But I have the invitation right here," she said, pointing to the thick cream-colored card stock in his hand. The very same type of invitation that had served as an unquestioned passport for dozens of other guests. Greg held up her elegant invitation and shook his head with an air of condescending pity. "Ma'am, anyone can fake these things nowadays. They print them out at Kinko's, make them look all official.
We have to be careful about who we let in." As he spoke, another guest walked past them with an invitation that looked like a simple printout from a home office. "Greg waved him through without a second look." "I'm going to need to see some form of identification," Greg told Alani, his hand outstretched, palm up. "She produced her driver's license, a valid Illinois state ID."
Greg took it and began a forensic examination that would have made a TSA agent proud. He held it up to the light. He angled it back and forth. He compared the photo to her face at least five times, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. He even ran his thumb over the surface as if checking for a false laminate.
"This doesn't look right to me," he declared again loud enough for others to hear. "The picture? It doesn't really look like you." The picture looked exactly like her. It was a clear, professional photograph taken just months prior, but Greg wasn't truly examining the photo.
He was searching for a justification for the prejudice he already felt. I can assure you it is completely legitimate, Alani said, her patience stretched to a razor's edge. We're going to have to verify this with management, Greg announced with an air of grave importance, stepping away with both her invitation and her ID. You'll have to wait out here while we get this sorted out." And so began the longest 90 minutes of Alani Washington's life.
She stood outside in the biting Chicago wind, the snow beginning to stick to the shoulders of her gown, watching as hundreds of guests sailed past her into the warmth and luxury of the penthouse. The temperature was dropping, and her elegant dress offered little protection against the elements. She watched couples laughing as they passed. Businessmen she recognized from the cover of Fortune. Socialites whose charities her own foundation secretly funded.
None of them were asked for ID. None of them were told to wait. None of them were treated like a potential criminal trying to breach the castle walls. Every 15 minutes, Greg would pop his head out with a non-update. "Still checking, ma'am," he'd say with a saccharine fake sympathy.
Shouldn't be much longer. But through the plate glass doors, Alani could see him perfectly clearly. He wasn't making any calls. He wasn't speaking into his radio. He was chatting with a coat check girl, laughing with the other security guards.