Chapter 16 - The Grassroots Army
The news conference changed the tide of the entire city.
Within twelve hours of the announcement, something miraculous happened. The public, outraged by the video of Vanessa’s assault and inspired by the news of my private donation, began pouring money into Harbor Light’s general fund.
They weren't five-thousand-dollar checks from country club socialites looking for tax write-offs. They were five-dollar, ten-dollar, and twenty-dollar donations from factory workers, school teachers, retired nurses, and bus drivers.
By Friday evening, over three hundred thousand dollars in small grassroots donations had flooded into the foundation’s verified bank accounts.
Early Saturday morning, I put on my old denim work jacket, pulled on my thick leather gardening gloves, and drove my station wagon down to Fourth Street.
The yellow caution tape was still up, but the front courtyard of Harbor House was already filled with people.
Maria Santos was there with her children, holding brooms and dustpans. Behind her stood forty union carpenters and steelworkers from Local 302—men who had known Frank Mitchell when he was running his machine shop. They had brought their own tool belts, hydraulic jacks, and circular saws, volunteering their weekend labor for free.
"Mrs. Eleanor!" the union foreman shouted, tipping his hard hat to me. "Frank Mitchell loaned our local fifty thousand dollars in ninety-two when our strike fund went dry, and he never asked for a penny of interest. We hear his wife is rebuilding this place, and no union man in this county is going to let you pay for commercial labor!"
Before I could answer, a battered pickup truck pulled up to the curb.
Daniel stepped out of the truck.
He wasn't wearing his Italian shoes or his cashmere sweaters. He was dressed in a pair of steel-toed boots, heavy work jeans stained with grease, and a faded yellow hard hat.
The union workers fell silent, several of them scowling. They had seen the news; they knew who he was.
Daniel walked toward the gate, keeping his eyes on the ground until he reached the union foreman.
"I don't know how to frame a wall," Daniel said, his voice quiet but steady, devoid of any arrogance. "And I don't know how to run a saw. But I can carry sheetrock, I can haul rotted timber to the dumpster, and I can sweep the dust. If you have an extra shovel, I’d like to work."
The foreman looked at Daniel, then looked at me.
I gave the foreman a slight, barely perceptible nod.
The foreman turned back to Daniel, spat his chewing gum into an empty cup, and pointed with a calloused thumb toward a massive pile of water-damaged lumber stacked by the side alley.
"The dumpster is around back, Mitchell," the foreman grunted. "Get moving. We've got eight tons of timber to clear before lunch."
Daniel didn't say a word. He pulled on a pair of cheap work gloves, walked to the pile of timber, lifted two heavy, wet planks onto his shoulder, and began hauling them down the alley.
Maria Santos walked up beside me, handing me a cardboard cup of warm coffee.
"He’s starting from the bottom, Mrs. Eleanor," Maria said softly, watching Daniel carry the wood.
May you like
"That's the only place where a solid foundation can be built, Maria," I replied, sipping the coffee as the sound of hammers and saws began to echo through the morning air.
***