Last Dance. David Russell W.

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      “Jordan?” I asked him. “Is there something you need?” He looked uncomfortable, and I suddenly sensed my cool status was not, in fact, unanimously shared by every member of my Law 12 class.

      “I want to talk to you about the lawsuit.” His voice was sullen, challenging.

      “Sure. What’s up?” His discomfort visibly increased, and he sat silently for long enough that for a moment I thought he might have fallen asleep with his eyes open. It wouldn’t be the first time; I had nearly mastered the skill while listening to any number of my students’ oral presentations. “Jordan, I’m planning to go home in about sixteen seconds unless you have something important that’s going to keep me here.”

      “Can I be blunt?”

      “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

      “Fine. This assignment is bullshit.” Silence fell while Jordan stared me down.

      “I see. Are you referring to the lawsuit we are undertaking as a class?”

      “Yep.” I thought that would have been an appropriate moment for him to go into further details, but he went no further.

      “Would you care to elaborate?” The challenging look he had been wearing gave way to one of classic teenaged deer-in-the-headlights confusion. Not that I had really held out much hope for a sophisticated debate following his opening statement. I had hoped it might at least be multi-syllabic. “Are you planning to expound on that theory?” Jordan continued to look at me in confusion. “Okay, how about would you like to explain what characteristics of the task have led you to such a negative opinion?” I sighed. “What’s bullshit about it?” His mental light went on, just as surely as if I’d flipped a switch.

      “It’s just that … I don’t agree with it.”

      “With what, Jordan? Spit it out.”

      “I don’t want to work on helping some homo bring his homo boyfriend to our grad dance.” He had promised to be blunt. I guess I should have been prepared for the reality that not all teenaged boys would be progressive, liberal-minded civil rights advocates. Jordan’s steely resolve looked a tad shaky after making his declaration; he seemed not to trust that I might not chastise him for his redneck ways. I wondered how many others felt the same way but didn’t have the balls to confront me.

      “Jordan,” I began, but he interrupted me before I could go further.

      “I know. I know. Not very tolerant of me, but I’m not going to apologize for the fact that I don’t believe in homosexuality. And I sure as hell don’t think I should have to base one of my grade twelve marks on trying to get Tim to bring his lover to the dance.”

      “Fair enough.”

      “What?”

      “You’re right. I don’t think you should have to do something that you feel strongly against. I may not like what you have to say, but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it.” Once again Jordan looked at me like I was a babbling idiot, and I wasn’t convinced he was wrong. “Voltaire,” I told him. That didn’t appear to clear it up.

      “What the hell are you talking about?” Sometimes kids cut to the chase way easier than their teachers.

      “Look. My feelings or your feelings about Tim’s sexual preferences are irrelevant. However, I believe his Charter rights are being violated, and I can’t stand idly by and let that happen. It seems to me that most of the class feels the same way. But if you feel differently, I won’t make you participate.”

      He looked at me with some satisfaction. “Okay then.”

      “Okay then. Are we all right?”

      “Yeah, thanks for being cool about this.” Cool. Ahh. Jordan headed for the door then stopped, turning to face me. “Voltaire? So when you quote eighteenth century French philosophers, does it make you feel powerful?”

      “Yeah,” I said, smiling sheepishly.

      “Just remember: power takes as ingratitude the writhing of its victims.” I stared as blankly at him as he had at me. “Tagore. Nobel laureate for poetry in India in the early twentieth century.” He walked out the door before I could see if he was smiling smugly.

      Kids today.

      Chapter Six

      The courthouse in downtown Vancouver is a stunning display of 1970s architecture. Glass on its western side, concrete on all the others, the building is touted as a tourist draw, with its multi-levelled walkways and roaring waterfalls cascading past office windows, a distraction more than attraction to much of the staff inside, I’m told. The courtyards are designed to be an oasis of calm amid the rush and roar of upscale capitalism on adjacent Robson Street. On a warm Monday afternoon, after school had let out for the day, Tim, Sara, Nate, and I stood at the court clerk’s office, filing the papers that would form the basis of our suit against the school. My hastily organized extra-curricular field trip had failed to arouse suspicion amongst the school’s administration, and if word had gotten out about what my law class was planning, it had remained blessedly quiet.

      My last-minute sojourn to the courts had also required a good deal of last-minute deal wrangling and favour cashing with what few friends I still had in the legal system. My saving grace was that I had spent the bulk of my legal career working for Legal Aid, unlike the high-priced, Mercedes-driving, four-hundred-dollar-an-hour-billing defence counsel few defendants could afford. I tried to keep my convertible Saab hidden from view whenever I arrived at court so I wouldn’t look too successful. Truth was, I had purchased it largely through the unearned earnings of my ex-wife. My smile, charm, and most importantly, my close relationship with Detective Andrea Pearson still carried some clout in the comparatively close-knit legal community, and I had managed to get a commitment to an expedited hearing should it be warranted due to the time-sensitive nature of our case: graduation was only a few weeks away.

      “That’s it?” Sara asked as we turned away from the counter.

      “That’s it.”

      “What happens now?” Nathan asked with his usual unrestrained enthusiasm. It made me want to “shhhh” him.

      “We wait. Once the papers have been served on the school’s administration, they’ll have a shortened period to make a defense claim. Following that, we try to find resolution, or we end up in front of a judge.”

      “Shit, this is unreal!” Nathan exclaimed. “When will that happen?”

      “Just as soon as we hire a process server to deliver the papers.”

      “Can’t you just deliver it to the school?” Nathan demanded.

      “I can, but I think I’m going to be in enough shit, if you pardon the expression, when Mr. Owen realizes what’s going on. Having me serve notice on my employers probably won’t help matters much.” Tim had nearly flinched when I noted the predicament I was putting myself into, and I wanted to assure him that it would be okay. Of course, I didn’t really know that it would be, but adults lie about Santa Claus too. “But it’ll be fine. We’re only doing what’s right here, and there’s nothing СКАЧАТЬ