The Campus Assignment

         The Campus Assignment





I drove back to Chapel Hill via the Raleigh Road. I prefer this older way, once woods and small farms. I passed through what the Research Triangle has wrought – communities and neighborhoods called Fairfield Lakes, Folkestone, Valley Brook and Woodland Acres. Then I saw the ugly scar of the medical school buildings the color of CBS blocks, standard gray without charm or integrity.

         Several turns later, I was at South Road across from Kenan Stadium, larger than I remember, but retaining the wooded southern grace of a smaller place. Across the street is the Graham Student Union, new since I was there, but faithful to the old campus in appearance. I found a place to park thanks to the grace of G-d and semester break.

         My appointment was in fifteen minutes. There would be time enough to take a look around later. The meeting wasn’t a reunion. It the result of an encounter of two old schoolmates at a bookstore, glimmers of recognition, then stammered introductions with some local references to establish mutual bona fides.

         I crossed the street to enter Graham and went “down the hall to the left. It’s the last office before the emergency exit.” The room was typical for a bureaucrat. There were no bookshelves, though two file cabinets bulging with paper and topped with pamphlets and notebooks lined the wall to the right of the doorway. His desk was on the left, backed up to the wall with a view of the window to the quad and the door.

         Donald Rice was on the phone when I came in, but he motioned for me to sit.  He was Donny in college, adorned in V-neck sweaters and loafers without socks. He wore confidence like a birthright, a graduate of a prestigious prep school and comfortable in his fraternity. The intervening years had been kind to him. His hairline receded, his waist expanded and lines enhanced his looks, making him more rugged-looking, rather than the pretty boy of our youth.

A chair was the only place for a visitor. The sofa under the window was covered in a coat, running shoes and newspapers. His call complete, he stood, smiled and greeted me with a warmth I reserve for old friends, but which he shared freely.

         He shook my hand, asked about my trip and sat down, indicating for me to do the same. He was relaxed and unperturbed in spite of the chaos of his office.  He leaned back in his chair, conveying confidence and control.

         I hoped I didn’t appear awkward. I knew this man forty years ago, an acquaintance, not a friend. We had a few classes together, an occasional coffee and then went our way on campus and life. I went on to journalism and other ventures; he became a wealthy insurance executive.

         His travels brought him back as a successful retiree, volunteering as an unpaid recruiter for the old alma mater. My travails brought me to this very same room for a job with as much compensation as possible.

         “It was a real surprise running into you,” he said, apparently sincere. “I think I told you that it’s my favorite book store in the city. Whenever I have be in town, I make it a point to go there.”

         “I’ve never been there,” I replied. “I’m ashamed to say that I buy my books on-line. It saved me time. Now, time is all I’ve got. Since the paper folded, I read books, rather than the competition.

         “I know that’s foolish. I ought to support newspapers, but the Press was the opposition.” I felt worse admitting this. I knew it wasn’t rational. “Now I’m just like the rest of the world, getting my news from television or the Internet.”

He sat, staring at me, composed, his hands folded in a prayerful manner, his fingertips up against his lips. He was friendly, but still business-like and knew I was babbling.

         “What can I do for you Reg? I was sorry to hear about the paper folding. It’s hardly a new story now a day. You’re a talented writer. Are you freelancing or working on any projects of your own?”

         “In fact, I do have some other interests” I told him. “I was doing research for a historian writing about the Savings and Loan frauds in the ‘90s. I came across your name several times.”

         He blanched, rubbed his nose and leaned forward. “That’s all old news now Reg. I couldn’t add anything that hasn’t been written about a thousand times.” He leaned back in his chair, scratched his right cheek and waited.

         I looked across the desk. I watched as a few beads of sweat appeared on his brow. “I noticed that you retired shortly after all of that disappeared from the headlines. Then you vanished.”

         He was twirling his pen, a $1200.00 Cartier Backgammon instrument, a bit out of the usual bureaucrat’s price range. “I was tired Reg. I made a good living, survived the investigations and needed some time for myself.” His smile was more supercilious than warm, though he was sweating visibly.

         “You know,” I told him, “I got that impression. After talking to the Edmondson’s, I understood why.

         “Do you remember Albert Edmonson? His family knew a lot about you. They recalled exactly how you swindled Albert’s life savings before you decided to get away.”

         He sat up and placed his hands on the desk as I continued. “Actually, that’s why I’m here. The journalist job was just my hobby. I make my living as a ‘finisher,’ some one who brings closure to stories.”

         He was staring hard at me, willing me to be anywhere but there. I reached into my pocket as I stood. “In my investigation, I found out that you were allergic to peanuts. That’s why I used a peanut oil lotion on my hands before I arrived.”

         He stood up abruptly, and I sprayed him full face with the peanut oil I took from my jacket pocket. He took a couple of deep breaths, grabbed his neck and tried to speak. I sprayed his open mouth one more time as I took my seat.

         “Some people call me a hit man.  I look at myself as a script doctor. Albert’s family hired me to finish their story for them. It was just a coincidence that you and I had this past history.” I was quite relaxed now.

         He fell over backward. I stepped around the desk and checked his pulse. There was none. I yelled for help, “Mr. Rice just passed out” and I ran to the door shouting. People began to run in as I explained how we were catching up over old times and he stood up and passed out. I let myself out and waited form the EMT’s. By the time they arrived, a burly young man was trying CPR and the emergency techs had to forcibly remove him from the body of the late Donny Rice. An ambulance and campus police car came squealing up at almost the same time.

         I stayed out of the way while the medics did there work and then left for the Emergency room. The police were very polite while they took my statement and looked after me, being sure I was ok. They knew how upsetting this could be.

         I gave them my address at the motel on the Durham-Chapel Hill Boulevard. They let me go after one more check on my well-being. I left with a thank you for their kindness and went to explore my old campus. The sky was Carolina Blue.

         Across the old campus, the quadrangles surrounded by buildings I remembered, and some I did not, I passed by the history of the Oldest State University. Silent Sam, widely known for his fabled ability to identify virgins by firing its rifle, stands its vigil since construction early last century. Nearby is a new stone tablet supported by 300 bronze figures honoring the people of color who helped build the University. I’m still proud of the old school.

         I turned left and went up the street that was little changed in its architecture, but filled by impossibly young people. I found a coffee shop from the old days. I used to come here late, after midnight, and listen to gibberish passing for poetry from the dying Beatnik era. Truthfully, the era died some time earlier, but we didn’t yet know it. The coffee was thick and strong. The “poets” were dressed all in black and provided stories I told for years. Donny and his admirers never set foot here after dark. They came by after football games or Sunday Brunch with dates, but girls in wraparound skirts and circle pins weren’t interested in the nerds of those days, or eggheads, as we preferred.

I sat in a booth near the back and ordered the bread pudding in a salute to Donny. it was very good. I was glad to be finished with this job. Donald Rice was a thief. He not only stole money, but also people’s lives. The immensity of his crimes couldn’t be recorded on spreadsheets.  Accountants weren’t able to tabulate the value of what he embezzled, only the raw numbers. He made livelihoods and futures disappear. He made families suffer.

         He was able to pay off the right people and employ the best lawyers. The many investigations of that period never touched him. He was mentioned on occasion, but managed to look almost heroic in his own defense. Then he retired from public life, vanishing as far as the news was concerned. 

         Over the years since Donny and I attended school together, I wandered around. I was a journeyman newsman, when that was still possible, before newspapers began to be swept away by the Internet, loss of advertising and the disappearance of young readers. I made many associates over those years, business associates in my other line of work.

         I’ve always had an overdeveloped sense of right and wrong. I wasn’t a rioter or demonstrator. That was very noisy and rarely productive. Besides, I never believed in any cause except for the single women I might meet. There’s nothing wrong in being shallow at times.

         What got my attention were small stories, the type I found in the local section of the paper. The news that was reported once and never concluded. These were little scenarios where families suffered and villains’ were never identified. I found out how helpful my associates were when I tried to wrap up articles.

         After a while, I realized that I got a great deal of satisfaction from this work. I gradually stopped using associates and began to finish the stories on my own.  I developed a good reputation for my work. I took pride in my results, just like today with Donny.

         Writing a blog for online magazines was probably better than the newspaper job. It allowed me to go wherever I needed to be with little notice. I did miss newspapers. I often fantasized about there being one person at fault for the decline in the news business. One person whose story I could finish.

         Alas that was not to be. I paid for my bread pudding, got a coffee to go and went on back to the motel. I wanted to take a nap before dinner. There was a lecture on campus I wanted to hear.











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