Deadly Lessons. David Russell W.

will have extra counsellors here for any student who wants to come down and talk. They will set up here in the library. If you see any student who is responding particularly badly, whatever that may mean, feel free to quietly suggest to that student that they can come down here to talk to a counsellor. And,” he paused for a moment, “that offer goes to all staff as well, especially those of you who taught her. Don’t take this on yourself. These counsellors will be happy to talk with you, too.”

      The bell to signal five minutes to first period rang and broke the silence that had fallen on the room. “Okay,” Don said. “Let’s go out there and do our best. If anyone needs anything from us, get a hold of me or anyone in the office.”

      Teachers began shuffling reluctantly towards the door. This was not something I ever thought I would have to face as a teacher. Carl, I noticed, appeared to be making a conscious effort to avoid making eye contact with me. The lawyer side of me had doubts about the story he had been telling me. The teacher side of me knew that if Carl was telling the truth—if Trish had essentially been seeking revenge for some perceived wrong—Carl could very well simply be hurting from the loss of a student he’d taught and cared about.

      I had just about reached the door to the library when I noticed the principal step beside Carl and take him gently by the arm, whispering into his ear. Once that happened, I had no choice but to abandon my plans to head to first period class and intervene in the conversation taking place between Don and Carl.

      “Hey Carl,” I began, sauntering casually up to the two men. “What’s up?”

      “Sorry, Winston,” Don interrupted before Carl could reply. “You’ll have to excuse us. We’re just about to go have a little meeting.”

      I looked at Carl, carefully sending a question with my eyes. “You have a first period class, don’t you, Carl?”

      “Yes,” he replied uneasily.

      “There’s a substitute coming in who’s going to look after the class for a few minutes,” Don said with contrived casualness.

      “What do you want to see me about, Don?” Carl asked.

      “Listen, I’d rather not talk about it right here. Just come to my office so we can talk about this . . . this unfortunate situation.”

      “No,” I interjected. “No, Carl, that wouldn’t be appropriate.”

      Don looked at me incredulously. I couldn’t really blame him. Who was this upstart teacher with less than three months of tenure to tell the principal what is and is not appropriate? He took a few seconds to couch his response, which told me his meeting with Carl most definitely was not coincidental; somehow he knew something about Carl and Tricia, and he was planning to talk to Carl about it.

      Finally, he recovered his composure enough to put on a stern principal’s look. “Winston, I’m not sure what you mean. Carl and I are just going to have a little talk.”

      “Great. I’ll come with you,” I replied calmly and quietly, not wanting to draw the attention of the remaining staff to our little hubbub in the corner.

      “Okay,” Carl said, “that would be great. Why don’t you come with me, Win?”

      “Hold on,” Don objected. “Winston, this is a private matter between Carl and me.” Don leaned just slightly towards me, attempting to use his size to intimidate. Why do so many ex-football players end up as high school principals?

      “There are no strictly private matters between teacher and principal, Don. We both know that. I’m coming with Carl, or he isn’t coming.” I talk tough for a skinny guy. But I can also run fast.

      “Since when are you the staff’s union representative?”

      Bringing my voice to barely above a whisper, I replied, “I’m not. I’m his lawyer.”

      Don froze like deer in a headlight. Unfortunately, I had just given Don a whole lot of information long before I wanted to. But now it was out there, at least between the three of us.

      “My office,” he eventually said. “Let’s talk.”

      Eight

      The interior of Don’s office was decorated in 1970s-era fake wood panelling. As an educator—and taxpayer for that matter—I found the principal’s lack of stylish updating in his office comforting. It indicated at least some budget priorities.

      After stopping at my classroom and putting the kids on temporary autopilot with the teacher next door checking in on them, we had walked the short journey from the library to Don’s office without talking. He seemed to be wavering between fury at one of his teachers having retained legal counsel—from one of his other teachers, no less—to utter confusion as to why he would need to and how this all came to be. As we entered the office, Don closed the door slowly, then retreated behind the administrative barrier that was his fake oak desk. It took him more than a full minute to collect his thoughts sufficiently to begin the conversation. “What the hell is going on?” was the masterpiece he composed during his moment of silence.

      Carl leaned forward and began to speak. I stopped him. “Why don’t we begin with you telling me why it is you want to have a private meeting with Carl?” I proposed, quite reasonably I thought, to Don.

      “Let me make something clear here, Winston. It is not generally accepted practice within the school system that teachers bring lawyers with them when meeting with the principal.” He sounded pissed.

      “I need to suggest to you that the events of today are leading me to the conclusion that ‘generally accepted practice’ will probably not be the order of the day. Let’s go back again to why you want to speak to Carl.”

      Don sighed and leaned back in his chair before turning his attention directly to Carl. “Mr. Turbot, I need to confirm something with you here. Do you want me to speak freely in front of Mr. Patrick? I am going to say some things here that I consider to be confidential.”

      “Yeah,” Carl answered glumly. “Winston is a friend, and he is formally my lawyer, so yeah, you can talk in front of him.”

      “Okay,” Don surrendered. “I guess I would like to start by asking why it is you’ve suddenly retained a lawyer, at least a former one, to deal with me?” The principal shot me a dirty look while saying “former one.”

      Carl began to speak again. I interrupted him again. “Why Carl has retained counsel is a matter of solicitor-client privilege. You need not concern yourself with that. You need only realize that until you hear otherwise from Carl or myself, your conversations with my client will be vetted through me. And I assure you there is no need to include the prefix ‘former’ in front of my title of lawyer. I am still a member of the bar.” Not much of a comeback, I admit.

      “Sorry,” Don mumbled awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

      “No offense taken. Now that we’re all on the same page, let’s get back to the issue at hand.”

      “Carl,” Don began, “yesterday after school, Tricia Bellamy came to me, and she informed me that you and she were having a—a relationship of sorts that extended beyond teacher-student.”

      “She told you she and Carl were having an affair,” I clarified for him.

      “Yes. That’s why I wanted to talk to him.”

      “I see,” Carl replied. There was a brief, highly uncomfortable pause as Don tried to decide how to respond. I could practically smell the smoke burning.

      “Is it true?” he began.

      “What do you think?” Carl demanded with a snarl. He sounded ferocious. I had to admire his ability to come out swinging.

      “I don’t want to answer that right now. I would like to hear your side of the story,” he replied.

      “Carl’s side of the story is quite simple: Tricia Bellamy’s allegations