Edward Hamilton, the senior VP, offered a quick smile in response. This was so easy. “I’m one of only ten senior VPs in the company,” he announced as if he were a finalist for Miss America. Any second he’d be blathering about world peace.
“So we got the right folks up here to talk about this GT 400?”
“Yes, you could say that.”
“And we should expect you to know a lot.”
“I think that’s a fair assumption, sir,” Hamilton answered with a loud, confident smile.
“Good, good. I was hoping GT didn’t send a coupla dunces up here.”
Hamilton chuckled. He decided a little more explanation might be helpful. “Rollins, Baggio, and I have been overseeing the GT 400 from its birth, you might say. I’d venture to say we know as much as anybody.” He smiled brightly. He should’ve said about the finances, but why waste words?
“Well, then, I’m surely delighted you’re here,” Earl announced, smiling tightly as one of his aides leaned forward and handed him a piece of paper. He adjusted his glasses and squinted at the paper for a moment. He cleared his throat, leaned into the microphone, and asked very softly, almost pleasantly, “Can any of you gentlemen tell me when you first became aware of the rollover problem?”
“I’m sorry.” Hamilton hesitated, then asked, “What problem?”
“I’m sure you heard me. The rollover problem.”
“I’m, uh, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t, huh?” Earl asked. He leaned his big bulk forward in his chair, planted his elbows, and asked, “Do you think a company that wants to sell the military a multibillion-dollar product has a responsibility to thoroughly test it?”
Hamilton by now was completely flustered. He glanced at the stooge from congressional relations for help, for advice, for a signal, anything. The stooge couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the floor. “I, uh, well-”
“This is one of those easy questions, Mr. Hamilton. Answer it.”
“Uh… why, yes. Yes, of course.”
“Thank you. Now, that didn’t hurt, did it?”
A nervous smile. “No, sir.”
“Now, if, during the course of this testing, a problem surfaces, what should the company do?”
Again Hamilton glanced anxiously down the row at the weasel from congressional relations. He was looking away; the walls of the chamber now seemed to hold his interest. After a long pause Hamilton said, “To be frank, this isn’t my area of-”
“Look at me, not him,” Earl barked. “This is my hearing after all. Do I need to repeat the question?”
“No.” Hamilton drew a deep breath and fingered a few spreadsheets. What was going on here? “I suppose it should report the problems.”
“You suppose?”
“Uh… yes, I believe it has that legal responsibility.”
Earl nodded. “So why didn’t you?” he asked in a very reasonable tone.
Unsure what this was about, Hamilton said, “I wasn’t at the testing.”
It was the wrong answer and Earl made him pay dearly for it. He lifted up a thick binder and waved it in the air like a thunderbolt he was about to stuff down the witness’s throat. “Have you seen this report?”
The question was spurious; no, of course he hadn’t seen it. Other than Earl, nobody in the room had laid eyes on it. The report-a thick compendium of charts and graphs and diagrams and tables-had only been compiled late the night before. It had been placed in Earl’s hands only that morning.
The man who prepared it, formerly a research analyst at the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety, now a hired whore at a local think tank, had labored around the clock for two weeks trying to get it right. To his dismay, the GT 400, it turned out, had an almost impossibly low center of gravity. He was forced to tinker with the computer models until a ninety-degree turn performed at 140 mph did, in fact, produce a mild tipover.
The best-designed European race car would be hurtling toward Mars long before that speed. As for the GT 400, it couldn’t surpass 60 mph if it had three rocket engines strapped to its ass.
Hamilton was squinting, trying to see what Earl was waving around. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, well, I expected you’d say that,” Earl said, rolling his eyes and glaring with contempt at this pathetic attempt to lie. “This here’s an expert report showing that the GT 400 is subject to rollover.”
Hamilton exhaled a deep breath. “I find that hard to believe.” He had no idea whether it was true or not.
“You calling me a liar, son?”
The reporters perked up and began scribbling notes-the promised entertainment had arrived.
“No, sir. It’s just I find that report-”
But Earl was already furiously waving another paper in the air. “And what about this?” he demanded, now sounding quite aggrieved. “I received this here letter from somebody in the Defense procurement office. Know why? He became incensed by what he called a big whitewash during the GT 400’s shoddy testing.” Earl was wired and on a roll; he’d managed to squeeze “incensed,” “whitewash,” and “shoddy testing” into the same sentence.
“That’s absurd.”
Another aide bent forward and handed Earl a thick stack of clippings. He grabbed them and began flinging them, one by one, on the floor in the direction of the witness table. “Know what these are?” he yelled. “Newspaper and magazine reports from the past few weeks. They detail the shoddy testing and deplorable effort by your company to hide the rollover problem.”
Hamilton’s mouth hung open. His face was red and forming the first drops of sweat; he could not stop tugging at his shirt collar. He felt as though he were suffocating. This was just so atrociously awful, so unfair. If Earl wanted to know about amortization rates or outyear repair costs, fine. But Hamilton wasn’t a vehicular engineer. Hell, aside from a few glossy photos in the company brochures, he’d never even seen a real GT 400. He tried two or three times to make that point, but Earl talked right over him as he kept flinging those damning articles in his direction like bullets.
When Earl’s hands were finally empty, he yelled, “I can’t believe you’d come in here and ask us to spend forty billion dollars on a rolling death trap.” He paused, wanting to be sure the reporters captured his pet phrase. “Forty billion. For a rolling death trap,” he repeated, again, more deliberately this time, as though the more slowly the words were pronounced, the more lethal they became.
“I’m sure we can explain those reports and that letter,” Hamilton sputtered lamely.
“Explain now. I’m listening.”
“Well… I-” This was all so humiliating; he hated Earl Belzer.
“Do you know we are at war, sir?”
“I read the papers, yes.” That glib response just popped out of his lips. He instantly regretted it.
Earl carefully removed his reading glasses and placed them on the table. “Was that crack meant to be funny?” he sneered.
“Uh, well, no,” Hamilton stammered, visibly squirming in his seat. The murderboard sessions were a limp badminton game compared to this.
“ ’Cause let me tell you something, boy. Over three thousand of our fine boys and girls have died over there. Three thousand sons and daughters slaughtered by Muslim fanatics and weirdos. Maybe that’s funny to you and your company, but not up here, Mr. Big Shot executive.”
The other thirty-four committee members were now wide awake and watching intently. Most were old pros at this game, and until this moment had reserved a fair amount of pity for poor Hamilton trapped behind that big witness table. It was all about power. Earl was both a player and the ref, free to make his own rules, free to barrage his witness with unanswerable questions, free to interrupt at will.
Hamilton never stood a chance. He was a bit player in a long, hallowed congressional prerogative to hold lopsided hearings, scold and browbeat witnesses, and never allow anyone but the members to deliver a complete or coherent thought. It was ridiculously unfair, of course. Still, Hamilton was expected to adhere to the proper decorum-behave like a slaughtered lamb, lie down, and be gracefully butchered.