Chapter 7 - The View from the Ground
Blair Whitman didn't wait to be escorted out by the uniform guards waiting in the foyer; she grabbed her handbag and rushed through the double doors, sobbing into her scarf.
The remaining executives sat frozen in their leather chairs, terrified to breathe too loudly.
Arthur Harwood pulled out the head chair at the black granite table and sat down slowly, resting his elbows on the stone.
"Sit down, Caleb," Arthur said, gesturing to the chair directly to his right.
Caleb took the seat, placing his worn yellow legal pad beside the chairman's gold pen.
Victoria stood alone at the far end of the table, her cheeks burning with an embarrassment so profound she couldn't meet her grandfather's eyes.
"Victoria," Arthur said, his tone softening only slightly.
"You spent forty minutes this morning laughing at a man who was cleaning tables in your own cafeteria."
"You asked if we had hired an operations manager or a janitor."
Victoria swallowed hard, her manicured fingers curling against her palms.
"I... I apologize, Arthur. I was mistaken about Mr. Mercer's role."
"You weren't mistaken about his role, Victoria. You were mistaken about what makes a leader," Arthur said firmly.
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"A company doesn't live in this boardroom. It lives on the loading dock, at the sterilization autoclaves, and in the dish pit where Marlene Foster works alone with a broken cart."
"If you don't understand the work of the people who carry this place on their backs, you have no right to sit at the top of the chart."
