of my ways
not just sinking in but drowning me.
“Not everyone,” Rae said, removing her glasses, snapping shut her file folder. “You
have forty-eight hours to negotiate the terms.”
By the time Demetrius was up, the game was over. D arrived promptly for the interview
wearing a tweed coat and tie. He sat down across from me and said, “Thank you, Ms.
Spellman, for this opportunity.” Then he placed a piece of paper on my desk.
DEMETRIUS MERRIWEATHER
CV
1994–1996: Merriweather Communications
Owner
• Procured inexpensive televisions and accessories (i.e., VCRs, stereo speakers) for
the budget-conscious.
1996–2011: San Quentin Penitentiary
Inmate
• Worked in the kitchen, laundry room, and library. Familiar with the Dewey Decimal
System.
• Specialized in dispute management and kitchen fork retrieval.
• Had only one disciplinary citation in fifteen years.
2011 to present: Spellman Investigations
Assistant Investigator
• Research assistant; specializes in database research and background checks; in-office
catering; types 35 words a minute.
• Specializes in dispute management and food preparation.
• Employee of the month 12 months running.
• Other interests: Getting innocent people out of prison, origami, cooking, television, Judge Judy , Zumba.
“What’s Zumba?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” D said. “But everyone lies on their résumé.”
I looked over D’s résumé and said, “You’re hired.”
“Thank you, Ms. Spellman. I promise you, you won’t be disappointed.”
“This was a dumb idea, wasn’t it?”
“Girl, what were you thinking?” D said, finally out of interview character.
“I was drunk,” I said. That’s not a figure of speech. I really was drunk.
“Were you drunk when you wrote all the memos?”
“Not the filing one. That was a stone-cold-sober calculation. The interview was just
payback. When I was eighteen or something my dad made me interview for a job I already
had.”
“What did you do?” D asked.
“I wore a ridiculous outfit, ate a sandwich, and called him Mr. Mellman repeatedly.” 9
“You didn’t think he’d remember that?”
“Now what do I do?”
“Watch your back,” D said.
“It’s not that bad, is it?”
“It’s worse than you think.”
“What are they going to do?” I asked.
“There’s something you need to put in your mind. Spellman Investigations, to most
clients, is Albert and Olivia and the relationships they’ve maintained for twenty
years. The office is in their house. They’re entitled to thirty percent of the equipment
if they decide to go their own way.”
“You don’t think they’d branch off and start their own business, do you?”
“How hard would it be? Same location, switch the name a bit—you don’t have a copyright
on Spellman . They could downsize, take only the cases they want. It could be perfect for two
people thinking about retiring,” D said.
“What would be the advantage of that?”
“They’d be their own bosses and wouldn’t work under the dictatorship of Madame President
Isabel anymore.”
“Is that what it looks like to you?”
“I’m Switzerland, remember?”
“So you’re telling me they have all the power.”
“They have most of it.”
“If that happened and they offered you a job, where would you go?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Who gives me the better offer.”
• • •
After the interviews, my parents took a disappearance to Big Sur. I left a series
of increasingly apologetic messages on their cell phones. None were returned.
Three days later, when I pulled up to 1799 Clay Street, I was elated to discover Dad’s
Audi in the driveway. I raced out for bagels and lox from some bagel shop 10 and pastries from none of your business ; picked up flowers, champagne, and orange juice from a store ; and attempted to improve morale with a sleep-inducing feast for all. My parents
partook of the
not just sinking in but drowning me.
“Not everyone,” Rae said, removing her glasses, snapping shut her file folder. “You
have forty-eight hours to negotiate the terms.”
By the time Demetrius was up, the game was over. D arrived promptly for the interview
wearing a tweed coat and tie. He sat down across from me and said, “Thank you, Ms.
Spellman, for this opportunity.” Then he placed a piece of paper on my desk.
DEMETRIUS MERRIWEATHER
CV
1994–1996: Merriweather Communications
Owner
• Procured inexpensive televisions and accessories (i.e., VCRs, stereo speakers) for
the budget-conscious.
1996–2011: San Quentin Penitentiary
Inmate
• Worked in the kitchen, laundry room, and library. Familiar with the Dewey Decimal
System.
• Specialized in dispute management and kitchen fork retrieval.
• Had only one disciplinary citation in fifteen years.
2011 to present: Spellman Investigations
Assistant Investigator
• Research assistant; specializes in database research and background checks; in-office
catering; types 35 words a minute.
• Specializes in dispute management and food preparation.
• Employee of the month 12 months running.
• Other interests: Getting innocent people out of prison, origami, cooking, television, Judge Judy , Zumba.
“What’s Zumba?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” D said. “But everyone lies on their résumé.”
I looked over D’s résumé and said, “You’re hired.”
“Thank you, Ms. Spellman. I promise you, you won’t be disappointed.”
“This was a dumb idea, wasn’t it?”
“Girl, what were you thinking?” D said, finally out of interview character.
“I was drunk,” I said. That’s not a figure of speech. I really was drunk.
“Were you drunk when you wrote all the memos?”
“Not the filing one. That was a stone-cold-sober calculation. The interview was just
payback. When I was eighteen or something my dad made me interview for a job I already
had.”
“What did you do?” D asked.
“I wore a ridiculous outfit, ate a sandwich, and called him Mr. Mellman repeatedly.” 9
“You didn’t think he’d remember that?”
“Now what do I do?”
“Watch your back,” D said.
“It’s not that bad, is it?”
“It’s worse than you think.”
“What are they going to do?” I asked.
“There’s something you need to put in your mind. Spellman Investigations, to most
clients, is Albert and Olivia and the relationships they’ve maintained for twenty
years. The office is in their house. They’re entitled to thirty percent of the equipment
if they decide to go their own way.”
“You don’t think they’d branch off and start their own business, do you?”
“How hard would it be? Same location, switch the name a bit—you don’t have a copyright
on Spellman . They could downsize, take only the cases they want. It could be perfect for two
people thinking about retiring,” D said.
“What would be the advantage of that?”
“They’d be their own bosses and wouldn’t work under the dictatorship of Madame President
Isabel anymore.”
“Is that what it looks like to you?”
“I’m Switzerland, remember?”
“So you’re telling me they have all the power.”
“They have most of it.”
“If that happened and they offered you a job, where would you go?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Who gives me the better offer.”
• • •
After the interviews, my parents took a disappearance to Big Sur. I left a series
of increasingly apologetic messages on their cell phones. None were returned.
Three days later, when I pulled up to 1799 Clay Street, I was elated to discover Dad’s
Audi in the driveway. I raced out for bagels and lox from some bagel shop 10 and pastries from none of your business ; picked up flowers, champagne, and orange juice from a store ; and attempted to improve morale with a sleep-inducing feast for all. My parents
partook of the
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