[2017] The Whistleblower Onslaught

by David P. Warren

  “I don't know what you are talking about.”

  “Is that a fact, sir?”

  “Yes. Yes it is.”

  “You know,” Lee said calmly, “I just cannot abide someone who lies to me.”

  “Lies to you? I don't even know you.”

  “Yeah, so you said.” Lee leaned forward in his chair. “Sit down here, Mr. Darden,” he said, pointing to the couch.

  “I am just fine, and you are not staying that long.”

  “Sit down now,” Lee said quietly, and the man sat.

  “You are trespassing—breaking the law.”

  Lee nodded. “You know, Mr. Darden, I was raised in a small Pennsylvania town, almost right in the middle of the state. A little town that had only one real employer. The coal mine.” Darden stared at him, but said nothing. “You know, three generations before me worked in the coal mine for their entire careers. My grandpa died of emphysema before he got to retire. My dad made it to retirement, but he could hardly pull in enough air to keep breathing once he retired. And he died two years later.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “Hang on, sir, just hang on a minute.” Lee shook his head. My uncle died in an explosion in that mine. You know how the methane gas collects into pockets and then some little spark can set it off.” He watched as Darden began to sweat. “And you know how those little coal towns are. There were little clouds of gas and unbreathable air that just hung there—hovering above everyone as they attempted to go about their business. Except that they don't just hang there, do they? Instead they poison the air, and, gradually, everyone who is stuck there breathing.” Darden was now turning white. “You know how it is; even in grammar school, the kids have respiratory problems and lung issues. And you know, all most of them can look forward to is thirty or thirty-five years in those mines, if they don't die first. You with me?”

  Darden clenched at the arms of his chair and tried to sound unaffected as he spoke. “I don't know why you are telling me all this, sir, but you need to go.”

  “Yeah, so you said. You know Mr. Darden—how long have you been Mr. Darden, anyway.” Silence. “I have it at about six months. Seems like before that, your new character just didn't exist. Oh, and I did a little more research, and it turns out the Social Security number you use belonged to a guy name Ted Mannis, who died about twenty years back. So someone did a really half-assed job with your new identity, don't you think? You might want to ask for your money back, as I'm sure it wasn't cheap.”

  “What do you want with me?” he asked, almost in a whisper.

  “Well, Mr. Darden—no, I mean Mr. Miller, I need you to come back home and testify about the exchange of records you carried out. You know, you really hurt some people with that.”

  “Miller? I don't know what you are talking about.”

  “I have your fingerprints and your DNA,” Lee lied. “So you want to tell me that one more time? Or would you prefer to call the police now, and we'll both explain our stories. I really think mine is more believable, don't you?”

  “Who are you?” Miller asked again.

  “I'm the guy who is going to help you confront your demons and tell the truth. You want to share what you were paid yet?” Silence. “Well, you can tell me or you can tell the local police and then the FBI. You understand that you could do some real time for this, right? Altering county records and getting paid for doing so may be profitable, but it is also several felonies. It really doesn't matter to me, but I can be much more forgiving if I get some assistance.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “How much, Mr. Miller? How much were you paid?” No response. “Who paid you, Mr. Miller?

  Miller was visibly squirming. “I don't know the guy.”

  “Whose money, Mr. Miller?”

  “I don't know. I can only assume it was Consolidated Energy's.”

  “Mr. Miller, you are going to come back and testify in a deposition about which records pertain to which mine, and how they got switched. You can also testify about how you were bribed, threatened, and paid off to swap the records of the two mines.”

  “I can't do that,” Miller said. “No way.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because as soon as I testify to all of that, I am under arrest and off to jail.”

  “Well, I see your concern. But here's a couple of things that might change your mind. First, if we don't reach this agreement, you are going to get arrested now, so you really don't come out ahead, wouldn't you agree? Second, if you come testify, my client and I won't mind if you walk right out of your deposition once you have testified and disappear all over again. You with me?”

  “You think I'm going to be given a chance to do that?”

  “Maybe, and sometimes there can be distractions that occur and give a person the opportunity to walk quietly away.”

  “Oh my God,” Miller said.

  “At least you have a chance of not going to jail that way. If you don't help, it's a sure thing.”

  “If I agree to this, you go away, and tell me when I have to show up?”

  “You are dreaming. You already disappeared once, and you won't get another chance. If you agree, you and I are leaving here together tomorrow. Then, you and I will be joined at the hip, every day of both of our lives, until you testify. You won't even take a piss without me looking over your shoulder to make sure that your dick is the only thing you're hanging on to and that there are no hidden escape plans in your underwear.”

  “I don't know. I just don't know.”

  Lee nodded and pulled out his cell phone. “I understand. Let's explain all of this to the local cops and the FBI and see what they suggest.” He began to dial.

  “Wait,” Miller said. “Just wait a minute.”

  Chapter 21

  For two full days, Jerry stayed in the Constantine guest quarters, watching television and trying to reconcile the hope he had for a better life and the unpleasant reality that surrounded him. He replayed everything that had happened to him over and over on a continuous loop—the voices of those that gave him a new chance and the mistakes that took it all away. The tools he found to construct a new life were gone. No job, no respect, and no tomorrow.

  Jerry paced for hours, seven steps across the living room and then five across the kitchen, over and over again. His anger burned and his feeling of hopelessness was overwhelming. He stared out the window at nothing in particular, and it was then that his thoughts returned to what he heard before dinner with Vickie and Michael. He had to find a way to help Michael Constantine with the lawsuit that was causing him such distress, and then Michael would only see that he was a friend and someone worthwhile. He could rescue Michael and redeem himself all at the same time. As the hours passed, he became more hopeful and found himself becoming excited about the prospects of this new plan.

  Jerry continued to search through every article about Kevin Walters and Consolidated Energy that he could find. He found Scott Winslow's statement to the media in response to inquiries when the case was filed. “This is a whistle-blower case. Kevin Walters was a career-long and exceptional employee who was fired for raising safety issues concerning mining operations. Consolidated knew that Mr. Walters was right about conditions that threatened employee safety; they just didn't want to spend the money to halt operations and fix the problem. Apparently, they thought it cheaper to get rid of the source of the complaints.”

  Jerry next found a statement by attorney Robert Harris on behalf of Consolidated. “This lawsuit has no merit. Safety issues were attended to as they arose. This is simply sour grapes by an at-will employee who was fired because the company was dissatisfied with his performance.”

  He then read a brief article about the court allowing Walters access to the mines for inspections, and the most recent, stating that the Consolidated CEO was to testify in deposition. He found pictures of Constantine and Walters at various events together over a number of years. Michael had been good to Walters, and Walter
s had betrayed Michael with a lawsuit. Something had to be done. Then Jerry found clips of Scott Winslow talking about different employment cases over the years. He studied every picture and every quote he could find until he felt like he knew both Walters and Winslow. He found himself getting angry at both of them. What they were doing to Michael just wasn't right, and he had to do something about it.

  It occurred to Jerry that if he was going to get rid of this lawsuit, he had two possible targets. He had to convince either Walters or Winslow that the case had to be dismissed. He began to think about how he would go about it and which of the two would be the better target. Jerry decided that he needed more information about both of them to make that decision. He felt the adrenalin rush—he was excited to have an important project that could make Michael Constantine realize what an asset he could be. This was a project that could help him put past mistakes behind him and make everything right again. He looked up the address on the Internet, and then he got into his car and drove to Scott Winslow's office. He parked across the street where the front door of the building was plainly visible and waited.

  * * *

  “All right, in the car you guys.”

  “McDonald's!” Katy yells.

  “Yep,” Joe echoes.

  “Are you sure that McDonald's is where we have to go, you guys?” I ask, almost pleading for a reprieve.

  “Yes, Daddy,” Katy said without hesitation. “You promised us that we could choose.”

  “I did. I remember,” I say regretfully. “Sure there is nowhere you prefer? Maybe Chinese food or subs?”

  “Stop it, Joey.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “He is in my space. And he is giving me that look,” Katy says in a frustrated voice.

  “Uh-uh,” Joey replies.

  “What look?” I was foolish enough to ask.

  “You know, that look he gets when he is about to make trouble. It's his trouble face.”

  “Stop it, guys.” I almost say that I am going to turn this car around but, fortunately, came to my senses. “Who started this argument?”

  “She did,” Joey says.

  “No way, Dad. He did. He hit me back first.”

  “He hit you back first? Does that mean you hit him and then … never mind, I have a headache,” I say. “Just stop and be good to each other. We're family.”

  “Yep,” Joey said thoughtfully. “I want a chocolate milkshake, Dad.”

  “He shouldn't get it,” Katy says. “He's being a jerk.”

  “Katy, stop. We don't call each other names like that.”

  “Well, okay, but he is.”

  “I didn't do anything to her, Dad. She's just being a butthead.”

  “What? Are you kidding?”

  “No, she really is a butthead.”

  “Joey, I mean we don't talk like that to each other either. You know that. No more.” They must both detect my level of frustration, as the car is suddenly quiet.

  I glance in the rearview mirror as I change lanes and see an old Toyota. It's a distinctive car because its hood was an unpainted gray, while the rest of the car was green. I remember seeing the same car yesterday afternoon. I watch it follow as I make a left turn, and again a few blocks later as I make a right. I make another right, changing my direction to see if the car follows. It does. Now I make a left, and it follows. I can't see the figure behind the wheel, but the car stays back, keeping the same distance as it follows. I make another right, and it follows. I slow, and it slows. I pull over and watch as it slowly drives past me. I memorize the license plate number, and then I watch the car gradually move into traffic and out of view.

  “Why are we stopped? This isn't McDonald's,” Joey says.

  “Yeah, I know. I just wanted to check something. You guys still hungry?”

  “Yep,” Joey says, “and I need that milkshake.”

  “I am going to starve, Daddy,” Katy adds.

  “Well I better hurry then—before you pass out.” As I move away from the curb, I survey the road for the discolored Toyota until I am satisfied that it is no longer around. The incident makes me feel inexplicably ill at ease as I move toward McDonald's to overcome the starvation that surrounds me.

  Chapter 22

  June 14, 2016

  “So what can you tell me about this case, Mr. Winslow?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Are you going to win it?” Pat McCormick asks me. I can almost hear the quiet that follows and know from experience that he is ready to take down a quote.

  “You know how to stir up a quote, don't you,” I ask, and we both chuckle. “Let me put it this way. Kevin Walters was a long-term employee who helped build the organization. He has an excellent track record, and the guy knows his stuff. He also cares about workers and the communities that Consolidated operates in.” I actually pause at this point, reflecting on the fact that I ended that last sentence with a preposition, and then I continue, “And he was fired right after complaining about unlawful conduct that posed serious danger to Consolidated workers. We believe that people who hear this evidence will see that there was no other good reason for terminating this great employee. So, yes, I think so. Does that help?”

  “Yeah, it does. So will this case settle?”

  “I don't know. But what you should know is that we will be happy to take this case to trial, and let a jury decide what is right.”

  “Do you have some kind of smoking gun?”

  “Is that just a shot in the dark?” No response, so I just couldn't resist running with it. “If I tell you about our secret evidence, then it won't be a secret anymore.” When I looked up, I saw Donna standing at my open door grinning.

  “Anything else you can tell me?” McCormick asks.

  “I'll keep the Times posted. Feel free to check back with me as you get word of new developments in the case—and I'm confident you will.”

  “Okay. Bye, Mr. Winslow.”

  “Good-bye Mr. McCormick.”

  “You were messing with him,” Donna says with a smirk.

  “A little bit. I want them in a speculating mode as they publish. Tends to shake things up.”

  Donna put two messages on my desk, and the phone rang again. She picks it up and says, “Simmons and Winslow. How can I help you?”

  There was a pause, and then she says, “Hang on one moment, Mr. Harris. I'll see if he is available.”

  She raises eyebrows and says, “Want to talk to your favorite defense counsel?”

  “Makes my day.” I punch a button on the phone. “Hi, Bob.”

  “Hello, Scott. How's it going?”

  Already weird. Harris doesn't give a shit how things are going with me. “Fine. You?”

  “Oh, you know, busy, but good.” I say nothing in response. “A couple of things,” he says. “First, can you give me an additional week to respond to your outstanding interrogatories and request to produce documents. We're close, but the client still needs to review the final responses.”

  “No problem, just confirm by letter or e-mail, and we will calendar the new due date.”

  “Okay, great.” I am already convinced this was not the reason for the call. He would have an associate attorney or a paralegal get a week's extension to respond to discovery.

  “What's the other item?” I ask.

  “We wanted to see if you want to mediate the case. Seems like the right time to set something up, particularly given that the judge will ask us about whether we have mediated when we go back to court at the end of the month. Why don't you suggest a couple of possible mediators?” Way too nice for Bob Harris.

  “Maybe,” I say. “But I need some reason to believe that it will be productive before agreeing.”

  “Meaning what?” Irritation in his voice. The Harris I know is on his way back.

  “Meaning that I think mediation is a good idea if the parties are in the same universe with their case valuation, but if not, we should acknowledge it up front and not was
te the time.”

  “Well, I need to know your demand before we can make an initial offer,” Harris says.

  “Okay, we'll work on that and get back to you.”

  “Why don't we at least pick a mediator and get the process started? Who do you think we should use as a mediator in this case?”

  “Maybe Jake Billings or Margaret Flynn.”

  “Okay, I'll recommend Billings. Should we set it up?”

  “After I hear your initial settlement offer.”

  “Come on,” Harris says. “Your initial demand will be too high, and our initial offer will be too low, but closer to reality, and then we will work from there.”

  “I'll get back to you with our demand so that we can hear your offer.”

  “Fine.” Click.

  “Bye, Bob, lovely speaking with you,” I say to the dial tone.

  * * *

  Jerry followed Scott Winslow to work, to court, and to another law office in a single day. Then he followed Winslow and his kids until it appeared that Winslow was on to him and making random turns to see if he would follow. At that point, Jerry knew he was at risk and thought he had better stop tailing Winslow. He made a left and went away from Winslow as quickly as possible. Winslow was alert and checking his rearview. Jerry had to be careful. If it took a little longer, that would be okay. He decided to buy some beer and try again tomorrow.

  The next day he followed Winslow from home to his office. Jerry watched Scott Winslow park and go inside, and then he parked outside and watched the building until about 10:00 a.m., when Kevin Walters pulled into the parking lot. “Perfect,” he thought to himself. At noon, Walters came out and led Jerry to his house.

  Jerry waited in his car for hours, just watching the front door of the house. He told himself he had to do this right. He had to wait for just the right opportunity. If things went badly, he wouldn't get another shot. Walters was at home most of the day, periodically venturing out and then back again. Jerry followed him to what was signed as some kind of any energy association meeting that went on for a couple of hours. He then followed Walters to a restaurant where his wife joined him for a late lunch. Then Walters and his wife drove home in separate cars. Three hours later, they had not emerged from the residence. It was after 6:00 p.m., and Jerry decided this would not be the day. He was back in front of the Walters house at 5:30 a.m., his car parked in front of brush that separated the large homes, where he had a view of the front door, but neither Walters nor the neighbors had a clear view of him.