An hour later, Georgia was seated in Dispatch Supervisor Marianne Hofstader’s office at near one of the loading docks at Jefferson Medical. It wasn’t much more than a large cubicle, which surprised Georgia. She’d expected the supervisor to have a more spacious office with real windows, a door, and a mic on her desk with the ability to talk to anyone at any time. That’s what she recalled about Dispatch when she was on the village police force. Georgia also remembered a blackboard crammed with schedules, shift times, cross-outs, and other names filled in. Now, though, she was inside a major Fortune 500 company. Their daily dispatch schedule would probably be a neat electronic print-out, not the messy, bush-league version from a police station.
Hofstader, a round woman whose apple cheeks and widely spaced eyes reminded Georgia of a cartoon chipmunk, hunched over her desk to study Georgia’s driver’s license and vaccine card. Georgia sat in the empty chair across the woman’s desk. Any passer-bys could overhear them.
“So, why do you want to interview a trucker?”
Georgia repeated her pitch about truckers being the unsung heroes of the pandemic.
“I see.” Hofstader frowned. “And I could call this—this suburban branch of the Tribune, and they’d know who you are?”
“Sure. I can give you a name and number.” Ellie would be her backup if needed, they’d agreed.
The woman glanced at Georgia’s credentials, then back at her. She leaned back in her chair. “Well, you should have called me directly, Ms. Davis, before you wasted your time driving up. I can’t talk to you without Corporate’s approval.” She tented her hands. “I’ll pass it along, but it could take a week or more before I get an answer.”
Georgia sank back in her chair. She’d forgotten about the third type of female executive: the submissive type who followed directions precisely. Who wouldn’t take risks unless she had approval. In writing. Georgia suppressed her irritation.
“I understand.” Then she sat upright. “I’ll wait. Of course, I may not be on the story by then. Things are moving fast now that the worst of the pandemic might be behind us.” She sighed. “I might be onto something new. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.” She shot Hofstader a thin smile.
Hofstader deigned to offer a dollop of compassion. “Sorry. It’s our policy. To be honest, I don’t see Corporate giving me the okay. The virus has changed everything we do. Especially since we’re one of the major manufacturers. Corporate wants to keep a low profile. A lot of eyes are on us.”
“I get it. But this is just such a great story, I thought maybe it would be appealing.”
“It is a good story,” she agreed. “Could be a puff piece.”
Georgia thought she saw the trace of a smile. Hofstader knew more about media than
Georgia had expected. She jumped on it. “Not exactly. I am a journalist. It has to be credible.”
“Of course.” Hofstader was smiling now. “How’d you come up with it?”
Georgia shrugged. “I was trying to find an angle that hasn’t been covered. I’ll tell you, it was hard. Nobody’s writing about anything except the virus.”
“Tell me about it.”
“And who knows? Maybe it will help me land a staff job somewhere.”
“Like the Chicago Tribune.”
“I don’t know. Seems like the Trib could be for sale again. I wouldn’t mind getting out of Chicago, anyway. Settle somewhere smaller and safer.” She bit her lip, as if hesitating to go on.
“What?” Hofstader asked.
“I shouldn’t say. It’s personal, and I shouldn’t—”
“It’s all right. I won’t say anything.” She laughed. “Kind of off the record in reverse.”
Georgia let out a breath. “Well, my mother was shot a few months ago.”
“Oh my god!” Hofstader’s hand flew to her mouth. “What happened? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. Now. It was a totally random drive-by. They got her in her side. Missed her kidney by an inch. My sister and I took care of her, but we were totally freaked out. We decided we want out of the city. I’d even be willing to move to someplace like Kalamazoo if I could find a good job.”
“I hear you. Everyone says what a war zone Chicago’s become.” She shivered.
Georgia went on. “So, if you hear of anything here or maybe Ann Arbor, let me know.” Georgia gestured to her business card on Hofstader’s desk. “You have my card.”
“It’s not my area, but if I do, I’ll be in touch.” She picked up Georgia’s card and tapped the edge on her desk. “And I’ll let you know about this story as soon as I hear anything. Just don’t get your hopes up.”
“I understand.” She shifted. Now for the real reason she’d come. “Marianne, do you think I could ask you a couple of questions before I leave?”
Hofstader eyed her skeptically.
“Nothing confidential. We can keep it off the record.” She waited a beat. “It’s just for context… so I understand Jefferson Medical’s dispatch system better.”
Hofstader checked the time on her computer. “I only have about five minutes. I have a meeting at two.”
Georgia nodded soberly. Mentally she wanted to jump for joy.
Hofstader explained that depending on orders from hospitals, pharmacies, and clinics, Jefferson Medical scheduled FedEx or UPS for multiple deliveries a week to the Chicago area. Each delivery contained the lot number as well as the specific number of vaccines requested, which generally ran much less than a full lot.
“How many vials are in a lot?” Georgia asked.
“Well, with the five-dose vial, that could add up to two and a half million doses.” The rest of the fleet were Jefferson employees, she said, and they were union. Even though they weren’t delivering Covid, they all had undergone special training—and were paid overtime as per union demands—on how to handle whatever each medicine required. They knew how to manage emergencies.
“What about at the other end? If and when the vaccines need to be flown or driven to smaller towns and destinations once they arrive at the central dispatch center?” Georgia asked. “Are those drivers trained as well?”
“I don’t know. That’s not really my responsibility,” Hofstader said.
“But say Mercy Hospital gets something from you via FedEx…”
“Yes?”
“Who takes the vials from Mercy Hospital to the Church in Northglen?”
She checked the time again. “Oh, sorry. I gotta go.”
Georgia didn’t press it, but Hofstader’s avoidance of Georgia’s last question meant it was something Georgia should check out.