something that looks like a passport, and serves for that purpose at crime scenes, issued with a picture on it by the prosecutor's office to each of its deputies, a ticket to the law enforcement fraternity.
"He looks at it, then puts it in his pocket," she says. I agree with her that there is a message in this.
"Yes, well. I tell him I want it back. He tells me to take a seat. I ask him what the hell's going on, and he doesn't answer.
"Mind you, while this is going on somebody's inside my office going through my desk drawers. I can hear the rustle of papers, voices inside, so I'm arguing with the cop outside in the hallway. And I'm getting pretty pushy." Visions of Lenore, all one hundred twenty pounds, taking on some burly deputy.
"Three guesses," I tell her, "and the first two don't count. Kline's inside with a flashlight and picks working the tumblers on your desk drawer?" I say.
She gives me a nod like "damn right."
"He's got that woman with him. Wendy. The pink slip dispenser. Someone he brought from the outside. They worked together at that association before he was elected." She makes the word association sound like something dirty.
"Anyway, she's standing there taking notes on a little pad, apparently taking inventory of everything in my office. I ask him what the hell's going on." Lenore sips her wine. "This is good."
"I'll break out the cheese and we can do the wine tasting later," I tell her.
She gives me a pain-in-the-ass expression.
"Anyway, he wants to know where all my notes are in the Acosta case. I tell him everything was in the file, that I gave it to him." She tells me that for some reason he doesn't believe this.
"At that point I start getting really pissed. I guess I said some things," she says.
She takes a drink, and I am left to use my own imagination to fill in the blanks, what part of her mind she no doubt gave to Kline at this point.
She swallows, then looks at me. "Then he tells me I'm fired." The look on her face imparts only a small measure of the shock she says came with this news.
"I ask him why, and he tells me he's been advised by the County Counsel's office not to state the grounds, that I'll be getting a letter, but that I'm terminated effective at five o'clock today. No explanation," she says. "Can you believe it?" The sorry fact is that I can. It is a measure of job security in the modern workplace. We discuss Lenore's recourse, which takes all of a nanosecond. As part of management she is what is called a "pleasure appointment," exempt from civil service protection. Hired and fired at the pleasure of the elected district attorney. Kline does not even require cause to fire her.
Anything that is not grounded in discrimination will do.
She tells me she has no intention of fighting it, that taking the long view, it is probably for the best. "Time to strike out on my own," she says. I ask her about prospects, clients or money. She has neither.
"I could give you Tony as a client," I tell her.
"Yeah, right. Just what I need." I think perhaps this is a lot of booze talking, that when she considers the sum of her financial obligations around payday, she may have other thoughts.
"Did you ever figure out what Kline wanted from the Acosta file? What it was he thought was missing?" I am thinking maybe this has something to do with her firing.
"With that one, God only knows," she says.
"You said he asked about your notes?" She gives me a face that is a question mark. She doesn't have a clue.
"What happened then?"
"High drama," she says. "He has Wendy hand me a cardboard box filled with personal items they've taken from my office and Kline tells the deputy to escort me from the building. Like I've committed some crime,"
she says.
Lenore is walking, pacing across my kitchen, straggly hair, drink in hand, steam seeming to rise from her body as she revisits the image in her mind.
"I never thought I'd end up pulling for some slime like Acosta," she
"He looks at it, then puts it in his pocket," she says. I agree with her that there is a message in this.
"Yes, well. I tell him I want it back. He tells me to take a seat. I ask him what the hell's going on, and he doesn't answer.
"Mind you, while this is going on somebody's inside my office going through my desk drawers. I can hear the rustle of papers, voices inside, so I'm arguing with the cop outside in the hallway. And I'm getting pretty pushy." Visions of Lenore, all one hundred twenty pounds, taking on some burly deputy.
"Three guesses," I tell her, "and the first two don't count. Kline's inside with a flashlight and picks working the tumblers on your desk drawer?" I say.
She gives me a nod like "damn right."
"He's got that woman with him. Wendy. The pink slip dispenser. Someone he brought from the outside. They worked together at that association before he was elected." She makes the word association sound like something dirty.
"Anyway, she's standing there taking notes on a little pad, apparently taking inventory of everything in my office. I ask him what the hell's going on." Lenore sips her wine. "This is good."
"I'll break out the cheese and we can do the wine tasting later," I tell her.
She gives me a pain-in-the-ass expression.
"Anyway, he wants to know where all my notes are in the Acosta case. I tell him everything was in the file, that I gave it to him." She tells me that for some reason he doesn't believe this.
"At that point I start getting really pissed. I guess I said some things," she says.
She takes a drink, and I am left to use my own imagination to fill in the blanks, what part of her mind she no doubt gave to Kline at this point.
She swallows, then looks at me. "Then he tells me I'm fired." The look on her face imparts only a small measure of the shock she says came with this news.
"I ask him why, and he tells me he's been advised by the County Counsel's office not to state the grounds, that I'll be getting a letter, but that I'm terminated effective at five o'clock today. No explanation," she says. "Can you believe it?" The sorry fact is that I can. It is a measure of job security in the modern workplace. We discuss Lenore's recourse, which takes all of a nanosecond. As part of management she is what is called a "pleasure appointment," exempt from civil service protection. Hired and fired at the pleasure of the elected district attorney. Kline does not even require cause to fire her.
Anything that is not grounded in discrimination will do.
She tells me she has no intention of fighting it, that taking the long view, it is probably for the best. "Time to strike out on my own," she says. I ask her about prospects, clients or money. She has neither.
"I could give you Tony as a client," I tell her.
"Yeah, right. Just what I need." I think perhaps this is a lot of booze talking, that when she considers the sum of her financial obligations around payday, she may have other thoughts.
"Did you ever figure out what Kline wanted from the Acosta file? What it was he thought was missing?" I am thinking maybe this has something to do with her firing.
"With that one, God only knows," she says.
"You said he asked about your notes?" She gives me a face that is a question mark. She doesn't have a clue.
"What happened then?"
"High drama," she says. "He has Wendy hand me a cardboard box filled with personal items they've taken from my office and Kline tells the deputy to escort me from the building. Like I've committed some crime,"
she says.
Lenore is walking, pacing across my kitchen, straggly hair, drink in hand, steam seeming to rise from her body as she revisits the image in her mind.
"I never thought I'd end up pulling for some slime like Acosta," she
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