Men like Harold believe every situation remains negotiable as long as they can get into a room, flatten their tie, and control the temperature with their voice. They also prefer private settings, where witnesses are limited and dignity can be rearranged afterward. So when his assistant suggested his office, I declined. When she suggested the Union League Club, I declined again. Martin finally offered neutral ground: a conference suite in one of our legal offices, fully recorded at entry, professionally staffed, no surprises.
Harold arrived with Evelyn and outside counsel at nine-thirty sharp.
Daniel sat beside me, freshly shaved, wearing one of my navy suits that fit him well enough to make the point. He looked steadier than the day before, though not untouched. Good. Wounds should not disappear too quickly. People learn from the memory of pain.
Evelyn looked exhausted. She was thirty, elegant, usually composed, but her mascara sat slightly wrong beneath her eyes as if she had slept in it. Harold looked exactly as he always did in magazines—silver hair, custom suit, watch that cost more than some family homes, expression cultivated to suggest he had never once doubted his own judgment.
He doubted it now. Not much. Just enough.
“Mr. Bennett,” he said, extending his hand.
I looked at it, then at him. “Let’s save gestures for the end.”
His hand lowered.
We sat.
Martin began with the timeline. Termination. Housing displacement. Statements regarding family bloodline and worthiness. Suggested blackballing within industry circles. He spoke without emotion, which made every fact sharper. Harold’s lawyer interrupted twice, first to object to phrasing, second to deny discriminatory intent. Martin invited both objections into the written record.
