Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 (5 page)

“Your information is old,” I said, wondering what his reference to my former role signaled. “As owner of Ashwood, I carry the federal title of General Manager Hartford.”

“You are an honored surrogate, a volunteer safeguarding our nation’s treasured intellectual citizens.”

His soliloquy, delivered with a certain robotic quality, grated on my nerves. He ignored the small gesture I made to indicate we should move into a conference room while continuing with his grandstanding.

“I am Homer Penfeller, deputy detail supervisor of requisitions for the Midwest Homeland Security sector.” Straight as a steel rod, without warmth or grace, the flag-adorned man dipped his head as if sharing his name brought us both great pleasure. “I spoke with Mr. Paul Regan about a piece of machinery.” He acknowledged my gesture toward the conference room by taking one step during his last words.

I walked first, then Penfeller moved in front of Paul, who hurried his own pace so that the two reached the door at the same moment. My father-in-law allowed his dislike for what this bureaucrat represented to show. Paul made a point of reaching ahead of the man to open the door, as if inviting Penfeller into the room. For his part, Penfeller turned toward the crew he’d brought to Ashwood and lifted a hand. Seven men and women moved from the outer office area toward the conference room.

“Supervisor Penfeller, this room is small. Surely we can speak without all of your staff.” I rested my hands on the back of a chair as I spoke.

“Matron Anne, I have three estates to visit before the end of this workday. My staff will record our discussion.” He forced a smile, eyes involuntarily blinking as the edges of his lips raised. “Time is important to all of us.”

“Then perhaps I’ve underestimated the importance of this meeting.” We all remained standing. “If you require seven people to witness talks with an estate owner, I am led to believe that this is a very serious matter. Ashwood’s attorney will conference with us,” I referred to my data pad, “in ten minutes.”

Motioning to Paul, I walked toward the door. Penfeller did not step aside, a bureaucrat dealing with people unbound by pretentious government staff protocols. I watched how his people responded to my announcement, saw confusion in a few, stoic stares from others. Their leader might be full of hot air, but this team was on a mission.

“As a former esteemed member of the Bureau of Human Capital Management, you understand how government runs on tight schedules, Matron.”

“You are wrong on many levels, sir,” I replied. “Please show this entire estate the respect it has earned. You are in the offices of the private corporation I head. This building was constructed with private funds. I contract with a number of government bureaus and agencies. In my experience, I have found that only the Department of Revenue runs on a tight schedule and only when monies are due.”

I almost stepped on his toes on my way to the door. “Someone will bring your team water and notify you when our attorney is ready to talk.” Turning to him, I established eye contact. “Our talks will go better if you remember that I am General Manager Hartford, not a matron or surrogate or any other bureaucratic-titled employee.” Once in the hall I closed the door.

Paul followed me to his office. I checked my data pad to locate the presence of listening devices before speaking. Everything read clear.

“Tell me everything you know about Penfeller’s demand, Paul.” Under the features of his weathered face, emotions deepened lines surrounding his lips. I loved him, but this wouldn’t be our first disagreement over estate business. “We need the recording of your conversation with Penfeller before Joel joins us. I’m not leading a lawyer to the table without full disclosure.”

Paul spread work-worn hands on the surface of his always clean desktop. “Anne, that citified office manager is gonna read some long-winded directive about the need of the federal government to build a secure homeland through collaborative endeavors with neighboring countries. He can’t speak two sentences that make sense. I heard his spiel about four times before I told him that when he could speak simple English, we’d talk.”

While I listened to Paul, I conducted a word-match search of the private information boards. Penfeller’s phrase sounded like government talk for some kind of initiative. I broadened the search beyond our region to search for efforts the National Security Administration might have underway in multiple locations.

Reference points began to appear in a random scatter from California across the wide plains of Montana and Wyoming through the middle of the country, then into the rich farmland areas of Pennsylvania and New York. Almost two hundred managers of federal government estates reported large harvesting equipment requisitions. But our land and businesses were owned by Hartford, Ltd., with documentation stored in many safe harbors to protect against just this kind of event.

“It would have been helpful if you had warned me about Penfeller.” Paul showed no remorse as I scolded. “Just to avoid a confrontation like this.”

The feds could lay claim to the water system technology and the experimental energy recycling systems developed and owned by the Department of Energy and a seasonal vehicle storage facility on land we leased to local road maintenance agencies for equipment storage. Most of our land I owned outright. Other packets Hartford, Ltd., held in hundred-year leases. Our equipment and facilities were clear of debt.

“Anne Hartford.”

Touching my earpiece, I responded to the voice of Joel Santos, our government-appointed attorney who helped us interpret the mazelike requirements of paperwork, negotiate unwieldy regulations, and create a level playing field when multiple agencies collided in their regulation of commerce, safety, education, or employment. I liked him, not what he did for a living. Past experiences earned my trust in him to be fair and honest, which was the best I hoped for in most government employees allowed near our money.

“Hello, Joel. Thanks for the quick response. We have visitors from the National Security Agency here wanting to requisition our combine before harvest is complete.” I tried to remember Joel’s background. “You know what a combine is, don’t you?” Paul pointed to his data pad to indicate he’d located recordings of his conversation with Penfeller.

“I filed the paperwork when you purchased that equipment, Ms. Anne. You still owe my son a ride on that monster.”

“Well, Paul Regan, who runs our field operations, is opening a link to taped conversations with a Homer Penfeller, who is sitting in our offices with NSA’s paperwork, which supposedly will state that the United States needs our combine immediately as a matter of national security.” I paused. Paul tapped his own earpiece and mouthed “Raima” as he walked away. “Please help us deal with these folks. Penfeller is acting like Ashwood is a federal estate that must answer a Washington, D.C., order.”

“Interesting,” Joel replied. “I can free up time.”

“Look at the conversation transcripts, Joel, then we’ll conference with Penfeller.” I held up two fingers to Paul, knowing these final words with Joel would cost plenty on Raima’s billing. “Stay available. Okay?”

“One more thing, Anne. I know this isn’t a good time.”

“Not really, Joel. I have another call I can’t delay.”

“I’ll be brief.” His voice rushed. “You need to know that Ashwood is on the short list of estates for the first wave of youth deployment efforts. You and I can affect the number of assigned metro youth if we get out ahead of the announcements.” He stopped abruptly. “These kids are tough, Anne. You’re going to want to get in front of this issue.”

“First I’ve heard of it, Joel. Book us for a half hour this afternoon, and I’ll bring my primary managers.”

“Five-thirty is the only time I’ve got open.” Dinner with the kids disappeared.

“We’ll make it work. Stay flexible now for Penfeller.” I hung up and tapped Raima onto video. “What’s going on, Raima? Joel Santos is telling me he knows nothing about Penfeller, then dropped news of a coming youth deployment program that might drop tough metro kids onto our estate.”

“Good morning, Anne.” Raima’s rich alto filled Paul’s office. “All this and you didn’t even mention the surrogate issue. Not a good day for you?”

I thought of David’s departure, said nothing. When Raima and I had dinner in the city, I told her the kinds of things women share, but on the billing clock words cost money.

“Let’s prioritize,” I started. “We have Penfeller and his NSA crew in a conference room now, so they get first attention. Is there any possibility his agency’s records show Ashwood’s combine as a federal investment instead of a private asset?”

She chuckled. “Their asset management systems are notoriously antiquated, particularly when that works in their favor. Paul, can you get a copy of Penfeller’s paperwork?”

“I’m on my way.” Paul left.

“Even if the paperwork is built on inaccurate information, there could be a few weeks of dancing with the bureaucrats to clear up the issue, Anne. I’ll assign a first-year associate to do that.” She shifted in her tall desk chair. “Hasn’t anyone at Ashwood been staying on top of the youth corps effort? You do know kids are going hungry in the inner city?”

She knew my answer by the way I sat back in the chair, nailed there by sudden understanding that I missed a serious stone in the roadway of small business management and might take a face plant. I extended my arms across the chair’s arms, shook my head. “We’ve been up to the top of our heads with government-required changes in production and dealing with a shortage of labor ready to work the fields or harvest.” I hoped Paul would stop for some reason and give me a minute to continue this conversation. “What have I missed?”

“Rearmament is drawing down good workers from the labor pool, which explains your daily transport crew quality.” She twirled a bracelet on her lower arm, all that was left of her family heirlooms. “But there’s something else going on in the metro about changing the slacker tradition of the inner-city communities. Many of those adults don’t have the work tradition needed by the new factories. The current thought is that physical tasks on the estates might be a good training ground for changing attitudes in the younger generation.”

“I’m seeing older people with solid working tradition get off the transports who can’t put in a full day in the fields. How would we deal with kids who’ve spent most of their days on the streets?” The door opened. Paul placed a note in front of me. “One issue at a time. Let’s get back to the combine. You should have the paperwork on your data pad. If you’re available, Raima, join us and Joel in conference with Penfeller.”

Paul followed me into the meeting, chased one of the NSA crew out of my chair, then tapped a second uniformed goon from his own favorite place at the table. Joel and Raima appeared on screen.

“Supervisor Penfeller, this is Attorney Joel Santos, Ashwood’s federally appointed legal counsel. All documents and filings are maintained through his office.” I paused. “And Counselor B. Raima serves as our private representative. Attorneys Santos and Raima have worked collaboratively on a number of issues related to the estate and Hartford, Ltd.” Pausing, I looked to Penfeller to speak. He stared straight ahead at the screen. Moments passed. Penfeller cleared his throat, held out his glass, bringing one of his followers to the table’s edge to grab the pitcher and pour his boss more water.

“Is there a specific requisition order for us to review?” Joel asked. Over Joel’s shoulder I could see the tops of downtown St. Paul buildings. The state of Minnesota had so little influence over our daily lives that I felt like a national citizen living in this region.

“I believe you told Mr. Regan you would bring a requisition to Ashwood for a large agricultural harvesting machine.” Joel looked to his data pad as if checking facts. “You are aware that this particular combine is the primary asset of Hartford AgriService, Inc., and is critical for the estate region’s success in meeting government production quotas?”

The NSA representative’s lips turned into a pout as he listened. He sniffed before responding. “Our agency legal experts have reviewed the revenue stream utilized in purchase of this equipment and believe the federal government in fact owns approximately fifteen percent of this combine,” he pronounced the word as if he were talking about adding ingredients in a recipe. “Counsel, you are aware of exclusive funding arrangements between Hartford AgriServices and the Department of Energy?” Penfeller looked up at me, then refocused on the screens. “Under emergency requisition language in this nation’s deployment codes, it is our legal position that we do not need specific documentation to remove this piece of property.”

Raima, six feet, two inches of dignity and strength, rapped a data pad stylus on her desk surface. “Interesting approach. Quite clever, yet I can cite at least two dozen cases that found that argument invalid.” Doubt showed in the faces of many of Penfeller’s crew. Their eyes darted toward him, then back to the screen. “We do need to see your requisition before we formally respond. Isn’t that correct, Counselor Santos?”

“Supervisor Penfeller, just make it visible via systems, then we can have a real discussion,” Joel directed.

Penfeller repeated his frozen stare routine. As the seconds stretched, Paul gazed around the room, then raised an eyebrow my way.

“You do have a requisition?” I asked. “You didn’t bring all these people here and interrupt our work without official documentation?”