Chapter 16 - Jasmine Finally Asked the Right Question
Jasmine called on a Sunday afternoon.
"Can I ask you something without making it about me?"
I laughed.
"Strong opening."
She had been promoted under Lakefront Transit.
Not because of the scandal.
Because she was good at dispatch.
She had also become the loudest person in the building about access controls.
People teased her.
She accepted it.
"A new manager asked me to send him another employee's login because she was off today."
"What did you do?"
"Said no."
"Good."
"Then I asked why he needed it."
I smiled.
There it was.
Not bravery as a personality.
A practiced question.
"What happened?"
"He got annoyed. Then IT gave him the correct access through his own account."
"Terrifying."
"I know. Total revolution."
We laughed.
Then she became quiet.
"Do you still hate me?"
I thought before answering.
"No."
"Do you trust me?"
Longer pause.
"Not the way I used to."
"Fair."
That was the conversation.
No friendship montage.
No hugging through the phone.
We began having coffee every few months.
Trust came back in smaller pieces than it left.
Richard's life changed more publicly.
He sold his house in Lincoln Park and moved into a condo.
The headlines treated that like tragedy.
I did not.
He joined the board of a small workforce training nonprofit after its director publicly said he would have no authority over finances.
I respected the sentence more than the appointment.
Trevor served prison time and paid restitution under his case.
Allison Dane, his wife, admitted she had signed Westfield documents without understanding some of the inventory sources but had knowingly ignored warnings later. Her case resolved separately.
Again, specific responsibility.
Northstar recovered most losses through returned goods, settlements, and insurance.
Not every customer did.
Harrison's old owners paid into a claims fund as part of the sale settlement.
Months later, Ruben visited Northstar headquarters for a driver advisory meeting.
He placed a peppermint candy on my desk.
"For old times."
"You make me sound ninety."
"You answered your phone like you were ninety. Always disappointed."
I laughed.
Then he looked around my office.
"You happy?"
I almost gave the polished answer.
Instead:
"More than before."
"Good."
He left.
On my desk sat the corrected termination notice Richard had given me.
I had been keeping it in a drawer.
That afternoon I shredded it.
Not because the correction did not matter.
Because I no longer needed proof that firing me had been a mistake.
Richard already knew.
More important, so did I.
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