I can see where each of you has a particular point of view.”
Galloway worked the organized crime division of our New York office for eighteen years yet there isn’t a strand of gray on his head of thick wavy black Irish hair. He always wears a turtleneck—his trademark—never a shirt and tie, no matter what the occasion or weather, giving rise to rumors of tracheotomies and bullet wounds and cancer scars.… But he still smokes cigars so either he’s got a death wish or, like the rest of us, he holds out for being a maverick in his own way.
It is ten thirty and below us the blocky low cityscape of Los Angeles is lit by a dazzling milky white haze that will burn off to clear skies and seventy-five degrees by noon. By coincidence Duane and I are both wearing navy blue suits with white shirts, which makes us look like a pair of airline reservation clerks.
On the coffee table there are souvenirs of Galloway’s days in New York City, including a model of the Statue of Liberty and a four-inch oval brass seal of NYPD Detective Division.
Galloway picks it up and worries it in his hand. I ask what it’s for.
“It’s a belt buckle. They couldn’t afford to give me the whole belt.”
He refers to a file on his lap. He has come around the desk, management style, positioning himself near us to show we are all equal, comfortably sitting with legs crossed, an unlit cigar between his teeth.
“Going back to this bust at the bank … it looks like Ana did quite a noteworthy thing. She ascertained there was a felony in progress, single-handedly isolated and subdued the subject so that he could be arrested without incident by LAPD.… And then”—he shakes his head and laughs—“the schmuck turns out to be good for six other robberies!”
He laughs and laughs. He laughs until he coughs and turns red in the face.
Duane Carter is not even smiling. He is leveling that eerie killer look at Galloway. I remember Donnato telling me about their rivalry and feel a chill, wondering if Galloway feels it, too.
“Special Agent Grey failed to call for backup assistance, thereby endangering herself and the public,” says Duane.
Galloway wipes his eyes. “You’re right. Calling in a 211 in progress would have been the approved procedure.”
His arm is dropped over the side of the chair but he’s still holding the heavy belt buckle, fingering it with implacable cool. They are locked on to each other now.
“He’s right on a technicality.” I am swinging my leg impatiently. “He’s not right to deny me a transfer because—”
“I said at the beginning that you both have a point,” Galloway interrupts sharply. “Stop pouting, Ana, it’ll give you worry lines and you’re much too young and pretty.”
He raises his eyebrows, daring me to call him on it. Instead I take a cue from his own behavior and laugh. More of a snort, actually, but at least I’m not pouting.
“I’m going to allow Duane’s addendum to stand.”
Meaning it will be a part of my personal file forever. Other people down the line will read it, not know the facts, and assume I screwed up. The unfairness of it propels me to my feet.
“That is just plain wrong!”
“Nobody says you have to agree.”
“I don’t agree. I disagree in the strongest terms and I’m certain the EEOC will back me up.”
I stop breathlessly. The power has shifted with dizzying speed. Now they’re both watching me, secure in their chairs, while I’m stamping my foot in the middle of the room.
The worst of it is Duane Carter looking at me with pity .
“Well, if you’d calm down and cool out,” Galloway continues, “I’ll tell you the rest of my decision.”
I back down into the chair.
“I’m going to let the addendum stand … but I am also going to approve Ana’s request for transfer.”
“Excuse me,” says Duane, “but ain’t that just the teensiest bit disingenuous? How can you do both?”
“I’m approving Ana’s transfer on a contingency
Galloway worked the organized crime division of our New York office for eighteen years yet there isn’t a strand of gray on his head of thick wavy black Irish hair. He always wears a turtleneck—his trademark—never a shirt and tie, no matter what the occasion or weather, giving rise to rumors of tracheotomies and bullet wounds and cancer scars.… But he still smokes cigars so either he’s got a death wish or, like the rest of us, he holds out for being a maverick in his own way.
It is ten thirty and below us the blocky low cityscape of Los Angeles is lit by a dazzling milky white haze that will burn off to clear skies and seventy-five degrees by noon. By coincidence Duane and I are both wearing navy blue suits with white shirts, which makes us look like a pair of airline reservation clerks.
On the coffee table there are souvenirs of Galloway’s days in New York City, including a model of the Statue of Liberty and a four-inch oval brass seal of NYPD Detective Division.
Galloway picks it up and worries it in his hand. I ask what it’s for.
“It’s a belt buckle. They couldn’t afford to give me the whole belt.”
He refers to a file on his lap. He has come around the desk, management style, positioning himself near us to show we are all equal, comfortably sitting with legs crossed, an unlit cigar between his teeth.
“Going back to this bust at the bank … it looks like Ana did quite a noteworthy thing. She ascertained there was a felony in progress, single-handedly isolated and subdued the subject so that he could be arrested without incident by LAPD.… And then”—he shakes his head and laughs—“the schmuck turns out to be good for six other robberies!”
He laughs and laughs. He laughs until he coughs and turns red in the face.
Duane Carter is not even smiling. He is leveling that eerie killer look at Galloway. I remember Donnato telling me about their rivalry and feel a chill, wondering if Galloway feels it, too.
“Special Agent Grey failed to call for backup assistance, thereby endangering herself and the public,” says Duane.
Galloway wipes his eyes. “You’re right. Calling in a 211 in progress would have been the approved procedure.”
His arm is dropped over the side of the chair but he’s still holding the heavy belt buckle, fingering it with implacable cool. They are locked on to each other now.
“He’s right on a technicality.” I am swinging my leg impatiently. “He’s not right to deny me a transfer because—”
“I said at the beginning that you both have a point,” Galloway interrupts sharply. “Stop pouting, Ana, it’ll give you worry lines and you’re much too young and pretty.”
He raises his eyebrows, daring me to call him on it. Instead I take a cue from his own behavior and laugh. More of a snort, actually, but at least I’m not pouting.
“I’m going to allow Duane’s addendum to stand.”
Meaning it will be a part of my personal file forever. Other people down the line will read it, not know the facts, and assume I screwed up. The unfairness of it propels me to my feet.
“That is just plain wrong!”
“Nobody says you have to agree.”
“I don’t agree. I disagree in the strongest terms and I’m certain the EEOC will back me up.”
I stop breathlessly. The power has shifted with dizzying speed. Now they’re both watching me, secure in their chairs, while I’m stamping my foot in the middle of the room.
The worst of it is Duane Carter looking at me with pity .
“Well, if you’d calm down and cool out,” Galloway continues, “I’ll tell you the rest of my decision.”
I back down into the chair.
“I’m going to let the addendum stand … but I am also going to approve Ana’s request for transfer.”
“Excuse me,” says Duane, “but ain’t that just the teensiest bit disingenuous? How can you do both?”
“I’m approving Ana’s transfer on a contingency
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