“Are we ready to open next week, Cole?” Cole Wilkes, the Global Human Resources Director, was working hard to hire new staff to open their latest hub facility, a segment of their production line that would utilize cheap U.S. labor to assemble each of the pieces needed to complete a variety of products overseas. RDF Plastics, which would end up being Emulsion Plastics, executive-level leadership discovered a loophole big enough to drive a big rig truck through, which was part of their problems under Gerald Moloski’s initial leadership. Assembling its core pieces overseas cost the company more money than it knew until the board saw the losses on paper. And with Mexico deciding to up their tariff rates and taxes, it made more sense for the board and everyone connected to RDF Plastics to pin the whole thing on Moloski, liquidate the company’s assets, and rebrand themselves as Emulsion Plastics. The board didn’t know anything about Zaterelli’s involvement with Moloski or the shortcuts he took to eliminate plastic waste, dumping what the EPA would later term PFAS into the waterways of rural communities.

Cole Wilkes was talking on the phone with the current CEO of RDF Plastics, Gerald Moloski. Not one to mince words, Moloski got straight to the point with Cole. “We’re on target to start next week?”

“Yes, sir,” Cole replied. “Everything is in place, and production will start early next week.”

Gerald was fiddling with his putter. Not that he liked the sport of golf. No. The reality was that he needed to enjoy the sport if he expected to make and close any deals. Wacking a ball into a hole from x number of yards wasn’t his idea of a good time. But getting drunk on the course? That was something he enjoyed doing. So, to keep up appearances, he had a putter, a few white dimpled balls, and a round cup specifically designed to improve your short game, as they said. He threw the putter back into an overpriced bag full of clubs. Throwing back a few beers on the golf course was okay, but spending an excessive amount of money on the clubs, a bag, balls, tees, and other gear seemed like a total waste of money. Then he recalled the amount of cash RDF Plastics made from a few hours on the golf course, playing a game he wasn’t good at. “No hiccups at all? I don’t want another visit from the EPA to shut us down.”

“No, sir,” Cole answered. “I don’t project any problems.”

“There better not be,” Moloski stressed. “If we end up with an incident like we had a few years ago, you, me, all of this goes away indefinitely. No problems like we did outside New Jersey, right?”

“No. Absolutely not, sir,” Cole said confidently.

“Good. You can expect the first units to arrive on Monday. And you are sure production will be running Tuesday?”

“Yes, Mr. Moloski, it will be,” Cole answered.

“And if anything changes, you’ll call me personally?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fantastic work as always, Cole. Thank you.”

“Thank you. Bye.”

Moloski took a deep breath, sat down, and leaned back in his chair, running his fingers through his hair. If anything went wrong in Iowa, his job would be in jeopardy if the EPA came out as they did in New Jersey. Gerald’s connections with the Zaterelli family came in handy because their connections in Jersey contaminated the EPA samples, and the company sold the land and the factory before further investigations could begin. After the sale of the property, the EPA had no case against RDF Plastics. The new silent partners of the land deal would build a massive park covering roughly fifteen acres, strategically planting numerous trees and creating a new ecosystem to replenish everything that RDF Plastics essentially destroyed. The EPA and the other federal agencies didn’t know that one of the silent partners connected to the project was the infamous Oregon crime boss, Rin Zaterelli.