The meeting was at Seacroft Town Hall. Oliver ignored the uneasy exposed feeling that slithered through him walking through the building’s front foyer. He hadn’t gone to a hearing without a team in a while, but he’d chosen this life, so now he would do it alone. How hard could it be?
The market board turned out to have seven members, mostly gray-haired men in polo shirts and khakis, as well as two women, both also in late middle age. None of them smiled when he pushed open the door.
“Mr. Stevenson,” an overweight man who sat at the end of the table said. “I’m Richard Polson, the board chair. Have a seat.”
Oliver would have liked to shake some hands, or possibly pass out some literature, but starting off as nonconfrontationally as possible was critical, so he did as instructed.
The man to Richard Polson’s left leaned over to whisper something while the rest of the group watched Oliver silently. He had to bite down a laugh. Someone had watched bad lawyer TV. Next they’d be scribbling covert notes on a legal pad and sliding it surreptitiously between one another like they were negotiating his settlement.
They should know that Oliver never accepted the first offer.
“Mr. Stevenson,” Richard said again.
“Yes.”
“Thank you for joining us. You received our letter.”
He didn’t say it like a question, and Oliver grinned. He knew how to play this game. “I did, yes, thank you.”
“So you understand why we asked to meet with you?”
Here was his step up. Make them explain, instead of Oliver answering all the questions.
Richard continued before Oliver had a chance to reply. “And as a result, I trust you understand why we have to revoke your license as a market vendor?”
It took all of Oliver’s training not to twitch. “If you don’t mind,” he said. “I’ll need you to break it down for me, in layman’s terms.”
“It’s come to our attention,” the man sitting to Richard’s left said, “that your business does not meet the minimum criteria to sell your products at our market.”
“That seems unlikely. You reviewed my products when I submitted my application. You approved them then. Nothing has changed.”
“The goal of the market is to promote locally grown and sourced products to—”
“I’m sorry.” Oliver held up his hand. “What did you say your name was?”
“Barry Boudreau. Mr. Stevenson,” he continued, frowning impatiently, “new market permits are highly competitive. Our goal is to highlight the best of Seacroft’s businesses, farmers, and vendors. We approved your application based on the understanding that you would be selling a local product.”
Oliver kept his temper locked down behind a wall of ice. “It is a local product. I don’t know how it could be any more local. I make my juices in my shop, which can’t be more than three blocks from here.”
“But you don’t buy your produce from local farmers,” Richard said. “In fact, we’ve heard you’ve been highly dismissive of some of our other vendors.”
The ice began to melt. “Is this about—” he struggled to remember, “—the orchard? Is this about Marsha and . . .” He remembered her but could not bring her husband’s name to mind at all.
“It’s about protecting the integrity of our brand.” Barry glanced at Oliver over the top of his glasses.
“You’re going to punish me because most of the ingredients I need aren’t in season yet?”
“The by-laws are very clear. You presented yourself as a local producer when you made your application last winter and—”
“Iama local producer.” He kept his hands clasped tightly in his lap. A board of farmers and self-important businessmen could not break his control so quickly.
“There is also the concern that you’re making dubious health claims, without having a scientific or medical background to support them.”
Oliver’s undergraduate degree was actually a Bachelor’s of Science, but pointing that out would be petty and pointless. “All my meal plans are developed by a licensed nutritionist.”
“And the juices?”
Richard lifted a paper and read from it. “Enhances mental clarity. Supports immune system function.”
