…and boy-howdy! The story was more lurid by a league than I, with the worst will in the world, had been prepared to imagine. I’m actually rather surprised the guy wasn’t frogmarched out of the building in bracelets. IANAL, and maybe there’s some legal standard of which I’m not aware that has to be met before the word “embezzlement” (by no means the only particular in the figurative bill of indictment) can be tossed around, but I’m astonished, as is my informant, that the high sheriffs at BDS took as long as they did to shitcan the guy.
Amusing personal note: I never learned what it was that lay behind the almost impersonal animus the ex-boss (about thirteen years my junior) displayed, mainly in the form of malign neglect, in his dealings with me, but there was one bit of active dirt he did me that I particularly resented when he reduced my office real estate by half, on two days notice, a couple of years ago. Under previous regimes such a decision might have been made, but I’d have been summoned in advance of the fact to mahogany row and given a blindfold and a cigarette. You know: “Rand, we’re terribly sorry, but the space is needed, good of the organization, good lad, knew you’d understand.” Nah. The head of our Redacted Unit—not the International Division, which has fallen on hard times indeed, but an outfit that feeds off the import/export side of the business—came to me one day and said “You have to clear all this shit out of here by Friday.” Turns out the objective here was not to inflict hardship on moi, but to assist the head of Redacted in her empire building, one of many, many favors lavished on her by the now-disgraced boss, who was banging her (she ultimately turned “state’s evidence” once the mountain of misconduct could no longer be ignored, and while she remains on the payroll, she’s been given to understand that she should probably not make long-range plans based on any expectation of a rise through the managerial ranks here). Accordingly, l’affaire Room 110 at least served as one admittedly minuscule element in the case against the boss. Not that I’m getting the real estate back, but hell, with four months to go, who gives a shit?
cordially,
Amusing personal note: I never learned what it was that lay behind the almost impersonal animus the ex-boss (about thirteen years my junior) displayed, mainly in the form of malign neglect, in his dealings with me, but there was one bit of active dirt he did me that I particularly resented when he reduced my office real estate by half, on two days notice, a couple of years ago. Under previous regimes such a decision might have been made, but I’d have been summoned in advance of the fact to mahogany row and given a blindfold and a cigarette. You know: “Rand, we’re terribly sorry, but the space is needed, good of the organization, good lad, knew you’d understand.” Nah. The head of our Redacted Unit—not the International Division, which has fallen on hard times indeed, but an outfit that feeds off the import/export side of the business—came to me one day and said “You have to clear all this shit out of here by Friday.” Turns out the objective here was not to inflict hardship on moi, but to assist the head of Redacted in her empire building, one of many, many favors lavished on her by the now-disgraced boss, who was banging her (she ultimately turned “state’s evidence” once the mountain of misconduct could no longer be ignored, and while she remains on the payroll, she’s been given to understand that she should probably not make long-range plans based on any expectation of a rise through the managerial ranks here). Accordingly, l’affaire Room 110 at least served as one admittedly minuscule element in the case against the boss. Not that I’m getting the real estate back, but hell, with four months to go, who gives a shit?
cordially,