T Is For Trespass

“Is this about the insurance?”

“This is about the lawsuit. I’m interested in taking your statement about what happened, if you’d be so kind.”

“Well, I can’t talk now. I’ve got a bunion on my foot that’s giving me fits and the dog’s gone berserk because my husband went out and bought a bird without so much as a by-your-leave. I told him I don’t intend to clean up after anything lives in a cage and I don’t give a hang if it’s lined with paper or not. Birds are filthy. Full of lice. Everybody knows that.”

“Absolutely. I can see your point,” I said. “I was hoping I might stop by in the morning, say at nine o’clock?”

“What’s tomorrow, Tuesday? Let me check my calendar. I might be scheduled to see the chiropractor for an adjustment. You know I’ve been going in twice a week, for all the good it’s done. With all the pills and folderol, you’d think I’d be fine. Hold on.” I could hear her flipping pages back and forth. “I’m busy at nine. It looks like I’ll be here at two, but not much after that. I have a physical therapy appointment and I can’t afford to be late. They’re doing another ultrasound treatment, hoping to give me some relief from all the lower-back pain I got.”

“What about your husband? I’ll want to talk to him as well.”

“I can’t answer for him. You’ll have to ask him yourself when you get here.”

“Fine. I’ll be in and out of there as quickly as possible.”

“You like birds?”

“Not that much.”

“Well, all right then.”

I heard a high-pitched, astonished yelp, and Gladys slammed the phone down abruptly, possibly in order to save the dog’s life.

12

In the office Tuesday morning, I made a copy of Solana Rojas’s application and tucked the original in an envelope I addressed to Melanie. The five-hundred-dollar advance was my usual charge for one day’s work, so I thought I’d jump into it and make it worthwhile for both of us.

I sat at my desk and studied the application, which included Solana’s Social Security number, her driver’s license number, her date and place of birth, and her LVN certification number. Her home address in Colgate showed an apartment number, but the street itself wasn’t one I knew. She was sixty-four years old and in good health. Divorced, with no minor children living at home. She’d earned an AA degree from Santa Teresa City College in 1970, which meant she’d gone back for her degree when she was in her midforties. She’d applied for nursing school, but the waiting list was such that it took another two years before she was accepted. Eighteen months later, having completed the requisite three semesters in the nursing program, she had her certification as an LVN.

I studied her job history, noting a number of private-duty assignments. Her most recent employment was a ten-month stint at a convalescent home, where her duties had included the application and changing of bandages, catheterizations, irrigations, enemas, collecting specimens for lab analysis, and the administering of medications. The salary she listed was $8.50 an hour. Now she was asking $9.00. Under the heading “Background,” she indicated she’d never been convicted of a felony, that she wasn’t currently awaiting trial for any criminal offense, and that she’d never initiated an act of violence in the workplace. Good news, indeed.

The list of her employers, starting with the present and working backward, included addresses, telephone numbers, and the names of supervisors, where appropriate. I could see that the dates of employment formed a seamless progression that covered the years since she’d been licensed. Of the elderly private-duty patients she’d cared for, four had been moved into nursing homes on a permanent basis, three had died, and two had recovered sufficiently to live on their own again. She’d attached photocopies of two letters of recommendation that said just about what you’d expect. Blah, blah, blah responsible. Blah, blah, blah competent.

I looked up the number of Santa Teresa City College and asked the operator to co

“Excuse me. Whew! I’m sorry about that. This is Mrs. Henderson.”

I gave her my name and told her I was doing a preemployment background check on a Solana Rojas. I spelled the name and gave her the date she’d graduated from the STCC nursing program. “All I need is a quick confirmation that the information’s accurate.”

“Can you hold?”

I said, “Sure.”

While I was listening to Christmas carols, she must have popped a cough drop in her mouth because when she came back on the line, I could hear a clicking sound as the lozenge was shifted across her teeth.

“We’re not allowed to divulge information on the telephone. You’ll have to make your request in person.”

“You can’t even give me a simple yes or no?”

She paused to blow her nose, a sloppy transaction with a honking sound attached. “That’s correct. We have a policy about student privacy.”

“What’s private about it? The woman’s looking for a job.”

“So you claim.”

“Why would I lie about something like that?”

“I don’t know, dear. You’ll have to tell me.”

“What if I have her signature on a job application, authorizing verification of her educational background and employment history?”

“One moment,” she said, aggrieved. She put a palm across the telephone mouthpiece and murmured to someone nearby. “In that case, fine. Bring the application with you. I’ll make a copy and submit it with the form.”

“Can you go ahead and pull her file so the information’s waiting when I get there?”

“I’m not allowed to do that.”

“Fine. Once I get up there, how long will it take?”

“Five business days.”

I was a

I made a long-distance call to the Board of Vocational Nursing and Psychiatric Technicians in Sacramento. The clerk who took my call was cooperative-my tax dollars at work. Solana Rojas’s license was active and she’d never been the subject of sanctions or complaints. The fact that she was licensed meant she’d successfully completed a nursing program somewhere, but I’d still need to make a trip to City College to confirm. I couldn’t think why she’d falsify the details of her certification, but Melanie had paid for my time and I didn’t want to shortchange her.

I went over to the courthouse and made a run through public records. A check of the criminal index, the civil index, the minor offenses index, and the public index (which included general civil, family, probate, and criminal felony cases) showed no criminal convictions and no lawsuits filed by or against her. The records of the bankruptcy court came up blank as well. By the time I drove up to City College, I was reasonably certain the woman was just as she represented herself.

I slowed to a stop at the information kiosk on campus. “Can you tell me where I can find Admissions and Records?”

“Admissions and Records is in the Administration Building, which is right there,” she said, pointing at the structure dead ahead.

“What about parking?”

“It’s open in the afternoons. Park anyplace you like.”

“Thanks.”

I pulled into the first open slot I came to and got out, locking my car behind me. From my vantage point, there was a view of the Pacific through the trees, but the water was gray and the horizon was obscured by mist. The continued overcast made the day feel colder than it was. I slung my bag across one shoulder and crossed my arms for warmth.