The Trust

by Norb Vonnegut

  “If you like. But there’s not much he can do.”

  “It’s not right, Biscuit.”

  “I’m working it.”

  “It’s not right,” she echoed, throwing up her hands and shaking her head.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later Mrs. Jason Locklear exited like a tempest, draining the law office of all oxygen in her angry wake. Biscuit hated arguing with clients. The process made him uncomfortable—the hashing and thrashing out of details. To his way of thinking, there were more productive ways to waste time.

  Biscuit glanced at his watch. Too early to head home for dinner. Right about now, he’d kill for a Navy Grog down at Phil’s Polynesian. That and a plate of sweet-and-sour wings. But he eyed the Catholic Fund’s 990, still open on his computer screen. It was time to pay attention, time to unclutter his mind and focus on the details.

  Easier said than done.

  The 990 was the print equivalent of sleeping pills. Boring, boring, boring. His mind drifted, which Biscuit suspected was the body’s natural defense to the fucking insufferable parade of forms from the IRS. But when he came to Schedule I—“Grants and Other Assistance to Organizations, Governments, and Individuals in the United States”—the answers piqued his interest.

  The Catholic Fund’s accountant won’t talk, reasoned Biscuit. But its grant recipients might.

  Last year, the Catholic Fund had supported dozens of nonprofits located in cities around the country: Los Angeles, New York, and Spokane among others. There was the Catholic Victims Fund, the Catholic Endowment for Children, and the Catholic Center for Mercy. Most received large eight-figure grants, although Biscuit noted that Sacred Heart Parish in Anacostia received only $100,000.

  “Father Mike got hosed.”

  Biscuit searched for Sacred Heart’s 990 without success. He assumed the diocese, or a more senior entity in the Catholic hierarchy, handled the parish’s paperwork. He found the 990 for the Catholic Victims Fund, though. He was curious what the charity did to earn a $50 million gift.

  Its summary of activities read: “The Catholic Victims Fund aids families in crisis. We fight domestic violence and work with donors to shield children at risk. We defend those who can’t defend themselves.”

  The language sounded similar to the Catholic Fund’s summary. Biscuit scrolled down, thinking it would be odd if he found the same accounting firm—Bustamante and Lim at 44 Montgomery in San Francisco.

  He didn’t.

  The accounting firm was Foz and Associates, based in Spokane. Michael Foz had signed the 990. Biscuit dialed his phone number, which was listed on the form.

  “May I tell him what this is in reference to?” asked the receptionist.

  Fifteen seconds later, he was speaking with Michael Foz.

  “How can I help, Mr. Hughes?”

  “I was looking at the 990 for the Catholic Victims Fund.”

  “Right. They’re a fine organization.”

  “Can you describe its relationship to the Catholic Fund?”

  “Are you with the IRS?”

  “I practice law in Fayetteville, North Carolina.” Biscuit rolled his head.

  “Right. What makes you think the organizations have a relationship?”

  “The Catholic Fund made a fifty-million-dollar gift to your client.”

  “Right. Can I get your phone number?”

  Biscuit sensed Foz was about to hang up. “What for?”

  “I’d rather my client answer all your questions,” the accountant explained. “That way I don’t make any mistakes.”

  “Fair enough. When should I expect to hear back?”

  “Give me a call if you haven’t heard anything in a week.”

  “You’re kidding. That long?”

  “They run a lean ship.” Foz spoke with an accent, which Biscuit could not identify.

  The big lawyer hung up a few moments later. There was something about Foz. Nice, but in a pasty kind of way. Too breezy. Too Left Coast. Biscuit’s prodigious gut told him the Catholic Victims Fund would never call back.

  For a while, he considered the $50 million gift from the Catholic Fund to the Catholic Victims Fund. It was so disproportionately large relative to the $100,000 Sacred Heart had received. The more Biscuit pondered the difference, the more it nagged him. He scrolled down to Schedule I for the Catholic Victims Fund, wondering whether its grants would offer any insight. Catholic Fund. Catholic Victims Fund. The names were so similar, so close, so hard to remember what was what. He wondered whether there was any real difference between their philanthropic missions.

  Again, Biscuit found dozens of grant recipients. But one caught his attention, one that received a $20 million gift last year. He had seen that name before, somewhere, somewhere recent. The big attorney clicked back to the Schedule I for the Catholic Fund, back to a $30 million gift made last December. Just as he recalled.

  Both organizations had made eight-figure donations to the Palmetto Foundation.

  “What’s with that?” Biscuit asked aloud. He still couldn’t tell the difference between the Catholic Fund and the Catholic Victims Fund. But the good news was that he could see the principals at the Palmetto Foundation in person. Charleston was only a four-hour drive from Fayetteville.

  “Hey, Biscuit,” Margaret called. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine, darling. You mind sending out for some food?”

  “So that’s why you keep talking to yourself.”

  “I’m working late.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE PALMETTO FOUNDATION

  TUESDAY

  Claire, JoJo, and I were sitting in the conference room with Father Frederick Ricardo of the Catholic Fund. Both women had stressed the importance of this meeting several times since my arrival in Charleston.

  His organization had made a $65 million gift to the Palmetto Foundation. Today he was updating us on the progress of the charitable project for which the money was intended—what had been done and what was left to do.

  I wasn’t sure why the Catholic Fund needed an intermediary. The Palmetto Foundation offered anonymity and the expertise to manage a long-term gift. But as the newest trustee, I intended to find out more about our role.

  My job was to evaluate the charitable projects of donors, while protecting the Palmetto Foundation’s interests. Trustees can’t wire out money willy-nilly. We have a fiduciary obligation to investigate the recipients of our donor gifts. Otherwise, the IRS would question whether we’re entitled to tax-free status.

  Technically, the $65 million belonged to us. But Father Ricardo gifted the money with a specific purpose in mind. So in all honesty, I expected to rubber-stamp his proposal. The Palmetto Foundation would never stay in business if we gummed up the wishes of our donors.

  I confess. I was feeling good about myself. It was an honor to sit on the board of a charitable organization that already had $140 million in assets. With Palmer’s gift, the Palmetto Foundation would soon oversee an additional $150 million. It was a lot of money, $290 million in total. It was a lot of power, all those contributions targeted for a greater good. My position as a trustee afforded me world-class bragging rights back at SKC.

  And therein was the crux of my problem. On Monday I had faxed disclosures to SKC’s compliance people—me joining the board of the Palmetto Foundation. They had not replied. And given my boss’s lack of support, I probably should have waited to accept the position.

  But Palmer was my friend and mentor. Deceased or not, he had invited me into his inner circle. He was always saying, “Sometimes you do the best you can and just say fuck it.” My exact thoughts now. I couldn’t turn my back on his request

  Or wait for SKC’s Business Prevention Unit to get back to me.

  * * *

  Father Ricardo was well put together, five foot nine and built like a mailbox. His eyes were brown, his hair the color of coal. He wore a black suit, a black shirt, and a white clerical collar. There was an aura about him, the freshness I some
times notice in people with a spiritual calling.

  I rolled up my sleeves and invited him to take off his jacket. “Make yourself comfortable, Father.”

  He stayed formal but welcomed me to the board. “I look forward to working with you, Grove.”

  Claire and JoJo flanked the reverend, who was sitting at the head of the table. The two women insisted he take the seat reserved for guests of honor.

  Father Ricardo turned to JoJo and held her eyes for a good five seconds. Same thing with Claire. He appeared to absorb their pain and replace it with his inner strength, a potent trade coming from a priest. “I’m making a nine-day novena for Palmer.”

  We all paused for a moment of silence, letting the good father decide when it was appropriate to continue. And sure as I’m the life-support system for a mouth, Wall Street had nothing on that priest. He was one helluva salesman.

  “Some of this may be repetitive.” Father Ricardo glanced at the Kincaids for their permission. “I want to bring Grove up to speed.”

  “Good idea,” agreed Claire.

  “But just so you know,” he said, still addressing the women, “we stumbled across a new opportunity. It’s big. It means everything to us. And I need to discuss our funds.”

  We trustees exchanged glances.

  With an overhead projector, Father Ricardo flashed PowerPoint slides against the wall. My first thought was, Not the Church. PowerPoint is the great enabler of Wall Street’s toxic waste. Derivatives, CDOs, the securities nobody understands till somebody gets hurt—it takes slick presentations to hawk that crap.

  No matter my misgivings, the good father hooked me within thirty seconds. It was his focus on the kids, their faces, those smiles that still haunt my dreams.

  “Mahatma Gandhi once said, ‘There are people in the world so hungry that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread.’” He paused to gain my complete attention.

  I could taste his bitterness.

  “There’s an evil more sinister than hunger. It’s more vile than malaria, AIDS, and other problems you associate with third-world countries. And the Catholic Fund needs your help to fight it.”

  Every so often Claire and JoJo checked my reactions. Unlike me, they had embraced his mission long ago. I was completely mesmerized, waiting to hear what was next.

  Father Ricardo zipped through head shots of orphans, one after another. They were all smiling, scrubbed and squeaky clean the way kids are. “Here’s Grace. And Jacinto.” And so on.

  Once, he stopped to describe a five-year-old boy with a Magic Marker mustache. “Eduardo asked me to draw it so he would look fierce.” I smiled at the child’s innocence and half chuckled until Claire shot me a look.

  What’s that about?

  The answer came when Father Ricardo clicked on a photo of Grace. Her whole body, not just her face. She had no foot.

  Then he showed Jacinto, no arm. One after another the priest scrolled through photos, all the bright faces. Every one of the kids suffered a dismemberment of some kind. Eduardo was the one who got me. His right hand was gone. He couldn’t draw his own mustache.

  There were tears streaming down JoJo’s face. I almost lost it on the spot. “Were the kids born like this?” I had to ask.

  “Afraid not.” Father Ricardo shook his head from left to right. He bristled with anger.

  “What happened?”

  Claire’s face clouded. Her bangs fell low, her face full of distress. I had never seen her in such distress. “There was this kid in Manila. Mabini Street. One foot. He saw me and came racing over on crutches.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He was a beggar,” explained Father Ricardo. “Just like my kids in the photos. At one time, they all worked for men who maimed them.”

  “What!”

  “Crippled kids get more money.” Claire’s blue eyes moistened.

  “Sick.” JoJo bent down to pick up Holly. Her yappy dachshund had just run into the room. She snuggled the dog in her arms.

  “And I refuse to sit back and watch.” The priest’s face grew cold and steely, his jaw set. His knuckles grew white from clenching the side of the table. “Which is why our opportunity is so important.”

  “Sorry, Father. I still don’t know what you do.”

  “You’re right. I’m getting ahead of myself.”

  “Grove needs to hear the whole story,” observed JoJo.

  Claire nodded her head in agreement.

  “We get the kids. We make them safe and give them the tools to live their lives with dignity. That’s one reason our relationship with the Palmetto Foundation is so important.” He looked at Claire and hesitated.

  “Go ahead.” She leaned forward.

  “I doubt you understand, Grove.”

  “You’re probably right.” Eduardo’s photo was still showing against the wall, sweet face, black ink mustache, no right hand.

  “We’re dealing with gangsters. Cruel men who regard the kids as their slaves. They won’t let the kids come with us.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Take them.” Father Ricardo spoke in a low voice, guarded, almost a whisper but one vibrating with rage.

  “Excuse me?”

  “We pay men to rescue the children.”

  “You mean mercenaries?”

  “That’s not how we think of them.”

  “How do you think of them, Father?” Priest or not, the reverend was mincing his words.

  “Rescue teams, bodyguards, ex–Special Forces—they’re angels if you ask me. We hire guys with training you can’t get in the seminary. And our team, as you might guess, is a highly sensitive issue for the Catholic Church.”

  The revelations floored me. I think Father Ricardo stopped speaking because of what he saw in my face. I finally said, “You’re a priest.”

  “Yeah, a Maryknoll priest. Our mission is to ‘foster self-worth and dignity.’ Look at Eduardo.” Father Ricardo pointed to the PowerPoint slide. “You think he had much dignity before we saved him?”

  When I was a kid at the Air Force base, the Maryknoll priests visited our church on a regular basis. They described poverty in third-world countries and talked about water-purification plants, classrooms, and facilities to treat tuberculosis. There was always a second collection plate on the days they visited. But there was never a hint of missions like the one Father Ricardo had described.

  “You grabbed Eduardo! Isn’t that a job for the authorities?”

  “Yeah, if they weren’t so corrupt. And prayers don’t stop them from taking bribes.”

  Father Ricardo was intense. He was pragmatic. I liked him and was beginning to understand the reason behind our involvement. “The Palmetto Foundation enables you to remain anonymous?”

  “We do things the public would never understand. Things that would bury the Catholic Church if the press ever found out. And the last thing we need is another PR fiasco.” He glanced at Claire and hesitated again. Even here, inside our private conference room, he worried his secrets might slip out.

  “It’s okay, Father. Grove’s one of us.” She swept the bangs from her face.

  “We maintain safe houses across Manila. First we get the kids away from their captors. Whatever it takes. Then we relocate them off the island of Luzon.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “If we kept the kids in Manila, the gangsters would find them and put them back to work. That’s why I’m so guarded.”

  “You relocate kids out of the country?”

  “Too complicated. The culture shock would overwhelm them. But we have seven thousand islands in the Philippines. We hide our kids with families on Cebu and the surrounding islands, fit them with prosthetics, and teach them skills. They never leave the country.”

  I started to think about the operation. The logistics were massive: maintaining safe houses, evacuating the children, and finding homes with families in other regions. It was a noble cause. But it was time- and labor-intensive. “How many kids ca
n you rescue?”

  “Every child we save,” Claire interrupted, “is a victory.”

  “But we have an opportunity to do more,” added Father Ricardo. “Which is why I’m so excited.”

  “Tell us,” Palmer’s daughter urged.

  “How much do you know about the Visayas?”

  “The region in the middle of the Philippines?” JoJo sipped coffee, her words half question and half answer.

  “Right, the Visayas are the islands I mentioned before. Cebu and maybe one hundred and sixty others surrounding it. We have the opportunity to buy a hotel on one of them. It’s perfect for an orphanage and school. We can buy it, refit it, and not worry about finding foster families in Cebu before we get the kids out of Manila.”

  I didn’t ask how much it cost. I had a different concern. “Where do we wire the money, Father?”

  “Same as before. The Manila Society for Children at Risk.”

  “We fund your programs in our name, and nobody can tie the Catholic Fund to your activities in the Philippines.”

  “Right,” he confirmed.

  “Did Palmer sign off on this?” I asked the other trustees.

  “One hundred percent,” replied JoJo.

  Claire nodded yes. “Why do you ask?”

  “We’re linking the Palmetto Foundation to mercenaries.”

  “You’re saving kids,” protested Father Ricardo, his voice testy.

  “What if the gangsters visit Charleston?”

  “Why would they do that?” He threw his palms in the air, exasperated with me.

  “We threaten their income.”

  “That’s alarmist. They’re small-time hoods operating out of Manila.” Father Ricardo shook his head in a wistful way. “They don’t even follow us into Cebu.”

  I suddenly regretted my words. “How much money do you need?”

  “We’ve budgeted for all of it,” he said.

  “Sixty-five million?”

  “Minus your fees,” he confirmed. “We have acquisition and renovation costs, not to mention our operating expenses. It’s expensive to hire angels, lease safe houses, and find families on the islands. We have too much momentum to stop our good work.”

  “When do you need the money?”