a worse blow than what had happened in Maurice Obell’s office. That was just words. This made her feel cut off from a huge part of her life. This is my office, she thought; how can they shut me out? “You fucking creeps,” she said aloud.

It must have been done by security while she was in Obell’s office. Of course they had not warned her; that would have given her the chance to take anything she really needed. Once again she had been surprised by their ruthlessness.

It was like an amputation. They had taken away her science, her work. She did not know what to do with herself, where to go. For eleven years she had been a scientist—as an undergraduate, graduate student, doctoral student, postdoctoral, and assistant professor. Now, suddenly, she was nothing.

As her spirits sank from despondency to black despair, she remembered the disk with the FBI data. She rummaged through the contents of the plastic sack, but there were no floppy disks. Her results, the backbone of her defense, were locked inside the room.

She pounded futilely on the door with her fist. A passing student who took her statistics class gave her a startled look and said: “Can I help you, Professor?”

She recalled his name. “Hi, Ben. You could kick down this goddamn door.”

He studied the door, looking dubious.

“I didn’t mean it,” she said. “I’m fine, thanks.”

He shrugged and walked on.

There was no point standing and staring at the locked door. She picked up the plastic bag and walked into the lab. Lisa was at her desk, keying data into a computer. “I’ve been fired,” Jeannie said.

Lisa stared at her. “What?”

“They locked me out of my office and dumped my stuff in this fucking garbage bag.”

“I don’t believe it!”

Jeannie took her briefcase out of the bag and extracted the New York Times. “It’s on account of this.”

Lisa read the first two paragraphs and said: “But this is bullshit.”

Jeannie sat down. “I know. So why is Berrington pretending to take it seriously?”

“You think he’s pretending?”