Chapter Fourteen

WITHIN TWO DAYS, WORD OF THE LETTER-WRITING campaign spread through the hospital staff like a pandemic flu. Everyone caught the letter-writing bug.

James gathered names and addresses of elected officials and contact information for local and statewide newspapers, widely distributing the data.

It felt good to be doing something constructive about the pay cut instead of simply accepting the reduced income as inevitable. Evidently others felt the same way.

That evening after dinner, James sat down at Nelson’s computer to compose his own letters to members of the city council. Getting his thoughts on paper and making the problem clear was no easy task. Particularly since Nelson had insisted he only use the desk lamp to read his notes. The overhead light stayed off to save electricity.

He supposed kids could get into worse habits than saving money.

Nelson strolled into the room, his new book of Shakespeare plays in his hand. “How’s it going, Dad?”

James stared at the computer screen. “I think I should have taken classes in business communication. My letter’s getting so long, nobody’s going to read it all.”

“You ought to try using bullets. You know, make your points sharp and short, then say you’d be happy to meet with whoever if they’d like more details.”

James’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead in surprise, and he grinned. “Hey, you’re pretty smart, kid, if I do say so myself.”

Nelson shrugged nonchalantly. “What can I say? I’m a gift that keeps on giving.”

He punched his son lightly on his shoulder. “Easy, youngster. Egos that get too big are likely to get popped like a balloon if they don’t watch out.”

Nelson didn’t seem concerned. He flopped down on his bed, which hadn’t been too neatly made that morning. He’d also left a pair of dirty socks on the floor and a couple of dresser drawers weren’t closed all the way, bits of clothing sticking out.

James would make sure the room got cleaned by the time school started again.

“I’ve been thinking, Dad. I went to the mall with Joey today. His mom drove us over. The place was jammed.”

“I imagine. All those after-Christmas sales draw a big crowd.” He deleted an entire paragraph and pared the rambling thought down to one line.

“Anyway, I was thinking about all those people and how they’d feel if they knew all the nurses and technicians and stuff at the hospital were having their pay cut through no fault of their own.”

“Well, I’d hope they’d feel concern about it even if their pocketbooks have been hit by the recession too. We need the public’s support if this is going to work.”

“So how are they going to hear about it?”

James turned toward his son. “We’re hoping to get a letter to the editor in the newspaper. They could read about it.”

“Not everybody reads a newspaper,” Nelson said.

“True.” He hadn’t thought that far ahead. How would the employees garner public support? “What are you thinking?”

Sitting up, Nelson swung his feet over the edge of the bed. “I think you ought to organize a protest against the pay cuts. You know, employees marching up and down with signs, talking to patients and families as they arrive and waving at passing cars.”

“If you’re thinking about us calling a strike, I don’t think many of the staff members would go for that. Our job is to help people get well, not walk out on them.”

“No, not a strike. A protest, or maybe call it a demonstration. You could call the TV stations and newspapers, get reporters to cover the story. Protests provide great visuals that catch people’s attention. That’d be a lot more effective than just writing letters.”

James gave the idea some serious thought. “We wouldn’t want to disrupt patient services.”

“Do it during lunch hour. Swing-shift workers could come in early, and the graveyard shift could stick around for a few hours.”

A trickle of excitement jump-started his adrenaline. “Hmm, we could picket from eleven in the morning until two in the afternoon. That would allow all the shift workers to participate.”

Nelson nodded his agreement.

“Can’t picket on hospital property, though. That would be trespassing, I think.” James speared both hands through his hair. He’d never considered, much less organized, a demonstration of any kind. “It’d have to be on the public sidewalk.”

“Do you need a city permit?”

“I don’t think so. You need those for parades.”

Brightening, Nelson said, “Yeah, you could have a parade. Would that be cool, or what? I could lead the parade.” He hopped up from his chair and proceeded to march around the room, his arm held high as though he carried a picket sign. He quoted from Shakespeare, “‘Up and down, up and down, I will lead them up and down. I am feared in field and town—’”

“That would be an ‘or what,’ son. Let’s not get carried away.” Could he and his friends and fellow employees pull off a successful demonstration?

More importantly, could they pull it off without getting themselves fired? Or arrested?

“You know, I like your idea. But instead of a protest or demonstration, why don’t we call it a Public Awareness Campaign? We just want folks to know how a pay cut could send our best nurses and doctors to Chicago.”

Nelson plopped down on his bed and opened his book. “Sure. That would work.”

The following day, James called another lunchtime meeting at the Corner. It seemed better to discuss the issues away from the hospital, not on the premises.

Once they were seated and had placed their orders with Lindy, James explained his idea. Or rather, Nelson’s idea with his own modification.

“You want me to carry a picket sign?” Anabelle asked, clearly concerned by the plan. “As a nursing supervisor, I’m part of management.”

“Not a picket sign like in a strike,” James told them. “We’re not going to block the driveways or interfere in any way with patient services. We’re just trying to make the public aware of the problems we’re having at Hope Haven, what effect the pay cut will have on the community, and what people can do to help support the hospital.”

“I don’t know…” Anabelle shook her head. She looked a little tired, and James wondered if the puppy was still keeping her awake nights.

“As long as we’re not doing anything illegal,” Candace said, “or interfering with patients and visitors, I like the idea.”

Lindy delivered their lunches. James had ordered a corned-beef sandwich with coleslaw. Before his first bite, he spread a generous amount of mustard on the meat.

After a few minutes, Elena asked, “So how soon do you think we can stage this protest?”

“Let’s call it a Public Awareness Campaign,” he said. “It doesn’t sound so confrontational.”

Elena and Anabelle nodded in agreement.

“Better wait until after the first of the year,” Anabelle suggested. “A lot of people are on vacation this week.”

James agreed. Besides, it would take a few days to recruit and schedule employees to man the picket line and to notify the press.

“How about the first Wednesday in January? That’s a week from today,” Candace suggested. “Schools are back in session starting Monday, so everyone should be back from vacation.”

Next Wednesday evening was Nelson’s performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. That shouldn’t be a conflict.

Assuming James wasn’t arrested for inciting a riot and locked up, unable to attend.

A frown still furrowed Anabelle’s forehead. “I’m a little concerned how Mr. Varner is going to take this, even if we call it public awareness. I don’t want anyone to get in trouble, and I truly believe he’s doing what he thinks is best for Hope Haven.”

“If we stay on public property, the sidewalk,” James said, “we don’t need his permission.”

“I’m not talking about asking permission. I just don’t think we ought to drop a bomb like this on him without at least letting him know what we’re doing and why.”

Chewing thoughtfully, James nodded and swallowed. “I can talk to him. We get along pretty well. But let’s wait to see if the rest of the employees will go along with the idea. No need to get Varner in a sweat if we can’t pull this off.”

That seemed to relieve some of Anabelle’s concerns.

“What about the police?” Candace asked. “If they hear there’s a riot going on at Hope Haven, they’ll come roaring in with their sirens blaring.”

Elena shook her salad fork in Candace’s direction. “Good point. I’ll talk to Chief O’Hanlon and take Cesar with me.”

“You’re sure he’ll do that, talk to the chief?” Candace asked.

Elena grinned and stabbed a shrimp in her salad. “He will if he doesn’t want to be eating frozen dinners for a full month. In the backyard.”

Anabelle laughed, and James nearly choked on a fork full of coleslaw. He figured Elena would make good on the threat if she needed to.

When they settled down again, Candace asked, “Are we all supposed to make our own signs?”

“Oh, I’ve got an idea!” Elena piped up.

James groaned. “I hope this one doesn’t require a Heimlich maneuver to get me breathing again like your last smart comment.”

She elbowed him in the ribs. “We need to have a sign-painting meeting and invite all the employees. We’ll buy a bunch of poster board and marking pens and get some sticks. Those who can come can paint their own signs, and we’ll paint some with generic slogans for others who can’t make it to the party. You know, something like Supporting Our Hospital = Good Medicine.”

“Cameron probably has a source for sticks that would work. He uses them to prop up shrubs or tree branches that start drooping.”

“I can ask the pastor at Good Shepherd if we can use the social room the Monday evening before our protest,” James said, troubled that the meeting would take him away from Fern one more evening. “I could probably get one of my boys to come help too.” He’d ask the other boy to stay home with Fern.

“That would also be a good time to brief everyone that this is supposed to be a peaceful protest—awareness campaign,” Anabelle said, correcting herself. “You know how sometimes fist-fights break out on a picket line.”

That would certainly not be the kind of TV or newspaper visual James had in mind to build public sentiment in their favor.

The ideas came fast and furious until the lunch hour had sped by. They divvied up the check, left the money on the table for Lindy and hurried back across the street to the hospital.

By the end of his shift, it was obvious Hope Haven employees were as enthusiastic as James about staging an awareness campaign. He sought out team leaders from various departments and all three shifts to coordinate their units in a way that wouldn’t impact patient services.

Then he made an appointment for the next day with Albert Varner to apprise him of their plans, surprised he was able to get in to see the CEO on New Year’s Eve.

At the appointed time on Thursday, Penny Risser, Varner’s executive assistant, ushered James into the hospital CEO’s office, and he sat in one of the two leather guest chairs in front of Varner’s desk. A new potted plant sat on the corner of the desk, no doubt a gift from Penny and her green thumb.

As usual, Varner looked the epitome of an executive in a dark suit and tie. In contrast, James wore his green hospital scrubs, his professional uniform.

Varner didn’t look pleased to see James. He rested his elbows on his walnut desk and tented his fingers under his chin. His brows were lowered into a frown, his lips thinned.

“I’ve been hearing rumors that there’s a big walkout scheduled for next week. Are you behind that, James?”

“It’s not a walkout, sir. In fact we’re being very careful not to do anything that will disrupt hospital services, which is why we wanted to let you know what we’re doing and why. Our goal is to gain support for the hospital. We’re also concerned that pay cuts will hurt morale and cause some of our most skilled employees to look elsewhere for jobs that pay better. That wouldn’t be good for Hope Haven or Deerford.” James slid an outline of their proposed campaign across the desk to Varner.

While the CEO read the outline, James glanced around the office. One wall featured photographs of Varner shaking hands with virtually every politician in the state from Deerford’s current mayor to the governor. Everybody was smiling.

Nobody had a check in their hand.

Varner slid the outline to the side of his desk. “I don’t think the board of directors is going to like the idea of you and your friends making a public issue of this. It’s bad PR for the hospital.”

“They’ll like it fine if we actually achieve our goal.”

Leaning back in his chair, Varner rubbed his chin. “You do understand I’ve approached every funding source I could identify. We’re in a very difficult economy. The story I get is that times are hard. Money is in short supply across the board. Maybe next year. But the hospital can’t wait that long. We had to take action.”

“Maybe when they see 150 loyal hospital employees talking about the impact on hospital services, and the community at large, they’ll think differently.”

Varner paled. “That many will show up?”

“From what I can tell, the whole staff is going to take a turn on the picket line.” He’d also sent e-mails to several newspapers and TV stations in addition to the letters to the editor the employees had sent. So far he hadn’t heard back from any of them. If they didn’t get TV coverage, the impact of the protest would be far less.

Shaking his head, Varner said, “The board isn’t going to like the whole staff taking part.”

“I suppose if the board reversed your decision to cut salaries, we might be able to stop the campaign. But I have to tell you, everybody’s fired up to do this. There’s a lot of energy behind this movement. It would take some pretty strong assurances from the board to get them to back down.”

“Very well.” Varner stood and so did James. “You’ve notified me of your plans, and I appreciate the courtesy. We’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”

James thanked him for his time and they shook hands. He didn’t leave Varner’s office with a good feeling, though.

His skin crawled and a knot formed in his stomach at the thought the CEO would pass on word about the protest to the board of directors. He’d have to, it was his job. He reported to the board and served at their discretion.

In a way, so did James.

No matter that his intentions, and those of the others involved, were to help Hope Haven and the larger community.

He could be summarily fired.

So could the others.

He slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor. He needed to check on a new patient, a hip replacement. The poor woman had been in a lot of pain earlier.

When he reached the nurses’ station, Anabelle called him over.

“You’ve got a phone call,” she said. “A reporter from the Deerford Dispatch.”

James licked his lips and swallowed hard. The ball had started rolling. There was no turning back now.