The graduation party six years ago was mostly attended by students, many of whom were underclassmen and thus underage. Alcohol had been served. A lot of it. Campus police were called. Two students were taken to the hospital for alcohol poisoning, something that happens with increasing frequency on college campuses. Or maybe that’s what I tell myself because I like to think that it was not as bad in “my day.”
Professor Trainor was brought up before the administration for his actions. There were calls for his resignation. He refused. He claimed that, yes, he had offered alcohol to the attendees but only seniors who were over twenty-one years old were invited. If underclassmen crashed the party, he should not be held responsible. He also suggested that much of the alcohol had been consumed before his party began, at a nearby fraternity kegger.
The professors on campus govern themselves. We rarely do more than slap one another on the wrist. Like with the student discipline committee, professors rotate through. As luck would have it, I was on the committee when this incident occurred. Trainor had tenure and couldn’t be fired, but I firmly believed that he deserved some sort of disciplinary action. We took a vote to have Trainor removed as chairman of the English department. I argued in favor of the punishment. There were simply too many incidents of this kind of behavior in his past. Interestingly enough, my beloved mentor, Malcolm Hume, did not agree.
“Are you really going to blame Eban for students drinking too much?” he had asked me.
“There are reasons why we have rules about fraternizing with students when alcohol is served.”
“The extenuating circumstances don’t mean anything to you?”
They might have, I guessed, if I hadn’t already seen Eban’s pattern of obvious bad behavior and poor choices. This wasn’t a court of law or a question of rights; this was a great job and a privilege. In my view, his actions warranted termination—we expel students for far less and with far less evidence—but at the very least, he deserved a demotion. Despite my mentor’s urging, I voted in favor of taking away his chairmanship, but I was outvoted by a wide margin.
Those hearings might be long over, but the resentment lasts. I had used those exact terms—“broken rules,” “crossed boundaries”—during the supposedly closed debates. Nice to have my own words thrown back at my face, but maybe that was fair.
“This particular student,” I said, “is dead.”
“So his confidential file is now fair game?”
“I’m not here to argue legal minutiae with you.”
“No, no, Jacob, you’re a big-picture guy, aren’t you?”
This was a waste of time. “I don’t really understand your reticence.”
“That surprises me, Jacob. You’re usually such a rules follower. The information you’re asking for is confidential. I’m protecting Mr. Sanderson’s privacy.”
“But again,” I said, “he’s dead.”
I did not want to sit here, on this lemonade porch where my beloved mentor spent so many wonderful hours, another moment. I rose and reached for my laptop. He did not hand it back to me. He started doing the chin rub again.
“Sit,” he said.
I did.
“Would you tell me why a case this old would have relevance to you now?”
“It would be very hard to explain,” I said.
“But it is clearly very important to you.”
“Yes.”
“How did Todd Sanderson die?”
“He was murdered.”
Eban closed his eyes as though that revelation made it all so much worse. “By whom?”
“The police don’t know yet.”
“Ironic,” he said.
“How so?”
“That he would die by violence. I remember the case. Todd Sanderson injured a fellow student in a violent altercation. Well, that’s not really an adequate way of stating it. In truth, Todd Sanderson nearly killed a fellow student.”
Eban Trainor looked off again and took a gulp of wine. I waited for him to say more. It took some time, but eventually he continued. “It happened at a Thursday night kegger at Chi Psi.”
Chi Psi sponsored a kegger every Thursday night for as long as anyone could remember. The powers that be tried to stop it twelve years ago, but a wealthy alum simply bought a house off campus specifically for their use. He could have donated the money to a worthy cause. Instead he bought a party house for his younger frat brothers to imbibe in. Go figure.
“Naturally both participants were drunk,” Eban said. “Words were exchanged, but there was little doubt that Todd Sanderson turned this verbal altercation into something horribly physical. When all is said, the other student—I’m sorry, I don’t remember his name, it may have been McCarthy or McCaffrey, something like that—had to be hospitalized. He had a broken nose and a crushed cheekbone. But that wasn’t the worst part.”
He stopped again. I picked up the hint.
“What was the worst part?” I asked.
“Todd Sanderson nearly choked the other student to death. It took five people to pull him off. The other student was unconscious. He had to be resuscitated.”
“Wow,” I said.
Eban Trainor shut his eyes for a moment. “I can’t see how this matters anymore. We should let him rest in peace.”
“I’m not asking out of some kind of prurient interest.”
The thin smile crossed his lips again. “Oh, I know, Jacob. You are, if nothing else, a righteous man. I’m sure your interest here is nothing but the healthiest and most well-meaning.”
I let that pass.
“So why was Sanderson let off?” I asked.
“You read my decision.”
“I did,” I said. “Something about ‘highly unusual extenuating circumstances.’”
“That’s correct.”
I waited again, figuring my follow-up question was obvious. When Trainor didn’t say anything, I gave the proper prompt: “What were the extenuating circumstances?”
“The other student—McCarthy. That was his name. I remember now.” Trainor took a deep breath. “Mr. McCarthy made derogatory comments about a certain incident. When Sanderson heard the comments, he more or less—yet understandably—lost control.” Eban held a hand up in my face as though I were about to object, which I wasn’t about to do at all. “Yes, Jacob, I know that we do not excuse violence under any circumstances. That would be your stand, I am certain. But we looked at this unusual case from every level. We heard from several Todd Sanderson supporters. One, in particular, defended him with great gusto.”
Professor Trainor was brought up before the administration for his actions. There were calls for his resignation. He refused. He claimed that, yes, he had offered alcohol to the attendees but only seniors who were over twenty-one years old were invited. If underclassmen crashed the party, he should not be held responsible. He also suggested that much of the alcohol had been consumed before his party began, at a nearby fraternity kegger.
The professors on campus govern themselves. We rarely do more than slap one another on the wrist. Like with the student discipline committee, professors rotate through. As luck would have it, I was on the committee when this incident occurred. Trainor had tenure and couldn’t be fired, but I firmly believed that he deserved some sort of disciplinary action. We took a vote to have Trainor removed as chairman of the English department. I argued in favor of the punishment. There were simply too many incidents of this kind of behavior in his past. Interestingly enough, my beloved mentor, Malcolm Hume, did not agree.
“Are you really going to blame Eban for students drinking too much?” he had asked me.
“There are reasons why we have rules about fraternizing with students when alcohol is served.”
“The extenuating circumstances don’t mean anything to you?”
They might have, I guessed, if I hadn’t already seen Eban’s pattern of obvious bad behavior and poor choices. This wasn’t a court of law or a question of rights; this was a great job and a privilege. In my view, his actions warranted termination—we expel students for far less and with far less evidence—but at the very least, he deserved a demotion. Despite my mentor’s urging, I voted in favor of taking away his chairmanship, but I was outvoted by a wide margin.
Those hearings might be long over, but the resentment lasts. I had used those exact terms—“broken rules,” “crossed boundaries”—during the supposedly closed debates. Nice to have my own words thrown back at my face, but maybe that was fair.
“This particular student,” I said, “is dead.”
“So his confidential file is now fair game?”
“I’m not here to argue legal minutiae with you.”
“No, no, Jacob, you’re a big-picture guy, aren’t you?”
This was a waste of time. “I don’t really understand your reticence.”
“That surprises me, Jacob. You’re usually such a rules follower. The information you’re asking for is confidential. I’m protecting Mr. Sanderson’s privacy.”
“But again,” I said, “he’s dead.”
I did not want to sit here, on this lemonade porch where my beloved mentor spent so many wonderful hours, another moment. I rose and reached for my laptop. He did not hand it back to me. He started doing the chin rub again.
“Sit,” he said.
I did.
“Would you tell me why a case this old would have relevance to you now?”
“It would be very hard to explain,” I said.
“But it is clearly very important to you.”
“Yes.”
“How did Todd Sanderson die?”
“He was murdered.”
Eban closed his eyes as though that revelation made it all so much worse. “By whom?”
“The police don’t know yet.”
“Ironic,” he said.
“How so?”
“That he would die by violence. I remember the case. Todd Sanderson injured a fellow student in a violent altercation. Well, that’s not really an adequate way of stating it. In truth, Todd Sanderson nearly killed a fellow student.”
Eban Trainor looked off again and took a gulp of wine. I waited for him to say more. It took some time, but eventually he continued. “It happened at a Thursday night kegger at Chi Psi.”
Chi Psi sponsored a kegger every Thursday night for as long as anyone could remember. The powers that be tried to stop it twelve years ago, but a wealthy alum simply bought a house off campus specifically for their use. He could have donated the money to a worthy cause. Instead he bought a party house for his younger frat brothers to imbibe in. Go figure.
“Naturally both participants were drunk,” Eban said. “Words were exchanged, but there was little doubt that Todd Sanderson turned this verbal altercation into something horribly physical. When all is said, the other student—I’m sorry, I don’t remember his name, it may have been McCarthy or McCaffrey, something like that—had to be hospitalized. He had a broken nose and a crushed cheekbone. But that wasn’t the worst part.”
He stopped again. I picked up the hint.
“What was the worst part?” I asked.
“Todd Sanderson nearly choked the other student to death. It took five people to pull him off. The other student was unconscious. He had to be resuscitated.”
“Wow,” I said.
Eban Trainor shut his eyes for a moment. “I can’t see how this matters anymore. We should let him rest in peace.”
“I’m not asking out of some kind of prurient interest.”
The thin smile crossed his lips again. “Oh, I know, Jacob. You are, if nothing else, a righteous man. I’m sure your interest here is nothing but the healthiest and most well-meaning.”
I let that pass.
“So why was Sanderson let off?” I asked.
“You read my decision.”
“I did,” I said. “Something about ‘highly unusual extenuating circumstances.’”
“That’s correct.”
I waited again, figuring my follow-up question was obvious. When Trainor didn’t say anything, I gave the proper prompt: “What were the extenuating circumstances?”
“The other student—McCarthy. That was his name. I remember now.” Trainor took a deep breath. “Mr. McCarthy made derogatory comments about a certain incident. When Sanderson heard the comments, he more or less—yet understandably—lost control.” Eban held a hand up in my face as though I were about to object, which I wasn’t about to do at all. “Yes, Jacob, I know that we do not excuse violence under any circumstances. That would be your stand, I am certain. But we looked at this unusual case from every level. We heard from several Todd Sanderson supporters. One, in particular, defended him with great gusto.”
