Rachel Wallace spoke without inflection like a kid saying the pledge to the flag.
"In Massachusetts," she said, "sexual harassment means sexual advances, requests for sexual favors, and verbal or physical conduct of a sexual nature when: (a) submission to or rejection of such advances, requests, or conduct is made either explicitly or implicitly a term or condition of employment or as a basis for employment decisions."
She took in a big stage breath, let it out, drank some martini, and went on. "Or (b) such advances, requests, or conduct have the purpose or effect of unreasonably interfering with an individual's work performance by creating an intimidating, hostile, humiliating, or sexually offensive work environment."
"That's the law?"
"That's it in Massachusetts."
"And you can recite it from memory."
"I'm not just another pretty face," she said.
"Well," I said, "the legislators are clearly a bunch of pickle puss spoilsports."
"Yes," she said. "I understand the Iron Maiden is illegal here too."
"At the moment. But these women were volunteers," I said. "Does the law apply to them?"
"I'm not an attorney," Rachel Wallace said. "But part B might be the more applicable one."
"The thing about the sexually offensive work environment."
She rattled it off again.
"Maybe," I said. "Still, it doesn't seem to me like the strongest case in the world."
"Not every offensive sexual remark is, legally, sexual harassment," Rachel Wallace said. "Have you interviewed the plaintiffs?"
"They won't talk to me, advice of counsel."
"Is the counsel formidable?"
"Francis Ronan?"
"Jesus Christ," Rachel Wallace said.
The waiter offered us menus and we paused to browse them. When we had ordered, Rachel Wallace rested her chin on her folded hands and looked at me.
"Is it difficult with Susan right now?"
"Very," I said.
"Is she ashamed of herself for having been with this man?"
"Maybe," I said. "'Though I don't know why."
"I was with you in the last crisis," Rachel Wallace said. "When she went off with that man."
"Costigan," I said. "Russell Costigan."
"As I recall, she was, when it was over, ashamed of herself."
"Well, she was, and she wasn't."
"And with this, ah, Sterling?"
I started nodding before she finished her sentence.
"She is and she isn't," I said.
Rachel Wallace looked enigmatic.
"Which means what?" I said.
Rachel Wallace shrugged.
"You were implying something," I said.
"I'm not a psychiatrist," Rachel Wallace said.
"I'll keep it in mind," I said.
Rachel Wallace scrutinized the olive in her martini for a bit.
"I know of three men in Susan's life," she said. "And they permit ambivalence."
"Three?"
"Her
first husband, the man she ran off with, and you."
"Me?"
She turned her glass to get a better look at the olive. Then she looked up at me.
"You look like a thug. You do dangerous work. And, however well contained, you are deeply violent."
"I like dogs," I said.
"Appearances are deceiving," Rachel Wallace said. "And I suspect when Susan first responded to you she didn't realize exactly what she was getting."
"Which was?"
Rachel Wallace smiled. It was a surprising sight.
Her face softened when she smiled, and her eyes widened, and she was pretty.
"A large, cynical Boy Scout," she said.
The waiter brought our dinner.
"She's attracted to men she can be ashamed of?"
"Perhaps."
"You're not just saying that to boost my ego?" I said.
Again that lovely smile.
"You have no ego," she said, "or it is so large it is impregnable. I've never known which."
"But the other two guys, she didn't last with them."
"No."
"With me she has lasted."
"The other two guys," Rachel Wallace said, "were perhaps what she thought they were. You turned out to be more."
"And?"
"She is a good woman, she would finally need a good man."
"And need to be embarrassed," I said, "about the bad ones in her past?"
"Maybe."
"Why?"
Rachel Wallace leaned back a little and rubbed her palms lightly together.
"We have reached the limits of pop psych," she said.
"Which means you don't know."
"I haven't a clue," she said.
"Lot of that going around," I said.
chapter seventeen
AT 9:15 IN THE morning, I called the Public Charities Division at the Attorney General's Office and asked about Civil Streets. It was listed as a counseling and adjustment service for former prison inmates. The woman on the phone stressed that the description was submitted by the charitable organization and should not be construed as the AG's evaluation. There had been no complaints about the organization. The president was somebody named Carla Quagliozzi, with an address in Somerville. There was a long list of directors: she would be happy to send me a copy of it. I thanked her and hung up and called Civil Streets in Stoneham. No answer. I called President Carla and got a chirpy recorded message about her not being home and my call being important to her. I called Brad Sterling and there was no answer. Faced with rejection at every turn, I went to plan B. I swiveled my chair around and put my feet up and looked out my window. It was a lovely December day, brisk and sunny. Unfortunately it was the first week in April.