Chapter 11: The Foreman's Vote

"You can't rule on your own motion," Emerson said.

"I can rule on anything in this chair," said Barnaby.

"Your mother's bylaws say the chairman never strips a seat on his own say-so."

"My mother is dead."

The room went still.

It was a cruel thing to say, and he knew it as it left his mouth.

A flush crawled up from his tie bar.

Emerson didn't move.

"I appeal the ruling," she said. "The bylaws allow any director to appeal. It needs a second."

Nobody spoke.

The three outside directors looked at their folders.

The retired comptroller kept his eyes on his hands.

Then the foreman cleared his throat.

"Second," he said.

His voice was a rasp.

Barnaby turned.

"Foreman," he said, as if to a child. "You don't want to do this."

"I want to be asked how I vote like a grown man," the old foreman said. "That's all I want."

"The appeal is seconded," Emerson said.

"Fine." Barnaby slapped the gavel. "All in favor of overturning the chair?"

Emerson raised her hand.

The foreman raised his.

The comptroller looked up, looked at Barnaby, looked at Emerson, and looked back down at his hands.

"Mr. Comptroller?" Emerson said.

"I abstain," said the comptroller, very quietly.

"Two in favor of overturning, one abstention," Barnaby's lawyer said, standing. "Four against. The ruling stands."

Emerson's jaw tightened.

She didn't argue.

She was counting too.

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