Page 28 of The List

Federal authorities have confirmed an investigation has been started into the air emissions and water discharge activities of Southern Republic Pulp and Paper Company.

The Atlanta based corporation purchased the Concord, Georgia, paper mill six years ago.

Since then, the plant has been undergoing a rapid expansion with the addition of two more paper machines and extensive modernization.

Allegations have come to light that the company may be violating its discharge permit into the Savannah River and air emissions may exceed federal standards.

United Paperworkers Local 567 President Robbie Shuman said yesterday that Southern Republic is violating the law and called for an immediate investigation, offering documentation to support his allegations.

“That son of a bitch is going to sink us,” Hughes said. “We’ve got millions invested and are about to invest millions more.”

“Something has to be done,” Lee said. “I’m in the process of buying three sawmills. We can’t take this kind of publicity. It’s tough enough squeezing money out of banks without this crap.”

Shuman had been a problem from the start.

He was a papermaker and president of the papermakers’ union, the mill’s largest. Southern Republic inherited him from Republic Board.

He was a tough little man with wavy black hair, a bushy black mustache, and beady gray eyes.

The two sets of contract negotiations since their purchase of the mill from Republic Board had both been ordeals, all thanks to Shuman.

The third was about to begin in a couple of months, and no one was looking forward to it.

Shuman stayed in the newspaper and obviously knew how to dial a telephone.

In the last forty-eight hours they’d fielded questions from the Atlanta Constitution , Savannah Morning News , and New York Times , and yesterday a producer from 60 Minutes called to arrange an on-camera interview between one of the three shareholders and Mike Wallace.

“This is getting way out of hand,” Hughes said. “We don’t need this kind of attention. Shuman’s got to go. Why can’t we just fire him?”

“What good will that do?” Lee asked. “He’d just continue to raise hell and the union would grievance us to oblivion. We’d have every governmental agency there is coming down on us.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Hughes said. “Pay the son of a bitch by the hour to make our lives a living hell?”

“We could kill him.”

Lee and Hughes both turned toward him.

“What did you say, Chris?” Lee said.

“We could kill him.”

“You mean as in dead?” Hughes asked.

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

Lee was intrigued. “You’ve obviously given this some thought. What do you propose?”

“Reed and the electricians are easy to work with. York and the machinists even easier. Shuman and the papermakers will not cooperate. We’ve tried force, threats, bribery, favoritism, courtesy, even ass licking.

He doesn’t want to work with us. What he wants is controversy.

He sees that as a way to heighten his image.

You’re right, Hamilton, we can’t fire him, that’d make things worse.

We’d be up to our butts in grievances and lawsuits. ”

“We’re about to be anyway,” Lee said.

“If no one’s around to be a plaintiff, who’s going to sue us?

If there’s no one left to file the grievance, who’s going to fight us?

Who’s going to ride as the Lone Ranger for the environmentalists?

Who’s going to funnel documents and other crap to the press?

Nobody but Shuman. If he’s dead, that won’t be a problem. ”

“Ever heard of a martyr?” Lee asked.

“He won’t be one. It seems Shuman likes to gamble. Bets on almost anything. Plays the numbers. Ball games. Goes to the dog tracks down in Florida. He doesn’t lose a lot, but what he does is steal our electrical instruments, tools, and scrap copper, then pawn the stuff to cover the losses.”

“How did you learn that?” Hughes asked.

“A good PI can find out a lot, if given enough time and money.”

“So we can kill and discredit him at the same time,” Lee said.

“Exactly. He tries to fence stolen stuff and gets shot. The criminal element can be tough to deal with. Happens all the time. For appearances we plant more stolen items in his house to make the thefts clearer.”

“Damn, Chris, you’re serious,” Hughes said.

“I’ve never been more serious.”

Lee wanted to know, “Who’s going to do it?”

“I have some friends who can put me in touch with the right person.”

“And the cost?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

“What about getting caught?” Hughes said.

“It won’t happen.”

“I say do it.” Lee seemed sure.

Hughes was in shock. “You two are nuts. We’re talking about killing a man.”

He looked at Hughes. “That man is jeopardizing everything. Like you said, we have millions at stake.” He gestured toward the newspaper.

“We don’t need this kind of press. You want to be the lead story on 60 Minutes ?

How many lenders you think will do business with us after that?

And without money you can kiss this whole thing goodbye.

Shuman’s a troublemaker and he’s not going away.

We’ve given him every opportunity. Tried everything possible.

It’s just too bad for him he’s a thief. I say we take care of the problem.

Afterward, his credibility will go to zero and I can assure you he won’t make it to sainthood.

In sixty days he’ll be forgotten, then we can get on with building this company. ”

“I agree,” Lee said again. “We’re just starting to turn a profit.

Our production is expanding by the day. The way things are going, in a few years all three of us will be rich.

The last thing we need is bad publicity and a cold shoulder from prospective lenders.

If one irritating, redneck union president is all that stands in the way, then we should eliminate the problem. ”

They stared at Hughes.

“Okay,” Hughes finally said. “Do it.”

He remembered how it was done.

Shuman was shot three times after leaving a Savannah pawnshop.

An hour before an assortment of stolen tools and copper were planted in Shuman’s garage, with more found at the pawnshop itself.

The police verified everything as part of the subsequent investigation, even locating other pawnshops thanks to an anonymous tip courtesy of the private investigator.

The company ultimately issued a press release linking Shuman’s activism to an ongoing investigation of him he was trying to stop.

His recent activities in damaging the company were tied to a blackmail attempt Shuman had supposedly begun.

It was plausible, believable, and accepted.

And Chris had been right.

Ninety days later all their troubles passed, smoothed over by a timely death.

His mind snapped back to the present.

It wouldn’t be long before Lee and Hughes learned about his cancer, the die had been cast yesterday when he took step one and intentionally generated an insurance claim.

Their reaction would be predictable. He’d have only one chance to stick it up their asses.

Did Hank Reed really have May’s Priority list?

More important, could Reed decipher it? And Brent Walker.

Could he handle himself? Was it right even to involve him?

But what choice did he have? For his plan to work he needed their help, whether they wanted to participate or not.

Time for step two.

He stepped back to his desk, sat in front of the computer, and started to type. At first the words came with difficulty. Soon they flowed with ease, the pounding of the keyboard therapeutic—a release of the soul—partial satisfaction for what little conscience he had left.

An hour later he finished and copied everything to a flash drive.

He ejected the drive and switched off the machine.

But intentionally did not erase the original.

4:09 P.M.

B RENT FINALLY DECIDED TO DO WHAT H ANK WANTED.

W HAT WOULD it hurt? If the list of numbers was nothing, then no harm no foul.

If it was something, then, as they agreed, he’d keep it to himself and not violate the confidence of his new employer.

He’d known this ethical vice would happen, just not in week two of his employment.

He found the list Hank had provided and studied the numbers again.

034156901

456913276

343016692

295617833

178932515

236987521

492016755

516332578

The direct approach seemed best, so he faced the computer screen on his desk at the mill and typed the first set into the search line, then hit RETURN .

And got a hit.

William Mesnan.

Apparently, 034-15-6901 was the man’s Social Security number.

He clicked on Mesnan’s name and was taken to a menu of various company records associated with the employee that dated back thirty years.

The last entry caught his attention. DEATH BENEFIT.

He clicked again and learned that Mesnan had died of a heart attack three weeks ago.

He tried the next number and began generating a list of his own.

034156901 William Mesnan, May 23, Heart attack

456913276 Patrick Brown, May 21, Kidney failure

He was about to type the third set into the search engine when Martha tapped on the doorframe. “The boss needs to see you.”

“I thought he was gone.”

“He was. Now he’s back and needs you.”

A week on the job and he’d already learned that the general counsel liked to delegate.

A lot. Which was fine. At the DA’s office he’d accepted more than his fair share of the load.

He was the new kid on the block here, so he should act like it and not complain.

Besides, any excuse to not do what he was doing was truly appreciated.

He exited from the screen. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

She left.

He slipped the list of numbers and his notes back into the desk drawer and closed it with an air of finality, thankful that he could postpone snooping for Hank for a while longer.

Maybe forever.

He hoped.

5:45 P.M.

H ANK SAT BESIDE THE POOL, LOST IN THOUGHT.

He’d led the electrical union for a long time.

Many men had placed their trust in him. And never once had he betrayed that trust. On the contrary, he’d fought hard for every single one of them, friend and foe alike.

No one could ever say that he hadn’t done his best. He was reading some information supplied by the national union to locals designed to help with negotiations.

It was good to know what others around the country were thinking and doing.

The back door to the house opened and Ashley bounded out onto the deck.

She was dressed in a pair of denim shorts and an Atlanta Falcons jersey.

Flip-flops protected her feet. He was glad to see her.

“What brings you by?” he asked.

She walked over and sat next to him. “Lori Anne’s at a friend’s house. I have to pick her up shortly, so I thought I’d kill a little time here.”

“When’s my granddaughter’s next softball game?”

“Next Wednesday.”

“I’ll be heavy into negotiations, but I’ll be there.”

He never missed a game.

She noticed what he was reading. “You going to have a big fight with the contract?”

“Like always. But nothing new. It’s tough pleasing everybody.”

“But you’re going to try, right?”

He smiled. “Like always. How’s it going with Brent?”

“You tell me. I haven’t heard from him since Saturday.”

“Give him time, little one. This is complicated. More so than Brent even realizes.”

Ashley’s face hardened. “Have you two been talking?”

“I promised you I’d stay out of it with him.” His pledge, though, had not included any silence toward Catherine Walker. “But I wouldn’t wait much longer. It’s time everything between you two gets laid on the table.”

“Don’t I know,” she said. “The first forty-two years of my life were utter turmoil. I don’t plan to repeat that in the next forty-two.”

“If you need help, I’m here.”

She reached over and squeezed his arm. “And I love you for it. But I got this. Truly, I do. Now I have to go.”

He watched her leave, hoping she would not make the same mistakes he’d made.

He thought again about what Marlene had found in the company computers, especially the mysterious list of numbers. They’d been intentionally secreted away behind heavy restricted access. What was it about these innocent-looking numbers that mandated such high security?

He stood and walked to his outside office.

When the pool was added he’d simultaneously enlarged the two-car garage into a three-bay carport.

On the far end of the elongated building he’d built himself an office.

Abutting one wall were a pair of four-drawer file cabinets where he kept his union papers.

Among those were a list of current members, along with birthdays, wives’ and children’s names, and other information.

He used it religiously to make sure all his members received a birthday and anniversary card, a personal touch left over from his political days, the gesture constantly solidifying the fifty-plus votes needed at reelection time.

He found the union roster and carried it over to a counter abutting the opposite wall.

Brent could be right. They might be Social Security numbers.

But he had no way of determining that for sure.

His files did not contain Social Security numbers.

Only union IDs. That’s why he needed Brent.

He could ask Marlene, and would if Brent didn’t come through soon.

But he preferred to keep her out of it. Every time she did something for him, she placed her job on the line.

And she wasn’t a union employee, protected by a collective bargaining agreement.

She was terminable-at-will, with no recourse.

And he did not want her to lose her job.

The house phone rang.

He yanked up the extension.

“Hank.” The voice was his chief steward at the mill. “Paul Zimmerman’s dead.”

He was shocked. Zimmerman was one of his most loyal supporters, even serving two terms on the city council during his last term as mayor. A solid vote, loyal union man, and friend.

“They found his body near Solomon Swamp. He’d gone after hogs. Looks like a hunting accident.”

He knew how Zimmerman loved to hunt. He talked about it all the time. In fact, the freezer in the carport still held the pork chops Zimmerman gave him a couple of months back.

“His wife and kids must be in pieces,” he said.

“It’s pretty bad over there. I just got back and thought you’d want to know.”

“I’ll head right over.”

He hung up and immediately started toward the house to change, the list of numbers on the clipboard forgotten.