“I knew it!” cried Jim Dunavan, pounding his hand on the table. “Who is it?”
“We don’t know,” Vance answered without a hitch. “Just that it’s someone senior. They intended to keep the source a secret. But the judge’s decision forced their hand.”
The directors glanced at each other with sudden mistrust.
“Obviously this raises the stakes of the lawsuit immensely,” Vance went on. “It also raises fundamental questions about the integrity of our leadership. Cameron and I think it would be prudent to conduct an internal investigation to find the whistleblower. If possible, we’d like to handle the matter in-house. Outside counsel would demoralize our employees.”
“This is asinine,” Lester spat, his porcelain cheeks purpled by anger. “I don’t want some weasel from the legal department poking around in my e-mail. We all know who sympathizes with the other side.” He looked down the table. “Paula, do you have something to tell us?”
“How dare you,” Paula rejoined.
But Lester didn’t relent. “We’ve sat here for years listening to your sanctimonious bullshit about corporate social responsibility. I want to know. Did you sell us out?”
Paula put her hands on the table like she was about to stand up. “I don’t have to dignify this. Either we discuss this productively, or I’m resigning now.”
“That’s not necessary,” Vance interjected. “Lester, you’re out of line. Besides, it’s highly unlikely that it’s anyone in this room. If you’re concerned about the legal department handling the investigation, we can bring in Rusty’s team at Slade & Barrett.”
“There’s another possibility,” Jim offered. “We could ask the plaintiffs to give us the name of the whistleblower as a settlement condition.”
Cameron’s breath caught in his throat. This was a twist he hadn’t foreseen. He knew Lewis would never expose him. But the idea that Presto might demand it made him queasy.
“Cameron and I talked about that,” Vance said quickly, “but plaintiffs’ counsel made clear that the source’s identity isn’t on the table.”
“Everything’s on the table,” Jim retorted. “We should discuss it with the full board.”
At this point, Cameron broke his silence. Jim’s idea was too dangerous to allow it to go any further. “With all due respect, plaintiffs’ counsel said this point is nonnegotiable. They’ve given us a settlement framework. The terms are in the memo. If the board prefers, we can bring in outside counsel to find the turncoat, or Blake and I can manage the investigation ourselves.” He glanced at Blake and saw him nod, then locked eyes with Jim. “Unless, of course, you think one of us had something to do with it.”
Jim wrinkled his nose and looked away, unwilling to accept Cameron’s challenge.
Lester, however, was more brazen. He stared down the table. “Did you, Blake?”
“Of course not,” Blake said heatedly.
In a blink, Lester focused his paranoia on Cameron. “How about you? After that fire, you made some sweeping recommendations. You told us if we didn’t act, we’d be risking a lawsuit just like this. Now that I think about it, it seems like a hell of a coincidence.”
It was a moment Cameron had been anticipating for two years. He answered cleanly, his expression unfazed. “I had nothing to do with it. But I have suspicions about who did.”
Lester sat back, thrown off balance. “Who? Somebody in legal?”
“Until I have proof, I won’t name names,” Cameron replied. “But with Blake’s help, I’m confident we can handle this quietly.”
After a pause, the old banker shrugged bitterly. “Fine. Let’s move on.”
Thus, with a single riposte, Cameron succeeded in deflecting attention from himself and focusing it on a subordinate who would never be found. Declan was safe because he hadn’t been involved. And Cameron was protected because all incriminating evidence had been destroyed. As of two days ago, he had a new personal e-mail address. His prior address had been hacked, and he had wiped it clean before closing the account—or so the story would go if anyone asked. His tracks, too, had been covered. After his meeting with Josh in Cape Verde, Lewis, at Josh’s request, had reached out to Rusty with a settlement demand. Rusty, in turn, called Cameron on the water, and Cameron promised to inform Vance. It was only after Rusty’s call that Cameron requisitioned the Gulfstream. The only loose end was Stephen Carroll, but Vance and Cameron had agreed upon an approach that would preempt an inquiry.
Vance took the helm again. “Let’s talk about settlement. In light of the judge’s decision, it’s Cameron’s view that an amended complaint naming a senior-level insider would stand a good chance of surviving judicial scrutiny, leaving us with the prospect of a searching discovery process and a very public trial. All of us know what that would mean.”
“The funds would call for our heads,” Jim remarked.
“Exactly,” Vance affirmed. “The plaintiffs’ ten-million-dollar demand is a drop in the bucket compared to the potential of a jury verdict. But the money isn’t really what they’re after. They want us to change the way we source our clothing. I have to confess, when I heard that, I felt like someone had put a gun to my head. But then I saw the silver lining. For some time, Cameron—at my behest—has been in conversation with Stephen Carroll. We went to him after the Millennium fire because times are changing. Our industry is in a vast shake-up, and it isn’t just about Amazon anymore. It’s the mood of the culture, what Carroll calls an epochal shift in the zeitgeist. Society is demanding greater transparency. More and more consumers are asking questions about the products they buy. This is especially true among Millennials. If we stand any chance of capturing their demographic, we have to appeal to their ethics. I’ve outlined Carroll’s proposal in the memo. His investment would radically improve our market standing, especially with the litigation behind us. But his buy-in is contingent upon our decision to embrace a more aggressive vision of Presto’s responsibility in the world. Over the years, a lot of people have argued that corporate citizenship is antithetical to the bottom line. Stephen is a living refutation of that argument. What he’s suggesting is not an overhaul of our business, but a priority shift that would solidify our public reputation and boost our profits. By how much? I don’t know, but Carroll’s betting nearly ten billion dollars that he’s right.”
Vance held out his hands. “Comments?”
His first contender was Lester Grant. “Stephen’s record is unassailable, but he’s not God. I want to know what Rebecca Sinclair thinks about this.”
Vance traded a look with Cameron. “Rebecca isn’t privy to the settlement offer. But I talked with her yesterday about Carroll’s proposal. She told me she had no interest in doing her job with one hand tied behind her back. She informed me that if the board votes in favor, she’s going to tender her resignation.”
Jim slapped the table again. “This is insane! We have a traitor in our midst. We have the New York Times calling for divestment. We have bossy money telling us to rearrange our face. And now the only person who knows the secret in the Presto sauce is threatening to quit. What kind of twilight zone is this?”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Lester said. “Without Rebecca, Presto doesn’t have a chance. I can’t support this. I say we roll the dice with the lawsuit.”
“I couldn’t disagree more,” Paula said, swiveling toward Lester. “I think it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. For over a generation, this industry has been defined by a dog-eat-dog race to the bottom. Carroll’s not asking us to jump off a cliff here. He’s asking us to break that cycle and start a race to the top. In exchange, he’s offering us ten billion dollars, along with his name and imprimatur. As far as I’m concerned, we’d be fools not to accept it.”
Lester mumbled something that Cameron couldn’t hear.
“If you mean it, say it out loud,” Paula said, her face livid.
“I said, ‘Bleeding heart bitch,’” Lester rejoined. “This company isn’t a charity. If Bobby Ca
rter were here, he’d put you in your place.”
“Bobby Carter’s world was the Land Before Time,” Paula said, “and you, Lester Grant, deserve to join him there. I want to talk to Stephen and see the financials.”
Blake chimed in next. “Given the status of the lawsuit, the board would be derelict not to give his offer proper consideration. Either way we vote, we’ll probably see a shareholder suit. I don’t want a target on my back.”
“Tim is finishing up the financials now,” Vance said. “Stephen is with him. I expect them any minute. But in the meantime, I want you all to see something.”
On cue, Cameron turned on the television, switched off the lights, and lowered the shades over the windows, throwing the room into semidarkness.
“We received the video from plaintiffs’ counsel,” Vance went on. “It’s what the jury and the public will see if the case goes forward. If it comes to that, God help us.”
Vance touched his iPad, and Sonia Hassan appeared on the television. Her doll-like face was tilted slightly forward, her eyes limpid as she looked in the general direction of the camera. She clasped her hands together and began to speak. Her voice was quiet, just above a whisper, but the translator, a Bengali woman, spoke with gentle yet melodious clarity.
“My name is Sonia,” she said. “I was fifteen when the fire happened. I was with my sister, Nasima, on the top floor. That night we were making pants for Piccola. There were loud noises and shouting. The lights went out. Nasima led me to a window where we could breathe. It was hot. People were screaming and crying. Some of them jumped from the windows. Nasima put pants around my face that helped me breathe. She made a rope out of pants and put it out the window. She told me to climb down. The fire was on the stairs. I was afraid. I didn’t want to die. I climbed down like Nasima told me to do. Then I fell. That is the end of my memory.”
Cameron looked at Lester and Jim and Paula. All of them were overachievers at or near the pinnacle of wildly successful careers. Yet as they listened to Sonia’s story, they were unmasked. Lester’s face, seconds ago constipated by fury, had gone slack. Jim and Blake were watching Sonia, spellbound. Paula was blinking away tears.
Sonia rocked forward in her chair, then back again. “I can’t see much anymore,” she said. “I can see shapes. I know if it is light or dark. I hear nothing out of this ear.” She touched her left cheek. “I feel pain sometimes, like my head is boiling. Then I have to sleep. I have dreams. I talk to my sister.” The video cut again, and Sonia began to list to one side. “I wish I could be with Nasima,” she said so softly that only her lips seemed to move. “I wish I had died. This is no life.”
Cameron turned off the television and returned light to the room. Then he sat down and met Vance’s eyes. Go for the jugular, he urged his friend silently. Finish this.
“So you see,” the chief executive said, “the choice before us isn’t theoretical. It’s about telling this girl and our customers and the rest of the world that we care about how our products are made. Until now, we’ve pretended. But the jig is up. We don’t get to pretend anymore.”
The silence at the table was long and deep. Finally, Lester cleared his throat. “I don’t like being put in a corner. But Stephen Carroll is a smart man. If he thinks there’s a way out of this mess that doesn’t compromise our integrity, I’m willing to listen.”
Jim grunted his approval. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”
Vance smiled with his eyes and glanced triumphantly at Cameron. “That’s all I ask.”
CHAPTER NINE
PAINTED HILL FARM
KESWICK, VIRGINIA
MAY 16, 2016
4:56 P.M.
The formal dining room at Painted Hill Farm had space for twelve. At holidays, when Madison’s younger sisters brought their families to visit and Caroline whipped up a feast, the room was the hub of a bustling house, full of chatter and activity. Minutes before five o’clock on the day of the court’s filing deadline, however, it was as quiet as a crypt. Madison was sitting at the head of the table, her MacBook in front of her, editing the amended complaint she had drafted just in case they needed it. Lewis was seated at the other end, reading a book and waiting for a call from DC. Josh was in the uncomfortable middle, scanning the news on his iPhone.
It had been four days since his confession, and his wife was still distant toward him. He had sent a reply to Maria the following morning, declining her request for help and wishing her the best. Writing it had pained him greatly, but he did it out of love for his family, and because he knew it was the only way to seal his good-bye. After sending it, he informed Madison, hoping to see a sign of warmth. But she showed no interest in granting him absolution.
Josh heard the trill of Lewis’s phone and glanced at the clock. It was five o’clock exactly. Lewis answered and put the phone on speaker.
“Hi, Judge,” he said casually. “How are you this afternoon?”
“A little older, but I can’t complain,” replied Judge Chandler. “I’m also curious. The last six weeks have been awfully quiet. I thought we’d hear something from you.”
Lewis gave Madison a half smile. “The deadline isn’t until midnight, Your Honor.”
“Of course,” said the judge. “But I’ve never known you to wait until the last minute.”
“This is an unusual case,” Lewis replied, offering no elaboration.
Judge Chandler took an audible breath. “Well, I thought I’d call before I head home for the day. I’ll be checking my e-mail.”
The other corner of Lewis’s mouth turned upward. “Sounds good, Judge.”
“Lewis,” said the judge, “I’m going to say something I’ll probably never say again. If you bring me a complaint that would survive appeal, I’ll throw the doors wide open to discovery. I don’t know what you’ll find, but I’d be fascinated to see it.”
“I know you would, Your Honor,” Lewis affirmed. “So would we.”
“All right, then,” said Judge Chandler reluctantly. “Have a good evening.”
When Lewis put down the phone, he laughed. “We’re never going to see a friendlier bench. It almost makes me regret the thought of settling this.”
“The board may not give its consent,” Madison said. “They’re nearly out of time.”
Lewis ran a hand through his silver hair. “If Cameron can play all of us like pieces on a chessboard, he can get to checkmate.” He stood up. “I’m hungry. Your mom made us some chicken salad before she left. Why don’t you stop messing with that thing and join me?”
Madison sighed, closing her computer. “Sorry. I’m just nervous.”
Just then, Lewis’s phone rang again. “Speak of the devil,” he said and answered the call, putting the phone on the table. “Rusty, we were just talking about you.”
“Lewis,” rasped the defense lawyer, “I just sent you an e-mail with a counteroffer and a draft agreement. We couldn’t get to ten million, but the board authorized seven. We want it to be paid into a trust, so there’s no trace of payment from Presto to any of the plaintiffs. We also need a bulletproof nondisclosure agreement. They can’t tell anyone that the money came from Presto. If they talk, we get the money back. Plain and simple.”
While Rusty spoke, Madison accessed the e-mail and took the laptop to her father.
“I’ve got the document,” Lewis said, scanning it quickly. “The counteroffer is acceptable. The trust won’t be a problem. Neither will the nondisclosure agreement. They can tell their friends and family we took up a public collection for them. What about the rest of the terms?”
Rusty coughed twice, then wheezed heavily. “This is totally confidential—you didn’t hear it from me—but the board is working on a major stock deal with Stephen Carroll. There’s going to be an announcement at the shareholder meeting next month. Until then, I can’t tell you more, but Cameron assured me you’ll be happy.”
Lewis looked at Madison, his blue eyes alive with delight. “I like how all of that sounds, but I
don’t see any of it in the agreement.”
“We can’t put it in writing,” Rusty replied. “You’re going to have to trust us on this. As a gesture of good faith, Presto would like to bring the plaintiffs to watch the live streaming of the shareholders’ meeting from Vance Lawson’s office. No one outside the board will be aware of your presence. The press can’t get wind of this. I can’t stress that enough.”
Lewis took a breath, holding his exuberance in check. “I’ll look over the agreement and get back to you with any changes. As soon as the language is set, we’ll call Dhaka. Rana Jalil is over there now. We should be able to get signatures from all of the plaintiffs by midnight.”
“Works for me,” Rusty wheezed. He waited a beat. “Lewis, give it to me straight. Did one of Presto’s senior people really betray the company?”
Lewis let out a wry laugh. “Now, why would I lie about something like that?”
“I don’t know,” Rusty replied with a chuckle. “Because I might have. Talk soon.”
CHAPTER TEN
PRESTO TOWER, 16TH FLOOR
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
JUNE 10, 2016
10:01 A.M.
The doors to the executive elevator closed with a mechanized whoosh, sealing Cameron in mahogany and glass. He was alone, as he wished to be, the C-suite empty except for Vance, the rest of their colleagues already seated in the Carter Auditorium, listening to Kristin Raymond greet the shareholders. He closed his eyes as the elevator began its descent, thinking back to the day of the fire. He remembered the way Vance had been standing in his office, mesmerized by the sight of the flames. He remembered Vance pointing at the photo of Sonia on the screen. It’s going to go viral. The whole world is going to see it. And the whole world had. One girl lying on a patch of dirt in a country many Americans couldn’t place on a map had shaken a sixty-five-billion-dollar corporation to its foundations. For everyone in the Presto universe, there was the world before Sonia Hassan, and there was the world after her. Nothing would ever be the same.
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