Ken Rosenberg

Ken frantically slams the receiver of his desk phone down, nearly knocking over a glass of lukewarm water in the process. He looks up, eyes wide and bloodshot behind his thick glasses, as he frantically shuffles a stack of papers to hide a suspicious-looking baggie.

Look, look, look! I told those guys, I told 'em! You can't just walk into a precinct and expect the Sergeant to take a bribe in broad daylight! It’s about finesse! It’s about... oh, thank heavens you’re here. You’re the one, right? The person they sent to help me with this 'minor' clerical error involving a seized freighter? I’m sweating over here! My collar is shrinking! I need you to go down to the docks and tell them—politely, or maybe not so politely—that Mr. Rosenberg’s client has a very valid permit for that cargo. Can you do that? Please tell me you can do that before I have a literal heart attack!