“You wouldn’t have to.”
He shoots me a look. “Even if I were willing to lie about it, which I’m not—nobody would believe me. Then I’d be a liar, too, if being a murder suspect weren’t enough.”
“Oh, stop with this ‘murder suspect’ crap,” I say. “He’s been dead twelve years, Simon. I don’t see anyone putting you in handcuffs.”
“Yeah, and guess why? Read the opinion. I got off on a technicality—that’s what everyone will think.”
“You’re overreacting. You think a bunch of law professors, of all people, wouldn’t appreciate the importance of a therapist/patient privilege?”
“Sure, they would. They’d probably agree with the court’s decision, too. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t murder my father.”
I have no answer for that. He’s right. I’m trying to rally him, but he’s right. This judicial opinion has been lurking out there all along, for the last twelve years, talking about a subpoena issued by a grand jury investigating the murder of Theodore Dobias at his home in St. Louis, Missouri, where he moved after Glory died and Simon disowned him. It didn’t name Simon specifically, but it described a twenty-four-year-old male who was a member of Ted’s family—and Simon’s right, only he could possibly qualify.
The St. Louis County district attorney was interested in a phone call Simon made to his psychotherapist in the early morning after the night Ted was found dead in his pool, stabbed to death. The grand jury subpoenaed his therapist to testify, but she refused to answer on the grounds of privilege. Simon hired a lawyer and fought the case up to the court of appeals, which ruled in Simon’s favor. Nobody got to ask the shrink what Simon said to her that morning.
The police probably still think Simon killed his father but realized, at some point, they couldn’t prove it. And Simon’s right. It will look like he was never charged because of a legal technicality. If the tenure committee hears about this, Simon is finished.
Simon has wandered into the middle of the massive rooftop deck, hands on his hips, looking around. “My mom and dad would dance up here,” he says. “I ever tell you that?”
I walk up to him. “No.”
“Oh, yeah, they’d come up with a bottle of wine and a little boom box and play music and dance. Sometimes Mom would sing. She was an awful singer, but boy, she didn’t care.” He gestures to the chairs. “Sometimes we’d have a little picnic up here, and I’d sit over in the chair with my juice box and sandwich while they danced. You should’ve . . .”
His head drops. He rubs his neck.
“You should’ve seen how she looked at my dad. I remember thinking how great it must be to have someone look at you like that.”
I touch his arm.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m . . . I’ve had too much to drink.”
I put my arms around him, put my face against his chest. “Dance with me,” I whisper.
We rock back and forth. I’m no singer, probably no better than his mother, so we sway to the street sounds below, kids playing and shouting, music from passing vehicles, some help from birds chirping nearby. He presses me tightly against him. I can feel his heart pounding.
Simon deserves someone who will look at him the way his mother looked at his father. He deserves more than I can give him.
“I don’t know what it was, why she was so taken with him,” he says. “When you’re a kid, you don’t realize—I mean, they’re just your parents. In hindsight, I mean, she was twenty times the person he was in every way, but God, she just swooned over him. He was everything to her. And then when he—when he—”
“I know,” I whisper. “I know.”
“It just broke her. Y’know? It just . . . broke her.”
It broke Simon, too, as it does now, as he chokes back tears.
I rub his back. “It’s all gonna be okay,” I tell him. “Everything will turn out fine.”
“I wish I was so confident.”
“Let me help you with this problem,” I say. “Let me help you with the dean.”
? ? ?
“No.” Simon breaks away from me and wags his finger. “No. Thank you, but no.”
“Why not? You said it yourself. The dean owns you. If you buckle the moment he raises your past, he’ll know he always has this over you. You’ll never get out from under his thumb.”
“I don’t care. I’ll . . . go to another school or something.”