Graham did not ask for Samuel's name. He looked first at the work jacket, then at the crate, and his expression changed into the tired irritation of a man who expected to be inconvenienced. "Leave it," he said, pointing to a corner near the cleaning cart. "Our cleaners can deal with your mess."
Samuel remained where he was. "These are a sample from yesterday's harvest," he said. "Your regional director asked me to bring them here for review."
Graham stepped forward, took the top layer of peaches in one quick sweep, and tipped the crate sideways into a waste bin. Several fruit struck the metal rim and split. Others rolled across the tile, leaving pale streaks where their skins had broken, while a nearby customer stopped pushing her cart and stared.
"Those were my wife's peaches," Samuel said. His voice was low enough that the associate nearest him leaned closer to hear it. "You didn't open a single one."
"I don't cut garbage to prove it's garbage," Graham replied. "Take your crate and use the loading door next time."
The associate beside the display stopped working altogether. Her name was Tessa Green, and she had been employed by Bridgeville for seventeen years, long enough to recognize when a manager was using a rule that did not exist. She had supervised produce receiving, trained seasonal staff, and handled supplier documentation through three changes in the company's software. The sight of Graham dumping a sample did more than offend her sense of courtesy. She knew that the actual shipment from Heritage Growers, forty-eight sealed cases, was still sitting at the receiving dock.
"You threw away his review sample?" Tessa asked. "The delivery itself hasn't even been inspected. Malik just called me from receiving."
Graham turned toward her without lowering his voice. "Spotted fruit. Rejected. He shouldn't be selling it out here."
Samuel knelt to pick up the crate and one of the peaches that had escaped the bin. He felt the sticky flesh through a split in the skin and looked at it without speaking. Then he stood, held it where Graham could see, and said, "Those spots aren't an inspection. Give me a knife and I'll show you the inside."
"No," Graham said. "Supplier fault. Full chargeback. That's what we're doing."
Tessa stared at the fruit on the floor and then at Graham's tablet. "You just made the mess. You're going to charge the farm for that, too?"
The question drew another customer closer, and Graham seemed to become more interested in winning the exchange than resolving it. He ordered the nearest associate to call for cleaning supplies and told Samuel that producers were not entitled to argue quality decisions on the sales floor. He used the word producer as though it described an interruption instead of the source of everything in the department. Samuel put the damaged peach back in the crate and waited while Graham started entering the rejection.
Down at the receiving dock, Malik had been watching the handheld terminal display the same shipment. Malik was twenty-nine, had worked at Bridgeville for six years, and could remember the route numbers of regular drivers better than their faces. He had checked in pallet HG4417 an hour earlier, recorded the temperature of the load, noted the intact seals, and signed the arrival. He had not performed a quality rejection because nobody had yet authorized breaking the cases for a representative inspection.