Chapter 33: Rally Behind Me
It is another work day.
Mystery or no, I still have a work to do. After that article, I think I managed to make my point clear. None should ever dare cross me. In my journalism clothes of slacks and blouses, I have to put on another covering of trench coat to keep me warm. Outside my apartment awaits freezing cold wind all around. I can't stand that. With the clouds being gray, I can't help but be gray as well.
As I walk the pavements towards city center, I see cars slowing down. Cars all around begin honking each other's horns with no regard whether or not they should be honking it in the first place. It went as far as a creation of a traffic jam. Must be a car accident up ahead. I follow the heavy traffic flow all around me to find the source of this. I hear passers-by speculating the source of this, but none give a coherent answer.
As I draw closer to the source, I could hear some person speaking one's heart from a megaphone.
"Down with the RSC! Resign Raphael Concepcion! We will not stand for the abuses we suffered under your grasps! Stop contractualization! Enforce worker's safety!"
That's when I understood what's going on – a rally. I look up ahead, and there it is. The striking RSC headquarters with its monogram logo and towering building of sorts. I know I'm still a kilometer away from the rally itself, but I could already hear the words clearly as it is. Even the passers-by comment.
"Bullshit! You are only causing traffic. Rallies don't even work! This should be illegal."
"We have work to do too, you know! If you really want worker's safety, you should just get to work and let us have our safety!"
Another common scenario with the rallies. People think about themselves more rather than the problem itself. It's a pity that this is the scenario. Different figures are surrounding me –the oppressed, the oppressor, and the spectator. The spectator is even divided into two – the ones that care and the ones that don't. I have to fight my way through the crowd to even get closer. I can't believe that such a rally would cause this amount of traffic. The traffic jam all around created grid locks at the intersections and exits.
At the center, I could already see the source. Workers in white surround a woman standing in a soap box. From over here, I cannot see who it is, but it is clear to me that she fights the same rights.
"Let us have proper work hours! Let us have proper working conditions! Let us have proper wages! We are the core of your company, Raphael Concepcion! Not you! You don't even have the guts to name your successor! Assure us that we have a future. Our jobs depend on you!"
All around me are people holding placards of their advocacies. Yes, it had to be written in blue for it is the color of the Concepcions. Clearly, this is a peace rally. Not a single policeman dare interfere. Some say it is illegal, but it is not. If it is, this would have ended already.
Even though the crowd is sweating in the heat, they stand their ground with their picket signs. Unlike the misconception tv shows had spread, rallies are not noisy at all. The only one that is noisy is the speaker. All the others are silently holding up their picket signs.
Silently, I pull my camera out. Hey, I did not know a story is going to come my way in some form. As I was about to click my camera, it happens.
A man pulls me from my chest and mouth away from the rally and into the foliage behind me. It all happened so fast. I did not even have the time to scream. This man pulls me tightly to the point that I can't even do anything to see who it is. As I try to wrangle my way out of this, he only strangles me tighter. At first, all I see is the foliage, but soon enough, the sun once again shines, and we are back on the streets.
Before I could process the thoughts of where he intends to bring me, I hear a car open behind me. As I was about to look back, he tosses me inside and slides the door shut. Turns out that it was not a car – it's a van.
"Ms. Aguinaldo, good morning."
Before I could speak my heart, someone already greeted me in kind regard. I'm already tired of hearing a woman I have never seen threatening me. Unfortunately, this time, it's no woman. It's a man. I look up to see that it is Raphael. He sits so calmly with his smug of a face as he drinks his morning tea.
"Are you crazy, Raphael Concepcion!" I exclaim. "I was just taking a picture of the rally! I – "
"And you were intending to write a story on this," he interrupts firmly. He only rubs the point clear by drinking another sip from his tea. I don't understand this man. How could he drink tea as he watches a rally unfold before him?
"I don't have time for this!" I look behind me to see if I could get out, but there is that man that pulled me away. He stands at the door as if he would guard me from running away.
"I have the doors guarded, Ms. Aguinaldo," he says clearly. "Just take a seat and listen. It will not take long."
And that's when I realize I'm still on the floor. Raphael's henchmen just tossed me on the floor of this van without regard. So, this is the situation of journalists in this country – just some rag doll that can be tossed on the floor. I lift myself off the ground and sit near him. Clearly, he's not letting me out until I listen to what he has to say.
"Why the hell did you kidnap me?" I ask bluntly. "I just passed by the rally. I had no tip from anyone to tell me that this happening."
He takes another sip of his tea. Turns out that it was the last sip. He hands the cup to his front-seat driver and wipes his mouth of the remaining tea. "It doesn't matter, Ms. Aguinaldo. This rally happened quickly without my prior knowledge. Soon enough this will be the headlines of every news outlet. If not Lucia City Times, it will be AMC TV breaking news. I know. This is how it goes." He then looks around to investigate the situation. It turns out that if I were to walk (or be pulled) into the greenery, it would lead me to the city highway leading to Lucia City Times Headquarters. The highway, of course, is in grid lock due to the rally. Cars are even honking impatiently.
"I will not stop you in writing an article about this," he says to me. "Clearly, that's way past pleading point now. Even if I beg you to do so, another outlet will write about this. All I wanted is to talk to you. The RSC is no stranger to protests, but let me tell you this. The moment that you wrote those articles, it was that moment that caused my workers to rise against me. They were treated well enough by law. We followed proper guidelines. This is just a paid rally – a paid rally that traces back to you. Had you not written a thing; they have nothing to rally behind. Your article served as a first shot for my competitors to use against me. And now, these allegations of worker's safety violations come about. The sad thing is, the only thing true about this rally is me refusing to name an heir. And, surely, you have complete knowledge of that."
Something tells me that he is lying. He knows that he cannot beg me to stop writing, but he can lie his way out of it. Then again, I look deep into his eyes. It was as if it is telling the opposite of my suspicion. It says that he speaks true. I know him to hate me with a full heart, but he just hates the idea of class mixing. Right now, it has nothing to do with that. It is about him saving his company by begging a lowly journalist.
Unfortunately, my mind rules over my heart. "I don't believe you, Mr. Concepcion. Besides, you can pay all the news outlets not to write anything about this. It has been done once, with regards to the whole dead heir scenario of the dela Ramas. Why not this rally?"
"Because, unlike that dead heir problem, this affects thousands of people," he responds back, not even raising his voice. "Not even thousands. It reaches millions. Rosanna, millions of people use the products that we make. Telecommunications play a big role in a modern society. Once they found out that a company's products are made by violating workers' rights, it will cause a massive boycott. It is enough to destroy my company. It is also a great story for you, journalists. I can't pay all of them. The cost outweighs the benefits that these news outlets will get from releasing a story."
"Then just name an heir," I respond, logically enough. "Simple as that. Pull up a piece of paper, write a name, sign it, and notarize it. Easy as that."
He just laughs at my suggestion. "No, Ms. Aguinaldo. I cannot do that. My groomed heir is dying. I'm running through my list of possible heirs and I have no more options."
"Then just name your adopted daughter."
"I can't name her. She cannot be my heir."
"Why is that? Afraid of violating the law? The law leaves space for you to name her. You misread it."
"It's not about the law, Rosanna. It's about the legacy situation. Chloe is not my daughter by blood. Blood plays a big role in this situation. If I name her, it will not look good for the investors. Plus, she's a doctor, not an engineer or IT. That's what made Romy Felizar a good candidate. He's an engineer and my cousin."
"What about your illegitimate children? Name them! Or, you are just afraid of damaging your reputation, aren't you?"
"That I don't deny. I made my share of mistakes, Rosanna, and naming an illegitimate child is the last thing I want right now. They may have their claims, but I cannot give the RSC to them. I'd rather name a lateral line than any of them. And, in any case, I have no more options. An illegitimate claim also does not look good for the future of my company."
He made me fall into silence. All this time I have been cursing Raphael Concepcion's name, but he is just a victim as I am a victim. There is so much I do not understand in the world of the elite. Naming an heir is not as simple as one-two-three.
And suddenly, from my side, the front-seat driver hands me a cup of tea. I look up to him and take it gently. The driver does the same to Mr. Concepcion and hands him a cup as well.
"Do drink it, Rosanna," Mr. Concepcion says calmly. "Normally, men would drink liquor to their hearts content. They say it makes them forget, but I don't want to forget. I want a peace of mind so I can think clearly. Pray God grants me knowledge on what to do with the inheritance situation. If only that girl is out of cancer and actually does things that make sense. She has not been acting as I expected her to do so within these past few years. It's a pity."
He takes another sip as he thinks. "Time is running short for me," he continues. "I do not expect to live long. I have my own share of chronic illnesses. I need an heir soon."
"But she isn't really an heir by blood, is she?"
"Oh, you know about that," he replies, in shock. "Sure, of course, you are her friend. I love her, Rose. She is not just a tool. It does not matter whether she is my daughter by blood. She is by paper. The law sees her as mine, and that is enough. It does not matter who her biological father is. And I do so believe that it is my fault why that situation happened. Had I not had my share of affairs early into our marriage, none of this would have happened. Who knew affairs would come biting me back in the arse?"
He laughs, and yet he looks dead inside. As I take a sip of his tea, I realize that the brew is far too strong for my taste. It might be because he's drinking too much that the regular tea leaves little effect on him.
"Too strong, isn't it?" he notices as he takes his sip. "Apologies. I have been brewing mine a bit strongly lately. I believe you understand why. I just hope that you would act on my behalf, for my sake. Maybe, by then, I could drink tea normally."
Act on his behalf. . . So, he is indeed asking me not to write the story.
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