Termination Man: a novel (5 page)

“Thank you,” I said, submitting to Kurt’s viselike handshake. As if on cue, the other members of the TP Automotive management team rose in unison, and I began shaking their hands as well.

“The test came up positive,” Beth Fisk informed me. Of course it had.

“More than positive, actually,” she went on. “Kevin Lang’s THC reading was unequivocal. Off the charts, you might say.”

This was the sort of thing a person might say when gloating; but Beth did not permit herself the slightest hint of a smile. I knew from our earlier consultations that Beth had arranged to have the test results completed within an hour. For a routine, run-of-the-mill drug test, two to five business days is the norm. But most labs can have the tests complete within an hour—if you pay an additional surcharge and arrange to have the blood, urine, and hair samples transported to the lab via courier. This keeps the advantages of time on the company’s side. It prevents an employee who knows that he’s going to come up positive from lawyering up or contacting his local civil rights organization.

A printout of the lab results—probably emailed to Beth in PDF format—was placed face-up on the surface of the table. There was manila file folder as well. I knew that TP Automotive had even nastier—and more personal—surprises in store for Kevin if he decided to put up a fight. 

“The case against Kevin Lang is absolutely airtight,” Bernie Chapman added, referring to the printout from the lab. “He has absolutely no leg to stand on.” The corporate lawyer was a weak-chinned man with a beard that looked incongruous in a TP Automotive setting, where clean-cut male faces were the unofficial rule. 

Chuck Gaskins merely nodded at all of this. He was a figurehead at Great Lakes Fuel Systems and everyone knew it. Chuck was past his prime and would retire within five years, as soon as the market recovered and TP Automotive shares regained their pre-2008 values. Two thousand-eight was the year that the automotive industry—along with housing, banking and almost everything else—had gone to hell.

They sat back down, and Bernie gestured to one of the empty chairs to his left.

“Craig,” Bernie said. “We would like you to remain, but only as an observer.”

This was the polite corporate way of telling me that I should shut up and let my client do the talking. This was fine with me, in fact. It wasn’t my job to speak in a meeting like this. My sole purpose in this meeting was to assess Kevin Lang as a future security risk. There was no way to do that without sitting here in the meeting and actually observing him. I would estimate the likelihood that Kevin would do something stupid in the wake of his firing. In a worst-case scenario, that would mean violence—the sort of incident that dominates the
news for weeks afterward, and produces a lot of handwringing about the dangers of the modern American workplace. Some men live one step away from the edge of their mental breaking points; and the loss of their jobs can be the trigger that sends them over that edge.

Fortunately, few workers actually go that far. But not all troublemakers become fatalistic, mass-murdering shooters. Kevin might show up in the GLFS parking lot some afternoon after a few too many beers at the Backstop Bar & Grill, and simply try to make trouble.

The last part of this job would be a post-firing surveillance of Kevin. I would subcontract this out to someone else, probably a freelance private investigator. I would only do this part of the job myself if I had reason to believe that Kevin constituted an imminent threat. Then my work at GLFS—and my involvement with Kevin Lang—would be complete.

I had no real qualms about remaining in the room during the actual firing. I didn’t think that Kevin would recognize me as long as I didn’t speak. I would be one of seven people in the room; and the last person Kevin would expect to see in this meeting would be Ben the Welder, his pot-smoking buddy and fellow patron of the Backstop Bar & Grill. Moreover, I was sitting at the far end of the table, placing me at an angle where it would be difficult for Kevin to catch a full view of my face. You’ve no doubt heard the expression “hiding in plain sight.” If someone isn’t actively looking for you, it can be easier than you might imagine.

“I think we’re ready,” Beth said.

Kurt Myers nodded, and Beth dialed a number on her cell phone. Plant security. It was obvious from the context of the conversation that she had made previous arrangements to have Kevin escorted out of the facility following his termination notice. This was just a confirmation call, a last-minute check to make sure that the security guards would be ready.

Next Beth called Kevin’s immediate supervisor. If my memory serves me correctly, his name was Gus Traynor. TP Automotive hadn’t brought him into the loop. Gus had been part of the pre-buyout GLFS management team, and his loyalties were uncertain. He wouldn’t be informed of the situation until Kevin had signed his papers and was safely out the door.

“Hello, Gus? Beth Fisk here. Could you please ask Kevin Lang to come to Room 107?” she said. “Thank you.” Beth terminated the phone call before Gus could ask any questions.

Kurt Myers nodded approvingly and Beth looked away before smiling. Not a smile of humor, of course, but rather a smile of satisfaction. True, I had done most of the footwork and the dirty work, but Beth was going to claim most of the credit internally. That’s the way it works with consultants. Whatever they do—either good or bad—ends up on the shoulders of the internal corporate employee who hired them.

Beth had hired me and approved my plan for ensnaring Kevin Lang. She had shopped the proposal around and sold it up through the management ranks, all the way to the executive board—all the way to Kurt Myers. Kurt Myers was a vice president of strategic planning at the TP Automotive headquarters, and the board member who had ultimate authority over the GLFS buyout.

This would be another feather in Beth’s cap, no doubt one of many. She was probably aiming for a spot on the board herself before she turned forty. If her run of luck continued, that might come to pass.

When the doorknob turned, we all snapped to attention. A firing is always a nerve-wracking experience, even if security guards are just a few paces away. A firing is like an execution. You never know what the terminated employee might do when informed of his or her fate. I once attended a termination meeting in which the employee lunged at the presiding HR manager with a letter opener. Three security guards were required to disarm and restrain him. One of the guards was taken to the emergency room for stitches, after he was stabbed with the letter opener that had been intended for the human resources manager. And that guard had counted himself as lucky. The letter opener had come within a hair’s breadth of puncturing his carotid artery.

Kevin stood in the doorway.

“Please come in, Kevin,” Beth said.

Kevin did as instructed. “Should I stand or sit?” he asked.

“Why don’t you remain standing,” Beth replied. “We won’t need much of your time.”

Kevin’s eyes swept the people assembled before him. I had leaned back so that I was mostly obscured by Bernie’s profile. There was no immediate sign of recognition in Kevin’s face. At least not that I could tell. But he did recognize Kurt Myers.

“I suppose I should be flattered,” Kevin said. “I rated a time slot on the schedule of Mr. Kurt Myers. Not to mention Kurt Junior.”

Shawn snorted before replying. “Tough talk for a dumbass pothead.”

Kurt, Beth, and Bernie Chapman simultaneously glared at Shawn Myers. I was aware of some of the history here, but not all of it. Beth had already had to cover for Shawn Myers at least once in the past. And from what I had heard, Bernie Chapman had been cleaning up Shawn’s messes for years. Bernie had been the Myers family
’s
attorney before he
was
hired by TP Automotive.

As the human resources manager present, Beth Fisk took it upon herself to lead the meeting. “We have the results of your drug test here. You tested positive for marijuana use. I’m sure you realize what that means, Kevin.”

Kevin had apparently decided that they had him, and there was no use in attempting to deny the basic facts.

“Yeah, I smoked some weed,” Kevin said. “You know it and I know it. But the important question is—
how did you know it
? And how did my name come up on the roster for a supposedly random drug test three times in three months? Doesn’t sound very random to me. And even if that unlikely series of events did occur, I think we all know that ethics would have demanded my being excused from the second—and certainly the
third
—test.”

I could tell that the raw shock of the situation was wearing off. Kevin was no longer afraid. He was gathering his strength, inspired by what he perceived as the grand injustice of it all.

“Something is going on here,” he continued. “And we all know that, just like we all know what those lab results say. And I want you to know that as soon as I leave here, I’m going to proceed directly to the office of Howard Steinkeller, attorney-at-law.

Kevin had hoped that this would rattle the TP Automotive management team. Howard Steinkeller was a Cleveland-area labor attorney who specialized in supporting union causes and standing up to big business concerns. Steinkeller was also an attention hog; he had a lot of clout with reporters at the local television stations. If Steinkeller decided to take up Kevin’s cause, he could easily expose TP Automotive’s alleged skullduggery on CNN and MSNBC within forty-eight hours. The Republican-leaning Fox News would likely carry the story as well. Big money’s mistreatment of the working man was a theme that struck populist chords with red- and blue-state audiences alike.  

And when Kurt Myers smiled calmly back at him, I almost felt sorry for Kevin. He had no idea of what was coming.

“I don’t think you’re going to do that,” Kurt said.

“And why is that, Mr. Myers?” Kevin asked. His termination now a more or less done deal, Kevin saw no reason to avoid burning any bridges.

“I wish you hadn’t made it come to this,” Beth began. She opened the manila file folder and removed a small, stapled stack of papers.

Beth was shaking her head—partly in regret, partly in disappointment.
Why was Kevin Lang insisting on making this even more painful for himself
,
she was
no doubt
thinking.
The man did have skeletons in his closet, after all. And the truth was that Beth really
hadn’t
wanted it to come to this. She had displayed few qualms regarding the marijuana entrapment scheme. I remember her saying:
“If Kevin Lang willing
ly
smokes pot, then he deserves everything that will happen to him
as a result of that decision
.”
But this next surprise was a boundary-pushing tactic even for her.

Kurt Myers might have sensed Beth’s hesitation. He reached out and took the papers from her. “May I, Beth? Please,” he said—as if Beth actually might protest. Beth nodded silently.

“Mr. Lang,” Kurt Myers said. He made a great display of reading through the two or three papers in his hands, even though he had already absorbed the pertinent information.

“Says here that you’re from rural Iowa. Is that true?”

“Yes it is. Any law against being from Iowa? Did I break any company regulations? I’m from a little town called—”

“Darcyville,” Kurt cut him off.

“I’m impressed,” Kevin retorted. “The resources of TP Automotive, a global corporation with plants on every continent, have been mobilized to determine that I hail from Darcyville, Iowa. Do you have a copy of my high school transcripts as well? Did you see my ‘C’ in chemistry?”

“No,” Kurt replied. “But I see here that you got an ‘A’ in drama.”

Kurt leaned back in his chair and laughed at Kevin’s astonished expression.

“Gotcha there, didn’t I?” Kurt asked, as if the two of them were old buddies hanging around on a Saturday afternoon. I knew that Kurt Myers hated unions with a passion. Even more, he hated employees who had the temerity to bring unions or any other form of outside agitation into a TP Automotive facility.

Kurt had thrown me for a loop as well:
Had Kevin Lang really received an A in a high school drama course? Had Kurt’s barb been a lucky guess? Or did the file really contain a copy of Kevin’s high school academic records?
The papers in Kurt’s hands had not come from me: TP Automotive had obtained these from another corporate security consultant—a man whose sole bailiwick is digging up dirt for employers. Few corporate managers have even met this consultant; he does all of his work via the Internet.

“What’s this all about?” Kevin asked. Perhaps he was beginning to piece things together by this time. Perhaps not.

“It seems that your father,” Kurt went on. “A Reverend Bradley Thomas Lang, is the pastor of the Darcyville Baptist Church. Is that correct,
Mr.
Lang?”

“That’s right,” Kevin said. “Are you going to threaten my father? Is that what this is about?”

“Please, please, Kevin.” Kurt flashed his million-dollar smile. This was a smile that had appeared on the front page of the
Detroit Automotive Gazette
only last week. The automotive industry’s chief publication was impressed with the
work
that Myers was doing at TP Automotive—how he was turning so many plants around, saving American jobs.