Southern Fried (4 page)

I squirmed, not paying much attention to the speaker, a gray man with a light lisp. He garnered a pleasant titter from the audience at some anecdote of Civil War sexual politics.

Not for the first time, I mused about exploring other career options. After all, I’d been given a fresh start, a clean slate. In my darker moments, I’d mentally practiced auditioning for some of those other options. “Would you like fries with that?” made my stomach clench, but “Hi, welcome to Wal-Mart” wouldn’t be too bad.

I kept returning to the same conclusion. Law school had left me completely unprepared for practically everything. My sister stays home, raising my niece and nephew, gardening, canning vegetables, cooking standing rib roasts, and sewing her own clothes. I’m domestically challenged by brown-and-serve rolls. And seventh-grade home ec had been the last time anyone had let me near a sewing machine. While attempting to create a pair of hot pants, I’d stitched the cuff of my shirt to the left front and back of the shorts, then broken the needle and
jammed the machine. In trying to free me, while maintaining control of twenty home ec students armed with scissors and pins, my teacher almost burst into tears.

Thinking back on it, she’d probably reconsidered her career options that day. She’d suggested I join the marching band, then she’d married the next May and quit teaching. I mentally skimmed past the marriage option. Law school had broken me of the dating habit. Few people have any idea of the kind of people who go to law school. And practicing law broke me of the habit of a social life.

So here I sat, in the Lutheran church social hall, accepting the fact that at the ripe age of thirtyish, I didn’t have many directions in which to head.

But at least I had an appointment with Harrison Garnet. Sort of.

I grabbed Mom and scooted out of the meeting as quickly as we could.

“Sure you can borrow the van,” she said. “Just drop me by the house. Oh, and can you take those aluminum cans by the fire station? For their burned children project.”

Bags of empty Coke and beer cans collected from Tap’s filled the back of the van, rattling every time we stopped, started, or turned a corner.

“I probably should put those things in your dad’s truck. They do get a little pungent, don’t they?”

“You can’t very well have Dad riding around with his truck full of beer cans. What would First Baptist’s board of deacons say?”

Mom laughed as she parked the van in front of the house. “It’d be almost worth it to find out. Good luck. See you for supper?”

“Sure. Thanks.” I crawled over behind the wheel, then wrestled my skirt back where it belonged. The matter-of-fact way my parents handle the most dramatic upheavals amazes me. Then again, they tend toward a flair for the dramatic in the most ordinary circumstances.

Garnet Mills sat a couple of blocks off north Main Street, nestled into a neighborhood of small mill houses, a scattering of house trailers, and a few large old white clapboards, two that offered rooms for rent.

The grounds looked unkempt and unprosperous. Rust pocked the chain-link fence surrounding the parking lot. Grass sprouted through the cracked asphalt. Paint peeled from the metal doors of the loading dock.

Inside, two green vinyl chairs sat on either side of a dusty plastic fern in the makeshift waiting area, and ancient gray-green metal desks furnished the business office. But the receptionist, who probably doubled as office manager, didn’t park me there. She immediately ushered me past a half dozen desks; three women of assorted ages talked on phones, typed on an old Selectric, or pushed papers around.

Mr. Garnet’s office walls were painted a rosy taupe, and the cherry furniture hadn’t come from
the same army surplus sale as the desks outside. The subdued good taste evidenced Sylvie Garnet’s hand at work here. Not flashy, not new, but it clearly drew a line between out there and in here.

While Sylvie Garnet and her decorating taste had remained the same, Mr. Garnet had changed. I remembered him as a small man, slightly shorter than his wife, with a fringe of bright white hair circling his shiny head. I’d never seen him in anything but a dark gray suit, exuding an air of authority, a masterliness. None of that had changed. What had changed was the wheelchair he swung around his desk to greet me.

“Mr. Garnet It’s so nice to see you again.”

“Avery. My, haven’t you grown up. Your dad keeps us posted on you and your sister, at the Rotary meetings. Despite all his bragging, he didn’t tell us how pretty you were.”

Feeling awkward, I fought the urge to bend over to address him and gratefully sank into the chair he motioned me toward.

“Thanks for stopping by. Sylvie told me you were in town. You may be just our answer for this little matter we’re facing.”

“I certainly hope I can be of help.” I pulled out my leather notepad and Waterman pen, for some reason needing the comfort of the familiar tools of my trade. “Perhaps if you could give me some background.”

Mr. Garnet rolled behind his desk. Seated behind the protective barrier of his walnut fortress, with the
wheelchair out of sight, he looked more like the successful businessman I’d known all my life. Garnet Mills produced cheap upholstered furniture, a low-end operation with the kind of jobs that now often move to Mexico.

“In a nutshell, Avery, I’ve got some environmental boys coming tomorrow to audit my records. And they want to know,.while they’re here, if they can look around the plant site.” With thumb and forefinger, he lined up his desk blotter precisely with the edge of his desk. Other than a brass lamp and a mahogany in-box—which sat empty—the desk lay clear of clutter. Either he was extremely organized or he didn’t have much to keep him busy.

“We’re just a small-town operation and don’t often deal with the environmental boys. I want to be protected. To tell you the truth, I feel a bit like a sheep waiting to be shorn.” He smiled disarmingly. “I understand those boys can play hardball. I just want to make sure we’re covered.”

“I understand.” I tried to sound reassuring, but I scarcely knew where to begin. “Have they served you with any papers? Do you know of any complaints? Or is this a routine visit?”

He shrugged. “The guy called, wanted to know if he could come tomorrow afternoon. I assumed this was routine, but I wanted to make sure. You know, protect myself. You hear about these regulators running a police state.”

I nodded. He probably spent his afternoons listening to conservative talk radio shows. “Best to be
prepared. What sorts of records are you required to keep?”

He looked puzzled, so I quickly added, “Do you use or store any hazardous materials on the premises?”

He snorted politely. “You mean other than the liquid correction ink the girls out front use? I understand that’s toxic or hazardous or some such. We’re supposed to keep paperwork on that. Can you believe it?”

“A Material Safety Data Sheet.” I nodded and hoped I’d gotten the name right. “The paperwork can be quite onerous.”

“You can say that again. Not sure how we’re protecting the environment if we’re killing all those trees for the paper to keep records on.”

I nodded and pretended to jot myself a note.

He continued. “Of course, we use glues and stains in our operation. Heck, even empty paint cans have to get special treatment these days. We contract with a waste hauler. As far as I know, we’re okay.”

“What exactly would you like me to do?”

He shrugged, with both palms up in an eloquent question. “You tell me. Anything we need to do? To protect ourselves?”

“Do you have anyone designated with special responsibilities for compliance?”

He pursed his lips, digesting my question, then shrugged. “The plant manager, I suppose. He keeps up with that stuff. To be honest, I pay as little attention to it as I can. Haven’t ever found out what all
that record-keeping and environmental nonsense has to do with running a business.”

“Perhaps I could meet with him. As long as the records are in order—”

“He’s off this week. Took some vacation. Slow time of the year, Thanksgiving to Christmas. Orders really slack off until after the first of the year.”

I tapped the end of my pen against my bottom Up. “Maybe we should try to have this visit postponed.” It would buy me some time to figure out what I was doing. “If your compliance guy’s not here to answer any questions they may have—”

“How about a tour of the plant?” He abruptly moved to another topic without responding. “If you’re gonna be representing us, you might as well get a feel for our operation here.”

With one hand on his desk, he steered himself around the corner. “Would you hand me those crutches, there behind the door?”

Propped against the wall beside my chair stood short metal crutches with circles that he slid over his forearms. He wiggled out of the chair. “This’ll be easier going, if you don’t mind walking with a slowpoke.”

I opened the office door and followed him out. I wondered what had happened that he now needed crutches or a chair. He maneuvered with remarkable agility for a man who’d come to the use of crutches late in life. I’d remembered Mr. Garnet as a member of the hunting and fishing club, the fellows who used their Luna Lake cabins as headquarters for the
manly pursuits of deer hunting and escaping their wives.

On our stroll around the plant, I began to question any optimism I might have felt at becoming the new corporate counsel for Garnet Mills. The mandatory postings about wage and hour laws were displayed near the time clock, but ear protectors were as likely to be dangling around a worker’s neck as sticking in his ears.

The plant seemed busy, with lots of people and all the machines operating. Most of the time, the noise level kept conversation to a minimum, with Mr. Garnet yelling occasional comments into my ear. I caught snatches of what he said.

Despite the bustle and the noise, the plant didn’t appear particularly prosperous. The aged machinery, bolted to the worn, blackened oak floors, stood caked with years of greasy gray dust.

We stepped through a small side door onto the loading dock. Even here, the noise didn’t subside much. A diesel truck’s engine idled, its gaping back door accepting forklift loads of boxes. The other loading bays sat empty.

“It’s not fancy,” he said, as if he’d read my expression too clearly, “but it gives three shifts a paycheck every other week.”

We walked to the end of the dock. I clenched my teeth against the late-afternoon chill. The contrast from the warmth in the plant didn’t seem to affect Mr. Garnet, but I was glad when we moved into a patch of sunlight.

The employee parking lot stretched behind and beside the loading dock area. I glanced at my watch.

“We run three full shifts here right now. And glad we can do it. Had to lay off a shift a few years ago. During the recession. That’s hard on folks.”

We stood at the sunny end of the dock, surveying the parking lot for no particular reason that I could see. Near the gate, where employees would enter and leave the lot, a fellow tinkered over a motorcycle. Wearing a battered leather jacket and his hair pulled back from his shiny forehead into a curly gray ponytail, he looked the quintessential burly seventies biker turned middle-aged. Except for him, we were the only people outside the plant.

I nodded toward the figure at the gate. “Who’s that?”

Mr. Garnet shrugged. “Seen him around. Don’t really know. He waits around for somebody at shift change.”

Which wasn’t for another hour. Mr. Garnet and I should have a chat about his potential liability for third-party criminal conduct on his premises. If this were my plant, I wouldn’t want folks hanging around. In too many instances, estranged husbands shoot their wives dead in parking lots after work.

As we surveyed the loading area, a slight-built man came around the edge of the building and crossed the lot. Seeing his rolling gait and crooked arm—clear marks of cerebral palsy—I wondered what doctor had messed up at his birth. Then I shook my head, trying to lose the image. Too much
time spent as a malpractice attorney had colored my vision.

Before the lank-gaited fellow’s path could intersect with the biker, we turned back toward the offices. I followed Mr. Garnet’s lead through the plant. I wasn’t sure about the next step. I felt stupid as it dawned on me that I’d never had to ask a client to pay me. The Calhoun Firm had standard rates. And standard contracts. And a billing department. And a collections process in case things didn’t go well.

I had none of those things. I didn’t even know the going rate for lawyers in Dacus, though it was surely considerably less than my billable rate at the Calhoun Firm. But probably better than the hourly fee the county paid for representing indigent criminal defendants.

Once we were back in his office, Mr. Garnet remained propped on his crutches. “Avery, can you be here tomorrow afternoon when that inspector shows up?”

“Certainly.” I jotted a note, as if I might need a reminder. That would give me this evening and tomorrow morning to give myself a crash course in environmental audits. “And thank you for the tour.”

“Like I said, you need to know what we’re about here if you’re going to represent us.” He smoothly slid the right crutch off his arm and extended his hand to shake mine. “I suppose you’ll want me to sign something. That’s how you lawyers usually work, isn’t it?” He snorted a laugh.

I smiled, hoping I looked more like a lawyer than
I felt. “We can draw, that up later. We’ll take care of first things first—that inspector.”

“Fine. Tomorrow after lunch, then?”

I walked back through the short gauntlet of green desks and busy women. They stopped their chattering or slowed their work as I walked by. Not sure of the protocol, I nodded a generic good-bye to the group.

As I drove slowly across town toward my parents’ house-which didn’t take all that long in a town the size of Dacus-my brain raced. I needed a sample contract of representation. And, more important, I needed to prepare for the inspection visit tomorrow.

Carlton Earner’s office boasted only copies of the
South Carolina Code and South Carolina Reports
—the state’s statutes and appellate court decisions—which would be of no help. Camden County had no official law library, although the resident judge’s office had the regional court cases and federal statutes.