Free Family Counsel (The Samuel Collins Series Book 2) by Debra Trueman Page A

Russ
brought in a pot of fresh Starbuck’s coffee.  Earl’s mug looked like a
miniature version of the real thing in his huge hand, but he handled it almost
daintily, like he’d had etiquette lessons.
    “Let’s get started,” I said.  I flipped back to where we’d left
off.  “Reprimands for vulgar language or profanity.  You said there were two
incidents?”
    “Thasright.  There was once I called my supervisor a sorry
white-ass son of a bitch.  And the other time was havin’ to do with a pitcher
someone left in my work area.”
    “A pitcher of what?” I asked.  I’m thinking beer, margaritas.
    “A pitcher of a naked guy.”
    “Oh, a picture . Got it.”  I scratched out the word on my
legal pad and corrected it. 
    “Thaswhat I said.  A pitcher,” he said, with a definite duh .
    I wasn’t inclined to give the guy a grammar lesson, so I let it
slide.  “Tell me about both of these incidents.  What about the white-ass
comment?”
    “Ain’t nothin’ to it.  The line supervisor called me a
black-ass son of a bitch, so I called him a white-ass son of a bitch.  Then he
done wrote me up for it.  Said I was insubordinate.”
    “Who counseled you?”
    “That’d be Mr. Lyden.  He’s the operations manager.”
    “I assume you told Mr. Lyden that your supervisor had called
you a black-ass son of a bitch?”
    Earl shook his head.  “Didn’t have to.  He heard it hisself.  Guy
was there when it happened.”
    “Was your supervisor counseled for his comment?”
    “Nope.”
    I was trying to keep my excitement in check because I don’t
like to get my client’s hopes up, but I could feel a smile creeping across my
face.  Stupid supervisors make my job so easy.  I wondered if Earl looked into
my eyes right then, would he see dollar signs. 
    “Tell me about the picture ,” I said, making it a point
to enunciate the c .
    He cast his eyes down for a second like he was embarrassed, but
he looked directly at me before he answered, as he had with every other
response he’d given me.  He had honest gray eyes.  Too bad about the teeth.
    “Was a cartoon of a naked black man with a huge Johnson.  I
took the cartoon and made the Johnson real small like, and I crossed out my
name and wrote my supervisor’s name on it and I put it on his locker ‘cause
he’s the one who put it on my locker.  And I got wrote up for doin that.”
    “Did your supervisor get written up?”
    He shook his head.  “Said they couldn’t prove it was him.”
    “What made you think he was the one who put it on your locker?”
    “’Cause I knows the way he writes.  Ain’t no one else writes like
that.”
    As I jotted down notes, I was forming our answers to the
interrogatories in my head.  Sometimes it served us best to be vague in our
answers, but not in this case.  I’d note every gory detail included in the racist
cartoons and memos and paraphernalia to let them know just how slimy DIFCO’s
management team was.  I wouldn’t need the element of surprise to win this case,
and I wanted my opposing counsel to know exactly what kind of ammunition I had
and how much of it. 
    “Have other employees been subjected to cartoons and drawings
like this?”
    “Don’t see no one else getting things like that,” Earl said.
    “How many people have been involved in this type of behavior
toward you?”
    “Mostly three.  There was a lady in the office that used to
mess with me, but she don’t work there no more.  So’s now it’s mostly two.”
    “Okay.  I know the line supervisor is one; who is the other
one?”
    “The operations manager.”
    “Do you know if either of them can hire and fire employees?”
    “Both of ’em.” Earl confirmed.
    The smile was creeping back.  Both were in positions of
management so their actions could be imputed to the company.
    Sometimes getting information out of a client is like slow
torture from hell.  It’s not that  they purposely withhold information, they
just