"Clearly. But how will you find out?"
Lost in thought, he walked the five blocks to 11 Terrazzo. Fernandez was waiting for him outside. They went in together.
"Oh Christ," Sanders said, as he looked around.
"All the usual suspects," Fernandez said.
In the far section straight ahead, Meredith Johnson was having dinner with Bob Garvin. Two tables away, Phil Blackburn was eating with his wife, Doris, a thin bespectacled woman who looked like an accountant. Near them, Stephanie Kaplan was having dinner with a young man in his twenties-probably her son at the university, Sanders thought. And over to the right, by the window, the Conley-White people were in the midst of a working dinner, their briefcases open at their feet, papers scattered all over the table. Ed Nichols sat with John Conley to his right, and Jim Daly to his left. Daly was speaking into a tiny dictating machine.
"Maybe we should go somewhere else," Sanders said.
"No," Fernandez said. "They've already seen us. We can sit in the corner over there."
Carmine came over. "Mr. Sanders," he said with a formal nod.
"We'd like a table in the corner, Carmine."
"Yes of course, Mr. Sanders."
They sat to one side. Fernandez was staring at Meredith and Garvin. "She could be his daughter," she said.
"Everybody says so."
"It's quite striking."
The waiter brought menus. Nothing on it appealed to Sanders, but they ordered anyway. Fernandez was looking steadily at Garvin. "He's a fighter, isn't he."
"Bob? Famous fighter. Famous tough guy."
"She knows how to play him." Fernandez turned away and pulled papers out of her briefcase. "This is the contract that Blackburn sent back. It is all in order, except for two clauses. First, they claim the right to terminate you if you are shown to have committed a felony on the job.
"Uh-huh." He wondered what they might mean.
"And this second clause claims the right to terminate you if you have `failed to demonstrate satisfactory performance in the job as measured by industry standards.' What does that mean?"
He shook his head. "They must have something in mind." He told her about the conversation he had overheard in the conference room.
As usual, Fernandez showed no reaction. "Possible," she said.
"Possible? They're going to do it."
"I meant legally. It's possible that they intend something of this sort. And it would work."
"Why?"
"A harassment claim brings up the entire performance of an employee. If there is dereliction, even a very old or minor dereliction, it may be used to dismiss the claim. I had one client who worked for a company for ten years. But the company was able to demonstrate that the employee had lied on the original application form, and the case was dismissed. The employee was fired."
"So this comes down to my performance."
"It may. Yes."
He frowned. What did they have on him?
She is solving a problem, too. So: wbat is the problem she is solving?
Beside him, Fernandez pulled the tape recorder out of her pocket. "There's a couple of other things I want to go over," she said. "There's something that happens early on in the tape."
"Okay."
"I want you to listen."
She gave the player to him. He held it close to his ear.
He heard his own voice saying clearly, ". . . we'll face that later. I've given her your thoughts, and she's talking to Bob now, so presumably we'll go into the meeting tomorrow taking that position. Well, anyway, Mark, if there is a significant change in all this, I'll contact you before the meeting tomorrow, and"
"Forget that phone," Meredith's voice said loudly, and then there was the sound of rustling, like fabric, and a sort of hissing sound, and a dull thunk as the phone was dropped. The momentary sharp crackle of static.
More rustling. Then silence.
A grunt. Rustling.
As he listened, he tried to imagine the action in the room. They must have moved over to the couch, because now the voices were lower, less distinct. He heard himself say, "Meredith, wait-"
"Oh God," she said, "I've wanted you all day."
More rustling. Heavy breathing. It was hard to be certain what was happening. A little moan from her. More rustling.
She said, "Oh God, you feel so good, I can't stand the bastard touching me. Those stupid glasses. Oh! I'm so hot, I haven't had a decent fuck-"
More rustling. Static crackle. Rustling. More rustling. Sanders listened with a sense of disappointment. He could not really create images for what was going on-and he had been there. This tape would not be persuasive to someone else. Most of it sounded like obscure noise. With long periods of silence.
"Meredith-"
"Oooh. Don't talk. No! No . . ." He heard her gasping, in little breaths. Then more silence.
Fernandez said, "That's enough."
Sanders put the player down and shut it off. He shook his head.
"You can't tell anything from this. About what was really going on." "You can tell enough," Fernandez said. "And don't you start worrying about the evidence. That's my job. But you heard her first statements?" She consulted her notepad. "Where she says, `I've wanted you all day'? And then she says, `Oh God you feel so good, I can't stand the bastard touching me. Those stupid glasses, oh I'm so hot, I haven't had a decent fuck.' You heard that part?"
"Yes. I heard it."
"Okay. Who is she talking about?"
"Talking about?"
"Yes. Who is the bastard she can't stand touching her?"