Chapter 3: The Wall of Arrogance

Chapter 3: The Wall of Arrogance

The names in his notebook felt like keys. Dennis Morley. Bill Calloway. For two days, Arthur had simply looked at them, letting his strategy crystallize. He had mapped the fortress; now he would attempt to parley with its architects. He still clung to a single, fraying thread of professional courtesy: the belief that one engineer, speaking to another, could find common ground in the universal language of data and logic.

It was Wednesday afternoon. The daily ordeal of the on-ramp—another twenty-two minutes stolen from him, another hurried arrival at Elena’s side—had scraped away the last of his patience, leaving behind a cold, hard resolve. He sat at his desk, the Project Chimera notebook open. Beside it, he’d jotted down his calculations: average queue length, wait times per vehicle, projected flow rate at a three-second interval versus the current fifteen. It was an irrefutable case.

He decided to start with the junior man. Bill Calloway would be less insulated, perhaps more impressionable. A younger engineer might still possess a flicker of professional pride, an aversion to having his name attached to such a public, obvious failure.

Arthur dialed the main ODOT number, his finger tapping the keypad with surgical precision. When the now-familiar bored voice answered, he didn't ask for a department. He used a key.

"Bill Calloway, please."

"Who's calling?" The tone was instantly suspicious.

"Arthur Vance," he said, infusing his voice with an authority he didn't possess but could expertly mimic. "I'm following up on our correspondence regarding the algorithmic parameters for the Sunset Highway initiative."

He was counting on the jargon from the newspaper article to act as a password. A moment of silence, a muffled sound, and then a click. The line began to ring. It worked.

"Uh, Bill Calloway." The voice that answered was thin, nervous, and already sounded like an apology.

"Mr. Calloway, my name is Arthur Vance. Thank you for taking my call," Arthur began, his tone calm and respectful. "I'm calling about the on-ramp meter at Exit 68. I believe you were the lead on its technical implementation?"

"I… yes, I was part of that team," Calloway stammered, clearly flustered. The sound of shuffling papers came through the line, as if he were searching for a script. "Is there a problem?"

"There is a significant performance issue," Arthur said, keeping his voice level. "The cycle timing is set at fifteen seconds per vehicle. This is creating a static backlog of, on average, half a mile during peak hours. My calculations show this adds between eighteen and twenty-five minutes to a commuter's travel time." He paused, letting the data sink in. "From an engineering standpoint, the system is not just inefficient; it's creating a net negative effect on traffic flow. A simple adjustment to a three-second interval would—"

"Whoa, hold on," Calloway cut in, his nervousness hardening into a brittle, rehearsed condescension. "Sir, that system is operating exactly as designed. It's a 'Smart' system. The timing is deliberate."

He used the word 'Smart' like a shield, the same hollow buzzword the first clerk had used.

"I understand it's deliberate," Arthur countered, his own patience holding firm. "My point is that the design itself is flawed. The data is unequivocal. I can email you my analysis. I've logged vehicle throughput for three days straight. The math doesn't lie."

A huff of air. "Look, Mr. Vance, I can assure you that our senior engineer, Mr. Morley, reviewed and approved all project parameters personally. We have models. We have simulations. It's… very complex."

"It's not complex at all," Arthur stated plainly. "It's a bottleneck. As one engineer to another, surely you can see that a system that creates gridlock where none existed before is a failure."

The phrase "as one engineer to another" hung in the air. It was meant as an appeal to their shared profession, a bridge of mutual respect. But Calloway treated it like an attack.

"I'm not authorized to debate project specifications with the public," he snapped, his voice rising in pitch. "Mr. Morley has final say, and he is satisfied with the system's performance."

Satisfied? The word was so absurd it was almost comical. Arthur thought of the hundreds of drivers sitting in a self-inflicted traffic jam, of his own race against the clock each evening. He thought of the Burnside Bridge fiasco mentioned in the article, a project Morley had also, presumably, been 'satisfied' with. Calloway wasn't just a subordinate; he was an enabler, a weak-willed cog whose only function was to protect the broken gear above him. The man was terrified, not of being wrong, but of his boss.

"Then I need to speak with Mr. Morley," Arthur said, his tone shifting from collegial to commanding. "Please transfer me."

"He's a very busy man," Calloway protested weakly.

"I have no doubt. I'm sure managing the fallout from this project is taking up a great deal of his time. Put me through."

A sigh of defeat whispered through the receiver. "Please hold."

Arthur waited. The silence of the hold line was a vacuum, and he filled it with a final, flickering hope. Perhaps Morley, the architect of this mess, would possess the arrogant pride to at least defend his work. Perhaps a direct challenge to his competence would provoke a response where polite reason had failed. He could present the failure not as an inconvenience, but as a stain on Morley's professional reputation.

Minutes stretched. He could hear the faint, tinny strains of hold music starting and stopping. He pictured Calloway scurrying to his boss's office, wringing his hands, reporting the breach in the wall.

Finally, the click of the line reconnecting. But it wasn't a new voice. It was Calloway's, now laced with outright panic.

"Mr. Vance? I'm sorry, Mr. Morley is in a meeting and is unavailable to take your call."

"Then leave him a message," Arthur said, his voice like ice. "Tell him Arthur Vance called regarding the catastrophic failure of the Exit 68 on-ramp. Tell him I have the data to prove it. I will await his call."

"That won't be necessary," Calloway said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as if Morley were standing right beside him. "He… ah… he asked me to relay a message. He said that the engineering department considers this matter closed."

Closed.

The word landed with the finality of a coffin lid shutting. It wasn't just a refusal to speak. It was a refusal to even acknowledge his existence. He was the public, an annoyance, a buzzing fly to be swatted away by a subordinate. The wall wasn't just impenetrable; it was arrogant. It was a monument to the smug certainty of unaccountable power.

A profound, chilling clarity settled over Arthur. He had followed the rules. He had used logic. He had appealed to professionalism. He had offered them a chance to fix their mistake quietly and efficiently. And they had laughed in his face.

"Thank you, Mr. Calloway," Arthur said, his voice eerily calm. "You've been very helpful."

He placed the receiver gently back into its cradle, the click echoing in the silent study. He looked at the names in his notebook. They were no longer keys to a dialogue. They were targets.

He had tried to reason with the system. Now, he would declare war on the men who ran it. The wall of their arrogance seemed high and imposing from the outside. He wondered how it would feel from the inside, when the whole world started shaking it.