Hughes tapped the keyboard in front of him. Chris watched insilence, remembering last month’s meeting where escalating raw material costs at the paper mill had become a major concern.
“The price of chlorine and natural gas continues to rise. At present, we’re looking at over $2 million for the quarter in new costs that we can expect to be permanent, though the wholesalers swear chlorine should come back down by December.”
Lee shook his head.
“I’m negotiating with the natural gas people,” Hughes said. “We’re their number one customer in Woods County. I’ve told them biomass as a fuel is looking better for the long haul.”
It took an enormous amount of electricity, oil, coal, and natural gas to keep the Concord mill operating—a constant battle to stock an available and affordable supply of each. Coal had long been their number one energy source. Cheaper by far. Six years ago, at Chris’ urging, they’d spent $35 million to add a coal fire boiler to help reduce costs. But coal prices had steadily been increasing and that boiler was looking more and more like a bad investment.
Lee turned toward him. “Chris, are revenues still holding?”
He stopped note taking and tabled his gold pen, a gift from Nancy last Christmas. He turned to his monitor and found the relevant information. A push of a button and he transferred the data to the other two terminals.
“On your screen is the projected flow sheet for the next quarter. What concerns me are timber prices. They’re fluctuating wildly and will definitely affect the bottom line.”
He’d made no secret of his dissatisfaction with Hamilton Lee’s handling of the forestry division. Timber was the main staple in the mill’s daily diet. Nearly two thousand cords of wood were laboriously cooked into pulp every twenty-four hours. The equation was simple—no wood, no paper—so a steady, affordable supply of trees had to be assured. Company timber from company land helped. But outside trees were the bulk of it, the open market price changing by the hour. Which meant it needed constant attention. Something Hamilton Lee rarely provided.
“The damn timber owners seem intent on milking every dimethey can,” Lee said. “And the bioenergy people are buying up trees as fast as they mature, driving the prices up for manufacturers.”
“How about our reserves?” Hughes asked.
He winced at the question. Hughes’ answer to everything was to dip deeper into the company cookie jar. Southern Republic owned or controlled, through long-term leases, thousands of acres of pine trees. But that wood was designatedreservefor a reason, to be used only in emergencies to keep the mill running. The idea being to negotiate and buy other people’s trees as cheaply as possible, not indiscriminately harvest timber that cost money to grow.
“For now, I’d rather just pay the open market price,” Lee said. “It’s cheaper than cutting and replanting our own trees.”
Chris smirked. This was the same point that had sparked last month’s heated argument. He wondered again how Lee would even know the costs, as most of the memos circulated on that point came back uninitialed.
“None of that sounds good,” Hughes said. “Chris, what’s the bottom line?”
9:20A.M.
BRENT TAPPED THE NAILS INTO THESHEETROCK AND RE-FORMED HISego wall. He’d removed all the frames a few days ago from his downtown Atlanta office. The bachelor of arts diploma from nearby Georgia Southern University. Law degree from the University of Georgia. His Georgia State Bar admission. Certificates of acceptance before the Supreme Court of Georgia, Georgia Court of Appeals, and United States District Courts. All had made the journey from Concord to Atlanta and back.
Building B was one of the older of the mill’s admin buildings. Its walls were papered with a fading mauve vinyl, the nicotine-stained acoustical ceiling tiles a reminder from the days when smoking had been allowed. The stairs were Georgia granite, the handrails slick brass from all the friction, the hallways sheathed in thin tile glued to hard concrete. His office was lined with a row of dingy aluminumwindows, a set of dusty venetian blinds bisecting the morning sun across the newly hung diplomas in alternating rows of light and dark. The overhead fluorescents hummed enough to be annoying. His steel desk was a gunmetal gray with a laminated Formica top, the chair upholstered in a cracked dark-green vinyl. A plain black metal table supported a computer terminal. The floor, like the rest of the general counsel’s space, was carpeted with a tight woven pile in a dirty shade of gray. His new boss, Southern Republic’s longtime general counsel, told him earlier that first and foremost this was a manufacturing plant. Luxury didn’t last long around there.
And the man was right.
“You going to miss prosecuting all those criminals?”
He turned.
Hank stood in the doorway dressed in his standard mill uniform. Short-sleeved shirt, stained khaki pants, lime-bleached work boots. Old clothes, for sure, but degrees better than the tattered overalls and blue jeans most of the other workers sported. His old friend wore the same hard hat he had for years—BOARHOGGERwritten in black marker above the company logo. It was a label IBEW members had bestowed on him years ago, referring to his unwavering attitude toward management.
“What brings you by?” Brent asked.
Hank shrugged. “The company expects me to appear sooner or later. So, for their benefit, I thought I’d make it sooner.”
“I’ll never understand how you work all day and never lose the crease in those pants.”
“Lots of practice. Now answer my question. You’re going to miss it, aren’t you?”
“Who wouldn’t? It was a great place to work. Lucky for me the Fulton County district attorney wanted to break with the norm and hire someone with no prosecutorial experience. I remember the two days I went for the interview. Going from office to office, meeting the other prosecutors, trying to small-talk my way in.” He shook his head. “So unfamiliar. Surreal. Quite a change from my usual daily life as a solo practitioner.”
“You must have made a good impression.”
“I was so naïve. It’s another world up there. Totally different from anything around here.”
But he’d succeeded, rising to a supervisory position and overseeing other prosecutors. The DA had been sorry to see him leave.
