The Question Authority. Rachel Cline

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СКАЧАТЬ year later, we had girls upstairs all the time. Girls getting their periods for the first time—I put them to bed with some whiskey and a hot water bottle like I was taught. Girls who were sleepy, or who needed a shower, and, eventually, girls who were going to get their picture taken, to “model.” There were so many reasons to go upstairs, after a while, it’s a wonder we ever sat in the kitchen. But we did that, too. One girl would be upstairs with Bob and I’d be downstairs with the others doing macramé or tie-dye, or baking cookies. They loved me because I never said much, and I told them they were beautiful, too.

      I didn’t even know what “ironic” meant then. Or maybe I did and I just let Bob tell me I didn’t. I preferred to let him tell me what was what, because then it couldn’t be all my fault. But in my heart I knew that it was: I’d given him the idea the day we met—before we mounted Babe the Blue Ox and rode off yonder. I myself was only fifteen years old when we sat behind Wilson’s Café and I told him how I grew up. And on that day, he listened so well.

      8

      Nora

      Ihave just begun to unpack the Singer folder when the wall of my cubicle speaks. “Your phone was ringing,” says invisible Ktanya, a fellow paralegal—if she’d gone to the Academy, she’d be a lawyer herself, but she went to Boys and Girls High so she’s a fantastically well-dressed clerical instead. She has never spoken directly to me before so I guess my visit to Jocelyn’s office has increased my social currency. For the first six weeks of my tenure, Ktanya’s desk belonged to creepy Arthur, who spent his whole day attempting to control his wife by phone, in a whisper that was fully audible to me: “Isn’t it time for you to get dressed?” “I told you not to go there.” “What were you doing at The Gap?” Ktanya is usually all business—dresses like a lawyer on a TV show, takes notes on a laptop, unfailingly begins and ends all her phone conversations with cordialities that sound almost nineteenth century to me. I know she has a husband and a young daughter, although there are never any personal phone calls over there. No messes of any kind. I ring my voicemail but there is no message waiting.

      The first thing I need to do with any new case is let opposing counsel know we are interested in settling. Although our group is called “Settlements,” this is not an actual lawsuit. I only settle complaints and disputes of the sort that can be decided by a hearing officer rather than a judge or jury. The standard of proof at these hearings is low—a “preponderance of evidence”—and the hearing officer is not even a lawyer let alone a judge. The outcome of such a proceeding is therefore unpredictable for all concerned. Anyway, the text of my letter to Singer’s lawyer is standard, saying, “I’m your contact point, let’s talk”—but in formalese. I just need a few key facts to customize it; the teacher’s name (Harold Singer) and the case number go in the subject line, but I have to unpack the various manila folders that are wedged into the accordion file for the rest. I’ve never heard of the law firm. It’s on Leonard Street in Tribeca so probably on the small side—not one of those places whose whole portfolio is suing the school system. The attorney’s name is Elizabeth Cohen—the number of Beth Cohens in the world approaches the infinite, I sometimes think. My Beth married a Silicon Valley guy in 1980-something, and certainly showed no signs of becoming a lawyer. Au contraire, Pierre, as we used to say.

      As Jocelyn mentioned, Harold Singer has been caught before but—like everything else at the ED—it’s not really that simple. Sorting through the contents of the accordion file, I find the earlier case: Singer was charged with sexual impropriety but the hearing officer found in his favor. The full decision is too boring to bother reading but I scan it and am struck by the name of the girl in question, Elodie Cascarelli, who is represented by a few choice quotes:

      I guess you could say he was “personal” with me.

       Yes, I saw him outside of school a few times. So what?

      He has a way of talking that lets you know you’re important to him.

      In the current case, my case, the victim isn’t even named. The only people who seem certain Singer’s done something wrong are one of his colleagues and another girl in the same classroom. There’s a letter of reference from one of his professors from Teachers College, who calls him “gifted” and “dedicated.” There’s also a Letter to File from a former colleague, who calls him “one of the most inspiring and inventive young teachers I have ever met.” His girlfriend? No, she says “in all my years of teaching”—so Singer is a charmer of middle-aged ladies, as well. Great.

      The summary report of the city’s special investigator is in all caps and exhausting to read—does he realize he’s screaming? The upshot is that the principal told Singer, in writing, that he was not to spend time alone with female students in any capacity, and he was subsequently written up three times for disobeying: He offered homework help (“I didn’t realize I was barred from helping my students”) and he walked a girl to the subway after dark (“It was on my way, and we were in the middle of a conversation about the book she was reading; it didn’t occur to me to cut her off mid-sentence”). The third incident involves such a grammatically tortured explanation of the configuration of the cafeteria entrance (somehow Singer and a student had been “alone” there) that I can’t even follow it, despite reading it twice. I wonder if its all-caps author gets paid the same shit salary as me.

      Anyway, Harold Singer is officially accused of insubordination—disobeying his principal—because there was no proof of sexual misconduct and the girl herself has not come forward. Nevertheless, if the hearing officer finds him guilty, he could lose not only his job but his pension—and for a teacher well into the third decade of his career, that’s serious money, not to mention health insurance, for life.

      In the absence of a photo of the guy, I find that I am picturing Bob Rasmussen whenever I read “Harold Singer.” Rasmussen also never failed to have an answer to every question—a logical (though sometimes invented) explanation— and he, too, was free with his righteous indignation. Not that I ever saw him accused of doing anything wrong by a grownup. Of course, in 1971 there was a lot more leeway for a guy like him, and at a school like the suffragette-founded Young Ladies’ Academy of Brooklyn (where we didn’t even have a dress code and sang “This Land is Your Land” instead of the national anthem every day) his colleagues seemed to view him as occasionally arrogant and irritating but nothing worse. I once heard our headmistress refer to him as “a lovable rake.”

      I hunt up the spreadsheet of comparable cases on our shared drive to find out exactly what facts I’ll need to feed it in order to generate a settlement offer. The column headings are: Respondent’s Age, Hire Date, Current Salary, Strength (which means “of our case”), and Severity (which must mean “of the offense”). How do I measure that? It’s not a legal matter; no one saw anything. Technically his offense was disobeying his principal. Big deal.

      This is typical of my job. There’s no real training; they just give you the regs to read and a bunch of cases that have been written up for law journals or whatever and because you’re smart and well-meaning—or were trained as an attorney in Kenya, or dropped out of law school—it is assumed that you will figure it out. And I do, but often the hard way.

      The basic facts should be in the paperwork—sometimes they are: there’s a cover sheet that someone is supposed to fill in before the case gets to the Settlement unit—but I can’t find one in the Singer accordion file. I should just be able to look up the guy’s personnel file somewhere on the computer network and get, for example, his hire date, but no, this requires a records request, a paper trail. I have to write a polite and correctly formatted email to a lady named Shonda Deville in the Manifest Records Unit, who replies with a polite, five-sentence email, the gist of which is: “Your request has been received.” She has a quote from Dr. Martin Luther King underneath her cursive-font signature. After a week (but СКАЧАТЬ