High Value, Chapter 1: The Public Hearing
A small town’s planning commission clashes over a controversial zoning request.
“This is socialism. You all are way out of line.”
Brendon Klein stepped back from the podium, his bald head reddening as veins popped along his neck. He slapped the lectern with the flat of his hand—firm but performative—then raised both arms like a dealer clearing the table and lumbered back to his seat.
The big man carried his indignation like a badge, feeding off the smattering of applause offered by the sparse audience. His speech—more of a rant—had been laced with self-righteous fury. He was, as they say, feeling it.
Klein, owner of the town’s only grocery store, had inherited the business from his father, who’d inherited it from his. He wasn’t here tonight to support digital signs—no one thought that—but rather to oppose a new ordinance limiting their use. Everyone in the room knew this wasn’t about signs. It was about power.
City planner Justin Stark watched Klein with a mixture of amusement and dread. He knew he’d get blamed for the ordinance. Technically, he’d drafted it, but the push didn’t come from him. He didn’t even support it. Not now. Not with what was about to hit the town. And especially not if it meant picking a fight with Brendon Klein.
None of the commissioners knew what was coming. Not yet. And the one it would hit hardest was Klein. Stark shifted in his seat, scanning the dais as Keith Nair, chair of the Chippewa Lakes Planning Commission, gave a half-hearted gavel bang to restore order.
Like Stark, Nair was a bureaucrat by day—county soil and water board. Here on the planning commission, he was out of his depth. Appointed because of his inconsequence, elected chair for the same reason. A pudgy placeholder in a leadership role he didn’t know how to wield.
Tonight’s agenda was a hearing on the proposed digital sign ordinance. The few members of the public in attendance were making their opposition clear. Nair looked under siege. Stark felt guilty for enjoying it.
“Mr. Chair, may I speak?”
Rob Freehet, seated to Nair’s right, didn’t wait for recognition. Klein’s longtime friend and former high school football co-star, Freehet had grown thick through the middle with age, but his spirit hadn’t dimmed. His full head of hair gave him a faintly heroic profile.
“Commissioner Freehet,” Nair said, giving him the floor.
“I agree with Brendon. The bank’s had a digital sign for years, and nobody’s claiming it ruins the town.”
“It’s a time and temperature sign,” came a flat interruption from the left side of the dais.
Ashley Bare. Pronounced “Bar-eh,” but spelled like the word for exposed skin. Bare wasn’t much for protocol and didn’t seem to care what anyone thought about her. Stark hid a smirk.
Nair, predictably flustered, fumbled with his gavel and looked around as if hoping someone else would step in. "Commissioner Bare, Commissioner Freehet has the floor."
“Thank you, Mr. Chair,” Freehet said with exaggerated politeness, the smugness unmistakable.
“As I was saying, we all appreciate the bank’s sign. And the new ones aren’t that different. I don’t see why we’d prohibit our businesses from modernizing. It’s a competitive world. We should help them keep up.”
Bare exhaled sharply and stared at the blank wall beyond the audience. Her thrift-store outfit and frizzy hair marked her as an outsider, but her intensity was intensely now. Her right index finger tapped a slow rhythm against her knuckles.
“Commissioner Hjerne?” Nair said, his voice apologetic as he gestured toward Nancy Hjerne, seated between him and Bare. He glanced at her like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline.
“Thank you, Mr. Chair.” Hjerne adjusted the colorful scarf she used to offset her otherwise beige wardrobe and leaned forward slightly, her hands steepled in front of her. She gave a crisp nod to Nair, then turned deliberately toward the room, as if claiming it.
“I don’t want the bank’s sign removed,” she began.
Chris Ekte groaned audibly from the far right. The thick-bodied former tradesman turned business owner had little patience for Hjerne. And she, for him.
Her words came smoothly, but with an edge of practiced authority that signaled she didn’t expect to be challenged—at least not competently. She’d designed the ordinance and expected it to glide through. The press being here irked her. Someone had tipped them off, as well as the town rubes. She doubted it was Stark, but she filed that away for later.
“This community values its character. That’s what draws people here. Digital signs clutter that. We’re not trying to be like everywhere else along the highway.”
Ekte leaned forward with casual defiance. “So what happens if the bank’s sign blows down? They can’t replace it?” He wasn’t intimidated by Hjerne’s tone or posture—he never was.
Stark opened his mouth and half raised his hand, expecting to be summoned. Hjerne didn’t wait for Nair. She turned slightly toward Stark and said, "Staff can confirm, but the bank's sign would be considered a legal non-conforming structure. They could replace it, but not expand it." She was steering the meeting now. Everyone in the room knew it. Nobody really liked it.
Stark nodded. “Commissioner Hjerne is correct. If the sign were damaged accidentally, the bank would have ninety days to replace it as-is.” He kept his tone neutral. He wanted to sound competent—Hjerne expected that—but not like he was on her side. He never wanted to seem like anyone's ally in a room like this.
“Yeah, but if they wanted to update it? They’re stuck with outdated tech? That don’t make no sense,” Ekte said, waving a hand as if swatting away a fly. His voice had the gravel of someone used to being ignored but too stubborn to care. A few in the crowd clapped in half-hearted agreement, while others nodded.
“We can amend the ordinance however we like,” Stark replied. “That’s what this process is for.” He regretted the last sentence as soon as it left his mouth. It came off as condescending, like a civics teacher lecturing a room of kids—and he feared it would come across as siding with Hjerne.
Nair straightened in his chair, trying to recover some sense of control. He cleared his throat, grasped the gavel with unearned confidence, and said, “Commissioner Bare, you have the floor,” with the air of someone who expected to be taken seriously—despite ample evidence to the contrary.
“Thank you,” she said with cold precision. “Nobody’s mentioned the environment. The climate crisis. Energy consumption. Why do we need more glowing signs burning electricity to advertise what’s already on a smartphone?”
A few chuckled in the audience, but she pressed on, undeterred. Bare had grown used to being underestimated, and the laughter only hardened her resolve. If anything, she preferred it that way.
“And what about equity? Mateo and Gloria Rodriguez opened a flower shop downtown. They can’t afford a digital sign. Are we going to tilt the playing field even more for the businesses that already dominate?”
There was a pause. A long one. The kind of pause that made everyone avert their eyes, unsure whether to laugh, grimace, or move on. Bare’s words weren’t persuasive so much as jarring, dropped into the room like a misfired firework. Even those inclined to agree with her shifted in their seats, embarrassed by proximity.
Klein rose again, slow and deliberate. He lumbered toward the podium with the same theatrical weight he’d carried on his first trip, the room bracing for another round.
“Mr. Klein, do you have an additional comment?” Nair asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“Please be brief, and avoid repetition.”
Klein rolled his eyes. “My family has run that grocery store since 1955. If a digital sign is what we need to survive, I don’t want this commission standing in our way.”
Freehet jumped in. “Mr. Chair, I move to table the ordinance.”
Stark blinked. That was unexpected. A procedural kill shot. Clever.
“Do we have a second?” Nair asked, his voice tentative, eyes scanning the table for a rescue. He gripped his gavel as if it might lend him authority, but it only made his discomfort more obvious.
“I object,” Hjerne snapped. “We haven’t discussed—”
“Point of order,” Freehet cut in. “We’re waiting for a second.”
Stark’s eyes bounced between them. Freehet was right. It was a jerk move, but procedurally sound.
“I second,” Ekte said, too quickly to be casual. He didn’t particularly care about the motion, but he did enjoy the rare opportunity to shut Hjerne down.
Nair looked rattled. “All in favor?”
“Aye,” said Freehet and Ekte in unison.
“Nay,” Hjerne snapped.
All eyes turned to Bare.
She sat still for a beat, then sighed theatrically. “This is going nowhere. I vote to table.”
“Motion is tabled,” Nair declared. “Meeting is adjourned.”
The gavel cracked. The tension snapped, clean as a twig, creating a silent pause.
Stark sat frozen for a moment, his mind already on what came next. What had started tonight would consume this town for months. It would upend lives. Including, perhaps especially, Brendon Klein’s.
“Mr. Chair?” he called out, breaking the silence loud enough for everyone to hear. “Could I speak to you and Vice Chair Hjerne before you leave? We have a request for a pre-submission conference.”