Post by mlm828 on Nov 20, 2005 20:58:05 GMT -5
A Legal Matter
Part One
“Jimmy, are you here?” I called as I hung up my coat in the entry hall.
“Yeah, over here,” his voice came from the living room. He was sitting at the desk, doing something on his new laptop. It had screen-reading software, and he had started to learn the commands that would enable him to use a computer without a mouse. I went over and kissed him.
“What did they have you doing today?” I asked.
“Cooking,” he said, grinning.
“Cooking? You?”
“That’s right,” he confirmed.
“You never cooked when you could see. Why do they have you doing it now?”
“It’s all about being self-sufficient, I guess.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Me, too,” he said, dryly.
I laughed and headed for the bedroom to change out of my work clothes, relieved that this seemed to be one of Jimmy’s good days. As he learned how to live without sight, he’d gradually emerged from the depression that had immobilized him for the first month after he’d come home from the hospital. But he still had days when the feelings of hopelessness returned, and he withdrew into himself. When that occurred, he often spent much of the evening brooding and bouncing a ball against the living room wall. The ball made a jingling sound as it bounced. I’d come to hate that sound, but I didn’t think I’d be hearing it this evening.
“Hey,” I asked him after dinner, “How about going for a walk?”
“Okay,” he agreed.
He picked up his cane from its designated place on the table in the entry hall and unfolded it. In the month since he’d begun independence training, he’d mastered many of the basics of cane travel. Although he was still learning how to navigate independently in unfamiliar locations, he moved confidently in the familiar areas around our apartment building.
“Lead on,” I told him, “You decide where we’re going to go, and take us there.”
“How about the park?” he suggested.
“Sounds good to me.”
We made our way down the hall, into the elevator, and out the building’s front entrance. Leading the way, Jimmy turned right, toward the park. I followed, keeping an eye out for unexpected hazards, but letting him find the way on his own. We walked along the riverfront walk until we reached the park. It was a beautiful evening. I wondered whether I should mention it and describe the city and bridge lights reflected in the water, but I still wasn’t sure how Jimmy would react to such a reminder of what he was missing. I decided not to say anything unless he asked. Jimmy led us to our usual bench, and we sat down.
“You did great,” I told him, “All I had to do was follow you.”
“Yeah," he agreed. He fell silent and brought his hand up to his mouth.
After a few moments, I spoke up. “Something on your mind?”
“Yeah, I’ve been doing some thinking, and . . . I’ve decided to go back on the job.”
I gasped involuntarily. “What?”
He turned toward me. “You heard me.”
“You’re going back to your old job?”
“Yeah, that’s what I do. I need to do this, Christie. I can’t just collect my pension and spend the rest of my life doing nothing.”
“I know that, but do you really think you can do it?”
“Yes, I do. In the past month, I’ve learned what I can do, and I know I can do it.”
“But . . . . are you sure you aren’t being over-confident? You’ve only had a month of training.”
“I don’t need you doubting me. I can still do my job.”
“I don’t doubt you. It’s just . . .”
“Think about it,” he interrupted. “I’m a detective, not a patrol officer. I spend most of my time doing interviews, bouncing ideas off my partner, and reading and writing reports. I don’t need my sight to do that.”
“I know, but . . . how are you going to convince the department to let you come back?”
“I don’t know. But I will. Believe it.”
I was stunned. Ever since I’d learned that Jimmy was blind, I’d believed his career as a cop was over. I knew it would be hard for him to accept, but secretly I was relieved. I had experienced every cop’s wife’s worst nightmare. At least, I’d thought, I wouldn’t have to worry about that any longer. I knew the department would never allow Jimmy back on the job. Even if Jimmy could do the job blind, they would never believe he could do it. But now a new worry surfaced. How would Jimmy handle it when, inevitably, the department refused to let him come back on the job? I didn’t want him to get his hopes up, only to be disappointed. He could still slip back into depression.
* * * *
It was almost 8 p.m. when I hurried into the apartment the next evening. “Jimmy?” I called. “I’m sorry I’m so late, but you know how crazy things get when we’re on deadline.”
“Over here,” his voice came from the far side of the living room. He was sitting in a chair, facing the wall, and I knew he’d been bouncing that ball against the wall again. I went over to him and patted his shoulder, wanting to establish a connection.
“How was your day?” I asked. “More cooking?”
“Yeah,” he said, not bothering to turn to face me.
“You seem kind of down. Is something wrong?”
“No, not really.”
“Jimmy . . . .” I chided him.
“I called Lt. McConnell today about going back on the job.”
When he didn’t continue, I prompted him, “And?”
“Well, he was too polite to laugh out loud when I told him I wanted to come back on the job, but he said he didn’t see how it would be possible. He did say he wished I could come back, because their clearance rate has gone down since I’ve been gone. But there’s no way the department would agree to it.”
I wasn’t surprised. Jimmy’s lieutenant, Jack McConnell, was an old school, by-the-book type. He wasn’t likely to take on the NYPD brass, even for his best detective.
“That sounds like him,” I commented. “What are you going to do now?”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure. There has to be a way . . .” He turned his head in my direction, seeming to look past me. “You know, I’ve lost so much already, I can’t lose this, too.”
I didn’t want to think about how much Jimmy had lost. And if it was too painful for me to think about, it had to be even more painful for him to speak of it. As much as I worried about what might happen if he went back on the job, I knew how important being a cop was to him. Jimmy was right. It would be too much if he had to give that up, too. Setting my misgivings aside, I told him, “I know. We’ll find a way.”
* * * *
Two weeks later, we were sitting in the reception room of the Law Offices of Geoffrey Miller. After Jimmy’s discouraging phone conversation with Jack McConnell, we had talked into the night, trying to come up with some way to persuade the department to allow him to come back on the job. Eventually, we realized Jack was correct: the department would never do it voluntarily. We would have to force them to do it, and that meant legal action.
A young woman entered the reception area. “Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar? Please come with me.”
Jimmy took my arm, and we followed her to Miller’s corner office. I took in the large, professionally-decorated space, obviously designed to impress prospective clients. Well, that wouldn’t work with Jimmy, I thought. The man sitting at the desk stood to greet us. He was slightly-built, about Jimmy’s height, with dark hair and sharp features. He wore a beautifully-made Italian suit.
“Detective Dunbar, Mrs. Dunbar, Geoff Miller. Good to meet you.” He walked around the desk to shake Jimmy’s extended hand, then took my hand. “Please have a seat.”
I guided Jimmy to one of the client chairs and placed his hand on top of the chair back, then sat in the chair next to him.
“Let me get one preliminary matter out of the way,” Miller began. “Regardless of whether you decide to proceed, everything we talk about here today is privileged and confidential. I have an ethical obligation to keep our discussions confidential, and I take that obligation very seriously.”
“That sounds good,” Jimmy replied. He took off his dark glasses, found Miller’s desk, and put them down.
“What do you think I can do for you?” Miller asked.
“I want my job back.”
“That’s it? You’re not looking for a monetary award?”
“I want my job back,” Jimmy repeated.
“Okay. As I understand it, before you lost your sight, you were a homicide detective with the NYPD. You lost your sight as a result of a gunshot wound sustained on the job.”
“That’s right,” Jimmy agreed.
“How severe is your visual impairment?”
“I’m totally blind.”
Miller seemed taken aback but regrouped quickly. Then he asked, “How long has it been since you lost your sight?”
“About three months.”
“Where are you in your rehabilitation? Realistically, are you ready to go back to work?”
“I’ve mastered a lot of the basics, but I still need to improve my mobility. Ideally, I’d like to get a guide dog before going back on the job. I’m also planning to get some self-defense training.”
As Miller asked Jimmy about the details of his job as a detective and the accommodations he would need to do his job, I tuned them out and pondered what we were doing. So far, Miller had favorably impressed me. He didn’t seem uncomfortable with the blindness, and I liked the matter-of-fact way he spoke to Jimmy. I was less certain about the idea of suing the department. If he did it, Jimmy would be burning his bridges. Even if, by some miracle, he managed to get his job back, he could end up alienating the very people he would have to work with, and whose support he would need to do his job.
When I started paying attention again, Miller was asking, “Have you had any contact with anyone in the department about going back to work?”
“I talked to my lieutenant on the phone. He wasn’t encouraging.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
“I’m going to be frank with you, Detective . . .”
“That sounds good. And it’s ‘Jim’.”
“Okay, Jim, what you’re trying to do is unprecedented, as far as I can tell.”
“There’s always a first time,” Jimmy asserted.
“Yes. But you need to recognize that you’re facing an uphill battle. I know of a few cases of visually-impaired cops returning to limited duty, basically desk jobs, but none who’ve gone back to field work. And the courts tend to give law enforcement some leeway when it comes to reinstatement of disabled officers.”
“Are you telling me I don’t have a case?”
“No, I’m telling you it isn’t a sure thing. There has been a lot of progress since the Americans with Disabilities Act went into effect, but there’s still a long way to go. And the department can still claim you can’t do the job, even with reasonable accommodation, or that there would be a threat to your fellow officers’ safety if you were reinstated.”
“So I should just give up?”
“That’s not what I’m saying. But it could go either way. You need to understand that.”
“I do.”
Miller leaned back in his chair, apparently considering his next question. Then he asked, “Why is it so important to you to get back on the job?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I need to know how committed you are to this.”
Jimmy bit his lip, looking uncomfortable with Miller’s question. Finally, he said, “I’m a cop. That’s what I do. I’m not going to give that up, when I know I can still do the job.”
“Okay. There’s something else we need to address. Jim, you’re probably familiar with how things work in the criminal courts, but do you have any experience with civil litigation?”
“No.”
“The first thing you need to know is that it’s a marathon, not a sprint. That’s why I asked how committed you are to this. You can’t expect results in two months, maybe not even in two years. And I know the lawyers the department will hire to defend the case. They’ll use every possible delaying tactic, to try to drag things out and wear you down. Plus, they play hardball. They will treat you respectfully to your face – you’re a hero, after all. But behind your back, they will be looking for anything they can use against you. You need to be prepared for that.”
Jimmy nodded. “I understand.”
“I need to know upfront. Is there anything in your record they can use against you? Any officer-involved shootings? Other than the bank robbery, of course. I don’t think we have to worry about them bringing that up.”
Jimmy grinned. “You’ve got that right. No, no others.”
“What about disciplinary action? Any complaints from suspects who claim you roughed them up? Anything like that?”
“No, no disciplinary action or complaints. I’m not saying I never got physical with a perp, but none of them ever complained.”
“Okay. What about your personal life? Is there anything I need to know about?”
I drew in a breath, and Miller looked over at me. He turned to Jimmy.
“Jim?”
Jimmy bowed his head, pressing his lips together. “I had a brief affair with a woman I met on the job. It ended shortly before I was shot.”
“Who knows about this?”
“No one except her, me, and Christie.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“That shouldn’t be admissible in evidence in this type of case,” Miller observed, “but that won’t keep them from trying to use it against you if they find out. We’ll have to make sure they don’t. One other thing. Is there anyone in the department, any friend or colleague, who might support you in this?”
Jimmy brought a hand up to his mouth, thinking. “Maybe Walter Clark,” he finally said. “He was kind of a mentor to me, when I was coming up, and he’s close to retirement, so . . .”
“What about your partner – what’s his name, Terry Jansen?” Miller asked.
“I don’t want him involved in this,” Jimmy replied, sharply.
Miller looked a question at me. I looked over at Jimmy. As was usual when Terry was mentioned, the color had drained from his face. I knew he wasn’t going to explain, so I did. “At the bank, when Jim was shot, Terry froze up. He didn’t shoot the bank robber when he had the chance, and Jim had to do it.”
“I see. I’ll cross him off the list. One last thing. Cases like this are expensive. If we prevail, it’s likely the court will order the department to pay your attorney’s fees, but there’s no guarantee of that.”
Jimmy nodded. “I understand.”
Miller turned to me. “You’ve been pretty quiet, Mrs. Dunbar. How are you with all this? Do you support Jim’s decision to go back on the job?”
I nodded, then said firmly, “Yes, I do.”
“All right. I know I’ve thrown a lot of information at you. I’ve had a retainer agreement prepared, but I don’t want you to sign it now. Take it home with you and sleep on it, then let me know your decision. Feel free to call me if you have any questions.”
When we got home, Jimmy headed to the fridge for a beer. I followed and poured myself a glass of wine. When we were settled on the couch, I said, “He didn’t exactly sugar-coat things, did he?”
“No,” Jimmy agreed, “but I’d rather know upfront what we’re facing.”
“Still, suing the department is a big step. If you do it, there’s no going back.” I paused, then added, “There’s one thing that worries me . . .”
“What’s that?” He turned toward me.
“If – when – you go back on the job, there are people in the department who will make your life hell.”
Jimmy nodded. “I know. But what choice do I have? You know I need to do this.”
I sighed. I knew Jimmy was right. I’d told Miller I supported Jimmy’s decision to go back on the job, and I would support him. But I couldn’t shake off my lingering doubts and worries.
Part One
“Jimmy, are you here?” I called as I hung up my coat in the entry hall.
“Yeah, over here,” his voice came from the living room. He was sitting at the desk, doing something on his new laptop. It had screen-reading software, and he had started to learn the commands that would enable him to use a computer without a mouse. I went over and kissed him.
“What did they have you doing today?” I asked.
“Cooking,” he said, grinning.
“Cooking? You?”
“That’s right,” he confirmed.
“You never cooked when you could see. Why do they have you doing it now?”
“It’s all about being self-sufficient, I guess.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Me, too,” he said, dryly.
I laughed and headed for the bedroom to change out of my work clothes, relieved that this seemed to be one of Jimmy’s good days. As he learned how to live without sight, he’d gradually emerged from the depression that had immobilized him for the first month after he’d come home from the hospital. But he still had days when the feelings of hopelessness returned, and he withdrew into himself. When that occurred, he often spent much of the evening brooding and bouncing a ball against the living room wall. The ball made a jingling sound as it bounced. I’d come to hate that sound, but I didn’t think I’d be hearing it this evening.
“Hey,” I asked him after dinner, “How about going for a walk?”
“Okay,” he agreed.
He picked up his cane from its designated place on the table in the entry hall and unfolded it. In the month since he’d begun independence training, he’d mastered many of the basics of cane travel. Although he was still learning how to navigate independently in unfamiliar locations, he moved confidently in the familiar areas around our apartment building.
“Lead on,” I told him, “You decide where we’re going to go, and take us there.”
“How about the park?” he suggested.
“Sounds good to me.”
We made our way down the hall, into the elevator, and out the building’s front entrance. Leading the way, Jimmy turned right, toward the park. I followed, keeping an eye out for unexpected hazards, but letting him find the way on his own. We walked along the riverfront walk until we reached the park. It was a beautiful evening. I wondered whether I should mention it and describe the city and bridge lights reflected in the water, but I still wasn’t sure how Jimmy would react to such a reminder of what he was missing. I decided not to say anything unless he asked. Jimmy led us to our usual bench, and we sat down.
“You did great,” I told him, “All I had to do was follow you.”
“Yeah," he agreed. He fell silent and brought his hand up to his mouth.
After a few moments, I spoke up. “Something on your mind?”
“Yeah, I’ve been doing some thinking, and . . . I’ve decided to go back on the job.”
I gasped involuntarily. “What?”
He turned toward me. “You heard me.”
“You’re going back to your old job?”
“Yeah, that’s what I do. I need to do this, Christie. I can’t just collect my pension and spend the rest of my life doing nothing.”
“I know that, but do you really think you can do it?”
“Yes, I do. In the past month, I’ve learned what I can do, and I know I can do it.”
“But . . . . are you sure you aren’t being over-confident? You’ve only had a month of training.”
“I don’t need you doubting me. I can still do my job.”
“I don’t doubt you. It’s just . . .”
“Think about it,” he interrupted. “I’m a detective, not a patrol officer. I spend most of my time doing interviews, bouncing ideas off my partner, and reading and writing reports. I don’t need my sight to do that.”
“I know, but . . . how are you going to convince the department to let you come back?”
“I don’t know. But I will. Believe it.”
I was stunned. Ever since I’d learned that Jimmy was blind, I’d believed his career as a cop was over. I knew it would be hard for him to accept, but secretly I was relieved. I had experienced every cop’s wife’s worst nightmare. At least, I’d thought, I wouldn’t have to worry about that any longer. I knew the department would never allow Jimmy back on the job. Even if Jimmy could do the job blind, they would never believe he could do it. But now a new worry surfaced. How would Jimmy handle it when, inevitably, the department refused to let him come back on the job? I didn’t want him to get his hopes up, only to be disappointed. He could still slip back into depression.
* * * *
It was almost 8 p.m. when I hurried into the apartment the next evening. “Jimmy?” I called. “I’m sorry I’m so late, but you know how crazy things get when we’re on deadline.”
“Over here,” his voice came from the far side of the living room. He was sitting in a chair, facing the wall, and I knew he’d been bouncing that ball against the wall again. I went over to him and patted his shoulder, wanting to establish a connection.
“How was your day?” I asked. “More cooking?”
“Yeah,” he said, not bothering to turn to face me.
“You seem kind of down. Is something wrong?”
“No, not really.”
“Jimmy . . . .” I chided him.
“I called Lt. McConnell today about going back on the job.”
When he didn’t continue, I prompted him, “And?”
“Well, he was too polite to laugh out loud when I told him I wanted to come back on the job, but he said he didn’t see how it would be possible. He did say he wished I could come back, because their clearance rate has gone down since I’ve been gone. But there’s no way the department would agree to it.”
I wasn’t surprised. Jimmy’s lieutenant, Jack McConnell, was an old school, by-the-book type. He wasn’t likely to take on the NYPD brass, even for his best detective.
“That sounds like him,” I commented. “What are you going to do now?”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure. There has to be a way . . .” He turned his head in my direction, seeming to look past me. “You know, I’ve lost so much already, I can’t lose this, too.”
I didn’t want to think about how much Jimmy had lost. And if it was too painful for me to think about, it had to be even more painful for him to speak of it. As much as I worried about what might happen if he went back on the job, I knew how important being a cop was to him. Jimmy was right. It would be too much if he had to give that up, too. Setting my misgivings aside, I told him, “I know. We’ll find a way.”
* * * *
Two weeks later, we were sitting in the reception room of the Law Offices of Geoffrey Miller. After Jimmy’s discouraging phone conversation with Jack McConnell, we had talked into the night, trying to come up with some way to persuade the department to allow him to come back on the job. Eventually, we realized Jack was correct: the department would never do it voluntarily. We would have to force them to do it, and that meant legal action.
A young woman entered the reception area. “Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar? Please come with me.”
Jimmy took my arm, and we followed her to Miller’s corner office. I took in the large, professionally-decorated space, obviously designed to impress prospective clients. Well, that wouldn’t work with Jimmy, I thought. The man sitting at the desk stood to greet us. He was slightly-built, about Jimmy’s height, with dark hair and sharp features. He wore a beautifully-made Italian suit.
“Detective Dunbar, Mrs. Dunbar, Geoff Miller. Good to meet you.” He walked around the desk to shake Jimmy’s extended hand, then took my hand. “Please have a seat.”
I guided Jimmy to one of the client chairs and placed his hand on top of the chair back, then sat in the chair next to him.
“Let me get one preliminary matter out of the way,” Miller began. “Regardless of whether you decide to proceed, everything we talk about here today is privileged and confidential. I have an ethical obligation to keep our discussions confidential, and I take that obligation very seriously.”
“That sounds good,” Jimmy replied. He took off his dark glasses, found Miller’s desk, and put them down.
“What do you think I can do for you?” Miller asked.
“I want my job back.”
“That’s it? You’re not looking for a monetary award?”
“I want my job back,” Jimmy repeated.
“Okay. As I understand it, before you lost your sight, you were a homicide detective with the NYPD. You lost your sight as a result of a gunshot wound sustained on the job.”
“That’s right,” Jimmy agreed.
“How severe is your visual impairment?”
“I’m totally blind.”
Miller seemed taken aback but regrouped quickly. Then he asked, “How long has it been since you lost your sight?”
“About three months.”
“Where are you in your rehabilitation? Realistically, are you ready to go back to work?”
“I’ve mastered a lot of the basics, but I still need to improve my mobility. Ideally, I’d like to get a guide dog before going back on the job. I’m also planning to get some self-defense training.”
As Miller asked Jimmy about the details of his job as a detective and the accommodations he would need to do his job, I tuned them out and pondered what we were doing. So far, Miller had favorably impressed me. He didn’t seem uncomfortable with the blindness, and I liked the matter-of-fact way he spoke to Jimmy. I was less certain about the idea of suing the department. If he did it, Jimmy would be burning his bridges. Even if, by some miracle, he managed to get his job back, he could end up alienating the very people he would have to work with, and whose support he would need to do his job.
When I started paying attention again, Miller was asking, “Have you had any contact with anyone in the department about going back to work?”
“I talked to my lieutenant on the phone. He wasn’t encouraging.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
“I’m going to be frank with you, Detective . . .”
“That sounds good. And it’s ‘Jim’.”
“Okay, Jim, what you’re trying to do is unprecedented, as far as I can tell.”
“There’s always a first time,” Jimmy asserted.
“Yes. But you need to recognize that you’re facing an uphill battle. I know of a few cases of visually-impaired cops returning to limited duty, basically desk jobs, but none who’ve gone back to field work. And the courts tend to give law enforcement some leeway when it comes to reinstatement of disabled officers.”
“Are you telling me I don’t have a case?”
“No, I’m telling you it isn’t a sure thing. There has been a lot of progress since the Americans with Disabilities Act went into effect, but there’s still a long way to go. And the department can still claim you can’t do the job, even with reasonable accommodation, or that there would be a threat to your fellow officers’ safety if you were reinstated.”
“So I should just give up?”
“That’s not what I’m saying. But it could go either way. You need to understand that.”
“I do.”
Miller leaned back in his chair, apparently considering his next question. Then he asked, “Why is it so important to you to get back on the job?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I need to know how committed you are to this.”
Jimmy bit his lip, looking uncomfortable with Miller’s question. Finally, he said, “I’m a cop. That’s what I do. I’m not going to give that up, when I know I can still do the job.”
“Okay. There’s something else we need to address. Jim, you’re probably familiar with how things work in the criminal courts, but do you have any experience with civil litigation?”
“No.”
“The first thing you need to know is that it’s a marathon, not a sprint. That’s why I asked how committed you are to this. You can’t expect results in two months, maybe not even in two years. And I know the lawyers the department will hire to defend the case. They’ll use every possible delaying tactic, to try to drag things out and wear you down. Plus, they play hardball. They will treat you respectfully to your face – you’re a hero, after all. But behind your back, they will be looking for anything they can use against you. You need to be prepared for that.”
Jimmy nodded. “I understand.”
“I need to know upfront. Is there anything in your record they can use against you? Any officer-involved shootings? Other than the bank robbery, of course. I don’t think we have to worry about them bringing that up.”
Jimmy grinned. “You’ve got that right. No, no others.”
“What about disciplinary action? Any complaints from suspects who claim you roughed them up? Anything like that?”
“No, no disciplinary action or complaints. I’m not saying I never got physical with a perp, but none of them ever complained.”
“Okay. What about your personal life? Is there anything I need to know about?”
I drew in a breath, and Miller looked over at me. He turned to Jimmy.
“Jim?”
Jimmy bowed his head, pressing his lips together. “I had a brief affair with a woman I met on the job. It ended shortly before I was shot.”
“Who knows about this?”
“No one except her, me, and Christie.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“That shouldn’t be admissible in evidence in this type of case,” Miller observed, “but that won’t keep them from trying to use it against you if they find out. We’ll have to make sure they don’t. One other thing. Is there anyone in the department, any friend or colleague, who might support you in this?”
Jimmy brought a hand up to his mouth, thinking. “Maybe Walter Clark,” he finally said. “He was kind of a mentor to me, when I was coming up, and he’s close to retirement, so . . .”
“What about your partner – what’s his name, Terry Jansen?” Miller asked.
“I don’t want him involved in this,” Jimmy replied, sharply.
Miller looked a question at me. I looked over at Jimmy. As was usual when Terry was mentioned, the color had drained from his face. I knew he wasn’t going to explain, so I did. “At the bank, when Jim was shot, Terry froze up. He didn’t shoot the bank robber when he had the chance, and Jim had to do it.”
“I see. I’ll cross him off the list. One last thing. Cases like this are expensive. If we prevail, it’s likely the court will order the department to pay your attorney’s fees, but there’s no guarantee of that.”
Jimmy nodded. “I understand.”
Miller turned to me. “You’ve been pretty quiet, Mrs. Dunbar. How are you with all this? Do you support Jim’s decision to go back on the job?”
I nodded, then said firmly, “Yes, I do.”
“All right. I know I’ve thrown a lot of information at you. I’ve had a retainer agreement prepared, but I don’t want you to sign it now. Take it home with you and sleep on it, then let me know your decision. Feel free to call me if you have any questions.”
When we got home, Jimmy headed to the fridge for a beer. I followed and poured myself a glass of wine. When we were settled on the couch, I said, “He didn’t exactly sugar-coat things, did he?”
“No,” Jimmy agreed, “but I’d rather know upfront what we’re facing.”
“Still, suing the department is a big step. If you do it, there’s no going back.” I paused, then added, “There’s one thing that worries me . . .”
“What’s that?” He turned toward me.
“If – when – you go back on the job, there are people in the department who will make your life hell.”
Jimmy nodded. “I know. But what choice do I have? You know I need to do this.”
I sighed. I knew Jimmy was right. I’d told Miller I supported Jimmy’s decision to go back on the job, and I would support him. But I couldn’t shake off my lingering doubts and worries.