[2017] The Whistleblower Onslaught

by David P. Warren

  There is applause around the room, but the kids look worried. I don't think I made any converts to the legal profession. They seem too worried about contingency arrangements and not getting paid. “Thank you, girls and boys, and it was good to meet you all. Bye,” I say as I and Ms. Parsons walk toward the door.

  “Lips sealed,” she says to them as she approaches the door, and the murmur around the room goes quiet.

  We step into the hallway and she says, “Thanks so much for coming in to talk to the kids, Mr. Winslow. I know they will reflect on what you told them.”

  “My pleasure,” I say. “It's fascinating how they call it as they see it.”

  “It is that,” she says, grinning. “Good to meet you” she says, and we shake hands. “Katy is an amazing child.”

  “She's doing well?” I ask.

  “She is doing very well. Works hard and cares a lot about what she does.”

  “That's great to hear,” I say lamely, but feeling good.

  “And say hello to Lisa for me, will you? She is really wonderful.”

  “Yes, she is. I will tell her.” I turn to go, finding myself smiling as I reflect on the kids and their direct questions. I'm not at all sure it's always such a good thing that our directness and honesty gives way to subtlety and discretion as we get older. You know just where you stand when talking to one of these kids—no hidden agendas. As I race toward the office and appointments that are scheduled, I wonder how Lisa will do explaining the real estate brokerage business to Joey's class.

  * * *

  It's a cool day, but Jerry Anders was sweating as he walked into the print shop after running all the way. He walked over to the time clock, where he could see that his machine was idle across the large room. He quickly punched his card and raced over to start up Gladys. He has some work to do to make up for lost time if he is going to get this job out on time. He looked over at Rocco, who was working his machine and didn't look up at him.

  Jerry fired up Gladys and began to stack the first cycle for printing. He set the ink tray, started the feeder, and checked the quality of the job as Gladys spit out the finished product. He gave a nod of approval and told himself that he would catch up and get the job done pretty near schedule if he punched it and passed on breaks. His thoughts turned to Maggie, and more specifically, how he had shifted the blame to her for his failure to get up for work on time. He reminded himself that he could be such an asshole sometimes. He liked her and wanted to call her and make it up to her. Tonight, right after work, that's just what he would do. He would make everything right.

  At one o'clock, Rocco disappeared for lunch and left Jerry working. Jerry checked his count and found that he was not making up much time. He was still about three hours behind on the job. He could work through lunch to get one of those hours back, and maybe stay a little later tonight after clocking out. With any luck, he told himself, he would be within an hour of schedule by tomorrow at the same time and have the job completed on Wednesday, pretty close to schedule.

  Jerry worked through lunch and was able to make up some ground. At three o'clock, he felt like he was well on his way back. He did a spot check on the quality and, to his horror, found that there was a faded section in the middle of each page that Gladys was producing. Oh, my God, he thought to himself, there is an inking problem of some kind. He checked the finished product to find that the problem existed on all of the documents produced in the past twenty minutes. All that time would now have to be made up. There was no way. As he stared at the deficiencies in the finished product, Mike walked over to him.

  “Problem?” he asked.

  Jerry could only nod. He showed Mike what Gladys was most recently turning out.

  Mike studied it for a few minutes. “We need to rework the ink tray,” he said calmly. “How many units look like this?”

  Jerry felt himself shaking as he spoke. “About twelve hundred,” he said, feeling ashamed.

  Mike waited until Jerry looked at him, and then said. “When you don't get in until almost eleven o'clock, you're already two hours behind. That doesn't leave much room for contingencies like machine breakdowns, you agree?”

  Jerry was suddenly short of oxygen. He took a moment to find words, but was finally able to say, “Yes, Mike. I agree. It is my fault, and I made a mistake. I can …”

  Mike interrupted him, making a halting gesture with his hand. “Jerry, I really want to help you, but I have a business to run. If you don't show up we're both fucked, you understand that.”

  “I'm so sorry, Mike. I really am …”

  “Jerry, you're not hearing me. I don't need apologies, I need reliability. If you don't show up on time, we are screwed. No amount of apologizing will fix the problem when we can't deliver to the customer on time. We on the same page here?”

  “Yes,” Jerry said, “we're definitely on the same page.”

  “Okay, well let's get it fixed up. I'll help you get restarted and we'll get it moving.”

  “Am I okay, Mike?” Jerry asked. He could feel his heart pounding so hard he thought Mike might hear it.

  “I'm not sure,” Mike said. “You know I have to give status reports to Mr. Reynolds each night and the final call will be his. Let's do what we can to get back on track.”

  “Okay,” Jerry said, nervously. “I can work through lunch to make up time.”

  “I can't let you do that, Jerry. Mr. Reynolds doesn't want any Labor Board issues, so he says everybody takes lunches and breaks. Go take your lunch now, and I'll get Gladys right while you're gone.”

  “But Mike, if I just work through …”

  “We can't do it. You have to hear me when I tell you something, Jerry. No schemes that will get both of us into some shit. Now, go take your lunch,” Mike said, raising his voice for the first time.

  Jerry turned and walked out of the building. He walked down the street without direction, his whole body shaking and not able to get enough air. He sat down on a three-foot-wall surrounding an auto repair place, reliving the conversation again and again. Each time it seemed worse. He went from scared to terrified, and then found himself becoming more and more angry. Mike didn't have to treat him like that. He made a mistake, that's all. And he was willing to pay for it—working through lunch or staying late, but Mike wasn't going to let him do it. Did he want to cause Jerry to fail? He had thought Mike wanted to help him, but now he harbored grave doubts. Mike was undermining his ability to fix the problem.

  When Jerry stood and continued walking, he was not sure how long he had been sitting there, but he was angry with Mike, who had the power to make this all okay and was going to use his power to make Jerry look bad to Mr. Reynolds instead.

  Jerry walked on, no longer recognizing his surroundings. He turned left at a busy corner, figuring he would make his way back to work. His stomach in turmoil, there was no way he could eat anything. He walked for about five blocks and then made another left. He passed a massive metal warehouse that appeared to be a block long and entirely abandoned. There were padlocks on the front door of this lonely monstrosity. He continued walking until he saw a flashing neon sign that said, “Sally's Suds.” He had no idea how he found his way to Sally's, but it was familiar and looked like a friend where none could be found. He needed just one beer, and then he could return to work with renewed strength and get caught up on the job. He and Mike would get back on the right track and everything would be okay.

  He walked into Sally's to find it empty, with the exception of a guy with a beard behind the bar. “What'll it be, buddy?” the man said.

  “I'll have whatever you got on tap,” Jerry said, selecting a seat at the bar.

  “Coming up,” the bartender said. He topped off the beer and placed it on the bar in front of Jerry. The chilled glass of beer had a head on it that wanted to run down the side of the glass and it looked wonderful. “Want me to run a tab?”

  “No, no.” Jerry said, “I'm only having one beer.”

  “Okay, buddy, whate
ver you say.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Jerry asked, upset by the suggestion that he wasn't going to have just one beer.

  “Nothing personal,” the bartender offered. “You get to decide that.”

  Jerry nursed the beer for a time, and then took a strong pull. It was perfect. The cool sensation of the beer going down immediately relaxed him, and he felt stronger. He took another big gulp, and his fears began to fade. Everything would be okay. He kept the beer in the glass as long as he could, avoiding confrontation with the issue presented by an empty glass. By the time the glass was empty, Jerry felt good. He was relaxed and feeling just the slightest buzz. He was no longer stressed out, shaking, angry, or out of control.

  “Want another?” the bartender asked.

  “Maybe just one more,” Jerry said, feeling good and forgetting about his anger. The second beer was better than the first. It was cold, quenching, and in some undefined way, reassuring. He felt a little stronger with each swallow of the beer. When it was gone, he stared at the empty glass. He decided that just one more beer would be perfect. Then he would go back to work, and the rest of the afternoon would be a breeze.

  When the final beer was gone, he put a ten dollar bill on the counter and stood up. He walked out into the sunlight, squinting as he emerged from the dark, windowless bar. He started walking past the massive warehouse next door and suddenly remembered that Sally's was a good distance from the print shop. It would take him another fifteen minutes to make his way back. Checking his watch, he wondered how long he had been gone. It couldn't be. He shook his wrist, as if it may somehow unwind the time. “Oh, shit,” he said aloud, stopping in his tracks. He was instantly back from his euphoric escape when he realized he had been gone for an hour and a half, and he was going to return with beer on his breath.

  “How fucking stupid are you?” His anger at himself gave way to a sudden feeling of panic. He couldn't afford to lose this job. This was his only chance to make good.

  Jerry found it hard to breathe and he sat down on the curb. If he went back late and reeking of beer, he was done. He told himself to relax, and to take a deep breath. As he did, his panic suggested the answer. He was having some kind of attack. He would call in sick and describe his symptoms and then go to a doctor so he could produce a note.

  Jerry ran back into Sally's. “Hey, buddy, can I use your phone for a local call?”

  The bartender considered this and furrowed his brow. “Please,” Jerry said, “it's just a local call, and it's really important.”

  The man shrugged. “Okay, Mack, no skin off my nose so long as it's local.” He passed the phone across the bar to Jerry.

  Jerry dialed the phone and then spoke nervously. “Mike, I am not feeling well. I am going to go sleep, but I will be there early in the morning.”

  Chapter 17

  May 6, 2016

  Lee began his day at 5:00 a.m., with coffee at the almost empty diner. After finishing his second cup at a small, wobbly table near the rear of the restaurant, he took a third cup and a jelly donut for the road and drove in the direction of David Carter's place to wait for something to happen. The morning was damp and chilly. He wore a faded gray sweatshirt without markings, black pants, and black slip-ons, the art of blending in and remaining unnoticed never far from his thoughts. He was all about blending into crowds and being entirely unmemorable. He was confident from years of practice that 95 percent of the people who saw him would have no recollection that he was ever there, and the remaining 5 percent would be unable to provide any meaningful description.

  Lee dictated an update into a handheld recorder and then called and left early-morning voice mail updates for a couple of clients, including Scott Winslow. When he arrived at Carter's, he parked the car in one of the previously selected spots, allowing him a clear view of the residence from about fifty feet to its left side. He quickly noted that the Silverado was the only vehicle present outside the residence. The lights in the house were already on, so he concluded that Carter was up and moving around.

  Lee dialed a number and waited while it rang several times.

  “Yes,” was the cryptic response.

  “I need another favor.”

  “Of course you do. I've noted that there is no end to the favors you need.”

  “True, but no need to get testy. Those monthly checks do keep coming, right?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Cell phone calls for a David Carter, incoming and outgoing, between noon yesterday and noon today.” He recited Carter's address.

  “Not a problem.”

  “When can I have them?”

  “I'll call you back around noon.”

  “Perfect, thanks.”

  “Now you know why we're worth the money.”

  “I never doubted it,” Lee said.

  Lee surveyed the residence. The bedroom and kitchen lights were on, but he saw no movement. He settled in with his now cold coffee and jelly donut. He decided that if nothing happened by midafternoon, he would have to make something happen. He would confront Carter, and they would discuss the whereabouts of Mr. Miller. This was not his preferred course, because he had no real leverage to make Carter talk. It would also sound alarms and give Miller the opportunity to go further under cover, if, as all indications showed, he didn't care to be found.

  * * *

  Jerry arrived at 7:35 a.m. feeling that he had dodged a bullet yesterday and wanting to make up for his shortfall. He planned to start early and work hard to get the job out quickly. He would make himself an asset to Mike and Mr. Reynolds.

  As Jerry walked across the shop to where Gladys awaited, he saw Mike's office door open. Mike stepped out with a somber, almost sad expression.

  “Jerry, I need to see you in the office, please.”

  Jerry felt his chest grow tight. He followed silently, feeling himself sweat as he walked through the door. Mr. Reynolds and a woman in her mid-thirties were already seated in the office.

  Mike looked at Jerry and said, “This is Mr. Reynolds, our owner, and this is Allie Morgan from personnel.”

  Jerry could not find words but extended a hand that each shook briefly. Mike gestured to the only remaining chair in the office, and then perched on the edge of his desk, folding his arms.

  “Jerry, this is a hard conversation to have. I want you to know I really like you.” Mike stopped and took a breath, as Jerry sensed what was coming and felt panic rising within him. “I think you will find a niche; I just don't think it is here with us.” Mike was quiet for another moment, and then softly added, “We are going to have to let you go, Jerry.” He wore a pained expression.

  Jerry wanted to yell, 'No, you can't do this. This can't happen.' He was shaking and could almost hear his heart beat as he groped for words.

  “Oh no, Mike. I want to work for you. I'll work really hard. I'm getting to know Gladys now, and I think we can really get the orders out at top speed. It just takes a little time—”

  Mike shook his head. “It's not your work, Jerry. We know it takes time to learn. We just have to be able to trust each other.”

  Jerry was lost. “What? Is it about me being out yesterday? I couldn't help it; I got sick, Mike. I called in, remember?”

  There was a heavy silence in the air and a knowing look was exchanged among the others in the room. Jerry felt like an outsider; the only one in the room who didn't know an important secret.

  Mike wore a sad expression as he spoke his final words of the meeting. “Jerry, your call came from a bar.” The statement fell across the room like an immense, dark shadow. Jerry felt his throat constrict, and he could find no more words.

  Mike put a hand on Jerry's shoulder. “I'm sorry, but trust issues are critical.” He handed Jerry an envelope. “Here's your final check and a week's severance pay. We wish you the best, Jerry.” Jerry couldn't find any words, not even to say how sorry he was for his terrible mistake. “I'll walk you out now, Jerry.”

  On the way home,
he thought about how he had let Mike down, how he had ruined his shot at making a new life, and how Michael Constantine, if not his sister, Vickie, would find this last failure impossible to forgive. Perhaps worst of all, they wouldn't be surprised that he had failed again. He found himself outside of Sally's Suds. He would have one beer and make a plan. Then he could face Vickie and Michael.

  * * *

  I check in with the Carswell's court clerk at 8:20 a.m. and find that my motion to compel Consolidated to give me access to both of its mines for expert analysis on the Kevin Walters case is number four on a courtroom calendar of twenty-two motions. This was a stroke of luck. If I was called fourth, I might be out of Carswell's court within the hour, rather than spending the entire morning watching him rant and rave indiscriminately, whenever some unseen force moved him to do so. Some judges give tentative rulings on motions, so that you can see the court's thinking before you argue. Carswell does not.

  At precisely 8:29 a.m., the bailiff stands and says, “All rise and come to order. Department 39 of the Superior Court is now in session, the Honorable Roy Carswell presiding.”

  A robed Judge Carswell emerges from his chambers through a door to the left of the bench. He sits down and looks out at the crowd of attorneys waiting for their cases to be called while they wish they were somewhere—anywhere—else.

  “This is the law and motion calendar,” he announces. The court first calls number twenty-one, Dyer v. Community Hospital. The fact that we were number four on the calendar was of less benefit than hoped. Why would I expect Carswell do anything predictable?

  A female attorney in a gray suit strode to counsel table. “Jennifer Simon for the defendant, Your Honor.”

  “Where is Mr. McKenzie?” Carswell asks, already sounding annoyed.

  “I don't know, Your Honor. I haven't seen him.”

  Carswell regards his watch. “We have any call-ins?” he asks his clerk.

  “No, Your Honor.”