* * *
As Jerry Anders ate ice cream, Lee Henry sat at the desk in his study staring at the computer monitor, searching through data that he had no authority to access in order to find answers to some private questions. His years in covert actions came in very handy, both in terms of the contacts he had and what he could do with any available technology. Lee stroked his closely trimmed wraparound beard and then pushed a hand through his thick, black hair. There had to be a way in—victims and their families weren't talking about what had happened or why it happened, and they had nothing to say about conditions at Ruston. Scott Winslow thought that something critical had been hidden, and Lee was going to make or break his theory.
He moved through the property ownership records of the victims and their families. Then he searched their bank records, looking for assets, debts, and changes in financial circumstance that might tell him something. He found nothing that shed light on the reasons for their silence. They were all working people with more debt than asset. He glanced at the clock on the mantle as the clock hit 3:00 a.m. He rubbed his eyes, not yet ready to give up for the night. Could all of this be about some kind of loyalty without any payment or benefit attached? Why would they do that? Someone would need help with medical bills and discomfort. It seemed plausible that one of them would use the events that Consolidated wanted to keep quiet for leverage to get what he or she needed, but there was no trail. Lee methodically searched financial trails because following the money was what usually worked. It was almost 6:00 a.m. when, in frustration and with no answers, he decided he had to get some sleep. As he walked toward the bedroom, he told himself that there had to be something he was missing. Either that or there was no motivation for this bizarre loyalty in the extreme; maybe nobody was hiding any secrets. Was Scott Winslow wrong? Were the deficiencies at Wheeling, not Ruston, as Consolidated urged? He told himself that was his last rhetorical question that he was going to entertain. His head hurt, and he was going to bed.
Chapter 12
I can't sleep, and I am not sure why. It is one of those times when the combined weight of all the loose thoughts permit no relaxation. At 3:30 a.m., I kiss Lisa good-bye and tell her I am going to the office. She nods through a fog and then becomes conscious enough to glance at the alarm clock next to the bed.
“What?” she asks as the pieces come together. “Are you filling in for the janitorial crew as well?”
“Yeah, I know it's early, but I have a lot going on and most of it won't leave my head.”
“Okay,” she says, still only half-awake. “Does this change of shift mean you'll make it home for dinner?”
“Yeah, it does. I'll be home by six thirty.”
She nods and then drifts off to sleep.
I sit down in the chair next to the bed and watch her sleep. She really does it beautifully. The graceful way she seems to do everything. How did I get this lucky? I stand and walk from the room with Lisa's image on my mind and a smile on my face. I kiss Katy and Joey on the way out, neither stirring.
I am at my desk at 4:45 a.m., coffee in hand, staring at my inbox. Normally it was the stack on the left corner of my desk. Over the last couple of days it has overgrown its boundaries and now threatens to consume the rest of the desk. I check my calendar. After my 9:00 a.m. Case Management Conferences on two cases in two different trial departments, I have appointments with prospective new clients at one and two thirty, which will kill at least an hour each. I shake my head. This was going to be my day to get things done in the office.
As I begin working my way through my to-do list, I am consumed by thoughts of the Walters case. At 8:00 a.m., I call Lee Henry to get an update. A groggy but familiar voice answers, “Yeah?”
“Lee, did I wake you?”
“Yeah, I pulled a late one last night. What time is it?”
“It's about eight.”
There was an audible groan. “Even I can't get by on less than two hours sleep. I was working on Walters last night. I searched through all kinds of financial data for all of the victims and their families. No deposits, no loans, nothing unusual at all. I'm beginning to wonder if we're on the right track here, Scott.”
I drink some coffee and consider the news. “I'm wondering, too. My gut tells me that there's something here. We just have to find the link.”
“I'm working on another idea,” Lee says. After I get some sleep, I'll climb back into it. So far, though, I've got a whole lot of nothing.”
“Stay with it, buddy. I'll let you know if I come up with more information or any other angles we can work.”
* * *
At 9:00 a.m., Jerry awakened and stared at his clock in horror. He was to start work at eighty thirty. The damned alarm never went off. He leaped out of bed and called work.
“Home Town Printers,” a male voice answered.
“Hi. This is Jerry Anders. Can I talk to Mike?”
“One minute.” There is a click and a moment of quiet that Jerry uses to search for the right words.
“Mike here.”
“Mike, this is Jerry Anders.” There was more silence. “I'm so sorry, Mike, my alarm didn't go off. I know this is not a good first day, and it won't be my habit to be—”
“All right, it happens. Just get your ass in here. We have a big lot to run today.”
“I'll be right there, and thanks for understanding,” Jerry said, feeling as if he had just received the most important pardon of his life. He hurried through a quick shower and made it to work in twenty minutes, his pulse still racing.
As Jerry entered the print shop, Mike directed him to the machine he was to operate. He gestured in the direction of a young man with long black hair and tattoos on both arms. “Rocco will answer any questions you have about working the machine. You'll catch on pretty quick.”
“Sure thing,” Jerry said. As Mike left the shop for the office, Jerry shook hands with Rocco, who walked over to the printer with him and gave him basic operating instructions. “This is Gladys,” he said. “She is a monster, but she can generate large volume in a hurry. Pretty simple to operate.” He pointed to a gauge. “Here are the alignment settings and job specs. If there is a jam, the auto shutdown should stop it all so we can fix the problem and get it back on line. If for some reason the auto shutdown doesn't take, here's the emergency switch,” he said, pointing to a big red lever on the side of the machine. “I'll be right over there working Dexter, if you have any questions.”
“Thanks,” Jerry said, “I really appreciate the help getting started.”
“No worries, man,” Rocco said, as he made his way back to Dexter.
After three hours of running the machine with no serious problem, Jerry stepped into the rear alley behind the building and lit up a cigarette. As he took the first drag, a voice comes from behind him. “Hey, man, I heard you were out now.”
Jerry turned to see a thirty-something, muscular guy he recognized. “Hi, Bryce,” he said.
“You need work?”
“No. I'm good man,” Jerry said evenly.
“I have some avenues opening up you could step into. Pay you a lot more than this shit,” Bryce added, gesturing toward the print shop.
“No, man. I'm out of the business. I'm not using or selling.”
Bryce shrugged. “Okay, suit yourself man, but you only turn me down one time.”
“Sorry,” Jerry said, as Bryce walked away. Jerry drew a deep breath. All of this was a lot harder than he had hoped. He needed to stop the reminders of his old life so that he could get on with the new one. He stepped on the cigarette butt and walked back inside to Gladys.
* * *
At just after 6:00 p.m., I arrived home to hugs from Katy and Joey and a kiss from Lisa, who was making chicken burritos, a family favorite.
Lisa tugs on my tie and kisses me again, bringing groans from the kids.
“Do you have to do that right here,” Joey asked.
“Yeah,” Katy says. “Get a room!”
“What?” Lisa asks, astonished. “Where did you hear that?”
“I heard it on TV,” she says confidently. “That's what you say when you see your parents kissing.”
I couldn't hide a smirk. Lisa gives me a look, and I shrug.
“Probably better to think of something else to say, sweetheart.”
“How come?” she asks.
Joey was watching, seemingly enjoying the exchange.
“A little hard to explain,” Lisa says. “It's kind of a grown-up thing.”
Joey chimes in with, “That's what you guys always say when you don't want to tell us something.”
“Just the same,” Lisa says, “that's the answer.” She turns to me in hopes of changing the subject. “Can you set out drinks,” she asks.
“Sure. Two milks and two glasses of our best house wine.”
Joey brings condiments over to the table, and Katy places a stack of napkins beside each plate. “You think we're going to need that many napkins?” I ask.
“Yes, Daddy. You remember, this stuff is really sloppy. It falls out of the burrito jackets and all over,” Katy says earnestly.
I nod. “I do remember that; you're right.”
We sit down at the table and pass the condiments. Lisa asks Joey to say grace. He makes a face, and then says, “All right. Thank the Lord for the chow.”
“Amen,” I say. “And very concise.” Joey nods, apparently satisfied with his prayer review.
“Hey, Joe,” I say, “Did you ever go see that friend of yours from the baseball game? Jason, was that his name?”
“Yeah, Jason Barber. I went over there and told him I was sorry he struck out.”
“That's great, buddy. I bet he appreciated that.”
“He told me that I sure got dusted when that big guy hit the home run.”
I flinch, reflecting on the fact that no good deed goes unpunished. “Sorry he responded that way,” I offer, lamely.
“Oh, it's okay,” he says. “His mother made an awesome milkshake, and we played video games for a while. It turned out pretty good.”
I shake my head. Kids can be brutal to one another, but they sure heal quickly. “What's new with you, Ms. Katy?” I ask.
“Well, Mommy told me what we're getting you for your birthday. Wanna hear?”
“Sure,” I say. “Let me in on it, and I won't tell anyone.”
“No way, dude; it's a secret. I'll never tell.”
“Okay,” I say. “I can live with the secret, but I am not 'dude.' ”
Joey says. “When you think about it, dude and Dad are words that are pretty close. You can be Daddy Dude.”
Katy giggles, making Lisa start to laugh, and I just shake my head. “Well, this dude says that you people are out of control.”
Chapter 13
There had to be something that he missed. Lee Henry spent an additional two hours scouring records of each of the victims in hopes of finding something that would explain why they might support Consolidated as it lied about the location of the most recent disaster to distance itself from county violations and the complaints of Kevin Walters. There was no inflow of cash or other assets he could find and no substantial reduction of debt for any of them. In fact, he could find nothing at all. It occurred to him that threats against victims and their families if they did not keep a secret were a possibility, but these were links that wouldn't be found on the Internet. Besides, Consolidated Energy was a Fortune 500 company, not the Gambino crime family.
Lee next focused his attention on Carl Miller, the county representative who was involved in overseeing the Ruston mine. According to Winslow's client he knew about the prior violations, and both he and the violations had suddenly disappeared. He went back to work on his computer, looking at records he was not entitled to access. He combed through county personnel records, finding that Carl Miller's paychecks were being sent to Covington, Tennessee, every two weeks. The checks were being sent payable to Carl Miller, so Miller must have established an account under his real name in order to cash or deposit them.
Lee then began looking for records of people named Carl Miller in the Covington area. His search turned up only three Carl Millers within fifty miles. The first was twenty-three and worked as a carpenter. The second Carl Miller was a forty-year-old nightclub owner. The third was eighty-four and had retired nineteen years ago after a career with the railroad. One more dead end.
Next, Lee decided to search for relatives of his target. Then he found addresses for all of those relatives and came up with an uncle, David Carter, living about thirteen miles from Covington in the city of Munford, Tennessee. Lee grinned widely. “Bingo,” he said aloud. He quickly packed a bag and went back to the Internet to find a flight.
At 7:45 a.m. the following day, Lee would be on a plane to Memphis. When he arrived, he would rent a car and drive the remaining thirty-six miles to Covington. He planned to stake out the post office box and see if Miller came by to grab his check. If that failed, he would go on to Munford, Tennessee, home to about sixty-seven hundred people, one of whom was Dave Carter, the uncle of the disappeared Carl Miller. One way or another, he intended to come away with useful information.
* * *
When I return from court, I meet with Kevin Walters and Jack Bernard at 11:00 a.m. in the larger of our firm's two conference rooms. When I walk into the room, both men are absorbed in a stack of documents. Jack appears to be about forty years old and carries a good thirty pounds of excess weight. He has small, deep set eyes that absorb light and miss nothing. The documents covering the conference room table include mine specifications, notes on substructure, and drawings for Consolidated's Wheeler and Ruston mines.
I look at the stacks of data that Kevin and Bernard had been discussing for the past three hours. “Jack?” I ask, reaching a hand in his direction. “I'm Scott Winslow.”
Bernard shakes my hand and smiles. “Good to meet you. Kevin says great things about you, Scott.”
“Well, the feeling is mutual. Kevin's a good guy.” I pause, and then ask, “You guys able to make anything useful out of this overwhelming sea of data that you can translate for a non-engineer?”
They both smile. “Maybe,” Bernard says. “We have been trying to formulate a game plan for how to use some of this information. There are several possibilities to explore. Some analysis is aimed at the differing substructures of the mines and some at variances in other materials used in construction or added for reinforcement. We can also get helpful information from an analysis of the post-explosion condition of the mine.”
I nod, absorbing the breadth of these courses of action. “So what do you need to conduct your examination?” I ask.
“Some of it we can get from these and other documents,” Bernard says. “But we're also going to need to get into the mine and get a look. I will review the post-explosion reports to see if there is any condition or substructure inconsistent with Wheeler and consistent with Ruston, but in all likelihood the reports will have been carefully sanitized, so I will need to see conditions as they are. The sooner the better, before much more work is done in either mine.”
“I am going to have to make a motion to get us into Ruston. They are resisting voluntarily giving us access.”
“Really?” Bernard says. “Can they keep us out?
“Not if the judge says we're in,” I say, stating the obvious. “How long will you need for the inspection?”
“Better get us four or five hours,” Bernard says, “so that we have time to inspect substructures and conditions and see how they compare with the records.”
“Right. So I am going to prepare a declaration for you to sign about what we need, how long it will take, why we need the access in general terms, etc. I can file your declaration with the motion so we can convince the judge to give us what we want.”
“How do they oppose the motion?” Kevin asks.
“They will say it is an unnecessary waste of resources, that there is not enough evidence to sugges
t that there is a basis for what we are doing and that costs them in time and money.”
“And you think you can overcome that argument?” Kevin asks.
“I think so, yes,” I say. “I will argue that you complained about substandard conditions there, and the company was motivated to terminate you because of the safety issues you complained about and to prevent them from coming to light.” If Kevin complained about unsafe and illegal conditions and was fired to keep him quiet, and we disagree as to the location the complaints pertain to, we should be able to look at both locations to see who is right.” Both men nod. “We also have Judge Carswell. He is a disagreeable old curmudgeon at every turn, but he likes openness in discovery. His philosophy is too much is better than not enough, which also works to our advantage.”
“Let's do it,” Kevin said, and Bernard nods agreement.
“All right,” I say. “I will make an ex parte application to get the motion heard on short notice so that we don't have to kill thirty days getting to court.” I pause, and then say to Bernard, “You did work for Consolidated over the years, right?”
“I did. That's how I came to know Kevin.”
“You know that Consolidated's door is likely to close to you permanently after you attempt to help Kevin in this case?”
He gives me a sideways smirk. “If that happens, so be it. These guys screwed Kevin big time. I think I have my priorities where I want them.” He put a hand on Kevin's shoulder, and I can see that Kevin is visibly touched by his colleague's sentiment.
“Well, welcome aboard,” I say, glad to have one more committed member on our team. “Give me as many facts as you can over the next couple of days about why we have to see both mines.”
Kevin regards me thoughtfully and then says, “Can we use the fact that being able to view the different substructures will help us show that we made some corrections to comply with regulations in Wheeling, and that we should have done the same in Ruston?”
I nod. “That's good. I'll put that in your declaration, Kevin. Give me specifics that you reported concerning conditions at Ruston that were addressed in Wheeling. If Judge Carswell is half as confused as I think he will be, he may throw up his hands and let us in to both.”
[2017] The Whistleblower Onslaught Page 10
