Today, he was an anticipated guest. The uniformed guard at the visitors' gate greeted him by name before he could introduce himself and directed him to the sparkling two-story cedar and glass headquarters. Elaine LeBlanc's assistant, Carmella Cassetta, was waiting for him in the carpeted reception area. A former coal-face miner herself, she was attractive in a hard-featured way, and had married one of the execs in the company. Over the years, Matt and she had met on a few occasions and had gotten along reasonably well.
"Matt, it's so good to see you," she said warmly, extending her hand.
He tried unsuccessfully to read something into her being the one chosen to greet him. He gestured at the spectacular six-foot-square photos of BC amp;C scenes — historic and modern — that adorned the lobby walls.
"Thanks. This is quite the building."
"It makes a good first impression. We do a lot of business here — national and international. Well, we should hurry on over to the conference room. They're waiting for you. I think you'll be very excited with what they have to say."
You mean they're going to let me live?
"I'm looking forward to whatever it is."
As they neared the door to the conference room, an elderly black woman approached from the other direction pushing a linen-covered cart with coffee and Danish.
"They'll only be four, Agnes," Carmella said. "I won't be joining them."
Matt thought he detected a pout in her voice at the prospect. Agnes drew back a few steps as Carmella knocked once, motioned Matt and Agnes in, and left. Three men were waiting at the far end of a glossy mahogany table that had seating for twenty or so — Elaine LeBlanc, Robert Crook, and Armand Stevenson, the CEO of the entire company. Stevenson was five-seven if that, with thinning sandy hair and very quick, engaging blue eyes that remained fixed on Matt from the moment he stepped into the room. BC amp;C was one of the largest privately owned companies in the state, and Stevenson was something of a legend for the aggressive tactics he used to keep every component of the empire profitable.
After peering curiously at the gym bag, LeBlanc greeted Matt with a single pulse of a handshake, then released him as if trying to avoid a communicable disease. His tense expression had Matt wondering if whatever was about to transpire was not of his choosing. Crook avoided a handshake altogether, substituting instead a curt nod, a grunt that might have been Matt's name, and a momentary clash of his caterpillar brows. Armand Stevenson, on the other hand, was smiling, cordial, and very much in charge of the proceedings.
"Please sit down, Matthew, if I may call you that," he said after his offer of something stronger than coffee was declined.
"Matt'll do."
"And Armand for me. We appreciate your being able to come out at such short notice, Matt. I understand your father worked here?"
"He was a shift foreman."
"And he died in an accident?"
"An explosion, yes."
"Is that where your hard feelings toward the mine and our company stem from?"
Stevenson was firing straight from the hip. No wasted motion. Matt reminded himself that people like Stevenson didn't become gazillionaires by not knowing what they were doing.
"Perhaps that's true," he replied. "Some of the things I was told by my father's friends and co-workers led me to believe that the explosion and cave-in that killed him might have been preventable. Remember, I was only fifteen at the time."
"Plenty of what I went through at age fifteen still influences my life," Stevenson said, sipping at his Perrier. "How long has it been since you returned home to practice?"
Matt wanted to demand he get to the point, but remembered his uncle's caveat. Besides, Stevenson hardly seemed like the sort one could push around.
"About six years," he said, realizing that his inquisitor undoubtedly knew the answers to all the questions he was asking.
If the point of these preliminary questions was to put him at ease, they failed miserably. Stevenson opened his briefcase and set a thick file on the table.
"Matt, these correspondences are all from you to MSHA, the Department of Labor, the EPA, Senator Alexander, Senator Brooks, or Representative Delahanty."
He slid the file across, but Matt held his palm out to indicate that wasn't necessary.
"I have copies myself," he said, patting the gym bag.
"At one time or another without, to the best of my information, ever setting foot in the mine, you have accused us of substandard ventilation, antiquated and dangerous equipment, working hours in excess of the collective bargaining agreement with the UMW, toxic emissions from our processing plant, toxic waste dumping, illegal waste disposal, and just about every other violation imaginable short of not enough toilet paper in our rest rooms."
"Actually, I think one of the miners I speak to from time to time did complain about that as well."
Stevenson's laugh seemed genuine.
"And now you're posting notices and offering rewards," he went on. "Well, as I know better than anyone, your charges and allegations are groundless. And as you know better than anyone, all this paper you've generated hasn't amounted to more than a spit in the ocean."
"Then why am I here?"
"Elaine?"
The head of mine safety and health's attempt at a smile lacked any semblance of warmth. He cleared his throat and took a gulp of water. Whatever he was about to share wasn't coming easily.
"Well, Matt," he managed finally, "as Armand said, you haven't been the least bit successful in goading MSHA or the EPA or any of the others you've contacted to run an inspection on BC and C other than the routine ones they always do. But that doesn't mean you haven't been a pebble in our shoe. We have wasted a fair amount of time responding to your allegations, and in fact we have invited the MSHA people here two or three times just to prove we're on the up-and-up. But all that has taken up valuable time. So Doc Crook here made a suggestion."
Matt glanced sideways at Crook and saw nothing other than disdain and maybe even a hint of despair. Whatever was about to be laid out was Armand Stevenson's doing, not Crook's or LeBlanc's.
"That's right," Crook muttered.
"So," LeBlanc went on, "we're pleased to be able to offer you a position on our health advisory board. That way you can be right up close to the action here, and you can see for yourself how we do things. You'll be required to attend meetings every four months, and of course, to submit your concerns for the whole committee to evaluate rather than the vigilante way you've been doing it so far. The stipend for being on the committee is a nice round fifty thousand a year."
Fifty thousand! Matt wasn't sure whether he had merely thought the words or shouted them out. Given the limitations imposed by managed care, and the socioeconomic status of his patients, he still wasn't earning much over that annually.
"Of course," Stevenson added proudly, "the money will be paid to you in such a way — absolutely legal, I assure you — that you will incur little or no tax burden."
Matt was speechless. He knew a bribe when he heard one. But this was bribe with a capital "B." Money had never been a big deal for him. If it had, he would have been much more adept at generating it. As things stood, he was managing okay. But fifty thousand a year extra would enable him to start some sort of retirement fund, as well as enable him to give more to those causes he supported.
"I… thanks, but no thanks," he suddenly heard himself saying. "I appreciate your offer, really I do. But I find my hands are more useful when they're not tied down."
"You're a fool, Rutledge," Crook blurted out. "I tried to tell them that, but they wouldn't listen. A troublemaker and a fool."