ELEVEN DAYS LEFT
The Man Nobody Answered
For nine days, Joseph Franklin had tried everything.
That was the part of the story that mattered most.
It was also the part nobody inside Hail Capital knew.
When Marcus Hail looked at the old man standing in the doorway of his executive conference room, he experienced the particular satisfaction of a man who believed he already knew how the story would end.
Joseph Franklin looked nothing like the people Marcus usually dealt with.
His jacket was brown, worn thin at the elbows, and torn slightly near the left pocket. His shoes had been polished so many times that the leather had become dull. A faded gray shirt showed beneath the jacket, and in his right hand he carried a manila folder held together by a rubber band.
Marcus sat at the head of a polished walnut table.
Around him sat six executives.
The room overlooked half of downtown.
Glass walls.
Marble floor.
Silver light fixtures.
A view worth millions.
And directly below that view stood Lammer Street.
A narrow road cutting through an older neighborhood where fourteen families were about to lose their homes.
Marcus folded his hands.
"Mr. Franklin," he said calmly, "you were told this meeting was unnecessary."
Joseph remained standing.
"I was told the meeting was impossible."
Marcus smiled.
"Same thing, practically."
"No," Joseph replied.
His voice was quiet.
"But it isn't."
One of the executives shifted impatiently.
Marcus leaned back.
"Let me make this easy for you. Hail Capital purchased the property legally. We obtained the demolition permit legally. The redevelopment plan was approved legally. The residents were given notice."
Joseph looked at him.
"Fourteen families were given eleven days."
Marcus shrugged.
"Eleven days is more than the law requires in some circumstances."
"You know they can't find apartments in eleven days."
"They'll have to."
Joseph opened the folder.
"Gloria needs four months."
Marcus's expression barely changed.
"Who?"
"Gloria Martinez. Apartment 2B."
"Mr. Franklin—"
"She's fifty-eight. She's been sober three years."
Marcus glanced toward his legal counsel.
The attorney whispered something.
Joseph continued.
"She finally has a Section 8 application moving forward. Four months. That's all she needs."
Marcus sighed.
"This isn't a charity organization."
"I know."
"Then you understand the answer."
Joseph's hand tightened around the folder.
"I wrote your corporate office three weeks ago."
Marcus looked bored.
"I know."
"I called your development office four times."
"I know."
"I attended the city council session."
"I know."
"Then why didn't anybody answer me?"
Silence.
Marcus glanced at the clock.
Because there was nothing more irritating to him than a poor man asking a question for which money had already provided the answer.
"Because," Marcus said, "there was nothing to discuss."
Joseph stared at him.
For a moment, neither man spoke.
Then Joseph placed the folder on the table.
"You should read this."
Marcus didn't touch it.
"What is it?"
"The names of the fourteen families."
"I don't need their names."
"You should."
Marcus smiled faintly.
"You think knowing their names changes the contract?"
"No."
Joseph slowly pushed the folder across the table.
"It changes what happens next."
Marcus finally looked interested.
"Is that a threat?"
Joseph shook his head.
"No."
He turned toward the door.
"It's a warning."
Marcus laughed.
Not loudly.
Just enough for everyone else in the room to smile.
Joseph walked away.
He had been called difficult.
Unreasonable.
Emotional.
Obstructive.
A troublemaker.
But nobody had called him dangerous.
Not yet.
As the elevator doors closed behind him, Joseph looked down at the old folder beneath his arm.
Inside were fourteen names.
Fourteen stories.
Fourteen reasons.
And one document he had not shown Marcus Hail.