False Accusations by Jacobson, Alan (great novels of all time .txt) 📕

member who was downright rude. All I did was mix up an appointment, and he went off on me about how incompetent women are, how his donation pays my salary, and if he has any say over things, there won’t be many women employed by the Consortium in the near future.”

“Who was this?” Madison asked. He pulled a legal pad from his drawer to document the time and content of their conversation.

“Ed Dolius.”

“Ed Dolius said that?”

“After a minute of listening to him slam women, I just hung up on him. I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit back and take—”

“Are you sure you’re talking about Ed Dolius? I’ve never known him to say anything derogatory about anyone,” he said, writing as quickly as he could. “And I just spoke with Randy Yates. He doesn’t remember being abusive toward you at all. Are you sure you didn’t misinterpret the situation?”

“I’m sure. I guess he’s got memory problems as well as a disgusting personality.”

Madison put his pen down. “Brittany, I’ve been friends with Eddie Dolius for nearly ten years, and I’ve always found him to be a good man. He’s also had some pretty serious financial difficulties, and he hasn’t been able to make a donation to the Consortium for the past couple of years.”

“So what are you saying?”

“Just that I don’t know why he’d bring up his donation when he hasn’t made one. He’s pretty embarrassed by the fact that he hasn’t been able to afford it, and he sure as hell doesn’t like to talk about it.”

Harding was silent.

“It also doesn’t make sense that he’d say anything negative about women. For one thing, he was an outspoken supporter of ERA back in the seventies. And for another, I happen to know that he’s been a huge Barbara Boxer supporter. Years ago, he even worked on her campaign.”

“What do you want me to say? That was then, this is now.” She paused for a moment. “Do you not want me to tell you when things like this happen?”

“I want to know everything,” he said. “I need to know everything.” Including what the hell is going on with you.

“Then don’t complain when I tell you things you don’t want to hear. Or believe.”

Madison shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He decided to take a different approach. “Brittany, do you think that maybe there’s a possibility that you’re... misinterpreting what these people are saying?”

“None whatsoever.”

“I’m just asking if there’s a possibility.”

“You’re not hearing me. I said no. I’m not stupid, Phil—or are you saying that because I’m female I’ve got a problem with communication?”

Madison sat back in his chair. “I’m not saying anything like that.”

“Do you have any more antagonizing questions to ask me?”

“I’m not trying to antagonize you. I just want to figure out what’s going on.”

“I told you what’s going on.”

Madison sighed, rubbed at the wrinkles in his forehead. “Brittany, I think you should keep in mind that if Donna’s going to be out much longer, we’re going to have to assemble a search committee. I’ll need to know if you’re going to be applying for the position.”

“I didn’t realize that you were going to open the job up to outside applicants.”

If I wasn’t before, I am now. “You should assume it will be.”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

Madison sighed. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you. Let’s both make an effort to be less on edge with the people we deal with—including each other.” If they needed to work together, even if only for a short time until the situation with Donna could be stabilized, he wanted to make sure they ended their conversation on a positive note.

“Fine,” she said.

He confirmed their meeting at Fifth Street Café for Wednesday night and hung up. She could use a couple of days to cool off. He took one look at the files on his desk, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. Deciding it could all wait until tomorrow, he called Leeza to let her know he was leaving the office and would be home in fifteen minutes.

CHAPTER 12

THE FIFTH STREET CAFÉ was a small yet atmospheric storefront restaurant located in the heart of downtown. Small tables were crammed in against one another—“a cozy setting” was the way one Sacramento Bee food critic described the venue. The menu was displayed in green fluorescent writing on a lighted board above the bar. For those customers who had forgotten their reading glasses, a one-sheet typewritten menu was supplied.

Madison arrived ten minutes late, having been detained by a patient with a frozen shoulder. The hostess pointed him in the direction of Harding, who was sitting at a table near the window. She was wearing a tight burgundy knit shirt that conformed to her body. Her hair was brushed back and fell gently across her shoulders.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said.

She motioned for him to sit down in the chair to her right. “I got here late, too. I’ve got this pain in my right ear, like something’s stuck in it.” She grimaced and plucked at it with her fingers. “It really hurts.”

“Here, let me take a look,” he said, leaning over toward her.

“Got stuck on the phone with this retarded kid’s parent and he talked my ear off,” she was saying as he examined it.

“It’s a child with mental retardation,” he said, “not ‘retarded kid.’ And I don’t see anything in your ear.”

“There’s got to be something there,” she said. “Take another look.” She moved closer; he inched forward toward her ear. She tilted her head back and giggled.

“That tickles,” she said.

“Still don’t see anything.”

“Hopefully it’ll just go away. It’s probably from spending too much time on the phone.”

“So what did that parent want?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. But some people have all the nerve.”

Madison sensed more problems and although he was afraid to hear what had happened, he knew he had to ask.

“How so?”

The waiter came by and greeted them, then recited the daily specials. “Do you need a few more moments?”

Madison