Page 29 of The List
DAY TEN
H ANK OCCUPIED HIS USUAL REALM.
His spot filled the northeast corner of the football-field-sized building housing paper machine number three.
A grimy plate-glass window lined one wall and overlooked the churning machinery two stories below.
Officially, it was designated the electric shop’s break room.
But no one outside Hank’s inner circle had actually taken a break there in years.
Unofficially, thanks to a federal law that required company space be made available for union activities, the room served as Hank’s office.
And he used his designated locale to the fullest, converting what was once an employee break room into a fortified union stronghold.
It even had a name. Affectionately dubbed the Boar’s Nest by the electricians to go along with Hank’s personal moniker, Boarhogger.
Two years ago, in a power-flexing move, the company foolishly tried to evict him, claiming the space was needed for expansion of an adjacent control room.
In reality management was irritated with the barrage of grievances he’d recently filed.
He responded to the challenge by arranging for calls to be made to a Savannah television station alerting them to supposed environmental violations being sent downriver to their viewers.
The callers specifically encouraged reporters to contact Hank Reed.
And they had.
Two film crews were sent and the story was in production when management conceded and stopped the eviction. Which simultaneously stopped the story since without a union president to go on camera, stamping validity to the claim, there was nothing to report.
Talk about tit for tat.
The door to the Boar’s Nest opened.
“Hank, we need two more helpers on that generator repair for paper machine number one,” one of his guys said.
He was busy on the landline phone and waved the man in, motioning for the door to be closed, the roar from the paper machine deafening. He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and said, “I’ll get somebody down there. Tell ’em to sit tight and not get their panties in a wad.”
The electrician nodded and left, quickly closing the door. Two minutes later another interruption came from his cell phone. Still talking, he checked the display. He quickly ended the call in his ear and answered his cell.
He’d been waiting patiently.
“Hank, they’re headed to the main conference room.”
“The big cheesers?”
“All of ’em. Even Bozin himself. And a surprise. Your boy Brent too.”
That was a shock. But a nice one. “Hang around as long as you can.”
“It won’t be long. I can only unscrew and rescrew this power plug from the wall so many times.”
“Be imaginative. Break something. Keep me posted.”
He hung up.
The machinists and paperworkers outnumbered electricians nearly eight to one.
But they were all confined to designated work areas.
Electricians, because of their reduced number, were rovers, their assignments and locations constantly changing from day to day.
He’d long ago forged that mobility into a network of eyes and ears that kept him instantly informed.
He knew management would gather. They always did right before negotiations. Too bad he couldn’t bug the room. But why go to all that trouble? He had ears on the inside. Since no matter how much Brent protested, he knew where his loyalty lay.
Even if Brent didn’t.
He shook his head, thinking again of the possibilities.
He always said he’d rather be lucky than good.
9:00 A.M.
B RENT FOLLOWED HIS BOSS INTO B UILDING A .
T HE COMPANY’S general counsel was a half-bald, middle-aged man, with a rotund M&M body.
The weather-beaten face liked to sport a smile of permanent courtesy.
That, and his archaic wire spectacles, gave the man a polite, resigned, timid look.
Perfect for a company lawyer. A month ago, during his interview, Brent had immediately taken a liking to the man.
The lawyer had been with the company fifteen years, hired from a Savannah firm where he’d been slowly inching his way toward partnership.
The promise of a title, a steady paycheck, and excellent benefits had lured him away.
He definitely thought he was going to like working for him.
Comforting was the fact that his new boss dressed a little like his old one at the Fulton County District Attorney’s Office.
Dark suits, white shirt, silk tie, and suspenders.
But unlike the DA, who always said he liked the look and feel of pants supported by braces, his new boss seemed to wear them more out of necessity.
Building A was one of the two newer administrative complexes, trendier since it housed upper management. There were newly carpeted floors, upscale wallpaper, and furniture more of wood than metal, the décor leaning closer to fashionable than functional.
“Why am I included in this meeting?” he asked, as they walked.
“Beats the hell out of me. I was told to bring you along.”
“What’s this about?”
“Contract negotiations. One of the owners, Mr. Bozin, is down from Atlanta and wants a rundown. Have you ever met him?”
“I remember seeing him at the Concord Fourth of July celebration a few times. But that’s about it. What’s he like?”
“They call him the Silver Fox for a reason. He’s smart. Knows every dime this company has, and ever did have. Actually, I’m glad it’s him this time. Mr. Lee and Mr. Hughes can be a pain. They’re too impatient. Hard to get along with.”
“But why me?” he asked again.
“I was told this would be a good opportunity for you to see the negotiating process.” His boss then flashed one of his trademark Cheshire Cat grins. “From our side.”
Apparently, his reputation had preceded him.
But he should not be surprised.
They strolled into the conference room. The walls were south Georgia pine, stained dark, and dotted with aerial photos of the mill and bag plant.
Twelve goose-necked armchairs lined a coffin-shaped table.
An overhead projector and screen angled from one corner, a chalkboard from another.
He knew three faces among the men present.
Southern Republic’s chief executive officer, its industrial relations manager, and the head of personnel.
He’d dealt with industrial relations and personnel during past battles between the company and IBEW, all while at Hank’s side.
He glanced toward the far end of the conference table.
Christopher Bozin sat silent. He studied the gentle face of the older man, noticing its distinct lack of color. The eyes looked tired and the folds that lined his cheeks and neck were dry and brittle.
“I’ll introduce you,” his boss whispered.
They walked over.
Bozin stood and they shook hands, the grip clammy and light. After a few pleasantries, the older man said to the group, “Why don’t we get started.”
Everyone took seats around the table.
“It’s that time again,” Bozin said. “Hard to believe five years have passed since the last negotiations. Seems like just yesterday we were doing this. What is the substance of our first offer?”
“Two percent on wages. Slight increase on the medical benefits. An adjustment in the pension. But nothing on assured overtime, though we’re willing to talk about some additional job positions,” the industrial relations manager said.
“On the non-economic side, the paperworkers have already asked for special consideration on their wood yard people. They say there’s too much turnover and the problem is bad supervision.
They’ve even threatened a grievance. They claim our supervisor is nuts. ”
“Is he?” Bozin asked.
“Wood yard people need a firm hand,” the personnel manager said.
“We’ve denied everything. Privately, though, we’ve conceded there is a turnover problem.
Also, and again privately, the union has told us they’ll be satisfied with a change of supervisors.
We can even wait a couple of months for appearances’ sake. ”
Bozin seemed pleased.
“As I understand it,” the CEO said, “Mr. Lee told me privately that we’re supposed to bargain away five years down to three to keep the final concessions down? Five years is not all that important this time.”
“Correct,” Bozin said.
“Are wage increases over and above our first offer on the table? I’ve pressed Mr. Hughes for an answer, but he’s never given me one.”
“There should be no need,” Bozin said, “if we use the five years to our advantage. There’ll probably have to be some wage increases in the final deal, the unions will never be satisfied with two percent, but we’ll just have to see when we get further in.
What about Hank Reed, any of you heard anything? ”
“He’s been pretty quiet lately,” the personnel manager said. “He was in my office the day before yesterday ready to go balls-to-the-walls, as he put it.”
Brent was fascinated to watch the other side at work. Not a whole lot different from what he and Hank used to do—plotting, planning, trying to second-guess what the company would do next.
“Where’s Hank getting his legal help from these days?” Bozin asked.
“A local lawyer named Lou Greene does all his legal writing,” the personnel manager said. “Hank speaks highly of him. Kind of like the way he used to talk about you, Brent.”
He acknowledged the observation with a nod.
“We still allow Hank to come and go as he pleases?” Bozin asked.
“Best way to keep an eye on him.”
The group chuckled.
“We can count on Reed to have all his ducks in a row,” the CEO said. “He always does. We should be prepared for a fight.”
“I agree,” Bozin said with a nod. “Reed is at his best during negotiations. Let’s not underestimate him.”
The meeting lasted another half hour, the company’s bargaining position finalized. Before adjourning Bozin said he needed to make a quick trip to Atlanta tomorrow but would be back Sunday, present at the negotiations when they opened Monday morning.