I’m Going to Listen, and Then I’m Going to Tell You What I Think. Honestly.
I'm Going to Listen, and Then I'm Going to Tell You What I Think. Honestly.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Vera had found her through the internet, which felt both inadequate and entirely on-brand for how things worked in today's world.
She'd spent the evening while I was in the bath going through employment and labor attorneys in the greater Phoenix area, cross-referencing reviews, checking bar association records, looking specifically for someone with public sector labor experience and ideally fire service cases.
She'd found three candidates and ranked them in a spreadsheet.
I'd looked at the spreadsheet and swallowed down the emotions barrelling through me.
"You made a spreadsheet," I said.
"I made a spreadsheet." She didn't look up from her laptop.
The attorney she'd ranked first was named Diana Reyes.
Fifteen years in public sector labor law, based in Phoenix but licensed in Arizona, with a notable win in a wrongful termination case involving a county paramedic three years ago.
Her website was professional and sparse.
Her reviews mentioned phrases like she knows the system and she didn't sugarcoat anything and I felt like someone was actually in my corner.
We had an appointment the next morning at ten.
Her office was in a building in central Phoenix that looked exactly like what it was: a place built for serious work.
Eighth floor, clean waiting room, a receptionist who offered us ice-cold bottled water and meant it.
We sat in adjacent chairs, Vera's hand in mine, both of us in the clothes we'd selected the night before with too much discussion.
I was in dark jeans and a button-down, sleeves down to cover the tattoos.
Vera had gently suggested this and I had not argued.
Diana Reyes came to get us herself, which set a good initial impression to me.
Mid-fifties, dark hair streaked silver, with a handshake almost as firm as Rodriguez's.
Her office had a wall of bookshelves, a desk stacked with orderly folders, and a window with a view of the city that she clearly never looked at.
"Sit." She gestured at the two chairs across from her desk, settled into her own, and opened a folder.
"I've been following the Eagle Ridge coverage.
Before we start, I want to be clear about what this meeting is.
I'm going to listen, I'm going to ask questions, and I'm going to tell you what I think.
Honestly. Not what you want to hear." She looked at me directly. "Can you work with that?"
"Yes," I said.
"Good." She uncapped her pen. "Tell me what happened. In your own words, from the moment you assessed the wind shift. Everything you said on comms, every order you gave, what you saw, what you based your decision on. Take your time."
So I told her. All of it, the way I'd told almost no one.
Not the edited version I'd given Rodriguez, not the fragmented version I'd managed for Vera in the immediate aftermath.
The whole sequence: the wind shift, the degrees of change I'd tracked, the spot fires, the frequency and distance, the crown fire behavior, the California memory that wasn't panic but pattern recognition, the calculation I'd run in my head, the sixty seconds I'd had to decide, the radio call, the evacuation, Stevens going down, the extraction, the homes.
She didn't interrupt. She wrote steadily. When I finished, she looked at her notes for a moment.
"The radio communications from that day," she said. "Your call to evacuate, Rodriguez's countermand, your response—all of that is on record."
"I know."
"That record is going to be the center of this case.
Both for the agency and for your defense.
" She set down her pen. "Here's what you're facing.
The formal charge is insubordination under San Jacinto County Fire District policy.
Specifically, failure to comply with a direct order from a superior officer during an active incident.
That's the charge. The six homes are cited as contributing conduct, but they're not a standalone charge, they're context the agency will use to argue the order was operationally justified. "
"Meaning Rodriguez was right and I was wrong," I said.
"Meaning that's what they'll argue. Whether it holds depends on the evidence." She opened a second folder. "The post-incident meteorological data. Have you seen it?"
"Rodriguez mentioned it at the hospital. Said it supported my read."
"It does. I pulled the public incident report this morning.
" She turned the folder toward me. "The wind shift you described, fifteen degrees southwest to west, accelerating?
It's documented in the weather station data from that ridge.
The timing confirms your call came before the fire crowned, not after.
The spot fire pattern is consistent with your reported observations.
" She paused. "This is significant. It means your assessment was accurate, and it means you acted before the danger became visible to everyone, not in reaction to it. "
"But I still disobeyed a direct order," I said.
"You did." No softening. "And the agency has the right to discipline you for that regardless of outcome.
That's the difficult reality of this. In wildland fire, the chain of command is a safety structure.
The argument against you is that allowing individual crew bosses to override IC decisions in the field creates dangerous unpredictability. That argument has merit."
Beside me, I felt Vera go very still.
"The argument for you," Diana continued, "is the Firefighter's Procedural Bill of Rights, specifically your right to a hearing where the full evidence is examined, and the Seven Tests of Just Cause.
" She turned the folder back toward herself.
"Just cause is the standard the review board has to meet to sustain the discipline.
Seven questions. The most relevant here are: Was the rule or order reasonably related to the safe operation of the job?
Was the investigation fair and objective?
And, this one matters most for your case: was the degree of discipline appropriate given the circumstances and outcome? "
"What does that mean practically?" Vera asked. She'd been quiet, absorbing, the way she absorbed things in the rope cache at the station all those months ago. But now she leaned forward slightly. "For the hearing."
Diana looked at her. "It means we're going to argue that the discipline is disproportionate to what actually happened.
Six firefighters survived because of her decision.
The meteorological data supports her read of the fire.
The homes were almost certainly lost regardless, and the incident command log shows structure protection units were already staged, and the fire's rate of spread after it crested the ridge suggests those structures were in its path from the moment the wind shifted. "
"Almost certainly," I said.
"Fire's a probabilistic science." She met my eyes.
"There's no absolute certainty. That's the ground the agency stands on.
What we have is a preponderance of evidence that your call was correct, that you made it with sound operational reasoning, and that the outcome for your crew was the best available outcome given the conditions.
That's not a guarantee, but it's a strong position. "
"What's the worst case?" I asked.
She didn't flinch. "Termination. If the review board decides the insubordination is severe enough to warrant it, they can recommend termination, and the fire chief can accept that recommendation.
Given your eight years and your record, I consider that unlikely, but I don't deal in likelihoods I can't back with evidence. "
The word sat in the room. Termination.
"The most probable outcome, based on comparable cases, is a formal written reprimand, possible pay reduction for the suspension period, and return to active duty with conditions, meaning closer supervision, possible requalification requirements.
" She made a note. "There's also a scenario where the board finds the discipline wasn't warranted, and you're fully reinstated with back pay for the suspension period. "
"Which one should I prepare for?" I asked.
"All of them." She closed the folder. "What I'd like you to do in the next week, which is your remaining response window, is write a formal written response to the Notice of Proposed Disciplinary Action.
In it, you'll state your position clearly, acknowledge the chain of command violation, and provide your operational reasoning with specific reference to the meteorological data, the fire behavior you observed, and the outcome.
You will not apologize. You will not characterize your decision as emotional or reactive.
You will characterize it as a judgment call made with the information available, consistent with your training and your primary obligation to crew safety. "
"She won't apologize," Vera confirmed quietly. There was no heat in it. Just a fact she was stating.
Diana glanced at her. "Good."
"What about the union rep?" I asked. "The notice mentioned one."
"You have the right to union representation throughout this process, and I'd recommend exercising it.
Your union rep attends the hearing, can speak on your behalf, and provides institutional context that carries weight with the board.
I work alongside them, not instead of them.
" She made another note. "I'll contact your local to coordinate. Who's your shop steward?"
I told her. She wrote it down.
"At the hearing itself," she continued, "here's what to expect.
The board will typically consist of three to five members: a fire district administrator, a safety officer, a senior officer from outside your station—so not Rodriguez—and possibly a union representative as a neutral party.
They'll have the incident command log, the radio transcript, the weather data, the post-incident report, and written statements from your crew. "
"My crew," I said.
"Their statements matter. They were present. Their accounts of what they observed, the fire behavior, your communications, the sequence of events, will either corroborate your account or complicate it." She looked at me steadily. "Do you trust them?"
I thought about Stevens in his hospital bed. Jackson's wet eyes at the station. Miller's single nod as I walked out with my box. Even Emerson mouthing sorry at the lockers.
"Most of them," I said.
"That's something to think about before the hearing." She set her pen down. "One more thing. The media coverage."
"I've been watching it," I said, which was an understatement.
"Stop." Her voice was flat. "No more reading comment sections, no more checking social media, no more watching the local news cycle.
It has no bearing on the official proceedings, and it is actively damaging your mental state in ways that will affect your presentation at the hearing.
The board doesn't watch the news. The board looks at the documentation. "
"My girlfriend's been trying to get me to stop," I said.
"She's right. Listen to her." Diana glanced at Vera briefly with something resembling approval.
"The second thing: do not speak to anyone from the media.
No statements, no off-the-record conversations, no social media posts from you or from people in your household that reference the case.
" She paused. "I'm including the woman next to you in that instruction. "
Vera raised her hand slightly. "I understand."
"Good." Diana stood, which meant the meeting was concluding.
We stood too. "I'm going to request the full incident file, the radio transcript, and the post-incident weather analysis from the district.
That will take a few days. In the meantime, start on the written response.
Bring me a draft within a week, and we'll refine it together.
" She extended her hand to me. "You made the right call.
The process is going to be frustrating and slow, and sometimes it will feel like the right call doesn't matter. But it matters to me."
I shook her hand. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." But there was something in her expression that wasn't quite a smile and wasn't quite not one. "Get some sleep. Eat something. You're going to need to be sharp."
Vera shook her hand too, and Diana held it for a moment. "She's lucky to have you here," she said quietly.
"Other way around," Vera corrected.
We took the elevator down in silence, walked to Daisy in the parking structure, and sat for a moment without starting the engine. Phoenix hummed around us, indifferent and enormous.
"Well," Vera said.
"Well," I said.
"She's good."
"She's terrifying."
"Those are compatible." She started the car. "She said you made the right call."
"She said the evidence supports that I made the right call."
"Petra."
"I heard her."
Vera pulled out of the parking structure, into the white Phoenix noon. "How do you feel?"
I thought about it honestly. "Like there's a process now. Like it's not just me waiting in our apartment watching it happen to me." I looked out the window at the city going past. "Like someone who knows the system is on our side."
"That's enough for today," Vera said.
"Yeah," I said. "It is."
She reached across the console and found my hand, and I held on, and we drove back toward San Jacinto with the desert spreading out flat and gold and enormous around us, the way it always had, patient and indifferent, long before the fire and long after.