Page 36 of The List
DAY FOURTEEN
Fourteen years ago he’d handled the divorce that forced the husband, a Howard Johnson’s franchisee, to close the doors.
A year later the county foreclosed and took the property back for taxes.
A year after that another franchisee bought the building, changed the name, and upgraded.
Now it comprised forty rooms, a pool, plenty of cabbage palms, a nice restaurant, and two spacious meeting rooms used regularly by the Concord Kiwanis Club and the Woods County Lions Club, as a placard out front announced.
Off-plant sites for collective bargaining sessions became the norm years ago.
A site away from the mill diffused any charge of overreaching and allowed the parties to comfortably sit at the table on an equal footing.
He’d been told that the Comfort Inn had played host to the last two bargaining sessions, the site provided free of charge, the hope being that most of the participants would eat lunch in the dining room.
He entered the meeting room just as Christopher Bozin stepped to the front and said, “Gentlemen, how about we get started.”
It was a safe salutation since a quick survey revealed no women were present. Bozin gave everyone a moment to quiet down. Brent found a chair just inside the door at the back of the room.
“I want to welcome you to the ninth set of negotiations between Southern Republic Pulp and Paper Company and its three chartered unions. The company is here. We’re ready to negotiate an agreement and we hope it’ll be done in record time.”
Light applause followed.
Bozin beamed a broad congenial smile.
Though Brent was attending his first set of negotiations, he felt he’d been there before thanks to Hank’s graphic daily descriptions.
About twenty-five men were present, each union sending a negotiations committee that varied from three to five people along with a representative from their respective internationals.
The company had assigned two-man teams to bargain with each local, all from industrial relations.
Brent and his boss would float among the three sets of talks, offering legal help where needed.
All the blue-collar hourly men seemed unaccustomed to being strapped into shirts, ties, and jackets.
A white or white-striped short-sleeved shirt, with polyester tie and no coat, seemed the most prevalent ensemble, though a few sported what must have been their Sunday suits.
As usual Hank stood out among the crowd with a French-cuffed white shirt, silk tie, and pleated navy-blue trousers supported by his trademark cordovan leather belt.
The cuff links and tie tack were obviously supplied by the union since, even from a distance, the colors and shape of the IBEW international emblem were easily recognizable.
Everything was shined, pressed, and tastefully coordinated.
So much that it would be easy to mistake him for one of the owners rather than an hourly paid senior day electrician.
Bozin finished his introductory remarks and everyone began to collate into their respective groups.
Brent headed toward Hank, knowing that, as Ricky Ricardo would say, He had some explainin’ to do .
“For a guy who’s not in the loop you’re sure right here in the middle of things,” his old friend said.
“Me being here is as much a surprise to me as it is to you.”
“How’d it happen?”
He motioned toward Bozin. “I received a special invite from him.”
“I guess they figure you can’t help with me unless you see the show for yourself.”
“Sound familiar?”
Hank smiled. “Tough being a double agent, huh?”
“I don’t like it.” And he hoped Hank got the message.
“You going to be here for the whole thing?” Hank asked.
Brent nodded.
“I like it.”
He shook his head. “You don’t hear a word I’m saying, do you?”
“I try not to.”
Arguing was pointless. So he whispered, “Have you had your usual chat yet with Hamilton Lee?”
“Saturday night.”
He knew how things happened. “So this is all a dog-and-pony show.”
Hank nodded.
“It’s a done deal. These folks just don’t know it yet.”
10:20 A.M.
J ON CASUALLY ENTERED THE CROWDED NEGOTIATIONS ROOM DRESSED in his usual business suit. His public appearances at company functions were rare, but he needed to survey the situation and speak with Bozin.
The older man immediately noticed his presence and walked over, asking in a low voice, “Anything to report?”
He stepped close and whispered, “An attempt was made to enter Reed’s house on Saturday but was unsuccessful. Another attempt will be made soon.”
“Please keep me posted.”
“I will. I also wanted you to know I have a guard outside to help if needed.”
“How thoughtful. I’ll let the unions know.”
He excused himself and left.
Outside, Victor Jacks stood next to the double doors, dressed in the uniform of a Southern Republic guard. No one, including Bozin, knew his true identity. Jon walked by and threw his associate a knowing look.
One that said to keep his eyes and ears open.
12:00 P.M.
T HE LUNCH brEAK CAME AT NOON SHARP AND EVERYONE RECESSED to the Comfort Inn’s dining room where a midday buffet of meat loaf, country-fried steak, snap peas, okra, corn, mashed potatoes, biscuits, and apple cobbler had been laid out.
Chris watched while everyone piled their plates full.
He then ordered a small salad from the menu with an iced tea.
Upper management and Brent Walker joined him at a wall table.
“How’s Reed?” he asked his industrial relations director.
The company reps for the other two unions had already informed him that things were going smoothly with the paperworkers and machinists.
“Being his usual pain in the ass. Already raising hell about the five years. Wants it dropped to three today.”
“He’ll get his wish in a couple of days,” he said, adding a grin everyone understood.
Hamilton Lee had called last night and gloated about his Saturday meeting with Reed.
He knew the two would talk. It had happened that way at every negotiation since the 1990s.
A deal would be hammered out in private, the agreement being that Reed would surreptitiously convince the other two unions and his own members to go along.
Not a practice federal labor laws would necessarily sanction, but one that worked.
The company benefited. Employees benefited. And Reed benefited.
He turned to Brent Walker, assuming he was the only other person at the table who knew about Reed’s secret meeting with Lee. “Just remember, Brent, union negotiations are not always as they appear. Far more illusion than reality.”
Brent grinned. “I’ll try and keep that in mind.”
Lunch ended at 1:00 P.M. and everyone slowly made their way back for the afternoon bargaining session. On the way out Chris saw Brent push into the men’s room.
He followed.
Brent was towel-drying his face and hands when he stepped in and went straight to the urinal. They were alone.
“I meant what I said the other day. I truly want your insight on this whole process.”
“I’m not sure what I can offer other than to help with what the company may need.”
It took effort to pee and hurt, but he kept the pain to himself.
He then flushed and stepped over to wash his hands.
“I think you’re just being coy. We all know that you’ve been involved one way or the other with negotiations in the past. Hank relied heavily on your advice.
You understand the process. I’m sure you know Hank met with Hamilton Lee on Saturday night, as they always do before the negotiations.
You and I are the only two here that know that.
So I assume you know a deal has already been made, at least in principle, and we just need to convince everyone else of its wisdom. Right?”
Brent stayed silent. Which was a tacit admission.
He yanked a paper towel from the dispenser.
“I need your insight. Your help to convince everybody. I’m not asking you to betray a friend, only help your employer.
” He tossed the crumpled paper into the trash.
“I imagine Hank would even appreciate the help. It seems to be getting tougher and tougher to make these deals.”
He adjusted his tie and faced his newest employee.
“I’d also like to talk with you a little more. In private. Do you think you could have dinner with me?”
“Of course,” Brent said.
What else would the younger man say?
“Have you ever been to Hickory Row?”
“I’m afraid I’ve never made its guest list.”
“You have now. Come, tomorrow night. At seven. Dress comfortably. I’ll tell the front gate to expect you.”
2:40 P.M.
A SHLEY WAS CLEARING OUT HER MAIL TRUCK FROM THE DAY’S RUN.
Concord’s only post office sat on Highland Drive, north of the central business district.
It was a gray government rectangle of rough granite shaded by tall oaks.
A fenced asphalt parking lot spread out behind it, the gate open, and she saw a familiar vehicle motor in and stop.
Catherine Walker emerged.
Ashley was surprised. “Nice to see you. It’s been a while. What brings you by?” She tried to mask the apprehension in her voice.
“Something that needs to be done,” the older woman said, as she drew close. “The other day Brent and I had a chat. I told him then that life goes on. I’ve thought about that ever since and decided to take my own advice.” Catherine paused. “I have Alzheimer’s.”
Had she heard right? That couldn’t be.
“It’s in its early stages. But I have the disease.”
She did not know what to say.
“I can see that Brent didn’t tell you.”
She shook her head. “Not a word.”
“That’s the lawyer in him. God knows both he and his father could keep a secret. Now, don’t look so glum. It’s early, there are treatments, and I have a few good years left. That’s one reason I’m here. To tell you that. The other is that your father came to see me.”
Another surprise, but she had to know, “What did he say?”
“He’s concerned about you and Brent. As I am.”