“And now you’re planning to stand up for Debbie. It’s an admirable quality. Sometimes, though, when people feel the need to rescue others, it’s because no one rescued them when they were young and vulnerable. They’re trying to heal a deep wound in themselves by treating other people’s wounds. It doesn’t work that way, is all I’m saying.”
“Even if that’s me,” Matt had said, talking past the lump in his throat and the cold, leaden fear in his chest, “it doesn’t change the fact that Debbie needs my help.”
Shortly thereafter, Matt had presided over a hastily called meeting at Nicholas’s and Bradley’s dining table. The other attendees were Nicholas, Bradley, and Garland.
Exhibit #1 had been Debbie’s termination letter, borrowed with her permission.
Exhibit #2 had been the Trespass Notice she’d signed, acknowledging she had been warned not to return to campus property, including athletic events.
Vince retrieved his Solo cup, splashed in a finger of Vodka, and offered it to Matt. “Congratulations! I don’t even need to ask how things turned out. The moment Katie Couric said she was Team Debbie, I knew that MCU was toast.”
Matt tossed back the vodka, handed the cup to Vince.
Vince poured a finger for himself. “Was that your idea? Those ‘Team Debbie’ t-shirts?”
Matt nodded. He’d birthed the basic plan and assembled the dream team. Nicholas and Garland were the true architects. But, yes, the “Team Debbie” t-shirts? His idea.
Garland had started the meeting with a flourish, like a motivational speaker inviting them to dream big. “Remember that case last year where McDonalds was ordered to pay millions to a lady who spilled hotcoffee on herself?”
They had all nodded and smiled.
Matt had imagined future Debbie sipping Pina Coladas on a beach, shaded by a hot pink umbrella.
Garland had dashed their hopes as quickly as he had raised them. “That dog won’t hunt here. Not in a month of Sundays.”
“Dial down the hokey Okie,” Bradley had snapped. “There aren’t any cameras rolling. Just tell me in plain English why we can’t get Debbie at least a million dollars.”
“Here’s why.” Garland had held up three fingers.
“One. McDonalds has more money than God, so the jury in that case had no problem skimming a little bit off the top for the plaintiff.”
“Two. Coffee lady had second- and third-degree burns on her vag, and her lawyers had glossy, color photos that made the jury squirm. Trust me. Those pictures will give you nightmares. And, in case you’re not pedaling fast enough here: we don’t have any scabbed vag photos to pass around.”
“Three. This is Oklahoma, where 2 out of every 3 jurors are people who went to church last Sunday morning and listened to a preacher who got ‘edumacated’ at one of the 10 Bible colleges in this God-forsaken state—MCU being one of them! No jury in this state is going to hand Debbie a judgment that could bankrupt a Bible college.”
“Then why are we even here?” Bradley had asked.
Matt had stared down at the table, embarrassed that he had wasted everyone’s time by convening the meeting. He should have stayed with Debbie and consoled her.
Garland had flashed a mischievous smile. “Just because there isn’t a million-dollar jackpot on the table, doesn’t mean we have a losing hand.”
“You all know what MCU is like,” Garland had said. “The administration is steeped in the arrogance that comes from thinking everything they do is God’s will. They stink of smugness. We can use that against them. They would rather eat a turd sandwich than admit they made a mistake.”
Garland had continued, “Now think about how galling it would be for them to rehire Debbie. Her very presence would be a daily reminder to everyone—students, staff, and faculty—that the administration is just a bunch of middle-aged white guys lording their power over everyone else.”
“That’s it?” Bradley had asked. “Where’s the Justice in that? No money for Debbie’s pain and suffering?”
“There are two kinds of Justice,” Garland had said. “The legal kind requires that a crime be committed. And if there’s a conviction, someone goes to jail. Firing an at-will employee is not a crime. And even if it were and even if thedean went to jail, Debbie wouldn’t get her job back. That’s not how it works. Lucky for us there’s the kind of Justice you get from the court of public opinion. We can win that battle, force MCU to rescind Debbie’s termination, and feed them a turd sandwich on the side.”
Bradley had crossed his arms. “Seems to me Debbie will be the one eating a turd sandwich.”
Garland and Bradley had started squawking.
Then Nicholas had joined the fracas.
Matt had raised his hand. Sat there waiting, until things finally quieted down and everyone looked at him.
“I can’t speak for Debbie,” he had said. “But I would be surprised if she gives a damn about Justice or collecting any damages or making anyone eat turd sandwiches. She doesn’t like the limelight—even though she dresses like she does.”
