Page 11 of The List
“For now, I’d rather just pay the open market price,” Lee said. “It’s cheaper than cutting and replanting our own trees.”
Chris smirked. This was the same point that had sparked last month’s heated argument. He wondered again how Lee would even know the costs, as most of the memos circulated on that point came back uninitialed.
“None of that sounds good,” Hughes said. “Chris, what’s the bottom line?”
9:20 A.M.
B RENT TAPPED THE NAILS INTO THE S HEETROCK AND RE-FORMED HIS ego wall.
He’d removed all the frames a few days ago from his downtown Atlanta office.
The bachelor of arts diploma from nearby Georgia Southern University.
Law degree from the University of Georgia.
His Georgia State Bar admission. Certificates of acceptance before the Supreme Court of Georgia, Georgia Court of Appeals, and United States District Courts.
All had made the journey from Concord to Atlanta and back.
Building B was one of the older of the mill’s admin buildings.
Its walls were papered with a fading mauve vinyl, the nicotine-stained acoustical ceiling tiles a reminder from the days when smoking had been allowed.
The stairs were Georgia granite, the handrails slick brass from all the friction, the hallways sheathed in thin tile glued to hard concrete.
His office was lined with a row of dingy aluminum windows, a set of dusty venetian blinds bisecting the morning sun across the newly hung diplomas in alternating rows of light and dark.
The overhead fluorescents hummed enough to be annoying.
His steel desk was a gunmetal gray with a laminated Formica top, the chair upholstered in a cracked dark-green vinyl.
A plain black metal table supported a computer terminal.
The floor, like the rest of the general counsel’s space, was carpeted with a tight woven pile in a dirty shade of gray.
His new boss, Southern Republic’s longtime general counsel, told him earlier that first and foremost this was a manufacturing plant. Luxury didn’t last long around there.
And the man was right.
“You going to miss prosecuting all those criminals?”
He turned.
Hank stood in the doorway dressed in his standard mill uniform.
Short-sleeved shirt, stained khaki pants, lime-bleached work boots.
Old clothes, for sure, but degrees better than the tattered overalls and blue jeans most of the other workers sported.
His old friend wore the same hard hat he had for years— BOARHOGGER written in black marker above the company logo.
It was a label IBEW members had bestowed on him years ago, referring to his unwavering attitude toward management.
“What brings you by?” Brent asked.
Hank shrugged. “The company expects me to appear sooner or later. So, for their benefit, I thought I’d make it sooner.”
“I’ll never understand how you work all day and never lose the crease in those pants.”
“Lots of practice. Now answer my question. You’re going to miss it, aren’t you?”
“Who wouldn’t? It was a great place to work.
Lucky for me the Fulton County district attorney wanted to break with the norm and hire someone with no prosecutorial experience.
I remember the two days I went for the interview.
Going from office to office, meeting the other prosecutors, trying to small-talk my way in.
” He shook his head. “So unfamiliar. Surreal. Quite a change from my usual daily life as a solo practitioner.”
“You must have made a good impression.”
“I was so na?ve. It’s another world up there. Totally different from anything around here.”
But he’d succeeded, rising to a supervisory position and overseeing other prosecutors. The DA had been sorry to see him leave.
“You going to be okay?” Hank asked, concern in his voice.
He looked at his old friend. “I think I am.”
“Ashley is anxious to talk to you.”
He hesitated, then said, “I’ll probably wait until tomorrow. I can only handle so much excitement in one day.”
“The question is, will she wait. How about some unsolicited advice from a battle-scarred old friend? Go easy. Be sure.”
“Seems that was the mistake I made once-upon-a-time ago.”
“Probably so. But you actually have the luxury of time here. Use it wisely.”
It was good advice. “I’ve missed you telling me what to do all the time.”
“As if you ever listened.”
“You were right about Paula,” he said.
“That’s one I wish I’d been wrong about.”
Hank had told him early on that she seemed unstable.
Her grandmother had committed suicide and her father tried once when she was a little girl.
He hadn’t listened, thinking she was different.
He’d been so wrong. But he knew why Hank had really come, so he got to the point. “You goin’ to cut me some slack here?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know. Southern Republic signs my paycheck now. I want to do a good job for them.”
“And I want you to do a good job. But what’s wrong with helping an old friend out a little?”
“Don’t you think it’d be kind of dumb for me to funnel you information?
The company’s not stupid. They know we were once a team.
Hell, it’s probably the reason they hired me.
To stop us from reteaming. Besides, I won’t have anything to do with contract negotiations.
They’ll have me buried up to my ears in workers’ comp cases. ”
Which had been made clear at his interview for the job.
Hank shook his head. “I thought I taught you how to hedge a hell of a lot better than that.”
Maybe he had. Hank taught him a lot through the years.
Especially about loyalty and friendship.
To him the man was a brother, father, and friend—all combined into a vociferous personality that many found offensive.
But not him. He’d learned that there was a surprising degree of empathy and affection hidden deep inside that gruff exterior.
Nothing overt ever. Just a look. A gesture.
Unspoken, but understood. One that said, I’m there if you need me.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Brent said. “Are you going to give me a break?”
Hank turned to leave. “We’ll talk again. Soon.”
But he did want to know, “How is Ashley?”
“Screwed up,” Hank said, as he walked away.
9:40 A.M.
C HRIS STARED ACROSS THE TABLE AND ANSWERED H UGHES’ question. “Our financial situation is okay. But not good.” He stared hard at Hamilton Lee. “It could be better.”
“Meaning what?” Lee asked, taking the bait.
“Meaning if you spent as much time in the office as you do on the golf course, we’d all be a lot better off.”
“I resent that.”
“I don’t give a damn what you resent. This is a business, Hamilton, not a hobby.
This industry is contracting inward by the day.
Everybody is going paperless. Tariff barriers and protectionist subsidies offered to our foreign competitors have made for a totally uneven playing field.
Export duties and taxes on wood exports are increasing annually. None of this is good.”
“Aren’t we compensating with making packaging and sanitary materials?” Hughes asked.
“To a point,” he said. “People ship everything today, and that cardboard we make helps. Paper towels and cleaning supplies are solid too. But they are not enough. We’re definitely feeling the pinch.”
“I do my job,” Lee declared. “But unlike you, I have a life outside this tower.”
“Lucky for this company I don’t have a life, or we’d already be in Chapter 11 bankruptcy.”
“Why don’t we turn our attention to the union negotiations,” Hughes said, clearly trying to diffuse the tension. “Are we ready?”
He resented the interruption. But it was typical of Hughes, who had no guts for a fight. He was a follower, and of late Hughes had hitched his horse to Lee’s wagon more often than not, resulting in lots of two-to-one votes.
“We’re ready,” Lee said. “Our new assistant general counsel is on the job. Brent Walker started this morning.”
“Has Hank Reed been by to see him yet?” Hughes asked.
“He will, before the day’s out.”
“Industrial relations assures me we have enough leverage with the paperworkers and the machinists to get five-year deals,” Hughes said. “Of course, getting the electricians to agree with that will depend on Reed and how agreeable he wants to be.”
“Hank will work with us,” Chris said. “He always has.”
“It could be different this time. Five years was tough to get last go-round. We had to give an extra percent on wages and even help build that union hall. This time Reed will probably want a swimming pool.”
“Hamilton, these guys are just trying to scratch out a living. We pay them good for the area, but five years of locked-in wages is a lot to ask. Hank knows how to play the game. We should not underestimate him.”
“But that’s why Brent Walker is there,” Lee said, his tone mocking. “Your idea too, wasn’t it?”
“Thank God one of us was thinking.”
“Hiring Walker was good business,” Hughes said, breaking the moment again. “We all agreed on that. He’ll be a valuable asset. But this negotiation is going to be tough.”
“I think we should be prepared to make some concessions,” Chris said.
Lee bristled. “Like what?”
“An adjustment in the medical deductible. Maybe assurances on guaranteed overtime. Perhaps some additional vacation or sick time. Small, relatively inexpensive things to us, but big to them.”
Lee shook his head. “Reed will throw those bones right back in our face.”
“Damn right,” Hughes said. “He’ll want solid wage increases and twist our arms hard to get ’em. I hear he’s already talking with the machinists and paperworkers, getting ready for us.”
“I’ve heard that too,” Lee said. “But I don’t think those discussions will be a problem.”
“Why’s that?” Hughes asked.
“I tell you what,” Lee said. “Why don’t we address the collective bargaining negotiations at a special board meeting next week. I’ll send a memo on the date and time. Right now, we have to talk about the Priority situation.”