Page 49 of Haunted

He gives me a look that says he appreciates the sarcasm. “God knows. Initially there was a debate about whether or not I needed a journalist’s visa, now they need proof that I am who I say I am, because my business name is not the same as my passport name. So, that means that because the visa is held up, I can’t return to my own apartment for at least 180 days before my visa allows reentry. I was planning to go to Istanbul instead.”

I look at the paperwork. A return ticket to Delhi, booked and paid for, that he can’t use. And a request for an open-jaw ticket to Istanbul that’s probably cheaper but isn’t what was agreed on paper. “This is a deviation from the written contract. It’s something my boss would have to approve. Let me photocopy these and see if he’s available. Can I get you anything? Water?”

“No, thank you.”

“I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

I close the door behind me. At Joe’s desk, I set down the folder. “When can I see Harlow?”

Joe checks the schedule. “He’s on a conference call, but you can sneak in there in about five minutes or less.”

“That’ll do.” I photocopy the file and stare at it while I wait. There is an angle here. All I need is for my boss to say yes, and Jonny walks out of my office with what he needs. I can do this one right.

Joe signals me. “Call ended early. Go.”

Rex Harlow, Comptroller General, has a corner office with a view of the quad and about forty years of paperwork in it. Filing cabinets, three monitors, a whiteboard ruled into columns with fiscal-year deadlines written up in four colors. The only personal things in the room are golf—framed scorecards, a putter mounted on two brackets, a photograph of him shaking hands with somebody on a green.

“Ah! Lance! Settling in?” he asks. “How’s your first few weeks been?”

“Great, sir. I’m glad to be here.”

“Please. Have a seat. I have a feeling you’re here to ask me to weigh in on something.”

I pass over the documents, but I’m distracted by the golf memorabilia.

“Do you play?” he asks, tracking my gaze.

“No, sir.”

“What a pity. It’s great exercise. Nobody does anymore. Anyway, what have we got?”

“I have a quick question about one of the guest speakers for the upcoming conference. Travel complications. We’ve agreed to get him back and forth, but his visa renewal has been held up in Indian bureaucracy, apparently. As a result, he needs an open-jaw ticket rather than a return. His contract specifies a return ticket only.” I take a breath. “I think we should honor the spirit of the agreement and approve the change. The Istanbul ticket is actually cheaper than the Delhi one.”

“And who’s the speaker?” He looks at the papers in front of him.

“Jonny Bishop, sir. Digital entrepreneurship.”

“Bishop.” He doesn’t look up from the paperwork. “Local family?”

“He grew up here. He lost his mother and his brother and his grandmother in the fire.”

“Did he?” He turns a page. “Terrible thing.”

He glances over it, then looks at me sternly. “I understand that this may be how they ran things in the Marines, but we don’t set aside legally binding documents here. The spirit of a contract is not enforceable in court. Who determines what the spirit of it is?” He waves around the office. “And how do you explain that to a judge when you’re held for damages?”

I grit my teeth. “Sir, we’re about to hand him a useless ticket to Delhi. He can’t get on that plane. This is his livelihood.”

“Then he should have been more careful about what he signed.” He sets the folder down. “Mr. Broussard. There are genuine emergencies in this job and I deal with those the same day. There is a chemistry department waiting on equipment they cannot teach without. There is a Zamboni with a cracked compressor and a hockey program that has already sold tickets for December. Those go ahead of a request for new carpeting in the Student Union building that came in two months ago, and I made that call myself.”

“I understand, sir.”

“This is a university, not a hair salon. Millions of dollars come in at the top of the fiscal year and they are managed to the penny. There are forms and there is a process, and the process is the only thing standing between this institution and a state audit.” He picks the folder up again. “And now you have a guest speaker who expects to go to the top of the pile because he did not plan. That is not how it is done. This is finance. I tell this man that his legally binding contract is not valid and then what defense do we have next time? There are precedents and we have to follow them. Even if we don’t always like them.”

I had a battalion commander who talked like this. Same cadence, same way of answering a question you didn’t ask. Same habit of explaining a decision three times because nobody had ever made him defend it once. You didn’t argue with him either. You stood there and let it wash over you until he ran out.

I clench my jaw and have to remind myself that he’s good at his job. He knows where every dollar in this university is, down to the cent, and which form it came in on. In a month I have not seen him get one single thing wrong. And, even though Jonny Bishop couldn’t have anticipated the mess that his visa would still be in, he is also correct that the contract he signed is legally enforceable. The spirit of a contract is not a contract itself.

His phone rings and he waves me out.