Nicholas, however, had shown the letter to Lou Dell, and so when lunch was being finished, she was explaining that a walk was planned, thanks to Mr. Easter, who had written the Judge. It seemed such a humble idea to receive such unbridled admiration.
The temperature was in the low eighties, the air clear and fresh, the trees trying their best to turn colors. Lou Dell and Willis led the way while the four smokers-Fernandez, Poodle, Stella Hulic, and Angel Weese-hung at the back thoroughly enjoying the deep inhaling and long exhaling. To hell with Bronsky and his mucus and his membranes, and to hell with Fricke and his gross pictures of Mr. Wood's sticky black lungs. They were outdoors now. The light, salt air, and conditions were perfect for a smoke.
Fitch sent Doyle and a local operative named Joe Boy to take pictures from a distance.
BRONSKY WORE THIN as the afternoon progressed. He lost his talent for keeping things simple, and the jurors lost their struggle to stay tuned. The fancy and obviously expensive charts and diagrams ran together, as did the body parts and compounds and poisons. The opinions of superbly trained and hideously expensive jury consultants were not needed to know that the jurors were bored, that Rohr was engaging in a practice lawyers simply can't avoid-overkill.
His Honor adjourned early, at four, his reason being that two hours were needed to hear some motions and other things not involving the jury. He discharged the jurors with the same dire warnings, admonitions they now had memorized and barely heard. They were delighted to escape.
Lonnie Shaver was particularly thrilled to leave early. He drove straight to his supermarket, ten minutes away, parked in his special place in the rear, and made a quick entrance through the stockroom, secretly hoping to catch a wayward sacker napping by the lettuce. His office was upstairs above the dairy and meats, and from behind a two-way mirror he could see most of the floor.
Lonnie was the only black manager in a chain of seventeen stores. He earned forty thousand dollars a year, with health insurance and an average pension plan, and was due for a raise in three months. He'd also been led to believe he'd be promoted to the level of a district supervisor, assuming his tenure as manager produced satisfactory results. The company was anxious to promote a black, he'd been told, but, of course, none of these commitments were in writing.
His office was always open, and usually occupied with any one of a half-dozen subordinates. An assistant manager greeted him, then nodded toward a door. "We have guests," he said, with a frown.
Lonnie hesitated and looked at the closed door, which led to a large room used for everything - birthday parties, staff meetings, visits from bosses. "Who is it?" he asked. "Home office. They want to see you."
Lonnie rapped on the door, entering as he knocked. It was, after all, his office. Three men with their sleeves rolled up to their elbows sat at the end of the table, amid a pile of papers and printouts. They stood awkwardly.
"Lonnie, good to see you," said Troy Hadley, son of one of the owners, and the only face Lonnie recognized. They shook hands as Hadley made hasty introductions. The other two men were Ken and Ben; Lonnie wouldn't remember their last names until later. It had been planned that Lonnie would sit at the end of the table, in the chair eagerly vacated by the young Hadley, with Ken on one side and Ben on the other.
Troy started the conversation, and he sounded somewhat nervous. "How's jury duty?"
"A pain."
"Right. Look, Lonnie, the reason we're here is that Ken and Ben are from an outfit called SuperHouse, a large chain out of Charlotte, and, well, for lots of reasons, my dad and my uncle have decided to sell out to SuperHouse. The whole chain. All seventeen stores and the three warehouses."
Lonnie noticed that Ken and Ben were watching him breathe, so he took the news with a straight face, even offered a very slight shrug, as if to say, "So what?" He was, however, finding it hard to swallow. "Why?" he managed to ask.
"Lots of reasons, but I'll give you the top two. My dad is sixty-eight, and Al, as you know, just had surgery. That's number one. Number two is the fact that SuperHouse is offering a very fair price." He rubbed his hands together as if he couldn't wait to spend the new money. "It's just time to sell, Lonnie, pure and simple."
"I'm surprised, I never-"
"You're right. Forty years in the business, from a mom-and-pop fruit stand to a company in five states with sixty million in sales last year. Hard to believe they're throwing in the towel." Troy was not the least bit convincing in his effort at sentiment. Lonnie knew why. He was a witless dunce, a rich kid who played golf every day while trying to project the image of a hard-charging, ass-kicking corporate honcho. His father and his uncle were selling now because in a few short years Troy would take the reins and forty years of toil and prudence would get spent on racing boats and beach property.
There was a pause as Ben and Ken continued staring at Lonnie. One was in his mid-forties with a bad haircut and a pocket liner stuffed with cheap ballpoints. Maybe he was Ben. The other was a little younger, a slim-faced, executive type with better clothes and hard eyes. Lonnie looked at them, and it was obvious it was his turn to say something.
"Will this store be closed?" he asked, almost in defeat.
Troy jumped at the question. "In other words, what happens to you? Well, let me assure you, Lonnie, that I've said all the right things about you, all the truth, and I've recommended that you be kept here in the same position." Either Ben or Ken nodded very slightly. Troy was reaching for his coat. "But that's not my business anymore. I'm gonna step outside for a bit while you guys talk things over." Like a flash, Troy was out of the room.
For some reason his departure brought smiles to Ken and Ben. Lonnie asked, "Do you guys have business cards?"
"Sure," both said, and they pulled cards from pockets and slid them to the end of the table. Ben was the older, Ken the younger.
Ken was also in charge of this meeting. He began, "Just a bit about our company. We're out of Charlotte, with eighty stores, in the Carolinas and Georgia. SuperHouse is a division of Listing Foods, a conglomerate based in Scarsdale with about two billion in sales last year. A public company, traded on NASDAQ. You've probably heard of it. I'm Vice President for Operations' for SuperHouse, Ben here is regional VP. We're expanding south and west, and Hadley Brothers looked attractive. That's why we're here."
"So you're keeping the store?"
"Yes, for now, anyway." He glanced at Ben, as if there was a lot more to the answer.
"And what about me?" Lonnie asked.
They actually squirmed, almost in tandem, and Ben removed a ballpoint from his collection. Ken did the talking. "Well, you have to understand, Mr. Shaver-"
"Please call me Lonnie."
"Sure, Lonnie, there are always shakeups along the line when acquisitions occur. Just part of the business. Jobs are lost, jobs are created, jobs are transferred."
"What about my job?" Lonnie pressed. He sensed the worst and was anxious to get it over with.
Ken deliberately picked up a sheet of paper and gave the appearance of reading something. "Well," he said, ruffling the paper, "you have a solid file."
"And very strong recommendations," Ben added helpfully. "We would like to keep you in place, for now anyway."
"For now? What does that mean?"
Ken slowly returned the paper to the table, and leaned forward on both elbows. "Let's be perfectly candid, Lonnie. We see a future for you with our company."