The Recruiter

It all started with the mandatory insider-trading avoidance training all employees were required to take once a year. My effort was the same as most—just enough to stay off Compliance’s shit list. It occurred to me only later, as the gunmetal grey bus transported me to serve out my twelve-month sentence in a minimum-security prison, that the training was less a deterrent, and more a how-to lesson. Playing the market after overhearing the guys in R&D discussing their as-yet unreleased breakthrough security app probably would have never crossed my mind if I hadn’t just finished my annual training. I blame the company for not foreseeing that risk. My public defender wasn’t impressed with that line of thinking and, as a result, the jury didn’t get the opportunity to consider it in their deliberations.

My journey started out pedestrian enough. I was making the best of a recruiting career in the bowels of a tech company’s HR department. As an Applicant Screening Specialist (and I hope the acronym didn’t slip by you—it was actually a tick in the “pros” column for taking the job), separating truth from fiction was, at first, a serious and thoughtful exercise. A few years and hundreds of resumes and interviews later, my focus shifted from a legitimate effort to find the best candidates to mining objective statements and interview responses for the best attempts at a complete snow job. Hey, you find your joy where you can.

***

Doing time in a max facility is probably an entirely different experience, but my minimum-security prison seemed more like a strict summer camp. No chain-gangs with the guard wearing mirrored sunglasses, on a horse with a shotgun in the crook of their arm. And I never once saw a shank made out of a spoon.

As is my nature, I decided to make the most of the experience. If I was going to be a houseguest of the state, I might as well take advantage of all the host had to offer. I stayed on the sidelines for those first few days becoming familiar with the written and unwritten rules.

Observing my new colleagues interact provided much of my orientation. Watching them and catching bits of their conversations became my new occupation. I picked out the newbies trying to impress old-timers, former acquaintances making plans after release, and the ever-present rumormongers.

My good behavior had provided me with access to the book cart, so I usually had something to read with me. This served two purposes: I actually enjoy reading and it provided me with a cover to continue my new pursuit.

Early on, I joined a few of the conversations. The icebreaker questions were typical: what you’re in for and what you did on the outside. My story was maybe the least interesting, so I listened more and talked less. Over the course of those first few months, I started to see the similarities between criminal and legitimate business practices. Listening to my new colleagues talk about their methods of recruiting, performance management, and termination, while perhaps using different and rather extreme methods of achieving these goals, gave me something of an appreciation for their business management acumen. Scraps of paper with contact information and initials, or nicknames like “Slick” or “Park Ave” served as business cards. It was like attending a career development seminar where your business suit was orange, the hors d'oeuvres were served on dented metal trays, and your Rolodex could double as evidence in a future criminal investigation.

The most important card in my Rolodex was from an older man, Abraham. His reputation had the effect of a priest’s collar. No one needed to be reminded that Abe had access to a different kind of higher power.

***

“Do you have any idea what that book is about?”

I looked over the top of the page. “Well, I’m halfway through and the author has a decent grasp of the concept of a plot so, yeah, I have a pretty good idea.”

Abe nodded and sat down. “I ask because, at the rate those pages are turning, you’re either one of the slower readers in the joint or your interest is not entirely on the story. I think it’s the latter.”

I set the book down. “I guess I’m a student of my environment. On the outside, I assessed job candidates. I try to do the same thing here. Instead of resumes and interviews, I catch parts of conversations and watch interactions. I have no idea if my conclusions are correct, but it passes the time.”

“Passing the time or using the time? I’m intrigued with those who make the most of the opportunities presented to them. I’d like to hear more about your experience on the outside.”

I recounted some of the more memorable interviews and how terms like “facilitate” and “synergize” were management-speak for nothing more than shuffling paper and sitting on conference calls where nothing gets accomplished. Abe gave a slight nod when I told him my rate of successful hires was off the charts.

“How about a little test?”

A pinprick of fear made me I hesitate. “What did you have in mind?”

“I know many of our friends here, both personally and by reputation. Pick someone out and tell me what you think you’ve learned about them.”

My gut clenched as the fear gained traction. I guess it showed.

“Now, now. Don’t be nervous. No demerits for wrong answers. Think of this an amusing parlor game to, as you say, pass the time. Nothing more.” Abe patted my shoulder like I was the next kid up to bat.

“Without turning my head, I scanned the room. My focus stopped on a guy I’d observed a few times before. “Let’s take the gentleman with the dark hair, goatee, and neck tattoo three tables up to the left. The one facing us. I’ve not had the pleasure, so I’ve named him Maurice.”

The corner of Abe’s mouth twitched up so fast I thought I must’ve imagined it. “Maurice, it is. Carry on.”

“Maurice currently appears to be in deep conversation with the other gentleman at his table. I’ve seen them talk before. Notice that Maurice is constantly looking over the other gentleman’s shoulder. His left knee has not stopped jumping and his paper cup is all but crushed. He could be bored, maybe looking for better company, or perhaps he’s scanning the room for trouble.”

“Interesting, but fairly obvious. I was hoping for a little more.” Abe started to get up.

My gaze stayed on Maurice. “He has information that could either save his life or end it.”

Abe sat back down.

“His expression changes from greed to fear and back again faster than the pump action of his knee. Somehow, I just don’t think this is going to end well for our friend. He doesn’t have the ability to understand how to play the cards he’s been dealt. In my former life, I would have pegged him as the office shit-stirrer and taken a pass. Here, well—I have a bad feeling about Maurice’s future.”

“Nicely done. I’m not a close associate of Ran—excuse me—Maurice, but based on your observations, I will be interested to see how things turn out for him.” Abe shook my hand and walked away.

***

Abe and I found ourselves at the same table more often than not and, a week before my release date, we sat on a bench in the yard. He asked what I was going to do on the outside. I shrugged and said I guessed I would go back to what I knew. He grunted and asked me how easy I thought it would be to pick up where I'd left off. Another shrug from me and, as a joke, I wondered aloud how I could use my experience in the criminal world and what a resume in that arena would look like. Would there be a section for aliases and nicknames? Would stretches in prison be listed like an employment history? Would a charge of attempted murder be seen as potential, or a failure to follow through and achieve results? It was the one time I ever saw Abe grin.

The next day, he slipped me a piece of paper. I looked down and saw a phone number.

“You don’t know, but things are going to be different on the outside. Call the number and tell them I sent you. It’s the only way you’re going to climb out the hole you dug.”

On my bunk that night, I laced my fingers behind my head and thought about a life of crime. But it wasn’t me. I would find another legit job and life on the outside would pick up where I left off.

           My release date came and it felt like getting a certificate of achievement on cheap copy paper with a poorly stamped signature in the corner. I walked out into the sunshine with my prison-issued duffle bag. The world didn’t notice I had returned to the party.

The requirement to pay back my ill-gotten gains hadn’t been a problem. The process to repossess the cars and speedboat had been easier than buying them. The rest of the money was still in the bank and that, too, was a seamless transfer out. The penalties levied against me, however, wiped out my savings and unburdened me of anything else I had of value. My options looked slim, so I took the State up on its offer of two weeks at a re-entry facility for ex-cons. At least I had my own room.

After a few half-hearted attempts at finding a legitimate job using the computers at the library, I discovered that, while a potential employer apparently couldn’t ask about your criminal record, there was nothing stopping them from performing a quick internet search. The fourth hit on the list of results brought up a nice little write-up, actually very well done, of my attempt to capitalize on information the public had not yet had the opportunity to consume. Passing on me as a viable candidate was explained in the artful, yet blunt language I had written so many times in my previous life.

Abe’s prediction about reentering the world on the outside was bearing out, and much of what I knew before was now closed to me. I gave up on the search and spent a long weekend watching bad TV. I had another two days before the street would become my next residence.

With nothing better to do, I opened the foot locker at the end of my bed and saw the prison duffle bag shoved into a corner. It still smelled like bargain disinfectant and stale food. I shoved my hand into an outside pocket and smiled as scraps of paper rustled between my fingers. My prison Rolodex.

I spread the pieces of paper out on top of the locker. Each scrap brought up a memory and, after a few minutes of reminiscing, I left them arranged there like an unfinished game of solitaire.

The next morning, I sat up in bed and took in the scene beyond my feet. The ragged slips of paper looked less like a part of the past and more like my sole prospect for my future. The only possibility they represented in my old world was trouble. Maybe it was the same in this new world, but it was looking like I would need to reshape how I saw trouble.

I got up from the bed and walked around to the locker. I sat on the floor and slid the piece of paper with Abe’s number toward me. Tapping it with my index finger, I tried to build up the courage to make the call. I reached for my prepaid phone and dialed.

           “What.”

           “This is Jason Biltmore. Abe sent me.”

           “So, you’re the recruiter.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Come to 58 Broad. Be there in ten.”

I looked out the window and saw the dark clouds crowding the sky. I pulled the bill of my cap down low and popped the collar of my jacket. The reflection in the mirror almost made me laugh. I already looked the part.

By the time I got there, the rain had soaked through my clothes. As I crossed the threshold into the cold apartment, I couldn’t tell if the chill inching up my spine was from the weather or the what I imagined my new reality would require of me.