by Connie Cook
"No reason in particular," Ruth evaded.
"Well, there must be a reason in particular, or you wouldn't have asked."
"Then let's say, 'No reason I should be bringing up.' "
"Something to do with the mill, is it? Some business of Gus's, no doubt. Oh, I do remember one thing about Manny Seneca. He was Joe Weaver's lawyer. His widow's lawyer, I mean. When Gus was acquitted of Joe's death, Manny went after his widow to try and get some money out of Gus in a civil suit. Don't imagine it went anywhere. Seems to me they ended up settling out of court, but I guess Mrs. Weaver couldn't have got much blood out of that old turnip. She certainly didn't ever seem to be in clover, even after the settlement. So much for having a hot-shot lawyer."
"Gus Turnbull was tried for Joe Weaver's death?" Ruth asked curiously, latching onto the particularly intriguing tidbit of information her mother-in-law had revealed as though in passing. "What do you know about that case? I have some dim recollections of Mr. Weaver dying at an accident at the mill. I remember that much. Of course, being in the same grade as Bo, that left an impression on me. Then, shortly after that, I remember asking Wynnie one time how come her dad was never at home anymore, and I remember she was all upset at the question and wouldn't answer it. I thought maybe her dad had left like mine had. But then he came back after a little while. Then, I remember my mother saying something to me about Wynnie's dad being in prison because Bo's dad had died. I never understood any of it as a child, though."
Ruth left off the part her mother had added, that it was Gus Turnbull who should have been in prison, that he was a crook who let other men go to jail for him. It probably hadn't been a fair evaluation and didn't bear repeating.
"Oh dear, let's see now," Mom said, "I want to get this right, but it was quite some time ago. How did it go? I remember Joe Weaver dying, of course. I don't remember all the details, but it had something to do with that old wigwam burner at Turnbulls'. You probably don't know what that is. We had one at the mill, too, but by the time you were working there, Guy wasn't burning scraps anymore. He was already shipping all his chips out to a pulp mill. Why burn them if you can make a little money off them? Well, Gus Turnbull started doing the same thing shortly after Joe's death. Easier than fixing up that old burner. But by then it was too late to help Joe. If only he'd started shipping them sooner, but I suppose it didn't occur to him until someone had died."
"Wigwam burner?" Ruth questioned. "Oh, I know. That old rusty metal heap in the mill yard. Does look like a wigwam, sort of. I can see where it gets the name. But how did Joe manage to die on that thing? Doesn't seem overly dangerous. Wasn't it fed by a conveyor of some kind?"
"It was, but ... let me see now. How did it go? I know he fell to his death, somehow. You know the ladder up the side? He fell from that. Must have broken his neck or something. At any rate, he fell and was killed, and somehow, it ended up being Norm Starke's doing."
"But what was he doing up the ladder in the first place?"
"Well, that's the part that was Norm Starke's doing. Something to do with the conveyor always sticking or jamming or, anyhow, never working properly. Everyone knew it needed fixing. But somehow, it never did get fixed, and Joe Weaver always had to climb up that ladder on the wigwam to do something to the conveyor to get the line moving again. Now why did it end up being Norm Starke's fault? I should know. Guy and I discussed it quite a lot after it happened. Guy took pretty stern warning from it, I can tell you. Always made sure he checked over all the equipment himself after that ... I'm trying to think ... Why was it Norm Starke's fault? ... Oh! That's what it was, I think. Besides something being wrong with the conveyor that should've been fixed long before, there was something wrong with the ladder up that old burner, too, and Joe let Norm know it. One side of it had come loose and the other one was on the point of doing so. Or something like that. At any rate, it was unsafe, and Norm knew it. And apparently, a month or so before he fell, Joe had told Norm he refused to go up that ladder anymore until it was fixed up again properly. There were witnesses who overheard the whole conversation. And Norm had said something to the effect of, "Then go up and fix it yourself," and then threatened to take Joe's job if he didn't keep the line running. Joe couldn't have fixed the ladder himself, though, of course. It needed welding. Telling him to fix it himself was just Norm being smart with him, putting him in his place. So apparently, Joe just kept on going up that ladder, knowing it wasn't safe, every time the conveyor acted up, and Norm never did do anything about it. Either about the conveyor or the broken ladder."
"So why was Gus Turnbull tried for Joe Weaver's death, then?"
"Oh, right. I forgot that part. Well, after Joe's death, there was a big hue and cry, as you can imagine, with it being so pointless and preventable, and everyone was crying for Turnbull blood over it."
"You're right. I can imagine."
"Yes, well, after an investigation, it was decided to prosecute, I guess. Make an example of Turnbulls'. And the powers that be went after Gus first with a charge of manslaughter, but he had some high-paid lawyers, and it never could be proven that he knew anything about the faulty conveyor or the unsafe ladder on the burner. Or that he knew anything about Joe Weaver having his arm-twisted into climbing on that thing to fix it all the time. Which, quite frankly, most everyone thought was plainly ridiculous. That Gus didn't know anything about any of it, I mean. Norm Starke was his foreman at that time. Norm would only be acting under Gus's orders. And, for pity's sake, what kind of an owner wouldn't know what kind of shape his operating equipment was in? If he didn't, he should have been found guilty of negligence right there. It should've been plain as a nose on a face to anyone that the reason nothing was getting fixed was because it was Gus who didn't want to put out the money or halt operation in any way while things were getting fixed. Norm would've had no reason for stalling on fixing the equipment. But Norm testified that he hadn't mentioned any of this to Gus, that he was acting on his own authority in telling Joe what he did, and so on. The feeling around the town was that Norm had been paid well to say so, not realizing that he was going to be charged after Gus was acquitted. But that was what happened. He should have known how that story was going to go. He was charged with, what was it called now, criminal negligence? Or criminally negligent manslaughter? Some kind of manslaughter, at any rate, I think. I can't remember how long they gave him for it, but I do know he served six months of the sentence. I remember everyone being quite surprised he was sentenced to serve time rather than just having to pay money. But I guess the courts wanted to make an example of him. It was a very sad thing about Joe Weaver. It was a sad, sad waste of a life. So unnecessary. So preventable." Mom shook her head.
"Then there was a civil case, you said? Involving Mrs. Weaver? And that Seneca lawyer?"
"Oh, right. That's where we started. Right. So, this young hot-shot, Manny Seneca, he thought he'd make a name for himself or drum up a little business and rake in some money and go after Gus Turnbull in a civil suit. Or maybe he just wanted to see justice done, and he thought it hadn't been done in the criminal courts. I don't know. At any rate, he talked Joe Weaver's widow into hiring him. Poor dear. Her English was so slight, she probably didn't understand much. Just knew that her husband was dead and she was left with those six children. Or five, at that time, with one on the way. I don't understand all that legal mumbo-jumbo, myself. She was probably completely in the dark. Just left herself in that lawyer's hands. Well, didn't seem to do her much good, anyway, whatever she let herself be talked into. Maybe the case against the mill itself wasn't very strong, and her lawyer realized it once he'd looked into it. After all, Gus had already been acquitted. Though that was on a criminal charge. I think they could have made out a strong case in a civil suit that the mill owner was certainly negligent, at the very least, if he didn't know what was going on in his own operation. Anyway, they settled out of court, from what I remember, and they must have settled for almost nothing."
Mom was in an extra
ordinarily chatty mood. Ruth let her words spill out largely uninterrupted.
Half-conscious questions nagged at her.
But there was a fair-sized settlement for Mrs. Weaver. I saw the agreement myself. So where did all that money go?
But still, the nagging of the half-conscious questions didn't break the surface, and so Ruth could ignore them.
* * *
Personally, I'm not able to believe in coincidence though many thinking people do.
I can't stretch my imagination to believe it was the hand of coincidence that pulled the settlement agreement out of the Weaver file for Ruth to see. Or that laid up Marcie sick at home on that certain day some weeks after that first small incident. Or that mixed the fate-bearing letter in with all the mail addressed to the mill which had fallen upon Ruth to sort on that particular day, seeing Marcie was at home sick.
Ruth barely glanced at the envelope when she opened it.
When she came back to look more closely at it later, she saw the return address was a Vancouver one but there was no name to go with the return address. It was just a plain envelope, and the address was typed. There was no handwriting to give any hints as to the importance of its contents.
From the envelope, she could see how the mistake had been made. After all, it was addressed to A.A. Turnbull. And Angus Andrew Turnbull was certainly Gus Turnbull's name – as it had been his father's before him and his grandfather's before his father's ... though in real life, the surviving Angus Andrew Turnbull was simply Gus Turnbull, and A.A Turnbull was usually used only in reference to the business – A.A. Turnbull Enterprises.
It had been sent to A.A. Turnbull's home address rather than the mill address, but seeing that it was addressed to A. A. Turnbull, from a quick glance at the typed envelope, Gus must have understood the missive to be business-related.
So as he often did whenever business-related mail arrived at his home address, Gus had gathered the envelope up without opening it to bring to his secretary for her to open and sort and deal with. Gus couldn't be bothered with his business mail until after it had run the ice-blue gauntlet of his secretary's eyes. So much of his business-related correspondence was unimportant and a waste of his time.
But not that particular letter.
And if Marcie had been the one to open the letter, being the loyal, businesslike, no-nonsense secretary that she was, very likely nothing more would have come of the it.
But it wasn't Marcie's icy blue eyes which had chanced to read the letter. It was Ruth's warm (sometimes fiery), brown ones. And something more did come of it.
And I can't convince myself that it must all have been coincidence. Maybe with only two or three of those elements, but not with all of them taken together. The timing of all those events should make even the hardiest adherents to a coincidental view of the world suspicious of their creed.
Before Ruth was able to take in that she was reading something she was never meant to read, she was far enough along that she found herself powerless to stop. Or at least, she thought, there would be no point in stopping. She knew enough of it. The damage was done. She might as well know all of it.
Gus, the letter began in a large, upright handwriting.
This is the last time I plan to write to you about this matter. If you don't follow through on our agreement, I'm going to have to take action. I know you think you're safe and that I won't take any steps forward for fear of incriminating myself. It's at the point where that doesn't matter to me. Even if I'm disbarred for it, I'd like to see justice done in this case.
It was never my intention to see you get off scot-free, living in fine style while a widow and six fatherless children practically starved on the streets. Or worse.
I admit, I always knew better than to believe your sob story about not having the money, about how the legal fees almost broke you, and about needing to pay off the amount over time and all the rest. The offer to double my fees in exchange for a little more time told me you had more money than you claimed. I admit, greed played some part in my decision. But more than greed, it was cowardice.
I admit, I was a coward. At that time, being young and reasonably inexperienced, I thought you'd be able to make good on your threats, that you really did have that kind of power in the town.
But in the end, it wasn't you that ran me out of Arrowhead. It was conscience, and conscience has had me running ever since, but I'm tired of running from conscience. I've had enough. Act on this matter as you agreed. Or I'll act. This is my last word on the subject.
Yours Truly,
M. Seneca
By the time Ruth reached the bottom of the page, the story was told. Her half-conscious, nagging questions had never fully surfaced till then, but they were answered at the exact moment they reached her consciousness.
The reason Rahel Weaver and her family had never lived as though they had received the large sum of money from the out-of-court settlement with A.A. Turnbull Enterprises was because they had never received the large sum of money from the out-of-court settlement with A. A. Turnbull Enterprises. A self-confessed greedy and cowardly (yet not entirely unconscionable) lawyer had wheedled her into pursuing the case in the first place. Then, he had been alternately bribed and bullied into ceasing to act for her once he'd received his cut. Until a belated conscience jabbed his memory.
How much of this had Rahel Weaver understood? Very little, Ruth suspected. Or if she'd understood the terms of the agreement and the money that was owing her, doubtless she had felt herself unable to take any steps toward seeing it collected. She'd had to lean all her weight on the broken reed of an untrustworthy lawyer. A circumstance Gus Turnbull had obviously counted on in his calculations.
Ruth was left momentarily stunned. She hadn't trusted Gus Turnbull, but she hadn't thought he was as bad as this. She'd had very little previous contact with out-and-out corruption, and she didn't know what to do about it – what she could do about it, what she should do about it.
After replacing the letter of revelation in its envelope, without bothering to analyze why she did it, she reached down below her to slide the letter between the frame and the seat of the office chair she was occupying. It was almost an instinctive action.
She couldn't take the letter with her when she left for the day. Yet she couldn't give it to Gus, either. Not right away. Nor could she leave it lying around. Her only option seemed to her to hide it in the office, and the chair was handy.
She had to think it out, what she was going to do.
* * *
The knowledge of the letter burned a hole in her conscience that evening. Mom noticed she was preoccupied and asked what was the matter.
"Just something that happened at work," Ruth answered. "I have to think it through is all."
"Something bad that happened?" Mom asked, concerned.
"I don't know. Maybe. Yes, probably. I'm sorry. I can't talk about it. I wish I could."
Mom respected her answer, and the subject was dropped.
But the subject wouldn't drop out of Ruth's mind. As welcome as it would have been to do so.
I can just forget about it, she told herself. I don't need to say anything about it. I'll slip the letter into the pile of mail tomorrow, let him find it on his own, and then I won't have to think about it anymore. It's not my problem, anyways.
The Weavers have endured everything they've endured because of other people's apathy or fear. Are you going to add your own to the pile of injustices that have been heaped on them? another voice in her head asked.
But it's none of my business. I wasn't supposed to read that letter. I can just pretend I didn't. It would be all the same as if I never had.
But you did, said the other voice.
But they're managing fine, now, anyways. And it's just money. It can't bring Joe Weaver back. It can't do any real good.
It's not just the money. It's the injustice.
And at that juncture, her eyes landed on the plaque that Mom had hung on the kitchen wal
l. It was meant to be a soothing scene, a waterfall in lush woodlands. The scene may have been soothing, but the Bible verse beneath the woodland scene wasn't. At least not to Ruth, at least not then.
But let judgement run down as waters, and righteousness as a mighty stream – Amos 5:24, it said.
But what can I possibly do about it? There's nothing I can do.
You could show him the letter and let him know someone else knows about it. Threaten him with exposure if he doesn't pay all he owes them.
That's blackmail. That's just as wrong. That's stooping to his level.
That's an excuse.
Haven't I gone through enough? Why this, too?
But she had no answer for herself on that point. Just the inexorable knowledge that a courage beyond her own was required to live this life of hers.
I'll lose my job!
At that point, the first voice of her internal dialogue took the wrong tack by speaking out its main argument openly.
If that was all the fight was about, there was no fight. The fight was over. There were certainly bigger things at stake than her own job and her own skin.
She read the verse on the plaque one more time and knew what she had to do. None of this had happened by accident, and the next move was up to her.
She had a small moment of feeling a kinship to a certain biblical queen.
* * *
"Mr. Turnbull, do you have a minute?" Ruth asked, peering around the door of the inner office. It was the very start of the day, but she wasn't going to waste time. If the thing had to be done, it wouldn't get any easier by postponement.
"I am in the middle of something."
What Gus appeared to be in the middle of was leaning back in his chair and gazing out his window with a self-satisfied expression. He was almost smiling.
"It's important."
"Oh well, come in then. This can wait till later, I suppose."