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Table of contents | Previous chapter Playing with Fire A novel by Scott Lazenby
Chapter Six  few days later, Pete Koenig came into my office. “I just got a copy of this.”He handed me a document from the Washington County district court. It was typed in the usual double space with legalese at the top. Basically, it looked like the lawyer for the Trillium Business Leadership Council — who happened to be the son of a local gas station owner — was requesting a writ of review of the city’s bid exemption for Nova Ceramics. “What’s a writ of review?” I asked.  “It’s sort of a second opinion on the council’s decision. You don’t see them very often, and to tell you the truth, I’m not that familiar with the process.” He was wearing a bow tie, dark blue with large yellow dots. It reminded me of a tropical fish.“Are they asking for any damages or penalties?” I asked. “I don’t see any mention of it here.” “No, in a writ of review, you don’t have to show that anyone was harmed.” “So what’s the remedy if they prove their case? Nova’s contractor is a quarter of the way into the project. We can’t undo that.” “I suppose it could invalidate the contract award,” Pete said, “but I don’t know exactly what happens. I figure they just want to make the city look bad.” “Great.” “Now, I don’t think they have much of a case. The courts have generally deferred to the local governing body in cases like this, as long as they’re within the overall guidelines in the law. And there’s no question in my mind that the council was within its rights.” “Okay. Thanks Pete. We’ll have to brief the council in executive session after Tuesday’s meeting.” • • • Sometimes I needed a sage to consult in times of trouble, and the person I turned to most was the police chief, Simon Garrett. He had been with the police department for 30 years, and chief for over 20 of them. Simon was a wiry man with a presence that commanded the respect of both his officers and his law-breaking clientele. In spite of the differences in our backgrounds, we had become good friends over the past ten years.“You want to hear a story?” Simon asked. “Sure,” I said. We sat at Simon’s customary table at the Fir Away Cafe. The food wasn’t great, but the place was across the street from the police station and the noise from the kitchen was a good mask for private conversations. “We got a complaint about odor at the Sunrise apartments. Stohoski and Chambers went on the call. You know where the Sunrise apartments are?” I nodded. “They’re really pretty decent as those rat cages go. Stohoski knocked on the door and a gal let them in. The inside of their place looked pretty decent too.” “It did?” The last odor complaint involved a woman who had kept thirty cats — all indoors and without a single litter box. The officers could hardly keep from retching when they finally got in the place. “Yep. That was the funny thing about it. But they could smell something bad, too. Chambers said, ‘Ma’am, we got a complaint about odor here.’ She said, ‘Come here,’ and took them to a room at the back of the apartment. They opened it, and it was filled to the ceiling with bags of garbage. Some of it must have been there a long time, ’cause they said it was rotting pretty good. They just looked at the gal. Know what she said?” “What?” “Taking out the garbage is his job!” Simon burst into laughter. It was contagious. “Is that true?” I asked. “Swear to God.” “People are strange sometimes, huh?” “You better believe it. I wouldn’t have a job if there weren’t so many nut cases running around.” Simon lit a cigarette. He pushed the ashtray to the end of the table so the smoke would go up the flue for the gas fireplace. “So, did you ever talk to Pritchard?” he asked. “Yeah. Didn’t learn much, though. I don’t know if he’s miffed because his company didn’t get to bid on the project, or what. He says they don’t like the plan, but they’ve never weighed in on any other development. Don’t know why they’re hot on this one.” “Maybe because Nova Ceramics is from the outside, and Pritchard and his buddies don’t like outsiders. Or maybe because they’re part owned by the Japanese. Hard to tell.” “Anyway,” I said, “they filed a writ of review to overturn the council’s contract award. It won’t slow the project down, but it’s a hassle for us to go through. I can see the headlines — ‘Trillium Business Group Sues City Over Contract.’ Even when we win in court, they’ll have done their damage.” “Don’t worry.” Simon leaned forward. “Todd Pritchard’s an asshole. We nearly had him on cocaine charges a couple years ago. Got off on a technicality. Ever notice that sometimes he doesn’t seem like he’s all there? He’s a jerk who would be living on the street if it weren’t for his wife and her daddy.” Pritchard’s construction business had been founded by his father-in-law. Pritchard himself had a degree in accounting from a correspondence school and, as far as I knew, never had any real construction experience. “Yeah, he’s hardly the American success story himself,” I said. “Or maybe he is, if you think about it. But even if he’s a few bricks shy of a load, that doesn’t make him any less dangerous. He could be a real loose canon.” Simon leaned back. He wore his usual uniform — blue jeans, cowboy boots, a white shirt, and an old windbreaker with an Oregon Trout logo instead of a badge. He looked around at the room. “This place here has been around a long time,” he said. “I remember when I first got hired. I was the only guy on the graveyard shift. In fact, the whole department only had eight people. Anyway, I got a call on a fight in the lounge here. Came in and two big guys were mixing it up pretty good. I thought, shit, what do I do now? They could’ve sent me through the wall. One of the city council members was sitting in the corner, drinking a beer. They didn’t have a city manager in those days; the council and the city recorder pretty much ran things. He motions me over and says, ’Simon, sit down.’ ” “The fight’s still going on?” “Damn right. The council member — I don’t even remember his name any more — he says, ‘Just give ’em some time. They’ll wear themselves out after a while.’ So that’s what I did. And don’t you know, they hit each other enough that after a while I could just go over and grab them by the collar. I escorted them into the back of my cruiser and they came along, peaceful as lambs.” “Wild West days in Trillium, huh?” “It was. And it really wasn’t that long ago, either.” “Maybe not much has changed,” I said. “But instead of using fists in a bar, they use lawyers now. Hard to tell which is more civilized.” • • • “We thought it would be a good idea to keep our lines of communication open here.” John Collins was a vice president responsible for Nova’s operations in Oregon, and he would manage the Trillium plant when it was built. He had already moved into a $400,000 home on the bluff over the Willamette River, and one of his daughters, Renee, was on the softball team I coached.The Nova executives looked like they would be equally comfortable on a golf course as on a factory floor. We sat under umbrellas on the sidewalk deck of the Hokkaido Express Grill, surrounded by the sounds of birds and passing cars. Ken Ishido, the facilities development manager for the parent company, punched some buttons on a palm computer. “Our schedule is holding up well. We appreciate the assistance we have received from the city of Trillium. We still project an opening date of May 1. This is important to meet the new orders we typically receive in the spring.” “What effect will this legal challenge have on the infrastructure project?” Ramon Diego was the owner of Northwest Construction, Inc. He lived in Trillium, but his company was based in Tualatin, a Portland suburb. “We don’t have a lot of slack in our timeline.” “Our city attorney says there’s no effect, since they didn’t ask for an injunction.” “Why didn’t they?” “Apparently, they can’t. They don’t have standing. And maybe they really don’t want to kill the project — they might just want to make the city look bad.” “So we’re in the clear, then?” “As far as we know,” I said. “But we could use your help on the defense for this case. Pete doesn’t shy away from a fight, but he’s really not a trial lawyer.” “That’s not a problem,” Ramon said. “I’ll have someone from Dewey and Howe get in touch with him.” “There is something that has me a little concerned,” Bess Wilson said. She wore something that looked like a cross between a dress and a sweatshirt. She never was a slave to fashion. “You’re going to need some right-of-way from Bruce Poulet to get your road access off 73rd Avenue. He had said he was open to that, but I saw his name listed as one of the directors of this Trillium Business Leadership Committee. They may use him as leverage to screw things up.” “Can’t you use eminent domain?” John asked. “Only as a last resort,” I said. “If we started talking about condemning private property for Nova, the critics would have a field day. I think in the long run, Poulet will work with us — the road will benefit him as much as you folks. He’ll probably drive a hard bargain, though.” “So what’s the problem? If he doesn’t give us the right-of-way, we don’t build the road. We can still get access off Chief Joseph Boulevard.” “The problem is the fire marshal has a bug up her ass about two accesses to the project,” Bess said. “It’s not like the place is going to burn down, with all the sprinkler equipment she’s making you install, but they need another way in if one of them gets blocked. That’s why the planning commission required the 73rd Avenue access as a condition of approval. No way around it now.” “So how will this affect the schedule?” John Collins asked. “Normally, we wouldn’t even issue a building permit for the plant until all the infrastructure is in,” Bess said. “But I’ll be damned if I want to give Poulet that trump card. I suppose we could let you go ahead and pull your permits — we just couldn’t allow occupancy until the road is finished. We’ve done it before. What do you think, Ben?” Why not? In for a penny, in for a pound. “Sure,” I said. “Community support is important,” Ken Ishido said. “If it looks like opposition will cause delays, we will have to switch to another location. I say this not as a threat, but as an accurate statement about our industry. If we are not able to meet the demand of our customers, our competitors will quickly move in, and we will lose market share. So I want to know, is the city of Trillium behind us?” “Of course,” I said. “We’ll make sure you can meet your deadlines. And I have a question for you. The food here tastes pretty good to me, but what do I know? So what did you think of the tempura?” • • • I was in the office at 7:30 the next morning. I logged onto my Internet account and quickly scanned the new mail list, half hoping for a message from Kate. I replied to a few of the messages, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Later that morning, Jake Wildavsky and I were finishing a discussion on a water plant grant application when Ken Longstreet, the finance director, came into the office. “I just got the current year property tax numbers from the county, and thought you would want to know. Actually, you don’t want to know this, but I suppose you have to.” He slumped into a chair and pulled at his collar. “That bad, huh?” “Yes. No one knew exactly how Measure 5-47 was going to work — the formula is too complicated — and it depends on property data from every parcel of property in the city. So they put all the figures in their black box, and just now came out with the results.” “And?” “And the bottom line is, we’re going to take a 30 percent hit.” “Really? Why so big?” “A lot of reasons. We’ve had strong growth in values and new construction over the last three years, and the measure wiped that out. The amount of the tax set aside for payments on our fire and library bonds is fixed by contract law, so that leaves less for the general fund. Like I said, no one knew how the final numbers would shake out, the ballot measure was such a convoluted piece of work.” “Crank up the bake sales...” Jake said. “I wonder if Pritchard knew it would work out this way,” I said. “No, he’s not that smart. Maybe his backers had an idea based on how it’s played out in other cities, but I’m sure Pritchard was just throwing a hand grenade into the system, and he didn’t care what it would hit.” “So, what are we going to do?” “We have enough cash reserves to get us through this fiscal year,” Ken said. “But we’re definitely going to have to do something drastic to make next year’s budget balance. It’s going to be a mess.” “What’s going to be a mess?” Diane McTavish blew into the office and joined us at my conference table. Ken repeated the news. The mayor sat in silence for a few seconds — a rare enough event that I could tell she was shaken. “With so much of the budget tied up in personnel cost, it’s pretty obvious what this is going to mean, isn’t it?” I wasn’t sure exactly what she was thinking, but I nodded anyway. Layoffs would be unavoidable; I knew that. “And your fire department idea is looking like a lot more than an academic exercise,” she said. “Looks that way,” Ken said. “Well, I just left a meeting of the Governor’s Revenue Reform task force,” McTavish said. “Once more, they’re talking about a state sales tax. I think the effort is doomed, but where else can we go?” “Yeah, the message from the voters seems to be that they won’t allow a sales tax until the state does away with property tax,” Jake said. “So we would build a three-legged stool and immediately kick the third leg out again. I had an uncle who built furniture that way, too. Not very successful.” “Ha. The task force is tied up in knots trying to figure out how to make a sales tax sellable,” McTavish said. “A big criticism is that the tax is regressive, especially when you tax food. But if you exempt food, you let a lot of middle- and high-income folks off the hook — sort of throwing the baby out with the bath water. So then what do they do? They start looking at each grocery item, trying to decide which one is essential, and should be tax-free, and which ones are discretionary, and should be taxed. What a paternalistic way to go about things.” “Sure, and it would end up being even more regressive,” Jake said. “Think about it — you would be taxing Twinkies, Ding Dongs, Doritos, TV dinners, beer, cigarettes — the very staples of the low-income family’s diet. What’s Joe Sixpack to do?” “Don’t ever run for political office, okay Jake?” the mayor said. “You know, though, there’s some truth to it,” Ken said. “When people complain about a tax being regressive, they usually aren’t worried about low-income folks — they’re worried about themselves, the middle class. That’s who a sales tax exemption on food is really for — and the home mortgage deduction, and the standard deduction, and IRAs. ... Only problem is, when you exempt the middle class, the tax is pretty useless as a revenue source.” “Yeah, the trick is to make it look like a break for the middle class, but not have it actually be one,” Jake said. “The middle-class conservatives think that getting rid of capital gains tax and going to a flat tax would be great — it would fix the IRS, wouldn’t it? — but they would be the ones getting screwed. They buy into the myth that Social Security is a government-sponsored pension system for their benefit, when it’s really a massive income transfer from the working middle class to people who as a group are the wealthiest in America — ” “Don’t get started on that,” McTavish said. “It isn’t worth wasting time talking about — there will never be any real changes to the tax structure anyway.” “Afraid so.” Jake and Ken excused themselves. The mayor stayed to catch up on business. “Not going to be a fun year, is it?” she said. “Doesn’t seem that way.” “How close are you to giving the council some options?” “Pretty close. We have some ideas for tweaking some fees — building permits, that kind of thing — and cutting some costs. But the next step will be to get some feedback from the council on priorities.” “Mmm. You ought to know our priorities by now. Just give us what you think is best.” Diane McTavish and her husband owned an insurance office. She had served a few terms on the budget committee and then the city council, and had been elected mayor two years ago. The public seemed to respect her even though she was outspoken and sometimes headstrong — or maybe because of it. “So, how does Sean like West Point?” I asked. “So far, so good. But they don’t let him call much, so I really don’t know. It just hit me that we won’t be seeing him much for the next four years, and then who knows where they’ll station him. They grow up too fast.” McTavish put on a pair of reading glasses and flipped through a stack of correspondence she had picked up in her in-box. The mayor had her own office in city hall — we called it the Ceremony Room. With its mahogany furniture and relative lack of clutter, it was the best place to greet visiting dignitaries or have pictures taken. McTavish kept a few working files there, but she was good at delegating most of the paperwork to staff. “Saw in the newspaper that you’ve had some interesting meetings with the firefighters,” she said. “They going to work with you, or not?” “I don’t know yet. I followed Ken’s advice and offered a bunch of concessions — sort of a pre-emptive strike. Immediate pay increases for switching to an eight-hour shift. No layoffs. Direct involvement in decision-making. I thought Gallagher might take the bait, but I can’t tell. ...” McTavish looked over the top of her glasses. “Think about what you’re up against. What’s the top of the pay range for a firefighter — about $50,000? Add on overtime, and you’re at $60,000. But with the 24-hours-on/48-hours-off shifts, that leaves you with, what, about 240 days off out of 360. So you figure in a part-time job as a framer or roofer or plumber. What’s that, another $40,000 a year? Then factor in plenty of time at home with the family, or for fishing or hunting. So you’ve got an annual income in the six figures, a job where you’re paid for sleeping, and plenty of leisure time. Then Ben Cromarty comes along and offers a 10 percent pay increase to give all of that up and switch to a regular job like the rest of us have.” I laughed. “Thanks for the encouragement. So you don’t think they’re going to buy it?” “Nope. But keep trying” She signed some letters we had prepared, and the official copies of the ordinances and resolutions that the city council had adopted last Tuesday. “This Trillium Business Leadership outfit is threatening legal action on the Nova contract award,” I said. “Not surprised. I saw the letter from Pritchard. Anything to it?” “Pete reckons we’re on solid legal ground, and it won’t hold up the project timeline. He’ll brief the council at the next meeting. But it will be a nuisance — the press will eat it up if it smells like a scandal. It always seems like the accusation gets the headlines. You know, ‘Contractor Accuses City of Shenanigans,’ and the final resolution of the case months later gets a half an inch at the back of the Metro section — ’Court Finds in City’s Favor.’ If our federal counterparts are any example, the primary role of government is to entertain the public and provide fodder for the press.” “Now, now. You can take it.” I smiled. “You’re right. I won’t last long in this if I indulge myself in self-pity.” “Well. I’ve got to get back to my paying job. You and Mary doing anything this weekend? Maybe we can all go to a show or something.” “Sure.” • • • The conference room in Station One was fully equipped with comfortable chairs, a heavy oak table, a white marking board, and a coffee maker. Three of the walls were covered with pictures of blazing buildings and soot-covered firefighters holding babies and house pets.Brian Gallagher sat on one side of the table with another firefighter, Doug Osborn. They were joined by Red Rogalsky, a hired gun from the International Association of Firefighters. His presence didn’t do much to encourage me. Max Oakley, Ken Longstreet and I sat on the other side. This technically wasn’t a contract negotiating session, but it sure looked like one. Brian and Red politely engaged in small talk with us as we filled coffee cups and organized our papers. Doug sat silently. “Well, it’s your meeting — what do you want to talk about?” Brian said. I had of course told him what we wanted to talk about when I called him a few days earlier. But I didn’t blame him for keeping the ball in our court. “Basically, we want to set up a process for involving the firefighters in the process of re-engineering our service delivery. Like I told you, the bottom line is that we need to save a lot of money, but I’m flexible on exactly how we do that. The news from the state is even worse than we first thought, and there is no possible way to avoid an impact on the fire department. So I want to establish some form of a labor-management task force to look at our options, and figure out the best way to target our resources separately to fire and medical calls.” “You’re making one big assumption,” Brian said. “Which is?” “That we’ll go along with this scheme in the first place. We’ve seen this before — you try to co-opt us in a decision by making it look like we’re a part of it.” “Okay, maybe I am making an assumption,” I said. “So let me put it another way — do you want to be part of the decision-making process, or not? I think the choice is simple.” Doug burst out, “So you’re threatening to push this on us whether we like it or not?” “Ben’s not making any kind of threat,” Ken said. “He’s offering things that go way beyond the provisions of the employment contract. He’s offering a chance to set up a process that gives real power to the line staff, to let them call the shots, in areas that have always been reserved as management rights. But the choice is yours. Like they say, you need to decide whether to lead, follow, or get out of the way.” I wasn’t sure that quoting Lee Iacocca was going to win points with the union, but I appreciated Ken jumping in. “But the bottom line is, you will never let us call the shots,” Brian said. “What do you pay Max here for? And what if we decide on some other way of saving money besides splitting fire and medical?” “Like what?” I said, immediately regretting it. “Like closing a fire station.” I played out the scenario in my mind. The city announces the closure of a fire station in response to Measure 5-47. The firefighters carefully leave the decision as to which station is closed to management. Then when the decision is made, the firefighters quietly — or overtly, if the past was any indication — rally the neighborhood surrounding the station against the city council. A barrage of letters to the editor and packed public meetings ends up forcing the city to keep the station open and manned. This happens late enough in the process that there’s no time to find any other significant savings in the fire department. I’d seen this happen in enough other cities to know that it was a hopeless situation. “Would you and your colleagues rally public support for such an option?” Max asked. “We can’t guarantee that. We don’t have any influence over how the residents think,” Brian said, with a straight face. “But we see this as a much better plan. Sure, there would be a reduction in service, but the voters had to anticipate that when they passed the ballot measures.” “But they also expect us to find more efficient ways of doing things,” I said. “Closing a fire station is an option, but I still want to pursue re-engineering our service. So I suppose I agree with you on one point: I’m retaining the right to set the overall direction the city goes, subject to city council direction. But within that, we’re offering a chance for real participation by the line staff.” “Let me offer another option,” Red Rogalsky said. “The association is mounting a major campaign to lobby Salem for more funds for firefighting. We think this will be successful, based on similar lobbying work by the Oregon Teachers Association. So there won’t be any significant reduction in the resources available for fire. This will give you the chance to avoid all the headaches associated with fire and medical cuts.” Sure, and most of those headaches were caused by his association. “So far,” Ken said, “the word from Salem is that if the legislature does increase funding for fire, they will take it from the small amount of income tax they already share with cities. So we wouldn’t see any net increase in revenues. How does that help us balance the budget?” “How they fund it is up to the legislature,” Red said. “But if it’s dedicated to fire, you can’t spend it somewhere else.” “But we still have discretion over the amount of property tax that we use for fire,” Ken said. “Then we may need to make sure the legislation restricts state funding assistance to only the cities that keep fire whole,” Red said. I let that statement hang for a while. “So you’re telling me that you are promoting legislation that doesn’t help cities at all, but instead provides for further revenue cuts for cities that reduce fire budgets. In what way do you see this as an option that helps me?” “I didn’t say that,” Red replied. “We’re looking at ways to keep revenues available for fire departments at sufficient levels to protect the public. Hopefully there won’t be an impact on any other city revenues, but we can’t dictate how the legislature makes its budget decisions. You may still have some funding challenges in other areas, but we are offering a way to avoid the problems associated with reductions in the fire service.” “Okay, fine,” I said. “But the legislature won’t act soon. In the meantime, we have to balance next year’s budget. So we’re back to where we started. Brian, let me ask one more time. How do you want to see the firefighters involved in decisions that affect the way we provide responses to fire calls and to medical calls?” “The only way they want to be involved is to fight it.” • • • The team warmed up in ninety-degree heat. I had put Trixie in at shortstop and was trying a new pitcher. For slow-pitch softball and ten-year-old batters, I wasn’t looking for strike-outs. What I needed was someone who was fast on her feet, who could think quickly, and who would set up the plays for the infield. Sarah Preston seemed like a good prospect, and as the visiting team came up to bat, it looked like my decision was a good one. The first batter hit a hard line drive, and Sarah leaped up and caught it in the end of her glove. The second batter popped a fly ball into a hole in center field for an easy single. The third batter bounced a ball just inside the right foul line — the first baseman ran in to scoop it up and lobbed it to Sarah, who had run over to cover first. She had moved so quickly that the runner stayed planted to the bag. The fourth batter hit a pop fly. Trixie back-pedaled into the outfield and made the catch for the third out. Sarah had instinctively moved over to back up the second baseman. The team ran in, sweating and grinning.Our first batter sliced the air with her first two swings, then pulled a beautiful line drive between the shortstop and third baseman. The second batter struck out. John Collins’ daughter, Renee, let fly with a hit into right field, driving in our first run. The girls were pumped. I motioned one of them over. “Jenny, you’re doing great out there. I saw how you backed up Trixie when she went for that fly ball.” “Thanks.” “Now, remember, when a left-handed batter comes up to the plate, go ahead and move over to your left a little, okay? They tend to pull it that way, right?” “Sure.” “That a girl. All right, you’re up next.” A breeze moved up from the river valley. The heat felt good. We got another run thanks to a fielding error, then got out on a fly ball and a tag play at second. The visitors were another Trillium Team, the Bad News Beavers. As my team took to the field, one of the parents ambled over from the visitors’ bleachers. I recognized him, but didn’t know his last name. He was one of our firefighters. “Hi, Phil,” I said. “Howdy, coach.” He leaned on the fence next to me and watched the game. “Your girls are doing real good. That pitcher of yours is a pistol. You must be doing something right in practice.” “No, I just got lucky. Sarah’s never played that position before.” Sarah walked a runner for the first time. “Okay ladies, the play’s at second,” I yelled. They ignored me. “Which one’s your girl, Phil?” “Beth, the one with the ponytail over there. Looks like she’s on deck.” Sarah fielded a short pop fly, and Beth moved up to the plate. Phil gave her a cheer. She ground her left foot in the dirt and cocked her bat. Sarah put the ball over the plate in a high arch, and Beth sent it just out of reach of Marcia at second base. She gave her dad a quick glance as she sprinted toward first. She rounded the base, but the center fielder had scooped up the ball and was heading for second. “I know the guys are giving you a hard time about your idea for setting up a medical response team,” Phil said. “Looks that way.” “Well, I just wanted to let you know I don’t think it’s that bad an idea. I wondered about the same thing when I first started on, then sort of forgot about it after a while.” “Really?” “Yep. I wouldn’t want the union guys to know I said it, though.” He laughed. The next batter hit into left field. Lupe picked it up and Marcia ran out to catch the relay. I noticed that Trixie automatically covered second. Good. The throw was wild and Beth rounded third. Phil hooted as she ran for the plate. He started jogging back to the visitors’ dugout. “Hey Phil,” I called. “Yeah?” “Thanks.” “Sure. Hang in there, Ben.” We ended up winning, eight to four. I gathered the girls for a post-game wrap-up, but they were too excited to listen to much, so I let them go home. I swung the gear bag over my shoulder, and Trixie and I left. “You looked great out there, buddy. You made some nice plays, and were using your head.” “Thanks, Dad.” She took my hand. I wished she would never grow too old for that. • • • Jake Wildavsky came into my office early the next morning.“Remember the problem I was having with one of the customer service reps, Rich Martinsen?” “Yes. Ever get it resolved?” “I thought we did, at least for a while. But yesterday he told a customer to go to hell, then hung up on him. So I fired him.” “Oh, man. How did he take it.” “Okay, at the time,” Jake said. “But I just got a call from a guy claiming to be Martinsen’s attorney. He made a lot of noise about it being a wrongful dismissal. Said that Martinsen suffers from multiple personality syndrome, and since it’s a disease, he’s protected under the Americans with Disabilities Act.” I laughed, then noticed that, for a change, Jake was serious. “You’re kidding, right?” “Nope. This lawyer says we need to make reasonable accommodation for Martinsen’s disorder, and can’t fire him.” “Reasonable accommodation? What does that mean here?” “I guess we would have him do book work or something else that doesn’t involve human interaction when his bad personality takes over. The job description for his position lists physical requirements — ADA requires that — but apparently we failed to mention that applicants need to refrain from abusing other people. Can you believe it?” “But you went out of your way to help the guy. Didn’t you put him through counseling under the employee assistance program?” “Yeah. It came to a head with his last outburst, and he signed a last chance agreement where he accepted counseling as an alternative to dismissal. The employee assistance program staff confirmed that he was showing up for the counseling sessions, but they never said anything about a multiple personality disorder. Even if they had, I’m not sure I would have done anything different. You sort of assume that people who act up enough to get fired are a little crazy anyway.” “Have you talked to Pete?” “Not yet. Wanted to let you know first.” “Well, assuming that Pete agrees that you took the right steps in the discipline process, tell him I want to call their bluff. It’s absurd.” • • • My phone rang just after Jake left.“Hi, Ben.” “Kate?” “Yeah. How’re you doing?” “Great! It’s good to hear you.” “You too.” “Did you get my e-mails?” “Uh huh,” she said, then paused. “That’s why I called. I, umm, I enjoyed reading them, but maybe I was reading too much into them. I wanted to send a message back, but finally I decided I couldn’t. ...” “Why?” “Well, I was worried about where it might take us. Most of all, I don’t want to do anything that would mess up my relationship with Mary. She’s been my best friend for most of my life. I didn’t want to do anything that I felt I would have to hide from her. You know? We really haven’t had any secrets. I don’t want to start now, okay? I don’t know if this makes any sense — it’s hard for me to talk about.” “No, you’re making sense. I don’t think you read too much into my notes, but I did feel like a kid in seventh grade sending them. Sorry to catch you off guard.” “Oh, that’s okay. But are you all right with this?” “Sure.” “Well, what else is new?” My mind went blank. Sitting there in my office with the phone in my hand and Kate on the other end, all I could think was that my days were filled with nothing but trivial minutiae. “Not much,” I said. “Trixie’s team won their game yesterday, Mary and I had a great night out at the Portland Symphony a few days ago, I’m still playing cat and mouse with the fire union, and a business group is suing us on a contract issue. Pretty normal stuff, I guess. How about you?” “Same. Things have quieted down some at the print shop. Gordon is as busy as ever. The boys are going to a camp for a week.” We were silent for a few moments. “A customer just came in,” Kate said. “I guess I better get off the phone.” “Yeah. It was good talking to you. I’m glad you called, Kate.” “Me too. Bye, Ben.” “See you.” I sat at my desk and tried to read the letter on the top of my in-box, but gave up. I left the office and climbed the stairs, then used my master key to open the roof door. The morning air was still cool, but the heat of the sun reflected off the building. I leaned against the parapet and watched the traffic below. The cars seemed to wander aimlessly. Next chapter: a ride-along Copyright © 2001, Scott D. Lazenby. Reproduction in any form without the written permission of the author is prohibited. Illustration: Paul Salmon |
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