right.” One of the contracts I’d reviewed was the State Board of Education’s contract for passenger school buses and wheelchair lift buses.
“That’s a sole-source,” he said, before spinning back toward the window. “I don’t give a fuck about a letter of intent, Henry. If I have Citibank as a tenant, the price goes up. So get me out of it.” Then he looked back at me. “Okay, kid? A sole-source.”
“Sole-source” bidding meant that the contract was asking for something so unique that only one company was capable of performing it, so going through the rigmarole of sealed bidding was a waste of time. But we were talking about providing school buses. There were probably hundreds of companies in this state that could do that.
I shook my head. “The bus contract has to go through sealed bidding.”
“Hold on, Henry.” Cimino yanked off his earpiece and stared me down. “What the fuck did I just say?”
“You said it’s a sole-source.”
“Right.”
“And I said it’s a competitive bid.”
“Yeah, and you’re a lawyer, right? You argue. Okay, so I see you know how to do that . Now argue my side, kid. Give Patrick a memo by the end of the day. Sole-source.” He fit the earpiece back on. “Henry, I don’t give a shit if they’re gonna sue. It’s a negotiation. What the fuck is a letter of intent, anyway? I mean, what does that even mean ? Tell them my intent is to fuck them in the ass if they fight me on this.”
He went on for a while, and it seemed to me that I had been excused. I wanted to have a few more carefully selected, four-letter words with Mr. Cimino, but I forced myself to stay true to what I was doing. If I’d acted in character, I’d be off this job after less than a week, and none of my questions would be answered.
“Wait, kid, there’s something else.” Cimino rifled through some papers on his desk. “Right. Here. This was a contract that Corrections put out for sanitation. I don’t have the details but Patrick will. The two lowest bidders on the job—I think there are questions about their qualifications. Okay?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that.
“I need a memo discussing whether they’re responsible bidders, okay?” he said, as if I were trying his patience. “Make one of those arguments Hector says you’re so good at. That’s all.” He waved at me like I was a peasant and turned back to the window.
On my way back out, I passed an office where a woman was talking on the phone while she typed on a computer keyboard. Something struck a chord, but I couldn’t place her, on the cloudy periphery of my memory. She didn’t notice me, providing me a moment to stare at her. Nothing particularly remarkable about her—late twenties, light-brown skin, pretty features, typical work attire. Something told me not to linger, to avoid a face-to-face with this woman, which made me even more curious—my subconscious was signaling me but I didn’t know why.
I stepped past the doorway and approached the front desk, with the beauty queen. She was on the phone and ignoring me, providing me a moment to linger. I did my best impression of someone waiting patiently to ask a question, while my eyes scanned the desk around her until I found a list of phone extensions on a white piece of paper taped to her desk. I ran down the twenty-some list of last names opposite the extensions. Before I’d reached the bottom, my eyes popped back to a familiar name.
Espinoza.
Right. The woman in the office was Lorena Espinoza, wife of Joey Espinoza, the principal witness against Hector Almundo. She was in court every day that Joey was on the stand, always wearing a defiant expression and ready with a scowl for any lawyer.
We’d looked hard at Joey as we prepared for trial, and looking hard at someone includes looking at his family. Lorena, if memory served, was a stay-at-home mother of three whose education was limited to high school. As far as we could tell—and we looked closely
“That’s a sole-source,” he said, before spinning back toward the window. “I don’t give a fuck about a letter of intent, Henry. If I have Citibank as a tenant, the price goes up. So get me out of it.” Then he looked back at me. “Okay, kid? A sole-source.”
“Sole-source” bidding meant that the contract was asking for something so unique that only one company was capable of performing it, so going through the rigmarole of sealed bidding was a waste of time. But we were talking about providing school buses. There were probably hundreds of companies in this state that could do that.
I shook my head. “The bus contract has to go through sealed bidding.”
“Hold on, Henry.” Cimino yanked off his earpiece and stared me down. “What the fuck did I just say?”
“You said it’s a sole-source.”
“Right.”
“And I said it’s a competitive bid.”
“Yeah, and you’re a lawyer, right? You argue. Okay, so I see you know how to do that . Now argue my side, kid. Give Patrick a memo by the end of the day. Sole-source.” He fit the earpiece back on. “Henry, I don’t give a shit if they’re gonna sue. It’s a negotiation. What the fuck is a letter of intent, anyway? I mean, what does that even mean ? Tell them my intent is to fuck them in the ass if they fight me on this.”
He went on for a while, and it seemed to me that I had been excused. I wanted to have a few more carefully selected, four-letter words with Mr. Cimino, but I forced myself to stay true to what I was doing. If I’d acted in character, I’d be off this job after less than a week, and none of my questions would be answered.
“Wait, kid, there’s something else.” Cimino rifled through some papers on his desk. “Right. Here. This was a contract that Corrections put out for sanitation. I don’t have the details but Patrick will. The two lowest bidders on the job—I think there are questions about their qualifications. Okay?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that.
“I need a memo discussing whether they’re responsible bidders, okay?” he said, as if I were trying his patience. “Make one of those arguments Hector says you’re so good at. That’s all.” He waved at me like I was a peasant and turned back to the window.
On my way back out, I passed an office where a woman was talking on the phone while she typed on a computer keyboard. Something struck a chord, but I couldn’t place her, on the cloudy periphery of my memory. She didn’t notice me, providing me a moment to stare at her. Nothing particularly remarkable about her—late twenties, light-brown skin, pretty features, typical work attire. Something told me not to linger, to avoid a face-to-face with this woman, which made me even more curious—my subconscious was signaling me but I didn’t know why.
I stepped past the doorway and approached the front desk, with the beauty queen. She was on the phone and ignoring me, providing me a moment to linger. I did my best impression of someone waiting patiently to ask a question, while my eyes scanned the desk around her until I found a list of phone extensions on a white piece of paper taped to her desk. I ran down the twenty-some list of last names opposite the extensions. Before I’d reached the bottom, my eyes popped back to a familiar name.
Espinoza.
Right. The woman in the office was Lorena Espinoza, wife of Joey Espinoza, the principal witness against Hector Almundo. She was in court every day that Joey was on the stand, always wearing a defiant expression and ready with a scowl for any lawyer.
We’d looked hard at Joey as we prepared for trial, and looking hard at someone includes looking at his family. Lorena, if memory served, was a stay-at-home mother of three whose education was limited to high school. As far as we could tell—and we looked closely
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