“Sandy, the reason I call you Sandy, which you hate, is that it’s the only thing about you I ever liked. You were a pain in the ass in law school. You wanted to be a firebrand and take the message about racism and social justice to the proletariat, and I made you uncomfortable because I was that odd phenomenon in an upscale law school—a genuine blue–collar worker’s genuine daughter. But at least you were who you were—Sandy Fishbein. You didn’t try to pretend you were anything else. Then you went off and found capitalism, and had your nose and your lips done, and cut off your name, too.”

“That’s not what I came to talk to you about,” she said, but her voice had lost its edge.

“And another thing. I have a tape of yours. Baladine made it during his swim meet.”

“How did you get it?” she hissed. “Did he give it to you?”

I smiled blandly. “He doesn’t know I have it. It’s yours, Alex. It’s yours the day I get concrete evidence that Global has fired Wenzel, the man who managed the Coolis shop, and that he is not working elsewhere in your organization. And the day that Carnifice lets CO Polsen and CO Hartigan go. Without placing them elsewhere.”

Her wide lips were stiff. “I have little influence on Global’s day–to–day operation, and I do not work for Carnifice.”

I continued to smile. “Of course not. And it doesn’t look as though Baladine will be at Carnifice much longer, anyway, at least not if the report in this morning’s papers can be believed. Between his sending that e–mail announcing his resignation and all the publicity we’ve generated this week, his board is pressuring him to step down. And Jean–Claude Poilevy, who’s always been a survivor, is backpedaling as fast as he can scoot. He says Baladine operated a for–profit shop at Coolis completely without his knowledge, and he’s shocked at the tales of sexual abuse in the prison. I think Carnifice would welcome the chance to fire a couple of low–level employees. If they let Polsen and Hartigan go, they can make a big press pitch on how they’re cleaning house.”

“I can’t promise anything, of course.”

“Of course not. By the way, you’re not the only woman Baladine taped on that couch. He also took advantage of his kids’ ex–nanny, the one who died. Not a nice man to be around.”

Her throat worked as the implications of that struck her. She started to ask me what I’d seen and then swept out of my office without saying anything else.