Down the Brink Page 4

  “Understood. I prefer three years. A lot can change on both sides. We can reevaluate things then.”

  “As you wish. I’ll have our lawyer send you the revised contract later today.” Walters rose and offered his hand.

  Bill smiled and shook his hand. Good deal. He could likely manage the occupancy targets in the near term without resorting to any unpopular legislation. That would get him through the next election cycle, and that’s what mattered most right now. Then he’d have another full term to figure out what to do about the next GSI contract extension.

  Lyndon would be proud.

  CHAPTER 7

  Third Monday in May, 2021

  Washington, D.C.

  “So, tell me. What are we celebrating—and at the Stratford Club, no less?” Steve Bixby raised an eyebrow as well as his scotch and water. “All this leather and mahogany. I feel a little out of my element.”

  Ed Walters smiled. He couldn’t have asked for a better CFO. Steve knew when to spend, when to be frugal. And as an ex-cop, he understood GSI’s operations from all angles. He appreciated that prisoners were a commodity that fed their business model, not the other way around. Not like that last CFO. Way too soft. Last time they’d hire someone without prior law enforcement or military background.

  Ed raised his glass, then paused a moment to prolong the suspense. “LaRoux signed the contract extension.” He took a sip, relishing the smoky flavor of the Yamazaki Single Malt. Only the best for tonight. That new contract—and others like it—would boost revenues like never before.

  Steve’s eyes widened. “Wow. How’d you do it? I thought for sure he’d balk at the new occupancy terms—and those penalties.”

  “Oh, he looked like he’d just swallowed the wrong end of a skunk when he read through that part, but he knew he had no choice. So much of Texas’s economy relies on GSI, he’d be cutting his own throat if he didn’t somehow find a way to make it work. He did ask for a three-year extension, rather than five, though.” He chuckled. “I’m sure that’s to accommodate his election cycle. That’s fine. Means we can raise the rates again that much sooner. And he won’t be in any better position to argue than he is now.”

  Steve took a sip of his drink. “Now that’s leverage.”

  “Damned straight. Now. How do we increase GSI’s profit margin?”

  “What do you mean? All the financial ratios are already way above average, and now with that new contract—”

  “I’m sure there’s somewhere we can cut and do even better.”

  Steve stared down into his glass and scowled. “Let’s see. Off the top of my head…well, medical’s one of the larger cost categories. Salaries, not so much equipment. Staff’s present around the clock, just in case an inmate needs care after hours.”

  Ed signaled the server to bring another round. “That sounds like something ripe for trimming. I suspect most care can be handled during business hours. Anything after hours can be outsourced—just call a frickin’ ambulance. That’s what they’re for.”

  “Well, the facilities tend to be pretty far from the nearest town. Could create a delay in a real emergency.”

  Ed waved a dismissive hand. “So? And who’s going to complain? The inmates get everything else handed to them. Access to on-site medical care during business hours is good enough.”

  “Makes sense to me. After all, it’s prison, not a spa. Previous management set up ’round-the-clock medical coverage some years back. It’ll take a little work to undo—layoffs, severance pay, and the like—but it can be done.”

  “Great. Do the numbers and let me know what you come up with.”

  “Will do. I’m sure that cut—and the new contract with LaRoux—will put our profit margin straight through the roof. Imagine what it’ll do to GSI’s share price.”

  Ed took another sip of his drink and leaned back in the plush leather booth. “Yes, imagine that.”

  It would be a good year for GSI. A record-breaking year.

  CHAPTER 8

  Friday before Memorial Day, 2021

  Elias, Texas

  Tom DeNiro left the engine—and more importantly, the air conditioning—running as he clipped the ID badge onto his lapel. He glanced around from the chilled safety of his rental car. Only late May, and check out those heat ripples rising from the parking lot asphalt. The compound looked like the polar opposite of a desert oasis: a baking hell-hole, a festering boil of concrete and razor wire. And human baggage. Tom shook his head. He wasn’t sure which looked more inhospitable, the prison itself or the parched wasteland surrounding it.

  He sighed, thinking of all the prison sites across the country he would have to visit before this was over. Walters decided to cut medical staff across the board, and he got to be his messenger boy, breaking the news, explaining the logistics. Sometimes being the head of HR was not worth the pay.

  Tom checked his watch and shut off the engine. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could head back to the airport and fly home to D.C. Lucky him, having to travel for business the day before a holiday weekend. And in this heat.

  “Please, have a seat.” Dr. Todd Maharis, Medical Director of the Elias facility, lowered his bulk into his chair and folded his puffy hands on the desk. “We don’t often get visits from headquarters—especially from HR.” He scowled. “Something tells me this isn’t going to be good news.”

  Tom took a seat in the threadbare guest chair. He’d been none too thrilled when they hired Maharis a couple of years ago. He’d just lost an ugly malpractice suit and likely would never again find a job at any reputable hospital or practice. But at least he had experience leading a full medical staff in a small hospital setting. In that way, he was the perfect candidate—and he was willing to take the job. Something no unblemished doctor would do, especially for the salary they offered.

  Maharis’s office reflected Tom’s impression of the man’s character. Papers lay helter-skelter on the desk, on the floor. A bookshelf stood against the far wall, bearing carelessly shelved medical books caked with dust. God only knew what the treatment rooms and surgery looked like. But Maharis did know how to keep costs down.

  “You probably won’t much like what I have to say, no.”

  Maharis pursed his lips. “Well, get on with it, then.”

  Tom cleared his throat. “You’ve done an admirable job of keeping expenses down—maybe even more so than any of our other medical directors. But our investors are looking for more return, and so management wants to trim some costs.”

  “Like what? All our major equipment—like the X-ray machine—is at least twenty years old and in need of replacement. We already autoclave and reuse disposables, like syringes and gloves, to try to save some money. Really, we’re running as tight as we can.”

  “On equipment and supplies, I agree. But you staff shifts twenty-four-seven.”

  Maharis folded his arms across his chest. “Well, of course. The inmates are here twenty-four-seven. Besides, we’re in the middle of nowhere, in case you didn’t notice. If there’s an emergency, there simply isn’t time to have someone drive in.”

  “It’s the personnel costs we’re looking to reduce. Salaries have been creeping up and we need to reduce that line item.”

  “Are you talking pay cuts? It’s all I can do to keep the staff I have, with what we pay. We’re so isolated, everyone has a hideously long commute.”

  “No, not pay cuts. A major reduction in the hours of operation. Business hours, Monday through Friday.”

  Maharis slapped his palms on his desk. “Are you kidding? No one on duty when some inmate gets sick in the night?”

  “They can call for a guard. If it’s a real emergency, the guard can call 911 and get help from the next town over. We pay plenty of taxes in this county, let’s make use of them.”

  “But even so, the time it would take for emergency responders to get here—”

  Tom shrugged. “How often do you have a real emergency during off-hours?”

 
; “Well, not very often, but when we do—”

  “The guards are all trained in first aid. It’s not worth the expense for the occasional real emergency. You’re running three shifts a day, seven days a week. It’s a huge waste.” Tom stood. “You decide who stays and who goes, as long as it’s done by the end of June. I’ll leave it to you to break the news and reorganize things as you see fit.”

  Maharis stood, but did not offer his hand. “What can I tell them about severance pay and other logistics?”

  “I’ll email you the policy when I get back to the office. There’s a chart: weeks of severance ties to years with the company.” He gave a nod. “Thank you for your time. Let me know which staff you decide to cut, and I’ll get their separation packages ready.”

  “Thanks so much.”

  Maharis dropped back down into his chair and put his face in his hands. What the everlasting fuck just happened? He’d had nothing but good words from headquarters about his unit’s financials. Not a hint, not a word that his costs were too high. And he’d been so patient! Sure, he asked for new equipment whenever he got headquarters’ attention. But they never approved any, and he and his staff just kept making do.

  And now they wanted him to provide medical care for an entire prison full of inmates on a straight business-hours schedule. Really? Even if no one died from a middle-of-the-night emergency, how the hell would he handle all the medical needs during just business hours? They might end up spending in overtime at least part of what they planned to save by cutting the other shifts.

  Either that, or they’d have to figure out a new paradigm for treatment. Cut the average visit time to the bone. Drop preventive visits and hope for the best.

  Growling with rage, Maharis swept his arm across his desk, clearing it in one swift movement. He’d arranged things so well. The place nearly ran itself, and he was just there for the odd question. Now he’d have to rethink and rework everything from scratch.

  He didn’t need this pain in the ass. Not at his salary. How much profit was enough for these people that they had to throw his entire operation into chaos like this?

  Too bad he couldn’t just quit and leave them to figure it out themselves. But that wouldn’t happen anytime soon. His salary was being garnished as it was to pay off his lawyers. And it probably would be for a very long time.

  He took out a pad of paper and a pencil and started making a list.

  CHAPTER 9

  First Monday in June, 2021

  Los Lobos, California

  Zach Winters slammed on the brakes and pounded his fists on the steering wheel.

  “Shit!”

  Fifteen minutes—and counting—just to get through this one intersection! Traffic finally started to move, but the car in front of him poked along, slow enough to make him miss the light. He glared at the parade of cross traffic that now clogged the intersection. Looked like it’d be another hour-and-a-half commute home. For eight lousy miles.

  The drive had gotten noticeably worse in the last few months. Too many people trying to get around in too dense a space. Whatever happened to the concept of the virtual workplace? You’d think of all places, Los Lobos would embrace the idea. But no…most of the major employers liked to have their people physically come to work most days, so they could create some artificial sense of teamwork and friendship.

  Friendship. What a joke. He had nothing in common with his coworkers and never would. Anyone who could genuinely get excited about working for GSI had nothing in common with him. And those who could successfully fake that enthusiasm, well, they were just liars.

  Zach drummed his fingers on the wheel while he fumed, wishing death and destruction on every driver around him. He had to find a new job—and soon. For the sake of his sanity. But with that rent, he’d better not quit without having something new lined up. How perfect for the employers out here—with demand for apartments what it was, everyone was a wage slave, whether they wanted to admit it to themselves or not.

  To get his mind off work, he’d found himself escaping more and more into playing that damned MoonPop. The more he played the better he got—and the more he wanted to play. Addictive thing, it was. Amazing it was still free. Surely the manufacturer could charge for it and make a bundle. Why they didn’t, he had no idea. And how did they make money without ads?

  After a glacial age, the light turned green again. Zach took a quick glance from side to side to make sure no one was running a red from the other way, then gunned it so hard his tires squealed as he tore out into the intersection. Finally. He was anxious to get home, nuke something fast for dinner, and do some job hunting online. And then play some MoonPop to take his mind off the fact that he’d have to get up and do it all again tomorrow morning.

  He settled back into his seat as the traffic congestion finally eased, then tried to envision what nuke-worthy stuff he had stashed in the freezer. Unplanned overtime was a fact of life, so his food-shopping habits were pretty hit-and-miss. When did he last go shopping, anyway?

  A car zipped by in his peripheral vision, passing on the left and cutting in front of him with hardly any space to spare. Zach clenched the steering wheel in both hands as the asshole in the fancy Tesla shot out ahead of him.

  Something seemed to overtake him, something more than the adrenaline of the close call. Nothing else existed but the shiny red Tesla in front of him. Zach stomped the accelerator, pushing his RAV4 as hard as he could.

  The Tesla suddenly zoomed into the opposite lane, neatly passing the car in front of it and speeding away. Zach came up on the slower car’s rear end way too fast. He slammed the brake pedal, slowing just enough to avoid ramming the guy’s bumper.

  He glanced to his right. Clear. He swerved into a strip mall parking lot, rolled into a space and killed the engine. Trembling, he rested his forehead on the steering wheel, closed his eyes, and hoped the feeling in his stomach wasn’t what he thought it was.

  It was. He flung open the car door, leaned over, and puked all over the asphalt. Beads of sweat trickled down his temples as he hung his head, waiting to make sure it was over. He spat on the ground, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and drew in a deep breath as he tried to get a grip.

  What the hell just happened? No one liked being cut off, but he’d never reacted like that before. Like someone else inside him had taken over for a few dangerous moments. He leaned back in his seat, closed the door, and wiped his sweaty palms on his pant legs.

  Better take the back way home. It would take longer, but at least there’d be fewer cars to deal with. Fewer chances for something like this to happen again. Then he’d be home, safe and alone.

  Zach shook his head. Maybe this job was messing up his mind more than he realized. Better get out before he became some kind of violent criminal himself. Wouldn’t that be ironic?

  CHAPTER 10

  Third Friday in June, 2021

  Elias, Texas

  Dr. Todd Maharis locked his office door from the inside, silent as a thief. If anyone came looking for him, they’d think he left for the day and leave him the hell alone. Should have just taken the day off and avoided the whole scene. Stupid not to, but it was too late now.

  He rubbed his aching lower back as he hobbled back to his desk to wait it out. The stress of the last few weeks was catching up with him. He reached into the top drawer for his bottle of muscle relaxants. Better take some before his damned back seized up entirely. That’d be the last thing he needed on top of everything else.

  After that visit from GSI’s HR stooge, he hunkered down with his list of staff and struggled with just how to plan the executions. He knew perfectly well if he didn’t do it, someone else would. Someone who might like to see him get cut if he didn’t play ball. So he figured—as much as he resented being forced to make any cuts—he had no choice but to get it done any way he could.

  And coming up with the reductions had been like trying to jam twenty pounds of shit into a five-pound bag. It took quite a large staff—d
octors, nurses, orderlies, and what-not—to cover three shifts a day and also provide ample coverage for vacations and sick days. If anything, he’d probably been a little overstaffed, truth be told. But he never could turn down a fellow provider who’d been the victim of some dissatisfied patient out for revenge because they didn’t like how their treatment or surgery turned out. There were so many patients like that, it really took the joy out of practicing medicine. He should know.

  First, he tried whittling by seniority, thinking he could reduce the budget quicker by focusing on those who were higher up the pay scale. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it that way. The older doctors would be the ones least likely to land on their feet after a layoff. Then he thought maybe he could cut based on performance—but he’d been too busy to keep up with periodic reviews, so there was nothing in most of the personnel files that could help there.

  After considering and discarding several possible approaches, Todd finally conceded he’d have to cut the majority of his staff to fit the new model anyway. No point in trying to find some nominally objective criteria. So he made a list of the staff he most enjoyed working with. They stay, the rest go. Let HR sort it out if anyone complained. They’d given him a near-impossible task with barely any support. Screw ’em.

  And now the day had come. The last day for those on the layoff list, and the end of twenty-four-seven coverage. By five o’clock today, everyone would go home. And only a handful would return by eight-thirty Monday morning. He hoped none of the inmates had an after-hours emergency after today, but it wouldn’t be his problem in any event. The guards had been instructed to administer whatever first aid they could and call 911 if that didn’t do the job.

  Todd took a deep breath and reached down to massage his lower back. The meds had started to kick in, easing the pain and tension and mellowing him out a little. Nice to have easy access to drugs when he needed them, no questions asked. Had to be some perks to this job, after all.