Brigit's Flame August Week Four
Cracks in the façade
The following is my entry for Brigit's Flame August Week Four. The prompt was chameleon. Thanks to Ruth for the beta.
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Sitting in her cubicle, Dominga Mentuccia could feel someone standing behind her. With her eyes never leaving her monitor and her fingers continuing to tap on her keyboard, she spoke to her visitor.
“Emily, you should at least say hello before you startle me.”
Dominga couldn’t see her, but the bookkeeper’s face became a tad flushed with embarrassment.
“Well, looks like I don’t have to say hello since you always beat me to the punch, Dommie.”
Dominga took a deep breath. She hated nicknames. Without pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, Dominga turned and addressed Emily.
“What can I do for you?“
“I received the monthly usage of our account number for Enterprise rental. I noticed you used the account a week ago.”
“Yes, but I paid for it,” Dominga said, using her best air of professionalism. She knew exactly where this was going. “We did receive the memo that we were allowed to use the rental account number for personal use on personal days to get the $20 a day rate. I don’t believe I was out of line?”
“Oh, no, I’m not saying you were out of line,” Emily said with her own fake friendly personal demeanor. “I was just curious where you went. According to the mileage rate, you traveled 500 miles in one day.”
That comment got Dominga’s attention. She took her glasses off and stood to meet Emily’s eyes. “Excuse me, but since this was a personal trip and the invoice was not billed to the office address, I don’t know why you would inquire about mileage used during my rental time.”
“Well, that was my fault,” Emily said with a chuckle. “See, at first I thought it was billed so I immediately inquired about the inventory. They didn’t tell me right away that you had paid for it.”
“Bullshit,” Dominga thought, not daring to voice that opinion out loud. “You’re trolling for your troll-like boss.”
“Well, as you surmised, it was not a rental charged to the paper, nor will it be found on an expense report,” Dominga responded in a calm tone. “So, if you will excuse me, I should finish this for your boss before the 4 p.m. deadline.”
Dominga sat down, but Emily continued to stand where she was, even as Dominga put her glasses back on, turned to her computer and resumed her keyboard work.
After a minute, Emily spoke again. “I happened to mention the miles to Duncan,” Emily said, talking about their boss. “He said Raiford’s about 250 miles from here. But I told him I didn't know why would you want to go there, a little shit hole town. You wouldn’t have gone there or had a reason to, right?”
Dominga didn’t miss a beat or say a word. As far as she was concerned, Emily didn’t say anything.
And it made Emily nervous. She never knew what to think about Dominga, who she suspected was smart. But Emily’s self-image was healthy and she figured she could play mental chess with Dominga any day.
But today didn’t seem like the day.
“Well,” Emily said, backpedaling, “there are a lot of places that are 250 miles away, right?” While Emily tried to lighten the mood, she noticed nothing was reciprocated not even from her chuckle, so she poked Dominga’s shoulder. “Right Dommie?”
Dominga turned around slowly and offered an innocuous smile. “I’m sorry, Emily. I was lost in thought. You need something else?”
“No, nothing else. I’ll talk to you later.”
“OK, great,” Dominga said with her face back to the monitor. “Have a nice day.”
Dominga knew she left but kept typing furiously for 10 more minutes. Finally, she relaxed and sat back with a stern look on her face. Emily might have been the dullest tool in the toolbox, but she would no doubt regurgitate every word of their conversation to Duncan.
The office atmosphere lacked any amount of trust, and when she was in a frivolous mood, Dominga would refer to her job as “Corporate Survivor” with seven remaining contestants. But some extra-curricular research quashed any frivolity she might still possess.
And last week’s trip sealed the deal. Enough of facades. He knew what she was doing and she knew what he was up to. The question was to figure out what to do from here.
________
Dominga never minded working for a non-profit organization. Being a member of the communication’s staff for eight years, she had done her share of “Johnny Do-Good” staff member profiles, but she really enjoyed getting out in the field and telling the stories of the people the organization helped.
For about six years, it was a dream job. Good benefits, a decent paycheck and she went home feeling like she was accomplishing something. But two years ago, management turned over and things really changed.
The biggest difference - less focus on people served and more focus on what the organization did for the community. OK, fine, that happens, Dominga reasoned, new CEO’s like to toot their horn. But that was the point: this wasn’t about the organization; it was about the CEO - Jake Halstead.
Halstead was a 45-year-old corporate powerhouse. He was a stock market prodigy in his 20s and 30s, who bounced from one Fortune 500 Company to another. Financial and governmental analysts agreed Halstead might be looking toward padding his resume to guide his congressional, and perhaps beyond, aspirations. Securing a job in the non-profit sector might help him.
When the Joette Kramer, CEO at Dominga’s job, retired, the company went through an exhaustive candidate search to find somebody suitable to fill Kramer’s shoes. Halstead wowed the search committee with both his humility and his charm, which is always a tricky combination, Dominga thought in hindsight. But for fundraising purposes alone, the committee thought those traits, along with his financial savvy, would do the non-profit well.
The company, a fine-oiled machine that used a system of checks and balances before Halstead arrived, became bogged down with the environment of micromanagement that he brought with him.
Dominga tried to keep objective, but all the symptoms of poor management were there. Good people were pushed out. Other people Dominga regarded as smart professionals quit their posts for jobs they wouldn’t give a second look during the previous regime.
And worse than that, sycophants with zero experience and work ethics were promoted again and again.
Sycophants like Duncan whom Dominga never trusted. But she tried to give the benefit of doubt. That is until the seeds of suspicion sprouted three months prior when Halstead made a rare appearance in the communications department.
Seeing Halstead in their division prompted several senior members of the department, including Claudia, Dominga and Harrison Johnson, a 12-year veteran in grant writing, to raise their eyebrows.
“Dominga,” Harrison had said. “Looks like you might be doing some razzle dazzle.”
Sure, media relations offered many press releases, but another role is to make sure that certain scenarios stay out of the media limelight.
“I don’t know Harrison,” Dominga had responded. “I have a feeling this is something I won’t be touching at all.”
The rumors said it had something to do with a car - most probably Halstead’s car. One of his executive assistants stepped down from his position. That was the rumor. But it was hard to get anywhere with just rumors, and so they quieted.
Quieted, but didn’t die.
Shortly after the hush-hush meeting, Duncan called for a department staff meeting. After ahe talked about the need to reduce the 20 staffers in the department, he introduced his new assistant/department bookkeeper, Emily.
Duncan didn’t waste time with any cuts. The first person to go was Harrison, although not without protest.
“Duncan, he’s working on five different grants totally about $275,000,” Claudia pleaded. “We need him.”
Duncan didn’t agree.
The communications department became tense. No one knew what would happen next. Who would go next? Duncan became unpredictable and volatile.
But while an accomplished kiss-ass, Duncan was not the most intelligent man. He neither knew how to use his computer properly or save important files discreetly. So when a file folder named “Halsteadcar” followed by Duncan’s initials appeared on the communications department open file server about two weeks ago, Claudia was quick to copy it and its contents to a flash drive. She invited Dominga to her home to open the files on her own computer.
“Isn’t this unethical?” Dominga asked.
Claudia looked down and then to her friend. “Yeah, I guess it is.” She sighed. “If you don’t want to look at this, I understand. But this is more than just curiosity, Dominga. Something is going on at that place, something's not right. And I just don’t know what to think about Halstead.”
Dominga understood this. She merely shook her head and Claudia opened and printed files.
The information was cryptic but not undecipherable. Claudia and Dominga gleaned what had occurred. Four months ago, Jake Halstead’s CL-600 Mercedes Coupe was involved in an accident. That was a fact that wasn’t in dispute. But who was driving and the circumstances surrounding the accident seemed to be shrouded.
The accident didn’t involve another car; it involved a pedestrian. It would seem that Desmond Norton, one of Halstead’s executive assistants, said he was behind the wheel when a man appeared in front of the car.
What was fishy about that is Jake Halstead is known around the office as being obsessive about his car. He was the only top executive who never used valet parking.
“Why would he allow Norton to drive his car?” Dominga asked.
“He wouldn’t,” Claudia answered. “There is no way Halstead was not the person behind the wheel. Did you see the severance package for Norton?”
Dominga took a paper from Claudia’s hand. She couldn’t believe her eyes. “Three years? Who gets that?”
“Someone with a secret to keep.”
“It’s too bad we don’t have a police report.”
“We do,” Claudia responded. “I’m telling you, this moron copied an entire file over.”
Dominga perused the PDF. “This is saying Halstead wasn’t even present when authorities got to the crash. Norton was alone.” Dominga continued to read. “And get this. The report states Norton was driving his boss’ car at 4 a.m. downtown to check out the progress of a bakery that incurred a small business loan.”
“Wow,” Claudia said. “That is a tale spun.”
“I guess it’s possible,” Dominga said. “But why would he need Halstead’s car to do that?”
“Exactly,” Claudia agreed. “Either Halstead was in the car alone, got in the accident himself and then called Norton to switch cars. Or they were in the car together.”
“And what were they doing together at 4 a.m.?”
“I don’t know,” Claudia said. “But it must have been worth three years of salary.”
“The pedestrian is identified in this report - Charles Clemons,” Dominga said. “I wonder what his story is. They ruled his death as a suicide. He darted in front of the car, according to Norton’s statement and the police report. They found a note in the guy’s pocket.”
“Oh my God,” Claudia said in a tone that created butterflies in Dominga’s stomach.
“What is it?”
Claudia turned her laptop toward her friend. “It’s a suicide note. Duncan wrote a suicide note.” Dominga looked incredulously, but before she could speak, Claudia reached across her and showed the file information for this specific document. “This was written the day of the accident. Look at the time stamp.”
“2:38 a.m. Holy shit. Can that be right?”
“Yeah, if they were staging this,” Claudia said. “I think that Halstead was with Norton. And Halstead was driving.”
“Then they got in the accident. That area of downtown is a off the beaten path, closer to the woods than downtown. Guy could have come out of the woods and BAM! They hit him.”
“So, instead of calling the police right away, they called someone Halstead knew wouldn’t utter a word - Duncan,” Claudia said. “And he gets the suicide idea. He arrives at the scene and sticks the note in Clemons’ pocket. He takes Halstead away from the scene and left Norton to take the blame.”
Both women took a breath. They might have got it right, but who would believe it?
“Now what?” Dominga said.
“I don’t know,” Claudia said. “Let’s sleep on it and think about it at work tomorrow.
---
The next day, Claudia was fired for taking a company-supplied bottle of water she had been drinking at her desk on the drive home. She became the 13th casualty in the department.
While she packed her desk in silence, Claudia glanced at Dominga and wiped her right thumb twice on her left cheek then flashed her a peace sign. Two hours later, the two met at All Thumbs Irish Pub, a quiet place 10 miles from the office.
“He was gunning after me,” Claudia said. “I should have been more careful.”
“Yes, you were just silly to quench your thirst with something as ludicrous as water,” Dominga joked.
The two toasted with their libations and then became quite sober. Dominga didn’t know if Claudia's termination was by coincidence or design, but it didn’t matter - she no longer had a support system.
“Are you going to do anything with what we found?” Dominga asked.
“I don’t know what I can do with it,” Claudia said. “Even if I took this to the press, there’s not enough.”
It was true. As much as they discovered, basically they only had theories. There was nothing concrete to say Norton and Halstead were together (and what they might have been doing so close to the woods in the wee hours of the morning). Nothing to say Duncan went to the scene. And nothing concrete to say Clemons never wrote the note (although the time stamp was a good start).
Dominga returned to work feeling more alone. She couldn’t stop her mind from churning theories, but the more she thought about the issue, the more withdrawn she became.
She couldn’t prove anything, and if she could where would that leave her? Most likely without a job. Halstead was the kind of guy who would reach his goal no matter what. And some low-rung on a corporate ladder wasn’t going to push him out.
So she tried to put everything out of her mind. Nothing wrong with becoming one of them. She had seen many good people leave the organization. If she was to stay, at least she could try to continue to do some good. Maybe she just needed to smile and be positive. Maybe her challenge was not to try and derail Duncan or Halstead, but focus on those people she loved to profile.
After a week of living under a mask of corporate servitude, Dominga thought she was doing OK. She went home, she made herself a drink and then she saw the folder. She tried not to, but she did; she peeked.
And that was all it took. One sentence hit her like a ton of bricks. She put the sheet of paper down and went to her phone book to reserve a car at the local Enterprise. She could have gone to any rental agency, but she chose to use the corporate account.
That would mean that Duncan or his minion might find out about Dominga’s personal trip. But that’s OK. That’s what she counted on.
----------
The trip to Raiford was long. After being on the highway, the drive necessitated some two-lane roads to return to Dominga’s hometown.
She hadn’t been there in a good 15 years. Her parents had passed, she had no friends there, and her roots were gone.
But now she found another reason to return. Charles Clemson was from Raiford. Dominga made the trip to speak to his wife.
Emily wasn’t wrong when she called Raiford a shit-hole little town. It was. But it’s funny, even though she left, Dominga often visited the neighborhood newspaper’s Web page, she always kept up with what happened in the little town.
On the way to seeing Clemson’s widow, Dominga stopped at a site she used to visit 20 years ago when she wanted to be alone. Two decades had transformed the view she once knew as fields of grass and groves of orange trees into a few neighborhoods. Now, Dominga viewed dozens upon dozens of rooftops.
She stood rooted in place with her arms crossed upon her chest and she pondered. When she had visited this very spot years ago, it was to find a lonely place to sneak a smoke. Now, 20 years older, she stood thinking about the who, the what and the why.
She glanced to her southeast and picked out the neighborhood where a friend lived some 15 years ago. Her friend’s next-door neighbor had a sweet daughter who was 10 at the time Dominga met her. Five years later, her friend sent Dominga a newspaper clipping. She read how at the age of 15, that sweet daughter was lured outside her bedroom window to talk with her estranged 16-year-old boyfriend. He strangled and killed the girl with his bare hands. She would have been 25 now. He was charged as an adult. He might get parole in 10 years.
Right in the center of her purview her eyes settled on an empty lot. An article she read online three years ago detailed how a man burned down his parents’ home with his elderly parents in it. Thanks to smoke detectors and two teenaged boys who were out late past curfew, the elderly couple got out in time. Dominga remembered reading how neighbors had said nothing but nice things about the homeowners and their “quiet adult son.” The two teens got keys to the city, but still had to do two weeks of community service for breaking the curfew.
And then there was the house in the northwest corner near Peterson Road. This morning Dominga read a news article about the resident of 4569 Peterson Road - the Rev. Hampton Curtis, pastor of the popular On The Rock Church where perhaps half of the residents worship. He was suckered by an e-mail scam that led him to pilfer money from the church's savings, some $1.5 million, and put it in a bank account in Nigeria in hopes of sharing in $6 million locked in that mysterious overseas account. A man entrusted with the souls of half the townspeople was too naive or too greedy to safeguard the financial future of the church.
She sighed and kept her arms crossed while a thought crossed her mind: “Simple homes. Simple neighborhoods. Mortar and wood, and a lot of facades.”
Sometimes façades need a boiling point to be broken, other times it just takes courage.
Dominga needed more information to give her the courage to break her own façade.
----
Dominga continued to stare at her monitor. She smiled and got up from her seat, went to the printer to retrieve her documents and took a walk to Duncan’s office.
Duncan didn’t hesitate to shout “Come in” after hearing a knock on his office door. He didn’t seem surprised to see Dominga in his office.
“Well, Ms. Mentuccia, to what do I owe the pleasure.”
“Your program proofs,” she said.
Duncan stared at her and then retrieved the documents from her grasp. “Thank you.”
He went back to concentrating on signing pages on his desk. While he might have expected Dominga to leave, she didn’t. She spoke up instead.
“Did you know I grew up in Raiford?”
Duncan’s hand stopped moving, but he never lifted his eyes. Dominga just continued to speak.
“Did you know that Raiford has the largest illiteracy rate among adults 35 years and older in our state? It's about 68 percent.”
Duncan’s eyes met Dominga’s, who offered that fake friendly corporate smile.
“Of course, some adults try to take classes. It’s amazing, the tutors remember the students. Even how far they got in their studies. You know, small town,” Dominga said, with a pleasant smile and little chuckle. “I know this woman, we used to go to school together, sweet woman. Well, she's a tutor at the local library in Raiford. She recalled this one man who tried so hard but still couldn’t write his own name, much less a sentence or two. But he said once he came back from doing some work here, in our city, he would be back to his studies. Inspirational story.”
Duncan fired his gaze at Dominga, gauging her reaction, which was negligible. Before he could speak up, Emily popped into his office flustered.
“Duncan, there’s a news crew outside. You’re needed immediately for comment.”
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve just fielded calls from two news organizations, including CNN. They want statements on allegations against Mr. Halstead. What’s going on, Duncan?”
“Nothing, just. … Nothing. Before I go out there, I need to see Mr. Halstead immediately.”
Duncan stood up and adjusted his tie. He was nervous and jittery and seemed totally unprepared. Dominga sat there and watched.
“You have anything more to say, Mentuccia?” Duncan asked with his tone filled with frustration.
“No, just put on that smile. The last thing we need are cracks in our façade, right?”
END
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Many, many thanks go to SeattleCSIFan who pushed and pushed and pushed for me to complete this. I did entirely too much whining while producing this piece. I'm sorry I whined. And thanks to Insolentscrawl who read this and asked if everything was OK at work. It's good to have friends who care. Hope you all enjoyed it and thanks for reading.
The following is my entry for Brigit's Flame August Week Four. The prompt was chameleon. Thanks to Ruth for the beta.
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Sitting in her cubicle, Dominga Mentuccia could feel someone standing behind her. With her eyes never leaving her monitor and her fingers continuing to tap on her keyboard, she spoke to her visitor.
“Emily, you should at least say hello before you startle me.”
Dominga couldn’t see her, but the bookkeeper’s face became a tad flushed with embarrassment.
“Well, looks like I don’t have to say hello since you always beat me to the punch, Dommie.”
Dominga took a deep breath. She hated nicknames. Without pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, Dominga turned and addressed Emily.
“What can I do for you?“
“I received the monthly usage of our account number for Enterprise rental. I noticed you used the account a week ago.”
“Yes, but I paid for it,” Dominga said, using her best air of professionalism. She knew exactly where this was going. “We did receive the memo that we were allowed to use the rental account number for personal use on personal days to get the $20 a day rate. I don’t believe I was out of line?”
“Oh, no, I’m not saying you were out of line,” Emily said with her own fake friendly personal demeanor. “I was just curious where you went. According to the mileage rate, you traveled 500 miles in one day.”
That comment got Dominga’s attention. She took her glasses off and stood to meet Emily’s eyes. “Excuse me, but since this was a personal trip and the invoice was not billed to the office address, I don’t know why you would inquire about mileage used during my rental time.”
“Well, that was my fault,” Emily said with a chuckle. “See, at first I thought it was billed so I immediately inquired about the inventory. They didn’t tell me right away that you had paid for it.”
“Bullshit,” Dominga thought, not daring to voice that opinion out loud. “You’re trolling for your troll-like boss.”
“Well, as you surmised, it was not a rental charged to the paper, nor will it be found on an expense report,” Dominga responded in a calm tone. “So, if you will excuse me, I should finish this for your boss before the 4 p.m. deadline.”
Dominga sat down, but Emily continued to stand where she was, even as Dominga put her glasses back on, turned to her computer and resumed her keyboard work.
After a minute, Emily spoke again. “I happened to mention the miles to Duncan,” Emily said, talking about their boss. “He said Raiford’s about 250 miles from here. But I told him I didn't know why would you want to go there, a little shit hole town. You wouldn’t have gone there or had a reason to, right?”
Dominga didn’t miss a beat or say a word. As far as she was concerned, Emily didn’t say anything.
And it made Emily nervous. She never knew what to think about Dominga, who she suspected was smart. But Emily’s self-image was healthy and she figured she could play mental chess with Dominga any day.
But today didn’t seem like the day.
“Well,” Emily said, backpedaling, “there are a lot of places that are 250 miles away, right?” While Emily tried to lighten the mood, she noticed nothing was reciprocated not even from her chuckle, so she poked Dominga’s shoulder. “Right Dommie?”
Dominga turned around slowly and offered an innocuous smile. “I’m sorry, Emily. I was lost in thought. You need something else?”
“No, nothing else. I’ll talk to you later.”
“OK, great,” Dominga said with her face back to the monitor. “Have a nice day.”
Dominga knew she left but kept typing furiously for 10 more minutes. Finally, she relaxed and sat back with a stern look on her face. Emily might have been the dullest tool in the toolbox, but she would no doubt regurgitate every word of their conversation to Duncan.
The office atmosphere lacked any amount of trust, and when she was in a frivolous mood, Dominga would refer to her job as “Corporate Survivor” with seven remaining contestants. But some extra-curricular research quashed any frivolity she might still possess.
And last week’s trip sealed the deal. Enough of facades. He knew what she was doing and she knew what he was up to. The question was to figure out what to do from here.
________
Dominga never minded working for a non-profit organization. Being a member of the communication’s staff for eight years, she had done her share of “Johnny Do-Good” staff member profiles, but she really enjoyed getting out in the field and telling the stories of the people the organization helped.
For about six years, it was a dream job. Good benefits, a decent paycheck and she went home feeling like she was accomplishing something. But two years ago, management turned over and things really changed.
The biggest difference - less focus on people served and more focus on what the organization did for the community. OK, fine, that happens, Dominga reasoned, new CEO’s like to toot their horn. But that was the point: this wasn’t about the organization; it was about the CEO - Jake Halstead.
Halstead was a 45-year-old corporate powerhouse. He was a stock market prodigy in his 20s and 30s, who bounced from one Fortune 500 Company to another. Financial and governmental analysts agreed Halstead might be looking toward padding his resume to guide his congressional, and perhaps beyond, aspirations. Securing a job in the non-profit sector might help him.
When the Joette Kramer, CEO at Dominga’s job, retired, the company went through an exhaustive candidate search to find somebody suitable to fill Kramer’s shoes. Halstead wowed the search committee with both his humility and his charm, which is always a tricky combination, Dominga thought in hindsight. But for fundraising purposes alone, the committee thought those traits, along with his financial savvy, would do the non-profit well.
The company, a fine-oiled machine that used a system of checks and balances before Halstead arrived, became bogged down with the environment of micromanagement that he brought with him.
Dominga tried to keep objective, but all the symptoms of poor management were there. Good people were pushed out. Other people Dominga regarded as smart professionals quit their posts for jobs they wouldn’t give a second look during the previous regime.
And worse than that, sycophants with zero experience and work ethics were promoted again and again.
Sycophants like Duncan whom Dominga never trusted. But she tried to give the benefit of doubt. That is until the seeds of suspicion sprouted three months prior when Halstead made a rare appearance in the communications department.
Seeing Halstead in their division prompted several senior members of the department, including Claudia, Dominga and Harrison Johnson, a 12-year veteran in grant writing, to raise their eyebrows.
“Dominga,” Harrison had said. “Looks like you might be doing some razzle dazzle.”
Sure, media relations offered many press releases, but another role is to make sure that certain scenarios stay out of the media limelight.
“I don’t know Harrison,” Dominga had responded. “I have a feeling this is something I won’t be touching at all.”
The rumors said it had something to do with a car - most probably Halstead’s car. One of his executive assistants stepped down from his position. That was the rumor. But it was hard to get anywhere with just rumors, and so they quieted.
Quieted, but didn’t die.
Shortly after the hush-hush meeting, Duncan called for a department staff meeting. After ahe talked about the need to reduce the 20 staffers in the department, he introduced his new assistant/department bookkeeper, Emily.
Duncan didn’t waste time with any cuts. The first person to go was Harrison, although not without protest.
“Duncan, he’s working on five different grants totally about $275,000,” Claudia pleaded. “We need him.”
Duncan didn’t agree.
The communications department became tense. No one knew what would happen next. Who would go next? Duncan became unpredictable and volatile.
But while an accomplished kiss-ass, Duncan was not the most intelligent man. He neither knew how to use his computer properly or save important files discreetly. So when a file folder named “Halsteadcar” followed by Duncan’s initials appeared on the communications department open file server about two weeks ago, Claudia was quick to copy it and its contents to a flash drive. She invited Dominga to her home to open the files on her own computer.
“Isn’t this unethical?” Dominga asked.
Claudia looked down and then to her friend. “Yeah, I guess it is.” She sighed. “If you don’t want to look at this, I understand. But this is more than just curiosity, Dominga. Something is going on at that place, something's not right. And I just don’t know what to think about Halstead.”
Dominga understood this. She merely shook her head and Claudia opened and printed files.
The information was cryptic but not undecipherable. Claudia and Dominga gleaned what had occurred. Four months ago, Jake Halstead’s CL-600 Mercedes Coupe was involved in an accident. That was a fact that wasn’t in dispute. But who was driving and the circumstances surrounding the accident seemed to be shrouded.
The accident didn’t involve another car; it involved a pedestrian. It would seem that Desmond Norton, one of Halstead’s executive assistants, said he was behind the wheel when a man appeared in front of the car.
What was fishy about that is Jake Halstead is known around the office as being obsessive about his car. He was the only top executive who never used valet parking.
“Why would he allow Norton to drive his car?” Dominga asked.
“He wouldn’t,” Claudia answered. “There is no way Halstead was not the person behind the wheel. Did you see the severance package for Norton?”
Dominga took a paper from Claudia’s hand. She couldn’t believe her eyes. “Three years? Who gets that?”
“Someone with a secret to keep.”
“It’s too bad we don’t have a police report.”
“We do,” Claudia responded. “I’m telling you, this moron copied an entire file over.”
Dominga perused the PDF. “This is saying Halstead wasn’t even present when authorities got to the crash. Norton was alone.” Dominga continued to read. “And get this. The report states Norton was driving his boss’ car at 4 a.m. downtown to check out the progress of a bakery that incurred a small business loan.”
“Wow,” Claudia said. “That is a tale spun.”
“I guess it’s possible,” Dominga said. “But why would he need Halstead’s car to do that?”
“Exactly,” Claudia agreed. “Either Halstead was in the car alone, got in the accident himself and then called Norton to switch cars. Or they were in the car together.”
“And what were they doing together at 4 a.m.?”
“I don’t know,” Claudia said. “But it must have been worth three years of salary.”
“The pedestrian is identified in this report - Charles Clemons,” Dominga said. “I wonder what his story is. They ruled his death as a suicide. He darted in front of the car, according to Norton’s statement and the police report. They found a note in the guy’s pocket.”
“Oh my God,” Claudia said in a tone that created butterflies in Dominga’s stomach.
“What is it?”
Claudia turned her laptop toward her friend. “It’s a suicide note. Duncan wrote a suicide note.” Dominga looked incredulously, but before she could speak, Claudia reached across her and showed the file information for this specific document. “This was written the day of the accident. Look at the time stamp.”
“2:38 a.m. Holy shit. Can that be right?”
“Yeah, if they were staging this,” Claudia said. “I think that Halstead was with Norton. And Halstead was driving.”
“Then they got in the accident. That area of downtown is a off the beaten path, closer to the woods than downtown. Guy could have come out of the woods and BAM! They hit him.”
“So, instead of calling the police right away, they called someone Halstead knew wouldn’t utter a word - Duncan,” Claudia said. “And he gets the suicide idea. He arrives at the scene and sticks the note in Clemons’ pocket. He takes Halstead away from the scene and left Norton to take the blame.”
Both women took a breath. They might have got it right, but who would believe it?
“Now what?” Dominga said.
“I don’t know,” Claudia said. “Let’s sleep on it and think about it at work tomorrow.
---
The next day, Claudia was fired for taking a company-supplied bottle of water she had been drinking at her desk on the drive home. She became the 13th casualty in the department.
While she packed her desk in silence, Claudia glanced at Dominga and wiped her right thumb twice on her left cheek then flashed her a peace sign. Two hours later, the two met at All Thumbs Irish Pub, a quiet place 10 miles from the office.
“He was gunning after me,” Claudia said. “I should have been more careful.”
“Yes, you were just silly to quench your thirst with something as ludicrous as water,” Dominga joked.
The two toasted with their libations and then became quite sober. Dominga didn’t know if Claudia's termination was by coincidence or design, but it didn’t matter - she no longer had a support system.
“Are you going to do anything with what we found?” Dominga asked.
“I don’t know what I can do with it,” Claudia said. “Even if I took this to the press, there’s not enough.”
It was true. As much as they discovered, basically they only had theories. There was nothing concrete to say Norton and Halstead were together (and what they might have been doing so close to the woods in the wee hours of the morning). Nothing to say Duncan went to the scene. And nothing concrete to say Clemons never wrote the note (although the time stamp was a good start).
Dominga returned to work feeling more alone. She couldn’t stop her mind from churning theories, but the more she thought about the issue, the more withdrawn she became.
She couldn’t prove anything, and if she could where would that leave her? Most likely without a job. Halstead was the kind of guy who would reach his goal no matter what. And some low-rung on a corporate ladder wasn’t going to push him out.
So she tried to put everything out of her mind. Nothing wrong with becoming one of them. She had seen many good people leave the organization. If she was to stay, at least she could try to continue to do some good. Maybe she just needed to smile and be positive. Maybe her challenge was not to try and derail Duncan or Halstead, but focus on those people she loved to profile.
After a week of living under a mask of corporate servitude, Dominga thought she was doing OK. She went home, she made herself a drink and then she saw the folder. She tried not to, but she did; she peeked.
And that was all it took. One sentence hit her like a ton of bricks. She put the sheet of paper down and went to her phone book to reserve a car at the local Enterprise. She could have gone to any rental agency, but she chose to use the corporate account.
That would mean that Duncan or his minion might find out about Dominga’s personal trip. But that’s OK. That’s what she counted on.
----------
The trip to Raiford was long. After being on the highway, the drive necessitated some two-lane roads to return to Dominga’s hometown.
She hadn’t been there in a good 15 years. Her parents had passed, she had no friends there, and her roots were gone.
But now she found another reason to return. Charles Clemson was from Raiford. Dominga made the trip to speak to his wife.
Emily wasn’t wrong when she called Raiford a shit-hole little town. It was. But it’s funny, even though she left, Dominga often visited the neighborhood newspaper’s Web page, she always kept up with what happened in the little town.
On the way to seeing Clemson’s widow, Dominga stopped at a site she used to visit 20 years ago when she wanted to be alone. Two decades had transformed the view she once knew as fields of grass and groves of orange trees into a few neighborhoods. Now, Dominga viewed dozens upon dozens of rooftops.
She stood rooted in place with her arms crossed upon her chest and she pondered. When she had visited this very spot years ago, it was to find a lonely place to sneak a smoke. Now, 20 years older, she stood thinking about the who, the what and the why.
She glanced to her southeast and picked out the neighborhood where a friend lived some 15 years ago. Her friend’s next-door neighbor had a sweet daughter who was 10 at the time Dominga met her. Five years later, her friend sent Dominga a newspaper clipping. She read how at the age of 15, that sweet daughter was lured outside her bedroom window to talk with her estranged 16-year-old boyfriend. He strangled and killed the girl with his bare hands. She would have been 25 now. He was charged as an adult. He might get parole in 10 years.
Right in the center of her purview her eyes settled on an empty lot. An article she read online three years ago detailed how a man burned down his parents’ home with his elderly parents in it. Thanks to smoke detectors and two teenaged boys who were out late past curfew, the elderly couple got out in time. Dominga remembered reading how neighbors had said nothing but nice things about the homeowners and their “quiet adult son.” The two teens got keys to the city, but still had to do two weeks of community service for breaking the curfew.
And then there was the house in the northwest corner near Peterson Road. This morning Dominga read a news article about the resident of 4569 Peterson Road - the Rev. Hampton Curtis, pastor of the popular On The Rock Church where perhaps half of the residents worship. He was suckered by an e-mail scam that led him to pilfer money from the church's savings, some $1.5 million, and put it in a bank account in Nigeria in hopes of sharing in $6 million locked in that mysterious overseas account. A man entrusted with the souls of half the townspeople was too naive or too greedy to safeguard the financial future of the church.
She sighed and kept her arms crossed while a thought crossed her mind: “Simple homes. Simple neighborhoods. Mortar and wood, and a lot of facades.”
Sometimes façades need a boiling point to be broken, other times it just takes courage.
Dominga needed more information to give her the courage to break her own façade.
----
Dominga continued to stare at her monitor. She smiled and got up from her seat, went to the printer to retrieve her documents and took a walk to Duncan’s office.
Duncan didn’t hesitate to shout “Come in” after hearing a knock on his office door. He didn’t seem surprised to see Dominga in his office.
“Well, Ms. Mentuccia, to what do I owe the pleasure.”
“Your program proofs,” she said.
Duncan stared at her and then retrieved the documents from her grasp. “Thank you.”
He went back to concentrating on signing pages on his desk. While he might have expected Dominga to leave, she didn’t. She spoke up instead.
“Did you know I grew up in Raiford?”
Duncan’s hand stopped moving, but he never lifted his eyes. Dominga just continued to speak.
“Did you know that Raiford has the largest illiteracy rate among adults 35 years and older in our state? It's about 68 percent.”
Duncan’s eyes met Dominga’s, who offered that fake friendly corporate smile.
“Of course, some adults try to take classes. It’s amazing, the tutors remember the students. Even how far they got in their studies. You know, small town,” Dominga said, with a pleasant smile and little chuckle. “I know this woman, we used to go to school together, sweet woman. Well, she's a tutor at the local library in Raiford. She recalled this one man who tried so hard but still couldn’t write his own name, much less a sentence or two. But he said once he came back from doing some work here, in our city, he would be back to his studies. Inspirational story.”
Duncan fired his gaze at Dominga, gauging her reaction, which was negligible. Before he could speak up, Emily popped into his office flustered.
“Duncan, there’s a news crew outside. You’re needed immediately for comment.”
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve just fielded calls from two news organizations, including CNN. They want statements on allegations against Mr. Halstead. What’s going on, Duncan?”
“Nothing, just. … Nothing. Before I go out there, I need to see Mr. Halstead immediately.”
Duncan stood up and adjusted his tie. He was nervous and jittery and seemed totally unprepared. Dominga sat there and watched.
“You have anything more to say, Mentuccia?” Duncan asked with his tone filled with frustration.
“No, just put on that smile. The last thing we need are cracks in our façade, right?”
END
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Many, many thanks go to SeattleCSIFan who pushed and pushed and pushed for me to complete this. I did entirely too much whining while producing this piece. I'm sorry I whined. And thanks to Insolentscrawl who read this and asked if everything was OK at work. It's good to have friends who care. Hope you all enjoyed it and thanks for reading.