Invasion of Privacy

Yoder. “No, you didn’t. Who’s your client?”
    “I’m not at liberty to say.”
    Yoder was taking that equably as Betty knocked and entered. She gave him a red manila folder and left without looking at me.
    As the door closed, Yoder began fussing around in the file, scouting for something, then held my form close to a document, glancing back and forth. Putting my request at the front of the folder, he left it open on his desk. “I’m no expert, of course, but that looks like Norm’s signature. Can you tell me what sort of job he’s applying for?”
    “Photography work, on assignment.”
    Yoder seemed to gauge something. “He’s getting around better, then?”
    “The braces help, he told us.”
    “Us.”
    “My client.”
    Like a perplexed kid, Yoder tugged on his earlobe. “Mr. Cuddy, I know damned well Norm isn’t applying for a newspaper job, because if he were, you wouldn’t be sitting in front of me.”
    “Really?”
    “Really. Some old hand like me would be on my phone there, getting what was needed without wasting gas and tires.”
    “My client’s a little more formal. Plus, this way they have me to sue if I screw up.”
    Yoder seemed to gauge something again. “What is it you want to know?”
    “Anything you can tell me about how he was as an employee.”
    “How he was?”
    “You were his boss, right?”
    Yoder didn’t nod or shake his head.
    I said, “He’s been upfront with us about the drinking.”
    “He has.”
    “Yes. In a program for some time, now.”
    “I’m glad.”
    I leaned forward, lathering my hands with invisible soap. “Look, Mr. Yoder, it’s like this. You can tell me about Mr. Elmendorf, and I can go back to my client with a report that says it’s okay to hire the guy. Or, you can not tell me about him, in which case I give my client that instead, and I’m guessing Elmendorf loses out on a job he could really use.” I leaned back. “Your call.”
    Yoder watched me some. “You’ve met Norm, then.”
    “I have.”
    “And his daughter?”
    “Kira.”
    A little softening. “That girl’s had to put up with more than most.”
    “Mr. Elmendorf told me his wife went south just as he got back from overseas.”
    The softening stopped, like a seized movie reel. “And you’ve checked on that?”
    “On his wife leaving him?”
    “No. The military stuff.”
    “Not yet. This kind of thing, I generally start with previous civilian employers.”
    The managing editor fussed some more with the file in front of him. “I could show you this, but I can tell you straight out that Norm was never overseas.”
    I felt my eyes closing for longer than a blink. “No Persian Gulf .”
    “Not for us, not for the Army.” Then a different tone of voice, almost nostalgic. “Norm was a damned good photographer, Mr. Cuddy. Lots of people can work the equipment, learn the technical side. Norm, though, he had the eye. Could pull up to a fire or accident scene, and before he was out of the car, he’d be framing a shot in his head. And damned if his first photo didn’t turn out better than anybody else’s three rolls. Then the troubles started at home.”
    “What kind of troubles?”
    Yoder stopped, and I was afraid I’d pushed him too far. After a moment, though, he said, “Norm’s wife got tired of the crazy hours he kept. You have to understand, Norm wanted to be the first one on the scene every time out, so he didn’t mind us calling him, day or night. Eventually it got to his marriage, and when she started packing, Norm started drinking.”
    “And all this was...?”
    “About the time of Desert Storm in late ninety, early ninety-one. It was half my fault, I suppose. Publisher wanted us to cover the hell out of the homefront, kind of a miniature W-W-Two—clear enemy, real heroes—a ‘good war,’ to paraphrase Studs Terkel.”
    “How was it your fault, though?”
    “I kind of gave Norm his head, let him shoot to his heart’s content. He had a pager, so we could always reach him wherever he was, and I guess the worse hours made the marriage break up a little sooner than it would have otherwise.”
    “But only a little sooner.”
    “Yeah, probably.” Yoder tugged on the earlobe again. “But her finally leaving sent Norm well over the edge and deep into the bottle. The man got the notion that he’d served in the Gulf. Norm had covered enough of the guys—and women—going over there, had seen the letters and videos to the families. Point is, he knew