61. Will #2
“Now, I could assume any number of things,” I went on, feeling more like a teacher than ever before.
I was going to lecture the shit out of this asshole.
“Maybe you always trust anonymous sources over experts. Or maybe you’re not interested in the truth but in causing harm, thinking that if you repeat this lie enough times, people will eventually believe it, which, to be fair, is a winning strategy.
Just look inside what’s left of the White House. ”
Stewart scoffed. “I don’t see what that has—”
“Or I could assume you believe this interview is your last chance to become a respected journalist again. It’s not that you’re stupid or a morally bankrupt dick.
You’re just a man who misses the love, respect, and community he once had, a man who’ll do anything to get them back.
Do you see how assuming there’s a reasonable explanation for your intellectual dishonesty puts me in a better position to remain civil and productive while we sort this out? ”
Stewart removed his glasses, hiding his anger and annoyance behind a mask of patient exasperation, like a parent waiting out a tantrum. “Are you done yet?”
I cleared my throat and locked eyes with Stewart.
“No, actually, because it’s not enough just to assign positive intent.
If you want people to treat you better, you have to teach them how.
I don’t physically intimidate my students.
When they misbehave, I name the need they’re trying to meet, so they know I get it, then I try to supply them with a better way. ”
“That’s very—”
“Like, in your case, I might say, ‘You thought crushing my comeback dreams would make you look good at your job and earn you back the respect you lost. But to truly regain respect, you have to take accountability for your actions, do what you can to repair the damage you’ve caused, and commit to doing better.”
Stewart’s white brows drew together. “Mr. Chapman, I’m not the one being interviewed here. You are.”
I grinned at Miles behind the camera. “Yes, I am. And to answer your question, yes, it absolutely is my place to forgive myself. Even if my students and their families didn’t love, respect, and trust me. Even if Derek and I weren’t on good terms again, which we are, it’d still be my place.”
I leaned forward, feeling more in control in my classroom than ever before.
“Guilt and remorse are powerful emotions, but their purpose isn’t to comfort victims; it’s to transform offenders.
Once you own your actions, learn from your mistakes, and try to make amends, guilt serves no purpose.
It traps you in the past, which can’t be changed, instead of letting you look to the future, which can be changed. ”
Stewart leaned back. “Have you owned your actions? You spent one night in jail and three months in rehab. Assault with a deadly weapon usually carries up to twenty years, at least for people without your wealth, fame, and connections.”
Jesus Christ, this guy was relentless. They’d probably edit out my best points, too. At least Miles was capturing them on his phone. Ah, so that’s what Mom was up to. She always was a step ahead.
I shifted in my seat. “You’re conflating punishment with consequences.
You’re right that the justice system didn’t intervene—largely because there was little to no evidence against me—but you’re wrong if you think I didn’t suffer consequences.
I lost my career, my friends, and, for a long time, my self-respect.
Punishment rarely changes behavior because people tend to channel all their negative emotions into blaming the punisher.
Consequences, on the other hand, especially natural ones, keep the focus on the person responsible. ”
Stewart nodded, conceding the point, which could only mean one thing—he had something else up his sleeve.
“Okay, so here we are, ten years later, and you’ve forgiven yourself and moved on. You claim to have no recollection of that night, so you’ve decided, why keep dropping a bucket into an empty well? Is that right?”
“Yeah, more or less.”
Stewart’s eyes narrowed. “What if I told you new evidence has come to light that not only proves you had motive but also shows you holding the weapon responsible, the very Golden Globe you’d won earlier that night?”
Mom’s teacup slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor.
“An anonymous source has come forward with portions of the missing security footage from the night Derek Hall was attacked,” Stewart continued.
“You’ve made your feelings on anonymous sources quite clear, so I’ll let our audience draw their own conclusions once they’ve seen the footage, but answer me this.
What was going through your head when you found out Derek, the man you were in love with, was sleeping with your mother? Did it make you angry?”
Before I could answer, a chorus of shouts erupted in the street below. I couldn’t make out what they were chanting. I couldn’t even swallow the spit in my mouth.
Stewart leaned forward. “Now might be a good time to take some of those deep breaths you’re so fond of.”
The shouting grew louder, and it almost sounded like they were chanting my name. Jesus, am I about to be hanged?
Stewart glanced over his shoulder at the commotion, his eyes pinched in annoyance. I, however, was too stunned to feel anything. Was this what dying felt like, this nothingness, this quiet acceptance that it was, for better or worse, over?
“Will, you’re going to want to see this,” Tiffany said from the window.
There was no point finishing the interview—no coming back from this—but my body refused to cooperate, and I just sat there.
“Yeah, this is wild,” Miles said. “I recognize that one. It’s the kid from our fridge.”
Julian? That got me out of my seat, my feet carrying me swiftly to the window.
What I saw down in the street made no sense.
Julian was there in his Catboy pajamas, screaming my name.
And he wasn’t alone. Practically every student I’d ever had was there.
Their parents, too. Hell, even Principal King was shouting my name like I was a rock star about to take the stage. There were even fucking signs.
“We love you, Mr. Chapman,” read one. “Best Teacher Ever!” said another. I wasn’t even the best teacher on my grade level, but that didn’t stop tears from welling in my eyes.
Then, as if this moment weren’t surreal enough, my father’s voice echoed through the classroom.
“Stewart, you’re not going to believe what I just found out,” he said, snapping my gaze from the window.
“Your anonymous source, who happens to be Derek’s disgruntled manager, Tony Wallingford—whoops, guess he’s not anonymous anymore—is actually the one who attacked Derek, which you might’ve deduced if you’d been interested in the truth.
” Dad turned to the producer. “William and I will happily sit down for another interview with a different host. For now, though, this sorry excuse for hard-hitting journalism is over.”