Chapter 4: The Union Vote

Local 12 smelled like cigarettes, floor wax and wet wool.

Two hundred dockworkers sat on folding chairs under a flag, and not one of them looked happy to see me.

It was Friday, six o'clock, and the vote was at seven.

Suzette stood at the back with her arms crossed, in a grey coat and boots, watching the room.

"Desmond's been here since three," she said low. "Every man in the first six rows has an envelope in his jacket."

"How do you know?"

"They keep touching their pockets."

I looked.

She was right.

Up front, at the long table, my uncle sat beside the union president with a glass of water and a satisfied face.

He nodded to me.

I walked down the middle aisle, and the chairs creaked as men turned.

The question on the ballot was plain.

For ten years the Wetherill family had kept the Delaware docks quiet and the wages paid, and in exchange the union gave us a cut.

Tonight the men could vote to hand that to the Haverford family instead.

Desmond had bought the room, and Amos knew he had.

That was the trial.

I stepped up on the little stage.

The union president banged a gavel and gave me one minute.

I took the microphone off its stand.

"My name is Jonas Wetherill," I said. "Most of you know me as the guy in the tow truck."

Somebody in the third row grunted.

"Sir, in the front row. Your Ford died on Washington Avenue in the snow last January. I towed it to your brother-in-law's shop."

A grey-haired man in the front row blinked.

"You didn't charge me," he said.

"No."

"You said it was a favor."

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