Chapter 5: Paying Wages Won Their Hearts, Then Clearing the Zimmerman Father and Son

At six-thirty in the morning, dawn had barely broken when River Lyson parked his black Audi A6 outside the rust-streaked gates of the River City No. 3 Machinery Factory. The factory was small, but it covered nearly five acres. Two drab workshop buildings stood beside a row of shabby, single-story offices. Weeds nearly waist-high pushed wildly through the cracks in the concrete yard. "Dad, sit beside me today." River Lyson opened the car door. "I'll handle what needs to be said and done." Mason Lyson opened his mouth, then merely nodded heavily. At eight o'clock, roughly thirty people stood scattered across the moss-covered concrete yard in front of the factory office. They were all longtime workers. The notice told them to come to the factory for a meeting and to settle their unpaid wages. Most wore expressions of disbelief. In those days, whenever a factory went under, didn't the workers usually end up waiting until the very end, only to receive nothing? The Lyson family had nearly been thrown out onto the street by the bank. Where could they possibly find the money to pay everyone? Still, they had nothing to lose. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance. River Lyson strode through the factory gates with the black combination-lock briefcase in hand. Mason Lyson followed behind him. Every worker's gaze landed on the briefcase. Then they looked toward the gleaming black Audi A6 parked outside the gates. The murmurs instantly grew louder. River Lyson placed the briefcase on a dusty metal table outside the office and swept his eyes across the crowd. He offered no greetings and no small talk. "I'm River Lyson, Mason Lyson's son. I called everyone here today for one reason." He reached out and clicked open the combination-lock briefcase. As the lid lifted, the early-summer sunlight slanted through a gap between the factory buildings and fell across the neatly stacked banknotes inside. The red bills gleamed harshly. The yard fell silent. More than thirty pairs of eyes locked onto the briefcase. One worker instinctively took half a step forward, then recoiled as if the money had burned him. "The factory owes everyone back wages, and I have the complete records here." River Lyson's voice was not loud, but every word struck with startling clarity. "Today, I'll settle every cent on the spot." Silence followed. It lasted seven or eight seconds. Then a thin old man in grease-stained work clothes spoke from the back of the crowd. His voice trembled with disbelief. "L-Lyson kid, are you serious? You're not making another empty promise just to string us along, are you?" "Uncle Warth." River Lyson smiled at him. "When have I ever made you an empty promise?" He took out the first stack of bills, tore away the paper band, and began counting the money one bill at a time. "Workshop director Old Zorn. Four months of unpaid wages, totaling $520." River Lyson counted out the money and slapped it onto the table. Smack! Old Zorn stood frozen for three seconds. His knees nearly gave out. With trembling hands, he took the money and counted it twice. His nose stung, and his eyes reddened on the spot. "Dalton Looske of the fitter team. Five months and thirteen days of unpaid wages, $690." Smack! "Welder Fatty Lapwood. Two months of unpaid wages, $240." Smack! One stack of cash after another landed on the tabletop. The sound was not loud, yet it rolled through every worker's ears like thunder. The atmosphere in the yard changed completely. Only moments earlier, the workers had been whispering suspiciously among themselves. Now they fell silent. One after another, they stepped forward, gave their names, collected their money, and signed for it before retreating to the side. Some crouched on the ground and counted their money again and again. Others turned away and secretly wiped their eyes. Mr. Warth stood at the very back of the line. He had worked at the factory for twenty-six years. His service record was the longest, and so were his unpaid wages. "Mr. Dexter Warth. Seven months of unpaid wages, including overtime and seniority benefits, $1,150." River Lyson pushed the money toward him. Mr. Warth stared at the stack. His callused fingers rubbed against one another again and again. Twenty minutes later, the full $14,700 in back wages had been paid out without a penny missing. The briefcase held less than half its original contents, but the way those thirty-odd workers looked at River Lyson had completely changed. River Lyson did not leave. He closed the mostly empty combination-lock briefcase, braced both hands against the edge of the table, and looked at the workers who had received their money yet still lingered. "The wage issue is settled, but there's something I must make clear in front of everyone." The warmth vanished from River Lyson's voice. The smile disappeared from his face. "Why did the factory end up like this over the past two years? Fewer orders were part of the reason, but everyone here knows the real cause better than anyone." Some workers lowered their heads. Others looked away. Not one of them spoke. River Lyson continued, "I won't list everything Victor Zimmerman did at this factory over the past two years under the title of deputy factory director." "He took kickbacks from suppliers, falsified equipment repair accounts, and sold the factory's scrap as quality materials before pocketing the difference. I know about it, and so do all of you." Silence pressed down on the yard like a slab of iron. Mason Lyson stood behind his son, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. It wasn't that he knew nothing about these things. But as a factory director bent beneath a mountain of debt, he barely had enough strength to keep his own household afloat. How could he have found the courage to tear the whole table apart? If those matters came to light, Victor Zimmerman would certainly turn around and accuse him of sharing the blame as factory director. "I know everyone was afraid to speak before." River Lyson's gaze moved from face to face. He raised a hand and patted the combination-lock briefcase behind him. Only a few thousand dollars remained inside. "But I'm here now. Anyone who stands up and testifies has my backing." No one spoke. River Lyson did not rush them. In his previous life, he saw too many scenes like this. The problem was never a lack of evidence. What they needed was the first person willing to open his mouth. He waited. Sniff. Dexter Warth sucked in a hard breath through his nose, then spat viciously onto the ground. "Damn it." The old man stepped out of the crowd. His face flushed red, and the veins in his neck stood out one by one. "In March 2000, Victor Zimmerman had his son, Leo Zimmerman, bring in a shipment of refurbished bearings from outside. They charged the factory the price of new parts and issued an invoice for $3,200." "The shipment actually cost no more than $700. The other $2,500 went straight into the pockets of the Zimmerman father and son. I have a photocopy of the original paperwork because I was the one who inspected the shipment." He turned toward Mason Lyson, his eyes red. "Factory director Lyson, it's not that we didn't want to speak up for you. That dog Victor Zimmerman threatened us last year. He said anyone who dared spread rumors would have his legs broken." The silence in the yard split open. Old Zorn of the fitter team suddenly stepped forward and shouted with his neck rigid, "And the batch of scrapped equipment last October! Those lathes were still usable, but Victor Zimmerman insisted they were junk and sold them for $2,000 to his brother-in-law's scrap yard. That lathe was in perfect condition. I watched them haul it away with my own eyes!" "Right! And the electricity bills!" Fatty Lapwood, the welder, shouted as well. "Every month, the bill was nearly fifty percent higher than the amount of electricity we actually used. Where did the extra money go? Leo Zimmerman came to the factory at the end of every month to collect his 'reimbursement funds.' Who doesn't know about that?" One person followed another. Every one of those workers in coarse uniforms, with callused hands and weathered faces, could produce one or two solid leads. They weren't empty accusations. They had original paperwork, contract copies, dates, and locations. River Lyson recorded everything point by point. By the time he finished, he had filled three pages. At two in the afternoon, River Lyson parked his Audi A6 outside the River City Economic Crime Investigation Brigade. Mason Lyson, Dexter Warth, and Old Zorn sat in the car with him. A kraft-paper envelope lay in the trunk, packed with evidence of Victor Zimmerman's Occupational Embezzlement. River Lyson went straight to a Deputy Brigade Commander Casson who was handling reception duty. The man was in his forties, with a crew cut and sharp eyes. River Lyson said only one thing. "Victor Zimmerman, deputy factory director of the River City No. 3 Machinery Factory, is suspected of Occupational Embezzlement. The conservative estimate puts the amount above $30,000. I have witnesses and physical evidence. Please review it." He pushed the kraft-paper envelope across the desk. Deputy Brigade Commander Casson's brows knitted as soon as he opened the first piece of original paperwork. When he reached the third page, he picked up the telephone and dialed an internal number. "Old Showyer, that lead you had on the machinery industry? Yes, Victor Zimmerman. Someone just brought in evidence. Bring two people over and take a look." After hearing that call, River Lyson understood. The Economic Crime Investigation Unit had not heard Victor Zimmerman's name for the first time that day. At three forty in the afternoon, Victor Zimmerman sat in the main room of his home, drinking tea. He wasn't worried. As far as he was concerned, even if the Lyson family borrowed enough money to repay the bank, the hole in the factory's finances remained bottomless. If the workers couldn't get their wages, they would cause a scene, and the factory would still have to be transferred for next to nothing. "Victor Zimmerman! Open the door!" The voice was cold and official. Victor Zimmerman set down his teacup and frowned as he walked to the door. He peered through the gap. Three vehicles stood outside. Two were white official cars. The third was a dark van. Six or seven uniformed officers stood at the entrance. The crew-cut man at the front held up a document bearing a red seal, his expression cold and unreadable. The color drained from Victor Zimmerman's face. "Victor Zimmerman, we're with the River City Public Security Bureau Economic Crime Investigation Brigade. You are being summoned under the law to answer questions concerning Occupational Embezzlement. Please cooperate." "This... This is impossible! What gives you the right... I want to make a call! I want to..." No one paid him any attention. Two plainclothes officers seized him by the arms and dragged him straight into the vehicle. At the same time, in a mahjong parlor in East City, Leo Zimmerman was caught flat-footed at the card table, a cigarette dangling from his lips as smoke curled around his head. At five-thirty that evening, River Lyson drove back to the old corridor-style apartment block. He had barely shut off the engine when Old Zorn from the factory came racing after him on a bicycle. Sweat poured down the man's face. He didn't even stop properly before shouting through the car window. "River! There's news! The Economic Crime Investigation Unit searched Victor Zimmerman's house this afternoon. They found more than $10,000 in cash in his cellar alone, along with a whole stack of forged invoices!" River Lyson leaned back in the driver's seat and lowered the window. Facing the summer evening breeze, he smiled. The Zimmerman family was done for.