T Is for Trespass

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 connect me with Admissions and Records. The woman who took the call was in the throes of a head cold and the act of answering the phone had triggered a coughing fit. I waited while she struggled to get the hacking under control. People shouldn’t go to work with head colds. She probably prided herself on never missing a day while everyone around her came down with the same upper-respiratory distress and used up their annual sick leave.
    “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 annoyed, but I knew better than to argue with her. She was probably hyped up on over-the-counter cold medications and eager to shut me down. I thanked her for the information and then I rang off.
    I made a long-distance call to the Board of