Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 (6 page)

The NSA agent touched his flag pin as if expecting a nanochip might spew out the necessary forms. His team shuffled. Under the table I activated a security alarm as the mood in the room changed.

“You are disloyal Americans, questioners of the agency at the center of maintaining the security of our beloved country,” Penfeller said, each word shooting like corn from a silo blower. “All that you have and eat and wear come from the bounty of this great nation. I will report your acts of questioning what has been deemed necessary for preserving the peace of our land and the world. Others will know that Ashwood is not a trustworthy name.”

Paul stood. I extended a hand and signaled for him to return to his chair, but this odd man had touched serious emotions in my father-in-law.

“You have no idea where you are speaking those damn insinuations, sir.” Paul’s voice could be heard above Penfeller’s final rumbling of pseudopatriotic words. “My son lost his first wife in service to this government. My brother-in-law served in Afghanistan and lost his life. I have a son who is in the U.S. Marines, following in my footsteps. This young woman,” he pointed his large weathered hand my way, “this woman feeds thousands, employs hundreds, and works like a dog to improve the lives of every child and adult who spends time at Ashwood. And as you acknowledged earlier, she made the sacrifice of being a surrogate.” He pointed at Penfeller. “For all we know, you might be a thief in a fancy costume.”

“Paul, enough.” I knew my father-in-law could hold the floor for a significant time when driven by emotion, particularly patriotic emotion.

“Supervisor Penfeller, I’ll give you fifteen minutes following this conference.” Joel spoke as an attorney in serious cross-examination. “Either produce the requisition document that brought you to Ashwood or have your superiors be in contact with me with full explanation of what appears to be agency incompetency if not worse.” His eyes followed Penfeller. “If I find that the paperwork is in the least out of order, you will be the first person for whom I issue summons. This is a serious matter, far beyond patriotism. Our government is here to serve and protect our citizens, not threaten or steal from them.”

“We serve the same leaders, Counselor Santos.” Penfeller faced the screen, watched Joel’s face like a person unfamiliar with distance conference capabilities. “I assure you we have common goals.”

“I’m directing you to leave Ashwood’s expanded perimeter now. No waiting for transports, no parking outside the gates.” Joel tapped his pencil on his desk as he spoke. “Call your workers outside the fence and tell them to back off.”

Turning away from the screen, Penfeller walked from the room. With a twist of his fingers he beckoned his crew to follow. Outside the conference room, Ashwood’s own security staff lined the hall to close ranks as the NSA people left the building.

Closing the door, I returned to our legal counsel. “It sounds like you uncovered something about this requisition process after my call.”

“NSA is in fact rounding up various pieces of equipment from federal estates for an undisclosed military intervention.” His body language suggested we move on to other issues. “Let’s talk at five-thirty about the youth reassignment program.” Not smiling, Joel looked at me. “Before then, follow the link I’m sending about the issue.” His screen darkened.

“I’ve forwarded some thoughts about how Ashwood could benefit from this initiative as well as strategies for minimizing what could be extremely costly to your business.” Raima grabbed the opportunity, typical of lawyers who acted as if they cared about your dollars. “You’re behind the curve on this one, Anne. The first filings are due in three days, and significant analysis is required behind each part of the report. I’d make it your priority.” She checked a data pad. “I’ve got time tomorrow at three I’ll set aside to review anything your business analysts generate. Good luck.”

As her screen darkened, I turned to Paul. “Why haven’t we been on top of this urban deployment program?”

He looked at me as a father might, a look of empathy underneath his scold. “You’ve had many issues on your desk and all of Phoebe’s difficulties. Magda and I tried talking about this with you last week, but bringing in the crops posed more immediate problems.” He stood, squeezed my shoulder. “We’ll get on it right away and have something ready for you after lunch.” He winked. “You do remember lunch?”

For seven years, through births and deaths, from near financial ruin to great success, I managed this place. But now, something outside my control, somewhere in the giant of our government, put a hazy dimmer over the vision I had for Ashwood. Plentiful food grew in the greenhouses and fields, but people were hungry in the cities. We could provide work, but not find workers. I sensed forces were pulling strings on a far bigger stage, some that might threaten Ashwood, our finances and our family’s security.

“Yes, I remember lunch and that I missed eating it with the kids.” I stood as well. “I’ll have the kitchen send something to my office and do as counsel directs.”

Chapter Seven

Raima’s information packet could cause riots in the wrong hands in any metropolitan area. As domestic agricultural production approached the highest level in a decade with a stable population, diplomats felt free to use food supplies as currency. Still shy of domestic capability to provide adequate food for every U.S. citizen, politicians watched this trend like mouse-starved hawks. A rumble in the media about possible domestic food shortages could send people to hording first, then to the streets. The promise of full cupboards and jobs brought the Median party to the White House. News that the promise had been brokered away could be catastrophic.

If there were dots to connect that could solve the pending crisis, I was clueless. More than clueless, I felt threatened. The government demanded the majority of what Ashwood produced to stabilize consumer markets. We sold a smaller portion privately to support our business. The rest of what we grew fed our family, workers, staff and day laborers. Ashwood attracted the best day laborers because we provided two solid meals a day instead of one. I could not control diplomats, but I would fight to keep Ashwood viable and all its people fed.

Hours before the call with Joel I brought my team together. Chief Engineer and Security Manager Lao, Head Teacher Jason, Cook Jeremiah, and Business Manager Andre arrived within minutes of each other, all looking as if they carried the heavy burdens of this unusual harvest season. Magda and Paul placed their protective hats and shirts on an empty chair. We filled our water glasses. I watched Magda and Andre silently bow their heads before taking a first sip and respected their thankfulness for this key resource.

“Thank you for changing your schedules.” Andre nodded, the others continued to settle into their chairs. “We have less than two days to respond to the youth redeployment initiatives. I don’t know why this critical matter slipped between the cracks of our team, but we’ll talk about that another day. Right now I want us to use our time in building a defensive response.”

If anyone in the room had a tendency to pointing fingers that would be Magda. If anyone on the team was usually anal about keeping everyone on task, that role fell on Andre. Magda appeared agitated, Andre bristly. I waited for either of them to protest before beginning my assessment of our situation.

“Ashwood and Giant Pines have thirty residential workers ranging in age from six to sixteen. We also employ roughly twenty community youth workers whom we feed two meals a day and educate in the estate’s school.” I turned on the room screens so data covered the walls—wages, meals per day served to child workers and adult laborers, educational costs analyzed by residence status of child, as well as incidental expenses like clothing, transportation, and medical care. “Andre, what is our average expense per residential worker compared to expenses of a day worker?” I asked as the data continued to build.

“Residential workers run approximately three times the expenses of a full-time day worker regardless the age of the child.” His voice still carried a slight French accent from growing up in Cameroon. “We absorbed five new residential workers in the past eight months, so that pushed our housing capacity to its limit. Additional residential workers require capital investment in new dormitory spaces. We’re also required by the local government to keep the estate school open to our regular day laborers’ children or we’ll lose funding for a half-time teacher.” He waited for people to read through the data. “Jason can tell us more about the school.” Ignoring that some of his peers had not been involved, Andre opened a new topic. “At least the DOE grant kids would bring a teacher and their own housing.”

Puzzled faces turned to me. “We used regular business information to respond to a DOE request to house a gifted student’s special school. They’ve bundled this program under a series of grants with handsome financials and a lot of spiffs. Because of timing, Jason, Andre, and I responded. Ashwood would have to accept up to ten students. There is lots of upside—the school is totally self-funding with positive public relations for Ashwood.” Heads nodded, returned to Andre’s data.

“Have you worked up the financials on the costs of building dorm space and school changes for the urban initiative?” I asked Andre. A few lines of numbers caught my attention where something about cost per meal and vendor expenses contradicted my historical understanding. “Jeremiah, something about our food costs is off. If you remove the new residential workers, these numbers have increased almost thirty-five percent in the past five months after standard inflation. With use of the kitchen garden produce. The numbers should be lower. What’s going on?”

“These numbers are different from those I circulated yesterday,” Andre interjected. “That can’t be. I approved the final reports this morning.”

With less than two hours until the call with counsel, work stopped. “We don’t have time to isolate the problem, Andre.” He didn’t look up as I spoke. “Could we use your old projected financials and put someone onto looking at the problems in this report?”

“I need ten minutes,” Andre said as he stood up. “A subset of these numbers have to be filed with our youth redeployment application, so we need to get to the bottom of the situation. Talk through other sections of the program while I’m gone.”

“Here’s where I’d like to focus while Andre’s gone.” I redirected the team, knowing a short break would draw them into production issues. “The preliminary government recommendation is that Ashwood absorb up to ten residential workers while we retain existing day laborer and worker numbers.” I paused as the team took in that information. “That means adding significant expense with no assistance.”

Lao, his logic and calmness always critical to our proceedings, put up his hand—a quirky habit he had never shed while sitting at the management table. I nodded toward him.

“Timing is everything. If these kids arrive for the harvest, we could use temporary quarters without a housing variance. Once harvest is complete, we do not have space, beds, or other facilities to meet Bureau of Human Capital Management domestic worker requirements. Taking on that kind of building could put jeopardize Ashwood’s profitability.”

Like many small businesses, we used private financing for major expenditures. The past two years Hartford, Ltd., had been totally self-sufficient and even the thought of dealing with debt management both bothered and distracted me.

“In operations, we have no capability to train that many kids.” Magda looked my way and paused. I pulled out of my own thoughts to pay attention. “As we boost greenhouse growing, there’s just no place for untrained young workers. I’m reading that this program will focus on older urban kids with spotty work histories. These are the ones more likely to bring knives and drugs and a whole lot of problems. Ashwood isn’t set up to be some kind of attitude boot camp for troubled kids.”

“I hear these kids might not be so good in school, either,” Jeremiah added. “We had a cook networking session this morning. Lots of talk about this youth deployment program bringing big problems out to the country.”

“Are they sending out kids who should be going to detention farms?” Paul’s question quieted us. “Anyone know why these kids have spotty work histories? I hear about meaningless metro assignments like scrubbing sidewalks or sorting materials at the recycling centers. Some of these kids might be too bright to stay with that kind of work. Some might be thugs. I’d like to know more about their profiles.”

“You’ll be our key player if any of these kids land here, Paul. You do well with the older guys.” I let the conversation rest for a few seconds, wished there was time to talk one-on-one with the team about this challenge.

“I hear three themes coming through—there are significant unfunded costs to this program as well as a negative impact on our involvement with our local community.” I brought the discussion back to where we started. “Finally, even if we were assigned well-trained kids, we don’t have the work, the facilities, or the resources to assure their success here.” I looked around the table, saw agreement. “So how do we build our case?”

“We use the Bureau’s labor ratios as a start,” Magda suggested. “We point to Ashwood’s past willingness to accept kids with educational needs.” She shrugged, a sage manager who had learned through trial and error how to work with a wide range of young people. “We’ve been a friggin’ pilot site for school programs since Jason arrived. No one can say this estate has walked away from helping kids.”