Chapter 2 - The Vault of Paper
The Patterson Industries headquarters rose seventy stories above the Chicago River, a monument of steel and dark glass that seemed to challenge the gray winter sky. On the day after Christmas, the building was largely empty, the grand lobby silent except for the footsteps of security guards and the quiet hum of the high-speed elevators.
Michael Patterson sat in his office on the top floor. The room was vast, decorated with minimalist art and awards he couldn't remember receiving. A wall of windows offered a panoramic view of the frozen lake, but Michael was focused on a stack of cardboard boxes that sat in the middle of his mahogany desk.
He had spent the last twenty-four hours in a state of quiet fury. He had called his chief legal counsel, Arthur Vance—no relation to the deceased David—at three in the morning on Christmas Day, demanding every file, every email, and every contract related to Patterson Infrastructure Division Four’s operations over the last two years.
Arthur stood near the door, his wool coat still damp from the snow. He looked nervous, a rare expression for a man who made five million dollars a year to be invincible.
"Michael," Arthur said, adjusting his glasses. "It’s the holidays. The staff is off. This... this could have waited until the new year."
"No, it couldn't," Michael said, his voice flat and dangerous. He tapped the top of a thick, blue-bound folder. "Explain this to me, Arthur. David Vance. He was a shift supervisor. He worked sixty hours a week at the Southwest Filtration Plant. His performance reviews were exemplary. Yet according to this contract, he was technically employed by 'Apex Staffing Solutions,' a shell company registered in Delaware."
Arthur sighed, taking a seat opposite Michael’s desk. "It’s a standard risk-mitigation strategy, Michael. We use third-party agencies for high-risk manual labor positions. It keeps our workers' comp premiums low and insulates the parent company from direct liability in the event of industrial accidents. It’s entirely legal. It was approved by the board three years ago during the cost-restructuring phase."
"Approved by the board," Michael repeated, his voice dangerously soft. "And did the board also approve the clause that allows us to terminate our contract with the staffing agency within twenty-four hours of an accident, thereby leaving the victims with no recourse when the agency files for Chapter 11?"
"It’s a standard force majeure provision," Arthur said, his tone turning defensive. "Look, Michael, we’re talking about one contractor. It’s a tragic situation, yes, but if we make an exception for Mrs. Vance, we set a precedent. Every contractor’s family from Seattle to Miami will be lining up for a payout. It would cost the company tens of millions."
"He was thirty-four years old, Arthur," Michael said, standing up and walking to the window. "He had a seven-year-old daughter. He died because a steam valve that was flagged for maintenance three times by his team was ignored by our regional managers because it would have required a twelve-hour shutdown of the sector. Twelve hours of lost revenue."
He turned to face his lawyer, his eyes burning with an intensity Arthur had not seen since the early days of Patterson Industries' rise. "We didn't just avoid liability, Arthur. We killed him to save twelve hours of profit. And then we gave his widow five thousand dollars and told her to go freeze in a South Side apartment."
"Michael, you’re being emotional," Arthur said, standing up. "This is business. Sarah’s passing... it’s changed you. You’re looking for things to fix because you couldn't fix her. But Patterson Industries is a public corporation. You have a fiduciary duty to the shareholders."
"My duty is to the truth," Michael said. "Find Eleanor Vance. Find her today. I don't care if you have to hire private investigators or knock on every door in Englewood. If she is on the street tonight, Arthur, you won't have to worry about your fiduciary duty, because I will personally fire you before the market opens on Monday."
Arthur stared at him, realizing for the first time that the man who had built the empire was no longer interested in protecting it.
"I'll find her," Arthur said quietly, turning and leaving the room.
Michael looked back down at the blue folder. On the last page, there was a copy of David Vance’s signature. It was a firm, clean script, the signature of a man who believed in the work he was doing.
May you like
Beside it was a small, handwritten note in the margin, likely scribbled by David during a late-night shift: 'Check valve 4-B again. Sounding rough. Don't want the boys on the morning shift taking any heat.'
He had been trying to protect his team until his last breath. And Michael's company had treated him like a rounding error.
