“Oh, dude, she wants you bad,” the photographer groaned from the row behind me. I glanced at the screen, where a petite Asian woman was trying to break away from a male coworker’s grip.

Cheryl twisted in her seat. “Would you shut up?” she growled.

The interns looked abashed, but the photographer only laughed.

I returned to my papers and read on. Ivins’s second batch of questions homed in on operating losses at certain CDMI manufacturing facilities, particularly Paradis sur Terre in Myanmar. So I’d guessed right about those exotic-smelling file boxes I’d inventoried on Monday, and I congratulated myself for getting a good head start on the case.

“Oh, Mr. Man!” Now the photographer was speaking in a Suzie Wong falsetto. “You so big and handsome. Take me home with you. I give you plenty good sex. I be good slave for you.”

“That’s enough!” Cheryl jumped to her feet and whirled on the photographer. He leaned back with a smirk and snapped another photo from his crotch.

“Excuse me?” the moderator called from the front of the room. “Is there an issue?”

“Yes, there’s an issue,” Cheryl yelled. “I want to register a complaint against this—this person—who’s creating a hostile work environment at this very moment!”

The lights came up in the auditorium, and people’s heads came up from their phones and tablets. Voices started to buzz. The program leaders turned to the back of the stage and looked expectantly at Lucy Carter-Jones, who shook her head slightly. They turned back to the audience. “Perhaps you could raise this issue through appropriate channels at a later time—”

“I’m sorry, but no, I can’t. Lucy!” Cheryl called. “His behavior is outrageous. It’s illegal!”

Lucy got to her feet and reluctantly took the microphone that the speakers were thrusting at her.

“He’s not only making gross sexual innuendos,” Cheryl said, “he’s making racist ones as well!”

“Perhaps we could address this—”

Cheryl spoke over her. “I mean, come on, Lucy—how can you sit by while he makes jokes about slaves? You of all people.”

Lucy’s face froze, her mouth still open. After a moment she closed it.

“I mean—” Cheryl faltered. The room was suddenly very quiet. “I only meant given your own country’s sordid history with the subject. That—that is—” She was stammering now. “Your country of origin, I mean.”

The photographer leaned back with a big grin, obviously relishing his accuser’s discomfiture. Lucy moved, finally, but only to exit stage right. Cheryl’s hand flew to her mouth, and she hurried to the rear exit of the room amid a whipsaw of whispers through the audience.

The episode ended with that. After a moment, the lights dimmed again, the video play resumed, and everyone went back to work.

I went back to work, too. Barrett would be returning from KL next week, and it was critical that I make a good impression—a dazzling impression—from the get-go. I figured that once I proved my value to the company, once I made myself indispensable, a little résumé padding could surely be overlooked.