Chapter 18: The Chairman

Emerson called the special meeting herself, with the foreman and the comptroller.

At eight on Wednesday morning, Barnaby walked in with his lawyer and the gavel.

He looked like a man arriving to collect.

"Mr. Rowe," he said pleasantly, and sat in his mother's chair.

"I understand you're a person of some means."

"The escrow is still waiting on my signature, and so is my fee."

"We have an item before that," Emerson said.

She stood at the oak table with a manila folder flat under her palm.

Seven chairs were full, and the eighth, the trust's, sat empty.

Behind them, along the wall, stood fifteen dock leads and night supervisors in work jackets.

They had come in on their own time.

Nobody had invited them.

Barnaby saw them and his mustache twitched.

She opened the folder.

"Agreement for the sale of the Lindahl properties," she read.

"Between Barnaby Lindahl, individually, and S. Greer."

The room did not make a sound.

"That is a forgery," Barnaby said.

"Is it?" She slid the page down the table. "Mr. Comptroller."

The retired comptroller picked it up with two fingers.

He held it close to his glasses, and he took his time.

"I approved this man's expense reports for twenty-two years," he said at last.

"That is Barnaby's seven. He loops it at the top."

"Thank you."

Barnaby shot to his feet.

"This is a vulgar, desperate stunt. My mother was senile, and everyone knew it."

"She was not senile in June," Emerson said.

"She ran this table. She signed my payroll."

"She would have had you out of that chair in one afternoon."

"I was acting in the company's interest."

"For twelve million dollars. To yourself."

One of the outside directors, a thin man in a grey suit, cleared his throat.

"Barnaby," he said. "Did you sell the buildings?"

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