The Wrong Man

27

Randall Manning smoothed his hands over his oak desk at the headquarters of Global Harvest International. It was the desk his father had when he ran GHI years ago, back when there was no “I” in the initials, when the company was simply selling fertilizer products in a three-state region. The desk was largely empty. There was a computer monitor and mouse, which he considered garish but necessary, and on the right a line of family photographs. His wife, Bethany. His son, Quinn, with his wife and their daughter, Cailie.

Manning prided himself on a clean desk. It gave the impression of control. Sometimes Manning wondered if that was a misimpression.

“Go ahead, Richard,” he said in a calm voice.

“Mr. Manning, it’s Patrick Cahill. Again,” he added. Richard Moore was GHI’s head of security. He was a former state trooper who cashed out after his pension fully vested and took a job with GHI. He was a reliable employee, in Manning’s opinion, but in this case a nuisance.

“Insubordination, in a word,” Moore explained. “Cahill wouldn’t take direction from his supervisor. This particular supervisor is African-American. The supervisor directed Cahill to lock up one of the sheds, and Cahill refused. They almost came to blows, sir. They had to be separated. When it was all said and done, according to three separate witnesses, Cahill was heard saying-this is a quote-‘I’m not taking directions from no…’ and then he used the N-word.”

Manning closed his eyes. He squeezed the rubber stress ball in his hand. Squeezed it until it caused pain. “What’s your recommendation, Richard?”

“One-month suspension, sir. And probation. One more incident and he’s gone.”

“But you’ve not instituted that yet?”

“No, sir. I have your clear instructions on Cahill. No discipline without your approval.”

Manning had personally hired Cahill and had explained to Moore, at the time, about Cahill’s difficult upbringing and the need to give second chances to individuals in life. The background story had been largely false. The justification for hiring Cahill was entirely bogus.

“If I may say so, sir.” Moore cleared his throat. “This will become a morale problem if we let him skate on this.”

“I understand, Richard. I have no intention of letting him ‘skate.’ I only wonder if there are other ways to handle this.”

“Sir, if I-”

“That will be all, Richard. I’m going to speak with Patrick, and I’ll let you know.”

Moore paused, a delay that bordered on insubordination, before he nodded curtly and left the room.

Twenty minutes later, Patrick Cahill was standing at attention in Manning’s office. Cahill was age twenty-seven, built like a truck, with a penetrating stare and a natural scowl to his face. He’d flamed out of the military, failed to qualify as a local cop, and bounced around personal-security firms and gigs as a bouncer at various bars. Virtually all of them had ended badly, insubordination and fighting being the principle causes.

He was an unstable and violent personality. He was a terrible choice for an employee.

But he was a perfect choice for the Circle.

“Patrick,” Manning said, standing face-to-face with Cahill. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Sir-”

“Racial epithets, Patrick? Are you out of your mind?”

Cahill kept his eyes forward, military posture.

“You are never to call attention to yourself. Never. Understood?”

“Understood, sir.”

Manning shook his head in exasperation. “Now I have to discipline you, Patrick. Because if I don’t, I’ll be calling even more attention to you.” He pointed to the door. “Richard Moore wants to suspend you for one month. But I can’t do that, can I, Patrick?”

No, he couldn’t. Because a one-month suspension would take Cahill out of commission until December 15. And Randall Manning needed Patrick on the fence before then.

“I’m going to dock you a month’s pay,” Manning said. “I’ll have accounting shave it off your weekly wage over six months’ time. And then I’m going to pay you out of my own pocket, so you’re made whole. But Patrick, this is your last chance. If you screw up again between now and the operation, I’m going to be impatient.”

Manning moved to within an inch of Cahill’s face.

“Who took you in when you had nobody?”

“You did, sir.”

“Who gave you a job and a place to live?”

“You did, sir.”

“Who has given you the opportunity to change the world?”

“You, sir.”

“This is a war, Patrick, and very soon everyone’s going to have to take a side. Make sure you’re on the right side. No more mistakes. Now go.”

Patrick Cahill turned on his heel and marched out of the office.