Confessions of a Red Herring

by Dana Dratch

  Walters stopped smiling. He leaned over and whispered something into the other attorney’s ear. The lawyer shook his head.

  Walters sat back and crossed his hands in his lap as the attorney started to speak. “Mr. Walters feels that . . .”

  “I don’t give a flying damn what Mr. Walters feels. Tell him to save his feelings for his therapist.” She leaned forward and looked straight at Walters. “What I asked you was ‘Why was she fired?’”

  Walters narrowed his eyes, leaned to his left, and whispered to the other attorney. More head shaking. He sat back and sighed.

  “She was confrontational, contrary, and completely unwilling to do the work assigned to her. She was totally unqualified for the job. Which was something that my business partner—my late business partner—discovered within days of hiring her. He gave her the benefit of the doubt and tried to make it work. But recently, he had discovered that she was still in the employ of that newspaper. Engaging in some type of nefarious corporate espionage. And since we were not her true employer, we owe her no unemployment. As to why she left her real employer, if indeed she has, you’ll have to ask them.”

  OK, game over. At least with the freelance gig, I’m not gonna starve, right?

  But apparently, Ms. Jenkins wasn’t done yet.

  “You got proof of that?” she asked.

  Walters drummed his long, tapered fingers on the wooden arm of the cheap office chair. “Which part?”

  “Start with the firing on Friday. Were you there?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know she was fired?”

  “I discussed it with my partner.”

  “Before or after she was fired?”

  “After. By phone.”

  “When was she fired?”

  “I’ve already told you. Friday.”

  “What time?”

  “Approximately 11 p.m.”

  “Awfully late hour for work.”

  “There was a company function. For a client. Ms. Vlodnachek made a scene and nearly cost us a very lucrative account. It was the last straw. Everett called me later, and I agreed with his decision. You should also know that Ms. Vlodnachek is the prime suspect in the murder of my business partner, which took place two days later.”

  I noticed Walters’ semi-smile was back.

  “Have you got paperwork on that?”

  “The murder?”

  “The termination. An exit interview? A performance review? Anything in writing?”

  “No. However, we can supply the performance reviews at a later date, if you require them. There were several, and they were all unsatisfactory. Very unsatisfactory. There wasn’t an exit interview, for obvious reasons.”

  “I never had a performance review,” I said evenly. “Coleman told me I’d get one only after I’d been there six months. And another after a year.”

  Ms. Jenkins’ eyebrows went up.

  “Ms. Vlodnachek is mistaken,” Walters said, pointedly addressing himself to her and not me.

  “OK, so no paperwork for now,” she replied. “But you can confirm terminating the claimant on Tuesday?”

  “I merely reiterated my partner’s earlier statement, when Ms. Vlodnachek had the audacity to show up at my offices to harass my late partner’s widow. But all of this is moot. She was never our employee. She was working for that rag of a newspaper. And she very likely killed my partner.”

  “See the sign up there? ‘Virginia Employment Commission.’ Does it say anything about homicide? It does not. You got a murder? You take it up with the police. As your legal dream team here undoubtedly told you, this is a hearing to figure out whether Ms. Vlodnachek’s termination allows her to receive unemployment benefits.”

  “Well, it doesn’t. She never worked for us. She was spying on us for that newspaper. Therefore she doesn’t get benefits.”

  One of the lawyers placed a hand on Walters’ arm, leaned over, and whispered into his ear.

  “You done?” Irene Jenkins asked after the attorney pulled back.

  The lawyer nodded.

  “Good. This is how this works. Who gets—or doesn’t get—benefits is my decision. Not yours. There’s no proof that Ms. Vlodnachek was working for anyone other than your company. And I should know—I’ve got the same filings as the tax office right here,” she said, tapping her computer.

  “Then they paid her under the table,” Walters insisted. “If we have to, we can subpoena her bank records, and comb through her finances. She was not, and never has been, our employee!”

  “You don’t have to subpoena my bank records,” I said quietly. “I have a total of twenty dollars in my savings account, and another twenty in my checking account because Coleman & Walters went behind my back and canceled my health insurance after they fired me.”

  Ms. Jenkins’ eyes narrowed. “They canceled your health coverage? That’s a definite no-no, Mr. Walters.”

  To me she said, “When was it canceled?”

  “Tuesday, March twenty-third. The insurance company received a fax the day before, from Coleman & Walters, on company stationery. Along with a form declining coverage, with what’s reputed to be a very bad imitation of my signature. I walked into an expensive dentist’s appointment Wednesday, thinking I had coverage, and had to clean out my checking account—and part of my savings—just to pay for it.”

  Irene Jenkins shook her head.

  “My company did no such thing,” Walters protested. “If this woman elected to cancel her health insurance, that has nothing to do with my firm. And I resent the implication. My family spent decades building a company with a reputation for honesty, integrity, and trust. How dare she resort to cheap theatrics and lies to tarnish our reputation?”

  “According to the insurance company, the cancelation form was signed and dated Monday,” I said. “But I didn’t go to work on Monday. I was at the police station for a good part of the day. And when I went in Tuesday, I was escorted from the building by security around ten that morning.”

  “She could have signed it last week. Who knows why she canceled her health insurance. Maybe she was still getting it through her newspaper.”

  Jenkins gave Walters the once-over and shook her head again. Then she looked over at me.

  “You’re eligible for COBRA. That means you can stay on your former employer’s group health plan if you pay thirty-five percent of the premium every month. After six months, you have to pay one hundred percent, but you can remain on the policy for up to eighteen months after your exit date with the company. And, Mr. Walters, you’ll be happy to know I’m going to side with you. Since you have given your statement, in front of your two attorneys and me, that Ms. Vlodnachek was fired on Friday, that will be the official termination date.”

  Walters almost smiled as he sat up even straighter in his chair.

  She looked across the desk at me. “That means anything the plan administrator did regarding your health insurance after that date is invalid. I’ll give you a form to send to the insurance company and you’ll be reinstated, with no lapse in coverage. And given the”—she paused and looked at Walters—“confusion regarding your policy status, I’d recommend sending those premiums directly to the insurance company each month, rather than through your former employer. Furthermore, I’m granting your request for unemployment compensation, effective the very Friday Mr. Walters has stated that you were fired. That will put two more days’ worth of compensation into your first check, Ms. Vlodnachek.”

  Walters pursed his lips tighter and tighter until he couldn’t contain himself. The words exploded from his mouth. “Will she be able to collect those checks when she’s behind bars?”

  “Of course not. If she were incarcerated she would be unavailable for work, and therefore ineligible for benefits.”

  “But you’re telling me she can murder her boss, and then turn around and collect a weekly check from the state?”

  “Precisely, Mr. Walters. Although I’m guessing you may not want to spread
that bit of good news to the troops back at your office.”

  One of the lawyers stifled a laugh, covered his mouth with his hand and tried to turn it into a cough.

  “Mr. Walters, in case you haven’t noticed, Ms. Vlodnachek hasn’t been accused, arrested, or charged by the authorities, much less convicted of anything. And the Commonwealth of Virginia doesn’t put a lot of stock in finger-pointing, no matter how many lawyers you have sitting next to you.”

  Walters was turning pink before my eyes. It was the first time I’d ever seen color in his face. Or evidence that he had actual blood.

  “You know what I find curious?” Irene Jenkins put her elbows on her desk and leaned forward. “According to my records, which go back ten years so far, your company has filed objections every single time one of your former employees put in for unemployment compensation. Every single time.”

  “I fail to see how that’s relevant here,” Walters countered.

  “Here’s how it’s relevant, Mr. Walters. When an employee is terminated, they are—barring extreme circumstances—entitled to collect benefits until such time as they are reemployed. In exchange for that, they promise to diligently look for work. It’s a safety net for the hard-working citizens of Virginia. And your company is supposed to assist in providing that compensation, as part of its duty to the commonwealth. But in the last ten years, despite dozens of claims, your company has not paid one dime in unemployment compensation. Not one dime. No employee has ever collected benefits. Do you know what the odds of that are?”

  “Again, Ms. Jenkins, I fail to see the relevance of . . .”

  She cut him off. “The relevance, Mr. Walters, is that based on what I’ve seen and heard here today, combined with past records, it appears as if your company has been deliberately and intentionally abusing the system. I say ‘appears’ because, of course, we won’t know anything until we investigate. Which this office will do immediately. I’m flagging your company’s file. It will go to our audit department, and you’ll be notified shortly regarding further actions. It’s a good thing you brought these two,” Irene Jenkins said, waving a hand side to side to indicate the attorneys, “because you’re going to need them. Regarding Ms. Vlodnachek’s application for benefits, which I am granting immediately, you can appeal, but that hearing will be conducted under oath. Your testimony will be sworn under penalty of perjury, and the threshold for evidence will be much higher than in this”—she cleared her throat—“informal setting. And, confidentially, the evidence you’ve presented so far has not impressed me. Ms. Vlodnachek, I’d love to see the letter and cancellation form that your insurance company received.”

  “No problem,” I said. “I’ll get your fax number and have them send it over today.”

  Irene Jenkins looked back at Walters, who was now so pale he looked as if he’d spent a week at Dracula’s castle. As the main course.

  “Excellent,” she said.

  * * *

  I flew to the car, riding a high that was better than champagne. Or at least better than the cheap stuff I bought every New Year’s Eve. Gabby was on her cell, but clicked off quickly when she saw me and slipped it in her purse.

  “We won!” I cheered.

  “We won?” she asked.

  “Game, set, and match. Not only am I getting unemployment benefits, but they’re helping me get my health insurance back. So I’ll recoup most of the money I paid my dentist. And the firm’s getting audited by the employment commission for suspected abuse of the unemployment-benefits system.”

  “Oh sugar, that’s not all,” she said. “More good news.”

  My stomach constricted. The past two weeks had taught me that “good news” often translated to “impending disaster” in my Gabby-to-English dictionary.

  She grabbed something out of the backseat and shoved it at me. It was my former paper. Today’s edition.

  “You solved the Jumble?”

  “Not that,” Gabby said. “The other section.” She rummaged through, and held up a page triumphantly. “These two mugs look familiar?”

  Separate pictures of both Coleman and Walters. On the metro front. With Billy Bob’s byline. I grabbed the page and scanned it.

  It was official.

  “C&W’s being audited by the IRS,” I said. “And the state’s Bureau of Criminal Investigation is sniffing around? Oh, man.”

  Gabby giggled.

  “Sus-pec-ted im-pro-pri-et-ies,” she pronounced, reading from the page. “Sounds like somebody’s been caught with his hand in the till. But at least those IRS guys let you keep your thumbs. If that happens in Vegas, you have to blow town and change your name.”

  Hmmmm.

  Oh, the hell with it. I wasn’t letting Gabby’s possible flight from justice—or whatever—get me down. I was reclaiming my life. Here and now.

  I did some quick math in my head. The insurance company would drag its feet on repaying me. And the check for my bridal story was at least a month away. In the meantime, I still needed to eat and pay bills.

  That’s when I said twelve words I’d later come to regret. “You know what? I think I’m ready to cash Peter’s check now.”

  Chapter 35

  The check-cashing place was a pawnshop. It sat at the far end of a run-down strip mall that also boasted a liquor store and a tattoo parlor.

  The pawnshop’s front window sported burglar bars, an impressive coating of grime, and flashing neon signs hawking check cashing, payday loans, title loans, money orders, and money-by-wire.

  At 1 P.M. on a Thursday, it was virtually deserted. A homeless guy was going through the trash can in front of the liquor store. And three thugs in matching hoodies were having an animated discussion outside the tattoo parlor.

  On the bright side: the gangbangers had their hoods down—a sure sign that spring was finally here to stay.

  “Uh, I don’t know about this,” I said to Gabby.

  “Sugar, there aren’t that many places in this neck of the woods willing to handle a big check like that. Most of them cap it at two thousand dollars. That’s why we had to drive all the way to Maryland.”

  “That’s great, but unless we get an armed escort back to the car, there’s no way we’re leaving this neighborhood with five thousand in cash. Or alive.”

  “You worry too much,” she said, shoving her purse under the seat. “It’s a pawnshop. We’ll buy a little something, come out with a bag, and no one will be the wiser.”

  Unless that bag was shaped like a rifle, I still wasn’t giving us good odds.

  “Am I dressed right for this?” Fresh from my unemployment hearing, I was wearing my best “interview suit” and heels.

  “Lose the jacket and pull your blouse outside the skirt,” she instructed. “Can you run in heels?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then, honey, you’re good to go.”

  It was almost enough to make me miss Allie and the gang at Helicon National.

  But it turned out Gabby was right. I had no reason to worry. The minute we hit the curb and the gangbangers spotted her, I could have been dressed as the Easter Bunny and no one would have noticed.

  “Whoa! Babbbyyyy!”

  “Hiiiyah! Hiiiiyah! Hiiiyah!”

  “Mmmmm, baby! My, oh my! Can I get some fries to go with that shake?”

  I had a flashback of a trip to Rome I’d taken with Annie and my mom the summer before I started college. We’d been followed and heckled by a couple of local guys who’d recognized Annie. Specifically, one of her recent swimsuit spreads. My mother’s voice couldn’t have been clearer if she’d been standing right next to me: “Keep walking, hang on to your purse, and try not to look dim-witted.”

  “Pick up the pace!” I hissed to Gabby. I swear, if anything, she’d slowed down and was exaggerating the swagger.

  The doorway of the check-cashing place reeked of cigarette smoke and urine. In equal parts. But I was grateful when that door closed behind us.

  “Can I help you?” a man’s voice
called through the haze of cigarette smoke.

  “Uh, yeah. I need to cash a check.”

  The guy disappeared into a small booth enclosed behind thick glass. Bulletproof?

  “Endorse the check. Put it through the slot, along with your ID. Fee is ten percent.” He puffed while he spoke, never even taking the butt out of his mouth. Thanks to the cloud, the glass was nearly opaque.

  “I thought it was illegal to smoke indoors,” I said.

  “You the tobacco police?”

  Gabby elbowed me in the ribs. “Sorry,” I said. “But aren’t you worried about secondhand smoke? And fire?”

  “‘Round here, be a hell of a lot more dangerous if I stepped out back,” he said, almost smiling.

  “That fee,” I asked, trying not to cough. “Ten percent of what?”

  An ear-piercing scream ripped the air. I looked at Gabby. Gabby looked at me.

  Joe Camel didn’t even bat a rheumy eye. “Ten percent of the face value of the check. That’s if it’s good. If it’s not, we take collection action, too. And we report it to the CheckBlox network.”

  Another scream. This one lasted almost a half-minute.

  “Ah, should we call the cops or something?” I asked, after it finally stopped.

  “No need. It’s just the tattoo parlor next door,” he said shrugging. “Even the tough guys aren’t so tough the first couple of times the needle goes in.”

  “Don’t they use anesthetic?” I asked.

  “They numb you up. They don’t knock you out. It still hurts.” He slapped his arm and pushed up the sleeve of his T-shirt, revealing a saucy-looking mermaid on his bicep. “Got this on my way home from ’Nam. When I flex, she flaps her tail.”

  “That’s pretty work,” Gabby said, contemplating the image as if it were a Picasso in the Louvre.

  Through the wall, we could hear loud moaning, sort of a cross between a whine and a shout.

  “Forty-five years, and the color’s barely faded. That’s quality.” He jerked a thumb at the wall next door. “Not like these guys today.”