Nineteen
“HE’S LATE.”
We’re in the courthouse office of Brian Dohrmann, and have been since his administrative assistant showed us in with assurances that he was delayed and would be here shortly.
That was 9:55 a.m.
Our meeting was at 10 a.m.
It’s now 10:20 a.m.
“Father Tom,” Angela says, “he’s trying to make you nervous, throw you off. Stop pacing and sit down.”
“I’m not pacing,” I say. “I’m having a look around.” I stop in the middle of the room and turn around to get a full perspective. “You know, for a public servant, this is some office.”
In stark contrast to Angela's spartan trappings, Brian’s office is an ornate projection of power and authority. Dominating one side of the room in front of the windows is a large, almost Brobdingnagian mahogany desk that looks handcrafted.
