Character Witness

by Rebecca Forster

  ''Would you quit? Would you pursue this course?''

  He looked at her hard and his face seemed to change. Though unattractive, he suddenly seemed ugly and eerily silent. Finally he spoke.

  ''I wouldn't presume, Ms. Cotter, to advise you on any matter while you work with O'Doul & Associates.''

  ''Of course not, forgive me. That was very forward of me. I apologize.''

  Richard reached out and took Kathleen's free hand. He held it between both of his.

  ''Unless, of course, you don't feel that Gerry is on top of this. If that's the case then, of course, I'd be willing to help in any way I could.''

  In another moment Kathleen would have thought something was amiss with Richard Jacobsen, but the light changed, as they were jostled by the group of wailing women who suddenly came out of Division 36 followed by two bewildered children. It was then Kathleen realized he had meant only to be helpful.

  ''I would like it very much if you would call on me to fill in the gaps of the fine education Gerry will give you.''

  ''Thank you. Thank you.''

  ''Good-bye, then.''

  ''Good-bye. And thank you, Mr. Jacobsen.'' How idiotic did she sounded?

  He turned in a fluid motion and Kathleen was forgotten. Or so she thought. He wasn't gone three steps when he came back to her and asked.

  ''Are you happy where you are, Ms. Cotter? Happy with the rather odd problems you're handling at O'Doul & Associates.''

  Kathleen hesitated for a second while Gerry's face flashed in front of her mind. First it was the face of young Gerry, then of his old and wizened visage. That was all it took.

  ''No,'' she answered.

  ''I thought not.''

  Richard Jacobsen left her. She wished she was walking away with him.

  Michael had seen him before. They called him Jack. Nobody knew his real name or how long he'd been at Tysco. The best estimate was that he'd worked there for twenty-six years. The best guess on what he did was something in the quality control section - not hands on, just paperwork. No one Michael had ever talked to knew where Jack's office was, they had no idea where he lived and most swore they'd never heard him speak. Jack had fallen through the cracks of the mega-corporate Tysco system. He pulled his pay, he showed up and - if the twenty-six year guestimate of employment was correct - he would be eligible to retire in four years fully vested. Until then, he wandered the halls like a specter, dressed in his corporate camouflage: brown shoes, brown pants, brown tie with a gold tone 25 years tie clasp and white short sleeved shirt. He carted a sheaf of papers with him so that if anyone had the inclination to stop and ask him where he was going or what he was doing he could hold them up as proof he was a necessary cog in the wheel. Michael had thought long and hard about Jack. He shared, after all, a rather sad affinity with the man. But there was one big difference. Michael had no intention of disappearing. He refused to be relegated to the land of the living dead and Lionel Booker was the catalyst who propelled him through the halls of Tysco, past Jack and up to the tenth floor of the main building and into a suite of offices that shared a common reception area and secretary.

  ''Morning.''

  Michael smiled at the woman behind the desk. Cute. Late twenties. Sedately dressed. She still had the idea that this was her ticket to a career. Little did she know.

  ''Good morning.'' She swiveled on her chair. Michael was reminded of android technology, so smooth was her chair, her delivery, movement and smile.

  ''I'm looking for Jules Porter.''

  ''Do you have an appointment?''

  ''Nope. I've been trying to get one.'' Michael turned on the charm: a warm smile, a casual leaning toward the desk, a helpless opening of his palms. It didn't work.

  ''Mr. Porter is scheduled today.'' Her movements were silk. Porter's calendar was open. ''He isn't available until at least three this afternoon. I can pencil you in but, of course, that would be subject to change if Mr. Porter finds himself running over.''

  Michael had the most marvelous images of Porter as a bathtub, Porter as beer. No doubt he would run over. No one in this place ever did anything with urgency and efficiency was questionable. Suddenly, Michael had an image of Porter that was three dimensional when the man himself walked purposefully through the door and into the office that bore his name etched into a brass toned plate. Michael gave the very efficient lady behind the desk a thumbs up and walked right after the man. The lady at the desk protested briefly but was obviously attached to her chair. She didn't try to follow.

  ''Jules Porter,'' Michael said heartily as he put out his hand. The other man took it warily. ''Michael Crawford. I inherited you're old desk over in 42B. You've come up in the world.''

  ''Yes. Yes.'' Porter extricated himself, the half smile faded. Michael was under him on the pecking order. ''What can I do for you?''

  ''I was hoping you'd have a minute.'' Michael slid into a chair. It was nicer than any they had in auditing and his people sat all day. He'd have to do something to rectify that situation. ''I've been trying to get you for a couple of days now and I understand how busy you guys a can be, running the company and all.''

  Michael smiled amiably. Porter appeared perplexed or tired. He was definitely cranky and off his game.

  ''I'm afraid I'm still very busy. You should make an appointment with Miss Hutchinson, though, I must say, I don't have time to help you with anything at the moment. I would suggest you go through the channels if you're having difficulty with the department; there are procedures outlined in the handbook. If it is something that I initialed, you can send it interoffice. I'll get back to you when I can.''

  Jules Porter dismissed Michael easily. Michael ignored him graciously.

  ''Well, look, this problem really doesn't have a solution in the handbook and it sure as heck doesn't have anyone's initials on it. It's sort of a personnel problem.''

  Jules Porter removed his Italian jacket, took a black and gold Mont Blanc pen from his pocket and sat down in his standard issue Tysco executive chair. Instead of giving Michael his attention, he opened the dark brown portfolio he had carried into the office and concentrated on his papers. His dark head was down so that Michael could see the meticulous part. Michael slapped his hand on top of those papers. Porter looked up. Michael smiled. Porter did not.

  ''Look. I know who you are. You're a troublemaker and I don't want any trouble.''

  ''Then give me a few minutes of your time, Mr. Porter, and I promise not to make waves.''

  Porter considered this then made an executive decision. He sat back. Michael closed the portfolio and put it aside, patting it into place like a father putting away a slow child's toys.

  ''Jules. I may call you Jules?''

  Jules Porter stayed silent.He despised men like Michael Crawford. They didn't have the courtesy to dress right or speak when spoken to or offer only the kind of creative ideas that would please those on the next rung. But he also feared men like Michael Crawford because you just never knew what quirk of fate would put them on that rung above you.

  ''Well, Jules, I have a question about a man who used to work for you, and me, for a few weeks. I assume you'll remember him. He had a long history with the company but he didn't end up in a nice office like this. He died in the john, on the second floor, quite a ways away from auditing. Apparently he killed himself. A suicide in our hallowed halls.''

  Porter turned his head away. He looked pale. Some people lost all blood pressure when they were angry; some when they were guilty; some because they were simply the sensitive type.

  ''Can we get on with this?''

  ''You're right. This has got to be tough for you. It must be difficult to speak about someone you must have been close to.'' The sarcasm wasn't lost on Jules Porter. He moved in his chair trying to rearrange the coals in his belly that fed some emotion at Michael's impertinence.

  ''Who told you we were close?'' Jules demanded. ''I want to know who told you. It's a lie.''

  ''It was just an assumption,'' Mich
ael said, curious about such an emphatic reaction but not willing to let Jules Porter knew that. ''I figured since you'd worked with the guy for almost ten years you probably took some kind of personal interest.''

  ''I knew him. Lionel Booker. He was a troublemaker, too,'' Porter grumbled.

  ''I didn't find that to be the case. He seemed quiet and efficient. But, then, I imagine we would have differing views on things.'' Michael settled into his chair. He crossed his long legs. ''I'm just interested in the facts of his employment during the time you were his supervisor. I've talked to others who worked with Lionel and their impression was that he cared a great deal about his work and his job here.''

  ''The man didn't know when to quit. That's all I can tell you. He was not efficient. He was a nitpicker. He thought he knew how the whole place worked. He took everything very personally. This is a business, Mr. Crawford, a big business.'' Porter found at least one of his balls and leaned forward in his junior executive mode. ''People like you and Lionel Booker think a conglomerate like Tysco can be run like a corner grocery where you give credit to the widow who needs some bread. But we don't deal in bread. We deal in the things that make the world work. There's pressure here. No one expects the world to be perfect or the structure in which those things are made to be impeccable. We all simply try to manage the beast and if you try to micromanage it, or give it a name and a personality, then you sacrifice efficiency.''

  ''What about someone's life? Someone who might have been so upset about what happened inside these walls that he took his own life or tried to forget his worries with drugs.''

  Jules Porter stiffened. He looked sick.

  ''That is only one person and he was obviously imbalanced. There are over twelve thousand who work here. You don't see all of them committing suicide, now do you?''

  ''I'm not sure that Lionel Booker did. I think he might just have been looking for a little peace. With your kind of attitude I might have tried a little junk myself.''

  ''Don't get personal, Mr. Crawford. Bad things happen to people who get too personal.''

  ''That sounds oddly threatening,'' Michael drawled. ''But don't worry. I have no intention of trying to, Mr. Porter. I believe it would be next to impossible to get personal with you.'' Michael stood up. He was itchy. Only something physical would relieve his discomfort and he didn't want to do anything he'd regret. Not that he'd regret popping Jules Porter all that much. ''What was Lionel Booker up to just before he died? Anything you were aware of? Think carefully before you answer because I have to answer to a lawyer who is looking into Lionel Booker's death. If she doesn't like what I tell her you might just end up on the other end of her subpoena. And you know how much time that would take out of your busy day.''

  ''Have you checked with legal on this?'' Jules Porter demanded, still under the false impression that anything he said would make an impression on Michael.

  Michael spread his hands on Porter's pristine desk and got up close and personal.

  ''Fuck legal,'' he whispered.

  Porter thought about that, and then began to talk. When he was done, Michael thanked him and started to leave, but it was Jules Porter who had the last word.

  ''You know, nobody really cares about you any more. You and your stupid cause. You know that don't you?''

  Michael kept walking. One of these days he would return the knife Jules Porter had just put in his back.

  ''Hello, hello! Becky, the next burrito is on me. What a day! The jury came back in an hour and a half and gave Henrietta five thousand more than we asked for. She was ecstatic.''

  Kathleen closed the door behind her and tossed her briefcase onto one of the reception chairs. She was just about ready to sink into another one. Becky stopped her without even looking up from her typing. The in-box was always full now and Becky was on five days a week.

  ''Don't even think about it. Gerry's waiting. He's got company.''

  ''New client?'' Kathleen righted herself.

  Becky shrugged.

  ''Haven't a clue.'' She stopped typing long enough to open her top drawer. ''I hope he's got terrible problems. I wouldn't mind seeing him every day or more. Cookie?'' She held up something white with dark chocolate and a green icing dome. Kathleen made a face and picked up her briefcase.

  ''Then I better give my hair a brush and get to it.'' She was in and out of her office in record time. She rounded Becky's desk, knocking on wood. ''Remind me to tell you what else happened.'' Her hand was on the doorknob. ''What's this guy's name?''

  ''Michael Crawford,'' Becky sighed. The cookie disappeared at the same time Kathleen did.

  ''Kathleen,'' Gerry admonished, ''You didn't tell me Michael was such a delightful young man. I think she wanted to keep you all to herself.'' He winked to show his pleasure then stage whispered. ''Worried that I'll become too stimulated with all the changes around here, but this ticker is just fine. Sure, though, I don't know what I'd do without my Kathleen around here.''

  Kathleen refrained from rolling her eyes. She'd caught on. Gerry was about as much an invalid as she was. He had her number and dialed it often, but Kathleen knew she was just about on the verge of making it unlisted. She grinned at him nonetheless and then improved on it when she took Michael's hand. She talked to Gerry, she looked at Michael.

  ''It was hard to describe Mr. Crawford. I wouldn't have wanted to do him an injustice.'' Kathleen settled herself. Michael half-stood, put his hand on the back of her chair and said hello.

  ''Isn't that just like you,'' Gerry chuckled. ''Mr. Crawford, indeed. After all the wonderful things he had to say about you, I would have thought you were on a first name basis.''

  Kathleen shifted. The twinkle in his eye was downright embarrassing; the interest in Michael's completely welcome.

  ''We've spent some time together. But it was purely professional.'' Kathleen was flirting. She knew it. It felt great.

  ''Yes, yes, yes,'' Gerry nodded, with a wink at Michael. ''A sail on the sea is always a good way to depose someone. Did I ever tell you I tried my hand at boating, Kathleen? Michael, perhaps I could impose one day. . .''

  ''It would be a pleasure, Gerry.''

  ''All right,'' Kathleen interjected. ''I give up. You two have obviously been at this for a while. I can't imagine you came all this way to tell my uncle what a great guest I was on your boat.''

  ''You're right, of course.'' Gerry still smiled but Kathleen, now used to the signs, understood they had done more than talk about the boat. ''Niceties aside, I'm afraid Michael does have some news that's very interesting, Kathleen. Very interesting, indeed. In fact, it might create a bit of a problem when you argue for Louise.''

  Kathleen's butterflies now took a different and more ominous turn. She stopped focusing on Michael's lips and paid attention to what was coming out of them.

  ''I finally spoke with Lionel's previous supervisor, Jules Porter. He toes the company line like ninety-nine percent of Tysco employees, but this guy believes the chapter and verse. He was wired tight. I'm beginning to think Lionel was either crazy or a saint to work in a department headed by that guy. Ten years, no less.'' Michael shook his head as if Lionel's feat was more heroic than his own.

  ''What did he say?''

  ''Lionel was upset specifically with Porter. Seems that Lionel had received a misdirected interdepartmental envelope and, instead of sending it on, Lionel took a really good look.'' Michael spoke to Gerry. ''Lionel was one of those very smart guys. He had an almost photographic memory. He took one look and the numbers were analyzed instantly.'' His head swiveled again. Kathleen was all ears and motion. She's taken a pad of paper from Gerry's desk to jot notes. ''So, he didn't send it on because he had instantly determined that the information didn't add up. He took a closer look then brought the whole kit and caboodle to Porter. Porter took one look at the departmental designation and told Lionel to get back to work and not waste his time. It wasn't any of their business.''

  ''Wouldn't that kind of support make you want to do your b
est for the company?'' Gerry mumbled.

  ''Incredible incentive,'' Kathleen agreed wryly.

  ''The whole thing seemed incredibly urgent to Lionel, but Porter didn't want to be bothered. He had his agenda; Lionel was asking him to deviate. And it wasn't just the time that concerned Porter. Believe me I talked to him long enough today to figure him out. He's a guy who chalks up ten percent of product to loss so if there was a discrepancy in the billing he'd rather see it go through the system than rectify it.''

  ''Just gives you a lot of faith in the people who are making our bombs, doesn't it?'' Kathleen muttered.

  ''They make toilette paper, too.'' Michael chuckled. ''I suppose, in a way, Porter has a point. I mean, what do we care about the paperwork as long as the damn things don't explode before they get where they're going?''

  ''So,'' Gerry pushed them along. ''Lionel was very unhappy with what he'd found and received no satisfaction from his supervisor when he tried to rectify the matter. How long was it before Mr. Porter left the department and you came in?''

  ''About three weeks, maybe a month. Lionel had discovered the problem at least a month earlier. Porter says he lost track of the whole mess. He couldn't even remember the specifics. A guy like him wouldn't have remembered what Lionel looked like the day after they talked.''

  ''And Lionel never brought it up to you?''

  Michael raised a hand and rested his chin on it. ''Nope. He never approached me about anything. Not that I can blame him. If one guy tells you it doesn't matter, why would he think the next one to take the chair would think any differently. Even if he went over Porter's head he probably got the same reaction. Remember, Lionel had been there ten years. He knew what was what.''

  ''But whatever he saw made him - what? - angry enough to buck the system?''

  ''I don't know. Porter wasn't great with adjectives. Basically he said Lionel was a pain in the ass.''

  ''I'm sorry to hear that.'' Kathleen tapped her pen on the pad of paper. Her notes consisted of circles in which she'd written Porter and Booker. ''Well, what do you think we've got with this bit of information?''