Southern Fried Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 muchtime 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?”