As I had written before, Laura Harris is less than 5 feet tall. But don't let her size fool you. The formula that applies here is: the smaller the size, the greater the rate of vengeance. She's so short her shadow is taller than her. This also held true for the fiercest avenger on Pitzer College's payroll as I hope you will come to see in this post. She was about 4 and 1/2 feet herself.
Given that we are now no longer "whistleblower" versus "boss" but also "plaintiff" and "defendant," I am thrust into a realm of higher order mental malice. This new ferocity comes in the figure of Arlene Prater, a leading attorney in the firm, "Best, Best, and Krieger," a corporate callous could not be better founded on the warts that protrude from this monstrosity.
I arrive at the appointed place early one morning in the winter of 2011 for my deposition. Things are glum. My own attorney whose name I will spare, looks ashen and dumbfounded. Not only was this a battle well-furnished by the hard, cold, cash of Pitzer but it's become a daily nightmare for his office. She is most comfortable with threats, and as I note throughout the process, reveals her intellectual shortcomings. Not only is she shorter than Laura Harris, but she is more willing to prove that evil is smarter than wisdom.
Prater wears a fat gold chain around her neck. Looking at her causes me to want to double over with misery. She's viciously slutty. Her shirt is unbuttoned to reveal a flat, bony chest, the uppermost nodes of her ribcage are visible and what little bosom she has she reveals. The sight of her highly sexualized comportment, coupled as it is with a merciless nearly intoxicating reliance on a talent for abusing trauma survivors, is a form of legal terrorism whose specter I could only barely glimpse through the administration's bravado when they pursued their retribution over my reporting of sexual harassment.
Commando Prater leaves nothing to the luck of the law and incinerating the employee rights of sex harassment victims is her forte. We all take our seats at the table. Meanwhile, Prater begins requesting sexual attentions by the video technician running the camera by insisting he adjust the microphone she placed next to her clearly visible miniature nipples. I silently gasp while I await what spews from her jaws: "Miss Vasquez, isn't it true you never complained about your sexual harassment at Pitzer College?"
Given that we are now no longer "whistleblower" versus "boss" but also "plaintiff" and "defendant," I am thrust into a realm of higher order mental malice. This new ferocity comes in the figure of Arlene Prater, a leading attorney in the firm, "Best, Best, and Krieger," a corporate callous could not be better founded on the warts that protrude from this monstrosity.
I arrive at the appointed place early one morning in the winter of 2011 for my deposition. Things are glum. My own attorney whose name I will spare, looks ashen and dumbfounded. Not only was this a battle well-furnished by the hard, cold, cash of Pitzer but it's become a daily nightmare for his office. She is most comfortable with threats, and as I note throughout the process, reveals her intellectual shortcomings. Not only is she shorter than Laura Harris, but she is more willing to prove that evil is smarter than wisdom.
Prater wears a fat gold chain around her neck. Looking at her causes me to want to double over with misery. She's viciously slutty. Her shirt is unbuttoned to reveal a flat, bony chest, the uppermost nodes of her ribcage are visible and what little bosom she has she reveals. The sight of her highly sexualized comportment, coupled as it is with a merciless nearly intoxicating reliance on a talent for abusing trauma survivors, is a form of legal terrorism whose specter I could only barely glimpse through the administration's bravado when they pursued their retribution over my reporting of sexual harassment.
Commando Prater leaves nothing to the luck of the law and incinerating the employee rights of sex harassment victims is her forte. We all take our seats at the table. Meanwhile, Prater begins requesting sexual attentions by the video technician running the camera by insisting he adjust the microphone she placed next to her clearly visible miniature nipples. I silently gasp while I await what spews from her jaws: "Miss Vasquez, isn't it true you never complained about your sexual harassment at Pitzer College?"
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