Guilty as Cinnamon by Leslie Budewitz Page B

could without swearing.
    After a string of support staff mishaps, the law firm administrator had brought in a consultant to help us improve hiring and retention. One presentation focused on first impressions, teaching “Seven Ways to Make Those Seven Seconds Count.” So at one fifty-seven that afternoon, when I was cleaning up a spill by the tea cart and Jen’s applicant walked in for our two o’clock interview, I adjusted my attitude, straightened my posture, smiled, practiced my eyebrow flash, and leaned forward, extending my hand.
    That’s six, I know. You can’t accomplish the seventh step—making eye contact—alone.
    And she wasn’t having it. We’d been taught to improve our eye contact by making a habit of noticing the eye color of everyone we meet. Eyelids lowered, she touched my fingers lightly, as though my hygiene wasn’t up to snuff. Mudbrown, I finally decided as we finished our brief tour of the shop and settled into the nook for a chat.
    You can’t just say, “I don’t think this is the job for you.” It’s bad karma. Plus they might surprise you.
    Not this woman. She brushed sugar—or spice—off the bench before smoothing her pencil skirt and sitting, her spine not touching the seat back. Unusual posture for a woman not yet thirty. She ignored the tea Reed placed in front of her and trained her eyes on the table, barely moving a facial muscle as she answered my questions. She asked none of her own. An interview ought to be a conversation—about the business, the job duties, the applicant’s experience and her goals. There’s a certain degree of puffing involved, both interviewer and interviewee emphasizing the upside. If you’ve developed a reasonable amount of emotional intuition, though, you’ll learn what you need to know. You may not find out that she’s a single mother with dicey childcare—the law says you don’t get to ask. She may not discover that you’ve had a revolving door the last few months; it’s none of her business. But you get a feeling.
    â€œSo, tell me what you like to cook,” I said. “Your favorite recipes.”
    â€œIs that—a
dog
?”
    I followed her shell-shocked gaze to the front counter, where a furry brown snout poked out.
    She grabbed her bag—black patent leather in a style the Queen might carry; it matched her low-heeled sling-backs—and slid out of the booth like a greased pig.
    â€œShe might be allergic,” Reed said as she disappeared out the front door.
    â€œOr going on an interview to prove she’s job hunting so she can keep her unemployment benefits.” I sighed and sent the Universe a silent prayer.
One great candidate and I’ll be happy. Two would be ideal, but I’ll count my blessings if you’ll please pretty please send me one perfect employee
.
    Hey, how will the Powers That Be know what you want if you don’t tell them?
    *   *   *
    LIKE most Seattleites, I’d had little reason to explore the halls of the new SPD HQ. Tag worked patrol most of our time together, based in the West Precinct that runs from SoDo and the International District north to Queen Anne Hill. Not that HQ is all that new anymore—ten years maybe, a super-eco-green building, both modern sleek and a good fit with its historic neighbors.
    I passed through security and reclaimed my bag, pleased that the computer system Reed and I had worked hard to implement had made the shop records so easy to compile.
    But I am the daughter of activists—a Vietnam vet turned dove and a hippie chick who’d been arrested a dozen times or more at marches, protests, and sit-ins. Our house mantra had been “Question authority.”
    My folks had raised their eyebrows when I married a cop. But they’d accepted Tag, who was a bit of an anomaly in his own well-heeled, suburban family. And they’d been quietly