Gerald Coleman had worked thirty-eight years in a factory.
Brandon imagined telling him what had happened.
He knew exactly what his father would have said.
“Son, did you do anything wrong?”
“No, Dad.”
“Did you give her what she asked for?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you sitting here acting ashamed?”
Brandon closed his eyes.
A notification sounded.
Unknown number.
He ignored it.
The phone rang again.
Then a message appeared.
Mr. Coleman, this is James Anderson. Please contact me. I want to resolve what happened today.
Brandon read it.
Deleted it.
Another call came.
He watched the screen.
Then answered.
“Coleman.”
“Mr. Coleman, thank you for taking my call.”
“What do you want, Mr. Anderson?”
James exhaled.
“I know you're upset.”
“You don't know anything about what I am right now.”
A pause.
“That's fair.”
Brandon stared through the windshield.
“I want you to understand something. I wasn't asking for special treatment.”
“I know.”
“I wasn't demanding that your bank immediately release ten million dollars.”
“I understand.”
“I expected verification. I brought documents because I expected verification.”
“Yes.”
“And your manager treated preparation as evidence of deception.”
James said nothing.
“Every time I answered a question, she found another one. Every time I produced a document, she suggested it could be fake. What would have satisfied her?”
“We're going to investigate.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“I know.”
“No, I don't think you do.”
James sighed.
“Brandon, please. I'm trying to help.”
The use of his first name irritated him.
They were not friends.
They had met once.
Now James was trying to create familiarity where none existed.
“You didn't help when I was standing there.”
“I had just arrived.”
“And for the first few seconds, you looked at your manager as though you were deciding whether to believe her.”
James was silent.
Brandon continued.
“Then you recognized me. And everything changed.”
“That isn't fair.”
“Isn't it?”
“I was trying to understand what happened.”
“You called me sir because you knew who I was.”
“I call customers sir all the time.”
“Your employee did too. She used it while accusing me of fraud.”
James did not answer.
Brandon looked toward the garage exit.
“Here's what I want, Mr. Anderson. I want to know whether Sarah Winters has done this before.”
“We're reviewing her conduct.”
“How many customer complaints?”
“I can't disclose personnel records.”
“How many complaints involving Black customers?”
“Brandon—”
“How many?”
“I don't have that information.”
“Then find it.”
“I'll personally oversee the review.”
“And if your internal review concludes she made a regrettable judgment call?”
“We'll determine appropriate discipline.”
“That's not what I'm asking.”
James hesitated.
“What are you asking?”
“Whether this was an isolated incident or something your bank has been allowing for years.”
“We don't tolerate discrimination.”
“That's a slogan.”
James fell silent.
Brandon looked at his father's briefcase.
“Your bank also says, 'Your Future. Our Priority.' That slogan was on the wall while your manager threw my future at my chest.”
James exhaled slowly.
“I am sorry.”
“I believe you regret what happened.”
“I do.”
“But I don't know whether you regret what she did or the fact that she did it to someone you recognized.”
There was no answer.
Brandon continued.
“You want a private meeting?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock. Coffee shop on Market Street.”
“I'll be there.”
“No public relations people.”
“Agreed.”
“No settlement documents.”
A pause.
“Agreed.”