Monroe

Chapter Two Hundred and Thirty-Five. An unexpected reunion.

Bob looked up at the building and sighed. His time at UCLA hadn't really been bad. Fermilab had obviously been another matter, but his time here had just consisted of working, going to class, and studying. The grind, as it were, wasn't anything new to him.

He squared his shoulders and strode into the admissions office, where he was immediately accosted by a man about his own age, with a truly magnificent afro adding a solid three inches to his height. "You must be Bob," the man flashed him a brilliant smile.

"And you must be Carl," Bob offered his hand, "Dave told me about the afro, but he didn't do it justice."

Carl shook his hand as he chuckled, "It took me almost two years to grow this beauty out," he confided. "The afro sets me apart in the courtroom, which gives me an edge with the juries in most cases."

"I appreciate you taking the time," Bob smiled awkwardly, "there's going to be some sort of settlement, so we should be able to allocate part of it to compensate you."

Carl waved a hand and shook his head. "No need, I'm doing this because Dave is a friend, and I'll take any chance to kick UCLA while it's down."

"Looks like you're about to get your chance," Bob murmured as Elizabeth Nalenthal entered the room. Mike's description was spot on.

She caught sight of Bob and walked over to him. "Good morning, Mr. Whitman, it's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Bob noted that she didn't offer to shake his hand. "Good morning," he replied, "I've brought my attorney, I hope that won't be a problem?"

Her lips tightened for a moment, and while she was almost quick enough to conceal her distaste, she wasn't able to reign it in completely.

"Carl Jackson, of Horston, Whitmer, and Lowe," he greeted her with a bright smile.

"If you'll follow me, we'll resolve this quickly and be about our days," she motioned for them to follow as she returned to the door from which she'd entered.

Bob followed with Carl at his side. They were led down a maze of corridors, passing countless offices before they arrived at a conference room.

"Apologies for the depth of the building," Elizabeth said as they finally arrived, "the Admissions office has only a few conference rooms, and sadly they are all at the back."

With a thin smile, she opened the door and gestured for them to precede her.

Bob walked in the door and made it two more steps before he froze. He closed his eyes and counted down from ten. When that didn't work, he counted down from fifty.

"He's always done that, ever since he was a little boy. I don't know where he picked it up, but if something upsets him, he closes his eyes and counts down."

Bob opened his eyes and shook his head. "Good morning, Mother," he said through gritted teeth.

She looked better than the last time he'd seen her, over a decade earlier. If he wasn't mistaken, she was not only sober but hangover and withdrawal free.

She stood up and moved around the table, clearly intending to hug him, judging by her smile and her arms.

He put a stop to that by moving back and stating firmly, "Don't."

She lowered her arms, and her smile faded a bit. "I'm sorry, baby, I just haven't seen you in so long."

"I believe we are here to go over the proposed settlement," Carl stepped in smoothly.

"Yes," Elizabeth agreed, "I find myself apologizing again, Mr. Whitman; I'd assumed your mother's presence, and that of her attorney, wouldn't come as a surprise, given the facts of the settlement."

"It's fine," Bob said curtly, taking a seat at the foot of the table, where Carl positioned himself between Bob and his mother.

Elizabeth slid copies of the agreement across the table to each of the attorneys present, then paused as a pair of older gentlemen entered the room.

"These are Charles Hardinger and Arthur Bennington, the Universities counsel," She introduced them.

"We'll need a few minutes to go over the agreement," Carl stated as he flipped open the folder.

The man next to his mother, whom he assumed was Mr. Lieberman, nodded in agreement, and followed suit.

"You look healthy," his mother said quietly, clearly trying to engage in a conversation that Bob did not want to have. "Why don't we go out for brunch after this is sorted out and catch up?"

Bob closed his eyes again and counted down, but it wasn't working. He opened his eyes and reached down under the table, where he pulled Monroe out of his inventory, clipping a leash to his Makres, lifting the big cat into his lap, and dragging his fingers through Monroe's thick, silky ruff. He could feel the soothing rumble of his purr, which helped to calm him.

"This is neither the time nor the place for a family reunion," Bob said coolly. "I may have a few minutes available after we're done here; that just depends on how long this runs."

"Where the hell did that cat come from?" Elizabeth asked, confusion evident in her voice.

"I have him on a leash," Bob replied urbanely. The statement was entirely true from a certain perspective.

"I think I would have noticed a bobcat walking with us," Elizabeth peered over the table toward Monroe.

"It's amazing how often people overlook him, given his size," Bob agreed.

"He is awfully big," his mother commented. "I don't remember you ever having a pet growing up."

Bob managed, with a supreme effort of will, to not grind his teeth. Instead, he delivered a cheek rub.

Closing his eyes, he resolved to ignore everyone but Carl and Monroe.

It might have been half an hour later when Carl nudged Bob, disturbing his peaceful kitty supplication.

"So," he began, "it mostly seems to be on the level. There are a few points that might be of contention, but hopefully, those can be resolved."

"What points might those be, Mr. Jackson?" Elizabeth asked.

"Page four, paragraph twelve," Carl continued, "the wording seems to indicate that the work which was stolen from my client is to go unremarked. Yet I don't see any language indicating that the perpetrators of said theft will be discredited. What I do see is a provision that prevents my client from either claiming the work as his own or expanding on it."

Carl shook his head. "We would be willing to accept either one or the other, but neither?"

"Which would you prefer, Mr. Whitman?" Elizabeth asked, frowning down at the agreement, having referenced the page in question.

"I'd prefer you discredit them," Bob replied after a moment's thought. "While the work wasn't groundbreaking, they are currently trading on it, and I think it would be best if they were required to demonstrate their competence, rather than standing on mine."

"Are there any other points of contention?" She asked.

Carl shook his head. "Everything else is as was stated to my client. The wrongful death settlement is annulled, and a provision of this agreement is that all funds dispersed in that settlement remain attributed to their respective parties. In return for agreeing to non-disclosure and indemnification for the University, my client will receive a single payment of one million dollars."

"Well then, might I suggest we resolve the single point of contention," Arthur Bennington stepped into the conversation. "Mr. Whitman, the University suffered a great deal of negative publicity, which we admit was deserved. You were treated very poorly, and academic fraud is quite serious. That said, if we were to discredit those who have built on your work, it would cause a furor and raise public awareness of the issue."

"As we understand it," Charles Hardinger picked up the thread, "your work was stolen four times in total, each setting you back a solid year. We would be willing to add an additional fifty thousand dollars for each incident, representing the cost of your time."

"Make it two hundred and fifty-thousand, for each instance," Carl responded immediately. "Let's not forget that their theft has driven my client out of his chosen field completely. The trauma he's suffered may have cost his field a breakthrough that only he could have made, but it has certainly cost him his entire post-graduate career, and we might as well consider the portion of his undergraduate degree tainted as well."

Bob paused his petting for a moment. "What are they working on?" He asked.

"Whom?" It was Elizabeth's turn to speak.

"The individuals who stole my work and used it to obtain the masters," Bob replied. "What are they doing? I won't agree to any sort of payout unless I know for sure that their fraud is going to get someone else hurt," he finished pointedly.

His mother nodded approvingly.

"An excellent question," Carl agreed. "As I doubt that information is on hand?"

Elizabeth shook her head.

"Why don't we reconvene at twelve? That should be sufficient time for the University to discover what their little frauds have been up to," Carl smiled wickedly.

Monroe was not pleased by Bob's lack of a matching Makres. The big floofer had become accustomed to riding on his shoulders without having to worry about staying in place.

As they walked down the hallway, Bob kept a hand on the big cat to both keep in place and keep him happy.

"That really is a big cat," Carl was looking up at Monroe with admiration. "I can't believe I didn't notice him when we met."

"He's a mighty hunter and is thus very sneaky," Bob replied sagely.

"So, we've got a solid three hours to kill, any plans?" Carl asked.

"Not really," Bob admitted, "I didn't know how long this would take, so I sort of blocked off my day. Maybe I'll find a nice bench and read a bit while his imperial majesty sunbathes," Bob finished with a nod to his feline overlord.

"I remember that you always loved to read."

Bob turned to find his mother beaming up at him. "Given the frequent absence of a television in my childhood home, the regular interruption in electricity notwithstanding, I found my entertainment where I could," he said coldly. "The neighborhood children weren't interested in a playmate who not only looked different but was often unwashed and in dirty clothing," he continued. "My having to dig through the garbage for something to eat also failed to endear me to my peers. In lieu of anything else, books were my only refuge," he finished, reaching up with his other hand to give Monroe a nice long pet.

She looked crestfallen, and she twisted her hands together. "I know I wasn't a very good mother," she said quietly, "but I was hoping to make up for lost time. When I thought you'd died," she shook head and wiped her eyes, "I realized just how badly I'd failed you as a parent."

Bob shrugged, careful not to disturb Monroe. "What's done is done," he replied. "I don't know what you're expecting, but I don't need you."

He locked his gaze on hers, ignoring the tears rolling down her cheeks. "The little boy who needed his mother died a long time ago," Bob said flatly. "The man before you has as much use for you as you had for that child, which is to say, none. I think it's best if we simply go our separate ways."

With that, Bob turned and strode away from the admissions building. If he remembered correctly, and these days his memory was effectively photographic, there was a library a few blocks away that had a tiny cafe cart where he could get a drink and maybe a scone, which he'd no doubt share with Monroe.

"Now, that was perhaps the coldest thing I've witnessed," Arthur observed.

"I spent two years in the District Attorney's office, and even the crips and bloods I prosecuted had more heart than that," Charles agreed.

"I certainly hope that the people who benefited from Mr. Whitman's work aren't in any positions to which he'll object," Elizabeth murmured.

She'd had the man investigated, and while she'd drawn certain conclusions about his life as a child, she was surprised at his casual admission of just how bad it had been. In her experience, only the extremely successful ever talked about a poor home life in that fashion.

Robert Whitman certainly wasn't successful by any means, although his bank account had risen to break six figures. Her private investigator hadn't been able to determine exactly what the man had been doing for work, but he had managed to get access to his bank statements.

No, it wasn't success. It was more likely to be emotional damage, she decided. He had a support animal, after all, although this was the first time she'd ever seen someone use a bobcat for that purpose. The choice of a cat, let alone a wild cat, spoke volumes for the direction his damage had likely taken.

"If they aren't pursuing academic careers where they're unlikely to harm anyone, we need to see how quickly we can affect a change for them. I don't think Mr. Whitman is the sort to forgive or forget," she said as she watched the young man and his lawyer disappear into the crowd, leaving his mother standing alone, crying.

"The additional million is agreeable, I take it?" Arthur asked.

Elizabeth waved her hand dismissively. "We had allocated more than that," she said with a sigh. "Honestly, now that I've met him, getting out of this with just another two million is a bargain. He might not be that personable, but I don't think we'd want to see him in front of a jury."

"Handsome single guy gets screwed over by the University?" Arthur shook his head. "No, that could be dangerous, not only in terms of public opinion, but if he had a sympathetic jury, the damages could be extreme."

"Fortunately, he doesn't seem to care about the money," Charles added thoughtfully. "An intriguing young man. One does have to wonder just what he might have accomplished had it not been for the series of events that caused our paths to cross."