[2017] The Whistleblower Onslaught

by David P. Warren

  “You're sure about that?”

  “Definitely. I was familiar with documents at both locations. That's something Michael's people and the lawyers wouldn't know they needed to address when sanitizing documents before the production to us. So I called my connections inside Consolidated.”

  “Any helpful witnesses for us?” I ask.

  “Well, I contacted my three closest friends inside the company who know what was going on here. The lawyers had already met with each of them and instructed them that they are not to talk to me at all, under unspoken threat of personal disaster. Two of the three told me that they were sorry, but there's no way they can help me. They said that they do want us to stay friends even if Constantine doesn't like it. The third guy is Don Parson. He doesn't like what Constantine did to me, and he's going to give some thought to how he might help. I'm still not sure he will, but I can't hold it against him if he walks away. After all, the survival instinct is as basic as it gets. So, I called J. Andrews yesterday.”

  “Any luck with them?”

  Walters shakes his head. “The documents all say the work was done at 319. I talked to two of the people who went out on the job. Both say they did the work at Wheeling, but it's pretty fishy. They call it just an inspection and repair. When I asked them how much the work they did cost, it was clear that they weren't prepared for the question. One said he didn't know, but the other one said $15,000.”

  “That could help,” I say, “and I'll request reports on the work performed, but I expect they will be closely reviewed and cleaned up before we see them.”

  “Can we go to the mine and look at the substructures and what work was done?” Walters asks?

  “Yes. I'll set up an inspection. Let's bring along an expert of our own to assess what they've done in there and with what materials.”

  “I know the right guy,” Walters says, enthusiastically. “Jack Bernard is a structural expert I worked with five or six times. He likes me, and I know he'll help.”

  “All right.” I lean back in my chair. “I hired an investigator, Lee Henry, and he got started a few days ago. He's good at what he does, and I've worked with him for over five years.”

  “Sounds good,” Walters replies. “What's he finding?”

  “Closed doors so far,” I say. “He approached the employees who were injured. None of them will talk to him about the accident or the company. He also tried talking to the family of the employee who died, but didn't come up with anything. None of them really wanted to talk either. It's almost like answering any question is some giant act of disloyalty to the company.”

  Kevin nods. “I'm not surprised. They will have been assured that all expenses will be covered—and they will. Plus some additional benefits for the families. Constantine will see that they are taken care of, and they will take care of him in return.”

  “You think Constantine will be personally involved in this?” I ask.

  “I don't know, but Constantine is a master of two things; manufacturing loyalty and not allowing people to look behind his curtain. He can take loyalty to the extreme, making employees grateful that he gave them the opportunity to be injured for the benefit of the rest of the team. He can also be their savior, helping these folks survive a rough time.” He shakes his head. “He is resourceful and can be relentless. He also has the assets and the reach to accomplish whatever he wants.” He is momentarily quiet, and then he asks, “So what happens now?”

  “Next Lee is going to meet with Carl Miller, the Easton County inspector, to see if he can get to the document trail to prove what happened at which mine. So, here is our game plan. You talk to Jack Bernard over the next day or two. If he's willing, I'll talk to him about the expert opinions we need. I'll get hold of Lee and see how his meeting with Carl Miller went.”

  Walters asks, “Sounds like your investigator is pretty sharp. Is he an ex-cop?”

  I smile. “He's actually an ex-ghost. Worked for the CIA for a number of years.”

  “Why did he leave that gig? I wasn't entirely sure one was allowed to leave the CIA,” he says, grinning.

  “He liked the agency but not the politics, so he walked after a dozen years and went into business for himself. As you might expect from a guy with that kind of a background, he is pretty resourceful.”

  “Glad he's on our team,” Kevin says.

  “Yep. Me too.”

  He stands and shakes my hand. “Thanks, again.”

  I find myself smiling. “Whoever gets to information first calls the other, right?

  “Right,” Kevin says, and then walks out of the conference room.

  I look down at the Andrews Company invoice, and the foreboding I had experienced after first meeting with Kevin inexplicably returns. Kevin is a good guy, and I am not predisposed toward any strange paranoia. I need to shake this off.

  I am swamped, and the rest of the day flies by. At five o'clock, Donna buzzes me on the intercom. “Scott, Lisa is on line two,” she says.

  “Okay, thanks.” I pick up the phone. “Hi, sweetheart, how are you?”

  “I'm going crazy,” she says, frustration in her voice. “I gotta get out of here for a while tonight. Joey and Katy have been fighting all afternoon. Is there any way you can come home early and let me go see Lindsay for a while?”

  I look at the piles in my inbox, but I can hear the plea in her voice, so I don't hesitate. “You got it, babe. I'll leave within fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh, bless you,” she says. “I owe you for this.”

  “No you don't,” I say. “I've been pretty absorbed lately, and I owe you some sanity preservation.”

  * * *

  When I walk into the house, I see Lisa and Joey standing two feet apart, with Lisa giving him a stern look. “Hi, gang,” I say, walking into the room.

  “I told you two hours ago I wanted that room cleaned, mister, Lisa says, in her best tough mom voice.”

  “Well, I would have it done if she hadn't been bugging me the whole time,” he retorts, throwing his chin in Katy's direction.

  “Hey,” Katy chimes in, “it's not my fault. I got my room cleaned, and I saw you watching that cartoon show.”

  “Enough!” Lisa shouts, with a pained expression. “Can you do dinner?”

  “We got it covered,” I say. I give her a hug and a kiss. “Have a good time.”

  She whispers, “Thanks for the rescue,” then turned to the kids. “Good night guys.” She hugs Katy, then Joey.

  “We'll make sure that room gets cleaned too,” I add, much to Joey's dismay.

  When Lisa leaves the room, I look at the kids. “You guys hungry?”

  Katy nods. “Yeah,” Joey says.

  “All right, how about I make something?” They looked at me expectantly. “I know,” I say in my most serious tone, “I'll barbecue spaghetti.”

  Joey shakes his head, which is not an unusual reaction to my jokes. Katy's brow furrows. “You can't do that, Dad. The stringers will fall into the barbecue.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I respond, enlightened. “Well, if that won't work I guess I better take you guys out for dinner.” At this there were cheers from the crowd. “First, though, Joey's got to finish that room.” His smile begins to fade. “Come on,” I say, “do it quickly and we're out of here. Otherwise, we starve.”

  Twenty minutes later, we walk into Jacey's Coffee Shop and seat ourselves in a corner booth. A waitress appears in a pink dress with a white apron. She holds up a small pad and pencil and says in a practiced manner, “What's it gonna be, kids?”

  “Katy, you know what you want?” I ask.

  “I want Joey to give my pencil back.”

  “To eat,” I say. “The lady is waiting for your order.”

  “Okay. I want a baked potato and french fries.”

  The waitress giggles, but looking at Katy, she saw hurt feelings. “I'm sorry, sweetie,” she offers apologetically. “A baked potato and fries sounds yummy. What do you want to drink?”

  “Coke, plea
se,” she says.

  “Coming right up,” the waitress says. “How about you, young man? You want a hamburger with a steak on the side?” I give the woman a smile.

  “I'll have a hamburger and a slice of pepperoni pizza,” Joey says.

  “That was my next guess,” the woman replies. “How about you, Dad?”

  “I'll have a chicken sandwich with salad, blue cheese dressing, diet Coke.”

  “I'll be right back with your drinks. Don't riot while I'm gone.” She smiles and walks away.

  “She's pretty crazy,” Katy offers thoughtfully.

  “Yeah,” I say, “I like her, too.”

  * * *

  The next day, I am in court in the morning and back in the office in the afternoon. At a little after three, Donna buzzes. “I know you wanted me to hold your calls for a while, but Lisa is on line two. I figured you better take this one, unless you like sleeping on the couch.”

  “I will take it,” I say, “and you're giving me a lot of insight into the tools you use to keep John in line.”

  “Damn right. Our couch isn't real comfortable, either.”

  “Thanks, Donna.” I hit the button. “Hi, babe.”

  “Hi, honey. I just wanted to say thanks again for last night. You're a very sweet husband.”

  I smile, feeling comfortable that my immediate destiny was not the couch. “I'm glad you and Lindsay had a good time.”

  “Actually, we didn't. She spent the whole time bitching about how Bob doesn't help her and I spent the whole time thinking about how lucky I am to have you.”

  “Sounds like time well spent to me,” I say.

  “Will you be home for dinner? I'll send the kids to my mom's and wear just my apron.”

  “I'll be there.”

  “I love you,” she says.

  “I love you, too. One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “No need for the apron,” I add, and she laughs. “Bye.”

  “Bye. Don't be late.”

  Donna buzzes again as we hang up. “Lee Henry on line one,” she says.

  I hit the button. “Lee, you got some news for me on the Walters case?”

  “Hey, Scott. Actually, I hope you're doing better with this case than I am. I have news all right, but none of it is good. There's something weird about this one. No one has anything to say. It's like we're trying to get people to take the stand against the Godfather or something. I tried again and could make no progress with the families of the victims who didn't make it or the injured who are well enough to talk. They won't even discuss what happened.

  “Then there's our friends at the county. Miller is now on a milk carton—just gone. For all they know, the earth opened up and swallowed him. I talked to five of his coworkers, and the line is always the same. He suddenly retired, and they don't have any idea where he went or how to reach him—and one of them was his buddy for ten years. And get this; there are no documents in any of his files concerning Consolidated Energy mines and no other file they can find, regarding any recent inspections of Consolidated mines by Miller. Recent reports concerning these mines have somehow disappeared.” He pauses, and then adds. “So, I did a little covert work, which got me into Miller's personnel file. The only address they have for Miller is a PO Box in Tennessee where his check gets sent. Some place called Covington. Maybe our man Miller is living in this Tennessee town. I'm going to see if I can pay him a visit.”

  I'm always in awe of how Lee comes up with this stuff, but given his covert connections, which he never discusses, I decide that I am not going to ask how he got there. “You're amazing,” I say, and mean it. “Let me know as soon as you make contact with our man.”

  “Shall do.”

  “You do great work, Lee. Hang in there.”

  I lean back in my chair and think about all the evidence I don't have. My gut tells me that Kevin Walters is a straight shooter, and he had his facts right, but I long ago learned that being right isn't worth much if you can't prove it to a jury. One thing I do know is that if Walters is correct about the games being played, then Constantine is a master at hiding the ball, and we are going to have our work cut out for us. Between Consolidated's sleight of hand and Bob Harris's stonewalling, I was going to be up to my ass in good times by the time trial rolled around.

  Chapter 9

  On Saturday morning, six- and seven-year-olds in blue and white uniforms dot the baseball field, wearing expressions far too serious for such youthful faces. Joey stands on the pitcher's mound, kicking at the dirt as he has undoubtedly seen done on television. I wonder if he knows why he is kicking at the dirt, and if he is going to adjust himself and spit tobacco next.

  He gives the signaling catcher a confident nod, and then winds up to pitch. Joey shows the batter his best evil eye as he holds the ball and his glove together, and then rears up on one foot. The recipient of this psychological warfare is a neighbor of ours. He is a nice kid, but this is great theater. Joey throws a fastball, high and outside, that the batter swings at far too late. Strike one. This poor kid is so nervous he can barely hold the bat. Joey struts back to the mound and kicks a couple more ruts beneath it, leading me to believe he'll soon be standing in a hole. He shakes off the catcher once, and then nods and fires one low and inside. Another swing and a miss. Now Joey's really into it. He hurls the next pitch perfectly down the pipe, and the cute neighbor kid takes the strike without swinging. The ump yells strike three, and the youngster shakes off a momentary look that says he might cry and moves toward the dugout to face the wrath of his team. Joey is looking really confident now.

  Next to the plate is a much bigger kid. I almost want to ask the kid for some proof that he belonged in this league, but I've seen too many intrusive parents causing trouble at their kids' sporting events, so I let it slide.

  Lisa and I stand behind a backstop that separates spectators from wild pitch injuries. “What a ham,” Lisa whispers, and we both chuckle. She adds, “I wonder where he gets it.” It was not a question.

  “Moi?” I ask, using my best incredulous voice.

  Joey fires a fastball low and outside. The big kid steps in and connects with a huge swing. The ball takes off, clearing the outfield fence in left field, as the kid jogs the bases victoriously. Joey stands with his hands on his hips, watching his opponent round third and head for home. As he makes his way back to the mound, his swagger is gone, and he looks worried.

  Lisa gives me her “my poor baby” look, and I nod in understanding. Even though we know it has to happen, it's tough to watch your kids suffer disappointment. Joey shakes off the effects admirably, striking out the next kid and throwing the final batter out at home. In the fourth inning, we score two runs, and in the seventh, Joey hits a line drive down the third base line to bring in a third. We watch the excitement of the blue and white team as they hold on to win three to two. Everyone on the red team looks like they just lost their best friends. The teams line up facing each other and walk toward one another, slapping hands in the air as they pass and repeatedly reciting “good game.” Sportsmanship requires these statements go in both directions, even though only one team thought it was a good game.

  In the car on the way home, Joey wears a disappointed expression, which I attribute to the fact that he was tagged for a home run. “You okay, buddy?” I ask.

  Joey nods. “Yeah, I'm okay.”

  “You played a good game, you know?” He is silent. “Are you rethinking the home run that the big guy hit?”

  “No,” he says. “I was thinking about Jason Barber.”

  As he says the name, it comes back to me. Jason Barber is the nice neighborhood kid Joey struck out twice during the game. Now I'm intrigued. “What about him?” I ask.

  “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I was just thinking that he's probably kinda disappointed not getting on base. Maybe when we get home I can go hang out with him for a while.”

  Wow. I am more proud of him than I can say. “That's a really nice idea. I bet he
would like to see a friend right about now, just to let him know that friends stay friends even on bad days.” It sounded so corny I expected a raised eyebrow and a groan, but it didn't happen.

  “I'd probably want that if it happened to me,” he says. Wow again. “Besides,” he added, “his mom makes milkshakes every time I go over there.”

  * * *

  Michael Constantine sat at one end of the long mahogany dining room table. Vickie sat to his right and Jerry Anders to his left. Jerry looked at Mike nervously every few minutes.

  “Jerry, there's something I want to say to you.” Anders put down his soup spoon and looked at Constantine with the expression of a kid who knows he is in big trouble. “It's okay with us that you use the guest house for a month, but that's it.”

  “I know,” Anders said, nodding, “Vickie told me that.”

  Constantine studies him. “I heard you got past the drugs, and I hope that's true. I don't want to worry about anything coming up missing this time.”

  “I understand,” Anders said. “You won't have any problem this time, and I want you to know that I'm going to find a way to pay you back.”

  Constantine nodded in understanding, but didn't believe a word of it. Leopards don't change their spots, and Constantine doubted Anders would ever be anything but a liability. “Well, I hope you're right, Jerry.”

  “You'll see,” Anders said. “This time I'm going to make it. I'll be looking for a job starting tomorrow, right after I check in with my parole officer.”

  Constantine decided to run his own little test. “I might be able to get you a job offloading trucks. It'll pay about twelve bucks an hour to start.”

  “Thanks,” Anders said, “but with my bad back I can't do heavy labor.”

  “You have a bad back?” Constantine asked.

  “I thought you said you spent a lot of time pumping iron when you were in jail.”

  “I did,” Anders said. “That's how I got a bad back.”