[2013] Consequential Damages Read online

  “Let's put all modesty aside, kiddo. You and I both know that you are a very gifted scholar. Many doctors who go into medical research are really just lab technicians or bookworms. You know the type. I don't mean to minimize what they do, but most of them lack real insight and perspective. You’re different. You are not only a genuine scholar, you have great creative instincts and the ability to be a true visionary. I think it would be a loss to the medical profession if we were deprived of your academic talent.”

  “I think your impression of my academic abilities may be inflated,” said Amanda with some embarrassment, “but I do love that part of my work. On the other hand, I went into this profession so I could make a difference in people's lives. The human interaction is what brings me the most satisfaction.”

  “You've got a gift for that, too. I've seen it. I’ve watched the way your patients react to you. Even when they can’t be physically healed, their state of mind is invariably better because of how you treat them. But look, you don't have to choose one option and forego the other. There are ways to do both. Look at my situation. I’m directly involved in cutting-edge research projects, I teach, and I still spend time with patients at the clinic. You could follow a similar path. Are you still interested in geriatric medicine?”

  Amanda nodded. “That's the one thing I'm sure of. I've felt that calling since I was a child watching my grandmother care for the elderly in Chinatown.”

  “That's an ideal situation. Unlike cancer research, and neurology and many other specialties, research in geriatric medicine requires a great deal of interaction with patients, as opposed to lab research. You could really use all your talents in that field. But, you should start by learning from the best. We have some fine doctors here at the Medical Center who specialize in geriatric medicine, but I'd recommend you try to work under the real leaders in this field.” Dr. Marsh paused and looked steadily at her protégé. “How do you feel about snow?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because there are two doctors doing some real pioneering work in this area, and they both happen to be in Chicago. One is at Northwestern and the other at the University of Chicago. If you want my advice, that's where you belong at this point in your career.”

  “But this is my home. My parents are here. My grandmother is here. Everyone I know is in the Bay Area. How could I leave?”

  “It doesn't have to be forever. You could apply for a fellowship there, which would only last for a year or two. You can always come back. My guess is that, before too long, Stanford will be knocking at your door asking you to join the faculty here. But for now, you owe it to yourself to become the best you can be in your chosen field, and in my opinion, that means learning from the best.”

  Amanda pondered the suggestion for a few moments. “You're right, as always,” she said with a smile, starting to warm to the idea. “How do I go about exploring those possibilities?”

  “I don't think we’ll have any problems making it happen. Your academic record speaks for itself. I have some good connections. Let me start making some contacts.”

  “You're my hero, Dr. Marsh. I can't thank you enough,” Amanda said as she leaned over and hugged her mentor. “I hope you'll come visit me if I move away. The thought of leaving my family and friends is pretty scary.”

  “I will. I promise,” said Dr. Marsh. “The AMA frequently holds its conventions in Chicago.”

  They stood up and walked toward the door. “I don't mean to be nosy, but how's your social life?” asked Dr. Marsh. “I worry that you push yourself too hard and don't have enough fun.”

  “You sound like my grandmother,” said Amanda with an easy laugh. “The Chinese really stress balance in life, and she constantly reminds me of that. Anyway, there’s no need for concern there. I have a lot of friends. In fact, I'm on my way to meet my college roommate for dinner right now. She's a law student here. Thanks for the chat, Dr. Marsh. I'll see you soon.”

  Amanda walked briskly down the hall and out of the building. Although her disposition was naturally cheerful, the visit with her mentor had her in even higher spirits than normal as she walked toward Weston Hall, singing softly to herself.

  CHAPTER 5

  Finding no trace of his outlines at his study carrel, Jake scurried around the stacks, looking for anyone who might be a suspect. There were only a few undergrads scattered around the third floor. He approached the one nearest his carrel, a young-looking student with thick glasses and bad skin, biology books piled high around him. Jake interrupted him unceremoniously and asked in an aggressive voice, “Did you happen to see anyone at that carrel over there in the last thirty minutes? I stepped away and now some of my things are missing.”

  The young man started at the sound of Jake's voice.

  “Sorry,” he replied. “I've been in a zone here. Didn't notice a thing.”

  Jake hurried away without another word. He descended the stairs to the first floor and brusquely strode to the front desk.

  “Who's in charge here,” he demanded of no one in particular. One of the three people behind the desk approached him. She was an overweight middle-aged woman who very much looked the part of a librarian. “How may I help you,” she asked.

  “Some of my things were just stolen,” Jake blurted out. “My study outlines. I was in one of the carrels on the third floor and stepped away for a few minutes, and when I got back, they were gone.”

  “I'm sorry, sir, but the library can't be responsible for lost belongings,” she said matter-of-factly, pointing to a sign behind the desk that stated exactly that.

  “I'm not trying to hold you responsible,” Jake said with exasperation. “I was just hoping you could do something to help. Has anyone else reported thefts here recently? Has anyone reported seeing suspicious characters around here?”

  “No problems have been reported, sir,” she replied with obvious irritation. “What would you have us do?” The question was rhetorical, and it was clear that she had no desire to do anything.

  “Hell, I don't know! Not a damn thing, I guess!” Jake stormed away.

  He returned to his dorm room and frantically searched every inch of it, hoping that he had lost his mind and had really left at least some of his outlines in his room. They were not there. His head was spinning again, and he was chilled by a cold sweat. His emotions vacillated between rage and panic. He had to get a grip on things. He needed some air.

  He headed outside and tried to bring some coherent thought to his situation. He knew that he was losing precious time and needed to focus on developing a new study plan, but he was not ready to accept that his outlines were gone. Trying to prepare for finals without those outlines seemed like a terrifying and hopeless task. He had to get them back. He tried to recall every detail of his trip to the library that day. He desperately hoped that somewhere in the recesses of his memory he would find a clue that could lead him to the culprit, and ultimately the return of his outlines. To his dismay, he remembered nothing useful. He had been so preoccupied with his finals preparations that he'd been oblivious to everything around him. The feeling of panic gradually evolved into one of despair, as he faced the grim realization that his outlines were likely gone for good.

  Jake wandered through the campus, head down, barely paying attention to where he was going. He eventually made his way to the law library, where he roamed around for several minutes, looking for no one and nothing in particular. He couldn’t help but notice the legions of law students there, calmly and intently absorbed in their outlines. Panic returned.

  “Jake, is something wrong?” A familiar voice brought him out of his trance-like state. He saw Kelly approaching him, a look of concern on her face. She had noticed Jake standing motionless in the same spot for several minutes, staring aimlessly about, distress projecting from every inch of his body.

  “My outlines are gone. Stolen. Every one of them,” he replied in a shaky voice, unable to look at her.

  “Oh, no! Oh, my God! Are you sure?�
�

  “Yes,” he said with quiet resignation. “What’ll I do without my outlines?” He sounded pathetic and he knew it.

  She took him by the arm and led him outside. “Tell me exactly what happened,” she demanded. Jake told her the whole story.

  “You need to report this to the Dean's office or the campus police—both. I can't believe this. This is terrible!” She could see that her words were not helping. “Don't worry, Jake, we’ll help you. You'll be all right.” Her voice sounded wishful rather than reassuring.

  “Thanks,” Jake replied. “I don't think anyone can help at this point.” He walked away, head down, with no particular destination in mind. He just needed to be by himself to get his thoughts and emotions under control, and to try to overcome the panic that was gripping him.

  After an hour or so of aimless walking did nothing to improve his mental state, Jake returned to the dorm. Tony met him as he approached the front stairs.

  “I've been looking all over for you. Kelly told me what happened. Everyone's been worried about you. Are you okay?”

  “Not really,” said Jake quietly, touched by his friend’s concern. He avoided making eye contact to conceal his watery eyes. “But don't worry, I'm not suicidal.” He smiled ruefully, then looked up at Tony and his demeanor quickly changed, as the rage boiled up again. “I've never been so pissed in my life. It's just so ... wrong, so ... low,” he said, groping for the right words to express the degree of depravity in this act, and not quite finding them.

  As they rode the elevator to the third floor, Tony assumed a take-charge attitude. “I've called campus security and the local police,” he said. “I also called Dean Sheffield at home. He was dismayed to hear about this, and said he's never heard of anything like it happening here before. He told me he would speak to campus security, and issue some sort of memo reminding students to be careful with their belongings—not that that will do you any good. He also pointed out the obvious: Your outlines are gone. It's not realistic to expect you’ll get them back. You need to forget about that and do the best you can without them. And we're going to help you—all of us.”

  The elevator chimed as it opened on the third floor. Kelly burst into the hallway. Big Mike stuck his head out of his room and hurried toward the group as well, as did half a dozen other residents of the third floor. They all began speaking at once, expressing sympathy, indignation and outrage, but mostly offering to help.

  “I'll head to the copy shop first thing in the morning and copy my outlines for you, Jake,” said Big Mike. “And if they ever catch the bastard who did this, I’ll personally break his neck!”

  “Feel free to borrow mine, too,” said Kelly. “Any time at all. You might find my handwriting easier to read than Big Mike's.”

  “Obviously, you know mine are at your disposal,” said Tony. “They're on my bookcase. Just help yourself.”

  After the emotional roller coaster of the last several hours, the generosity and concern of his classmates was too much for Jake. He felt tears brimming up in his eyes and fought to suppress them, but soon they were rolling down his cheeks, much to his embarrassment. He wanted to say something to properly express his appreciation, but couldn’t find the words. After a short, awkward silence, he looked up at his friends and managed a weak smile. “Thanks everybody. You guys are great.” He hugged the girls and shook hands with each of the guys and then headed to his room, Tony's hand on his shoulder.

  Drained by the evening’s events, Jake slept deeply that night. Upon awakening, he was in good spirits for an instant due to the restful night’s sleep. Then the memory of the previous day’s events flooded back, and a feeling of dread quickly overtook him.

  His first exam was only nine days off, and he knew that he had to quickly devise a new study plan. Big Mike knocked on the door and entered, carrying an overstuffed, messy looking three-ring binder. “Behold, my masterpiece,” he said proudly. “Also known as Mitchell on Contracts. I realized it would be too much of a pain to copy this, so I thought I'd just let you hold onto it. I won't be getting to this one until the middle of the week, so it's yours until then. You’re welcome to any of my other outlines whenever I'm not using them.”

  “This is super. You're a real pal, Mike,” said Jake, trying to feign enthusiasm, while his heart sank at the sight of Big Mike's outline. It had to be four hundred pages long. His own had been only sixty.

  Mike excused himself to get back to his studying, giving Jake an opportunity to peruse Mitchell on Contracts. To his eyes, it was a mess. Mike's handwriting was virtually indecipherable, and Jake had trouble making any sense out of Mike's organization. Jake's approach to outlining was the customary one—he tried to work through the vast amount of information covered during the semester and condense it down to the most important concepts. From what he could see, Big Mike had attempted to capture absolutely every scrap of material covered in class or in their textbooks. There was no way Jake could possibly get through this mountain of information in the time remaining before exams.

  Jake grabbed Tony’s Contracts outline off the bookshelf and walked across the hall to ask Kelly if he could borrow hers as well. She retrieved it from her desk and handed it to him without hesitation, although Jake couldn’t help noticing that nervous look on her face.

  “Don't worry. You don't even have to say it,” he assured her. “I'll guard it with my life.” He tucked the outline under his arm and hurried off to the law library.

  Jake decided to begin his preparation by using both Tony's and Kelly's outlines so that he could compare them and choose the one that he found more helpful. It turned out to be an exercise in frustration. Reviewing his own outline had been easy because he could quickly skim a page and know exactly what was on it and what every notation meant. He knew exactly what had been in his mind and what concepts he was trying to document as he prepared his outlines. Trying to make sense of another person's outline was a painstaking process. Aside from the difficulty of deciphering another person's handwriting, abbreviations and other forms of shorthand, it was like trying to get inside another person's mind to fully grasp the idea that the notations represented.

  Despite his determination to dedicate virtually every waking moment to his studies, Jake found himself repeatedly pushing the outlines away in frustration and taking numerous breaks to clear his head and refocus. By dinnertime, he had covered only a small fraction of the material he had hoped to cover. It was taking all of his powers of concentration just to translate the notes in his classmates’ outlines, and he was spending very little time actually absorbing the material. As he looked at his watch and recognized that the precious hours were slipping away, panic began overtaking him once again. At this rate, it would take him a full week just to prepare for Contracts, and he had four other finals. This was not working. He had tried to deny that realization throughout the day, but now the unpleasant conclusion was inescapable: Using another student's outline was an exercise in futility. He was lost without his own.

  As that realization set in, Jake slowly packed up his things and rose from his desk and left the library. He needed a different plan. He trudged back to the dorm, doing his best to keep the panic at bay so that he could think clearly enough to devise another approach. He had to be creative. He needed new ideas. He tried desperately to think clearly, but his thoughts seemed disjointed, and his brain seemed to be moving in slow motion. He tried to will himself to banish the panicky feelings, but panic was winning out over reason.

  Jake realized that every hour spent not studying made his predicament more dire. However, he was useless in his present state and he knew it. He decided to go for a run, hoping that physical exertion would bring back mental clarity. He ran, and ran hard, until his heart was pounding and he was gasping for breath. His brain seemed to be functioning again. He could see things more clearly now, but what he saw brought him no comfort. He couldn’t possibly recreate his own outlines in the short time left, nor could he use anyone else’s outlines. The s
tark reality was that there was no way to efficiently master his subjects under these circumstances. Any hope of good grades was gone. His goals had to be adjusted, drastically. He had to hope that he just avoided flunking out.

  With that brutal realization, Jake slowly made his way back to his dorm room. The panic that had built throughout the day was gone, replaced by gloom and despair over the hopelessness of his plight. In his room, he could hear the sound of highlighters moving across paper, through the adjoining walls. He could visualize Big Mike intently reviewing his precious outlines, highlighting almost every line in a rainbow of colors, each of which had some significance known only to him. Jake envied Mike, and pitied himself. He could not stay there, listening to those sounds, and there was no reason to return to the law library.

  Feeling utterly defeated, Jake picked up his guitar and began strumming quietly. He realized that this might disturb his classmates in the adjoining rooms, so he retreated to the back stairwell where no one would hear him. Earlier in the semester, he had discovered that this stairwell was an ideal place to play his guitar. It provided solitude, since it was rarely used, as most students opted for the elevator or the stairwell near the front of the building. The area was soundproof, so he would neither disturb his fellow residents nor embarrass himself with his singing. Also, the acoustics actually made him sound halfway decent. The walls were cinderblock, painted white. The stairs were concrete. The doors were heavy black metal, and windowless. The narrow quarters, combined with the absence of any noise-absorbing material, amplified any sounds and caused them to reverberate off the walls. It made his modest guitar playing sound like studio-quality musicianship, at least in his mind, and it made his voice, which he considered barely passable, sound strong and resonant.

  Jake seated himself on the landing between the third and fourth floors. He started and stopped several songs, searching for one that he really felt like playing. After a few minutes, he found himself fingerpicking Landslide, by Fleetwood Mac. The notes rang off the walls, filling the small chamber with a rich, full sound. He began singing the words, softly at first, and then gradually building to full volume as his confidence was lifted by the sound-enhancing qualities of the deserted stairwell. He lost himself in his singing and playing, until halfway through the song he realized with a start that there was a clear female voice singing in perfect harmony. No one was in sight, and for a brief instant, his mind tried to grasp whether he was imagining the sound or whether it was real. He quickly realized that it was indeed real, and abruptly halted. He heard footsteps above him and a voice called out, “Don’t stop! That sounds great!”