She closed the pink file, which contained notes on every questionable practice she had found in her investigation. Stella Morris had realized that she could no longer defend TND. Even Fernanda could see that. Talking to them about her decision, though, was going to be a challenge.
12
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
Six hours later, Stella was striding along South Figueroa Street in downtown Los Angeles, looking every inch the professional lawyer in a dark gray tailleur that was only marginally crumpled from the airplane. She entered a tall building, went through the usual hassle at reception, and took the elevator to the top floor. Stepping out into the headquarters of The Nature Dweller, she wondered—not for the first time—what all the luxury was about. TND looked like a designer’s show home.
Her view of the NGO had changed dramatically in the past months. It felt as if her entire belief system was crumbling. First it was her father and what she learned about him and the political world, and now her privileged access to an NGO’s inner workings was completing her awakening. It was getting tough to believe in anything.
She sat on an expensive-looking couch where a secretary told her to wait. She wondered if that couch had been overpriced in their accounting. Then she thought about endangered butterflies, elephants, dolphins, tigers, earthworms, and the like. She wondered if this particular NGO was really concerned about preserving nature’s finest creatures, or whether it was all a sophisticated scheme to raise money. Then she wondered if other NGOs found themselves in the same dubious position. Several of her clients came to mind, but before she had time to consider each of them, the secretary signaled her to go into the meeting room.
“Stella, good to see you,” Michael Flinch said, shaking her hand.
He was the CEO of TND, a smiley, well-built man of forty with a “let’s get on with it” attitude. Michael had just been elected CEO. He was under pressure from the board of directors to get results, which included handling the Loretta Johnson case and making sure that The Nature Dweller ended the dispute without any significant reputational damage. Stella Morris, the competent lawyer and daughter of a former president, was one of their finest weapons in defeating the Vegas widow.
“How’re you doing, Michael?”
“Great. Well, you know, the board’s all over me. But, hey, can’t say I don’t enjoy a little pressure.”
Stella smiled politely and sat at the big oval table. The walls of the meeting room were covered with beautiful photographs of the animal kingdom, neatly framed as if they were jewels to be preserved—or exploited. Stella looked around sadly at the pictures.
“Poor animals,” she said.
Michael, who’d sat down opposite her, didn’t quite understand her tone. He looked at one of the pictures, a close-up of a muscular male rhino. “What?” he asked.
“Never mind.”
“Anyway. Where are we with the Loretta Johnson case? Has she considered our offer?”
Stella shrugged. “She’s not looking for reimbursement, Michael.”
“So?”
“So you know, since you weren’t here when the board decided, I was against making an offer like that. She’s probably more offended now than she was before.”
“I wasn’t here, but there’s not much we can do. You either settle it or battle it.”
“Sure. But here’s the part you—to be fair, all of you—missed. It’s not just about what you do, but how you do it. The settlement has been arrogant from the very beginning. The poor woman’s probably very pissed right now.”
Michael waved his hands in the air. “I can’t emphasize how anxious everybody is about how this is gonna end.”
“I know. But here’s the thing, Michael. I’m reconsidering my ability to represent you in this case.”
Michael Flinch nodded at first, not really following what she’d said. Then, in an instant, the smile was gone. “What the hell are you talking about? You’re the best person we know. And you’re already on the case, Stella. No, no, more than that, you are the case.”
“I understand. But I’ve given this a great deal of thought, and I’ve decided. I can’t go on representing you.”
“Why?”
“Because Loretta Johnson has a point.”
“What are you talking about? Hell, no, she doesn’t.”
“Yes, she does. She has a right to know exactly how the money her husband gave to TND was spent. What bothers me—or, better put, what offends me—is that Mrs. Johnson’s gut instinct was right from the beginning.”
Michael shook his head and tried to smile. “Stella, are you all right? I don’t know you well enough, but have you been feeling off lately? Do you want some tea, or a beer? I can get you whatever you want. You’re just not making any sense.”
“Let me clear this up.”
“You’d better!”
“The Nature Dweller has been committing fraud to an unimaginable extent. You’re new here, so I presume you’re honestly ignorant of this fact. But I’m here to tell you, this isn’t going to end well for TND and those who are complicit in the fraud. And I’m letting you know that I won’t be a part of this. As of now, you need to find a new lawyer to represent Dweller.”
“You can’t be serious. Are you aware of the gravity of your claims?”
Stella stood. “Don’t blame me if you find yourself in trouble in the future.” With that, she walked to the door, opened it, and left.
Michael Flinch stayed at the oval table until he could no longer hear Stella’s heels clicking down the corridor outside. Then he ran for the phone in his office. Whatever coolness he’d possessed was now gone. He was close to panic.
“Stella Morris just left my office,” he said as soon as the call connected. “She came to tell me that she’s abandoning ship.”
The powerful voice that he heard next belonged to one of the members of TND’s board of directors. Charles Dulles, former US senator. The snake.
“Slow down, Michael. What are you talking about?”
“She quit! She said Loretta Johnson’s got a point. She accused us of committing fraud.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah. Out of the blue, Charles.”
“Are you sure this isn’t a temporary situation?”
“I heard what I heard. I’m sure.”
Michael heard a long sigh at the other end of the phone. He waited.
“Are you aware of how damaging this is to us?” Charles said finally.
“Yeah.”
“We need to fix this.”
“I can’t see how. I mean, she was pretty fucking resolute, believe me.”
“Well, we’re gonna have to find a way.”
“I’ll call a board meeting.”
“Good idea.”
13
GLASGOW, MONTANA
Early in the morning, I caught myself peeping out the window of my bedroom to see whether there were people outside. I didn’t want them there. They scared me. Throughout the ages, the people were the only thing that truly scared rulers. I wasn’t a ruler anymore, but that fear remained, along with many others. And the origin of my problem, the one that would eventually make me live in a permanent state of fear—or cowardliness—was a simple word: yes.
Back in the day, I’d made a name for myself as the fresh voice in a world tired of the same old political rhetoric. I went from being an ethics consultant recommended by PR firms to corporations, to a face on TV. My talent? Telling people what they wanted to hear. The guy whose independent thinking conveniently aligned with all the issues that were important to the nation: the war on terror, the environment, and family values that incorporated liberal ideas. There was very little to hate about me. Alongside the nation’s favorite doctor, favorite scientist, and favorite religious interpreter, I became the TV go-to guy for all the subjects that a human being could possibly be an expert in. I was the guy who could translate complicated issues into an accessible language, a likeable figure whom people trusted.
/> Charles Dulles saw me one day on TV and decided to become my friend.
“Would you consider running for president?” he asked simply.
Of course I laughed, but he kept a rock-solid serious face until I presented him with an answer. I knew who he was, and how many terms he’d served in the Senate. He was a heavyweight. And I…well, I was beginning to truly fall in love with myself.
“Yes,” I said. What a terrible mistake.
I never really understood Democrats or Republicans. As far as I was concerned, all you needed were good ideas, not ideologies. With such a vast menu of philosophies to choose from, how could you soberly believe that you were smart enough to have picked precisely the best one? Honestly, when you picked one ideology, you presumptuously assumed that everybody and everything else out there was beneath you in one way or another. That was fuel for discord, sure—and an essential part of that fragile thing called democracy.
With a clean history that turned me into a virtually untouchable candidate, all I had to do was talk the talk I’d become known for. That, and Charles’s money-raising locomotive, was what made me the first president to get elected as an independent. I promised things that traditional party candidates wouldn’t dare whisper about. Like, for instance, returning the control of the money supply and the power to create credit to the Treasury Department. See, the US Treasury owned the printing presses that printed our money, but it was the Federal Reserve that called the shots. The Treasury was us, the government. The Fed, well, who knew exactly who owned it? According to the former chairman of the Fed, the honorable Alan Greenspan, the Fed was independent and no government agency, including the president, could overrule its actions.
Ironically, I would later find out that my campaign manager, a smart man called Bob James, had strong ties with the Federal Reserve folks. (Bob had been recommended to me by Charles, so I figured I had to accept.) That was why, despite my promises to go against huge interests, Bob brought in significant campaign funds from institutions connected to the Fed. And for every dollar they officially contributed to my campaign, two times that amount was deposited in offshore accounts whose end beneficiary was me. Did I ask for it? Was I even aware of it? No. They did it to make me their hostage.
So I took the bait. I mean, let’s be real. The thrill of getting to be the next president of the United States was powerful to the point of being irresistible. It turned me into a blind person. I just couldn’t see all the angles amidst the campaign frenzy. The consequence was, I became a puppet in Charles Dulles’s hands. And he saw to it that after I got elected, I couldn’t do anything that went against the current system, or else he and his cronies could—and I was sure would—expose me. Simple as that. And as for Bob James, he ended up being appointed my Treasury Secretary. I had to do it as part of the keeping-things-under-wraps policy. See, when you’re corrupt, even if you didn’t intend to be, you no longer control your destiny. And your destiny isn’t to lead, it’s to coast. No one in or around government wants real change. Continuity is and always will be the name of the game.
But there was something else bothering me after I got elected: Stella. Though she was young, she got to know a thing or two about how that game worked. And the moment she realized I couldn’t keep my promises, she turned against me—she betrayed me. She actually believed that there would still be a way to change things, if only I truly wanted it. Stupid. I was as mad at her as she was at me.
Poor Anya spent a great deal of time trying to fix things between my daughter and me, but she failed. That made my wife miserable for the rest of her days. How bad can a person feel, knowing that his wife died unhappy?
What a curse a simple yes can be.
I checked outside again. There was no one, nothing but snow all over. Maybe I wasn’t looking properly. Maybe I shouldn’t be looking at all. It was a tiring thing, being afraid all the time.
Looking up, I saw the sun was beginning to show. I was wasting my morning in the bedroom. I got up, got dressed, and went straight to my office. I felt like writing. After all, that was what I was meant to be doing with my time. For once, I was inclined to keep to a commitment.
You might be wondering how I came to know that Marshall was my father. I didn’t, in fact, for a long time. But the seed of the idea was sown in childhood.
At about nine, I was taller and fatter than most of the other slave children the same age as me who inhabited that farm in Brazil. By then I’d already figured out that the extra meal my mother brought to me wasn’t part of the other slaves’ routine.
The adults would get a shot of cachaça in the morning and before going to sleep. The strong sugarcane spirit made them more docile. Once a day, they were given a serving of bean broth. To make it more substantial, Alberto instructed Marshall to add the pig parts he himself rejected: the tail, feet, tongue, and ears.
My mother Kesia would bring me an extra portion of this broth to a hideaway in the middle of the plantation. She was not so worried about Alberto finding out as she was the other slaves. This could lead to a nasty uprising.
It so happened that one day I caught my mother meeting with Marshall at the outskirts of the casa grande, and I saw when he gave her the broth for me. It mystified me that this rude man and my mother could have been friends of some sort. And for that long. Marshall didn’t even seem interested in me. He noticed me less than the other children, I thought. Spoke to me less frequently. Punished me less frequently.
In any case, while the mystery remained, I felt a little more comfortable in the presence of our senhor de engenho knowing that he was a friend of my mother’s. In fact, I developed a confidence that I wasn’t entitled to have. I was starting to learn about trust. If I followed the rules, Marshall would trust me. But could I ever really trust him? To do so would be dangerous. Marshall was ferocious when he needed to be. Despite my age, my preservation instincts were sharp.
I didn’t say a word to my mother. As long as the food kept coming and the punishments were given to other slaves instead of me, I had no need to. I just quietly watched and learned; I become a keen observer of the human race. How whites would relate to whites, to the slaves, and so forth. They dressed differently, ate differently, and spoke differently. I concluded that living as a white person was better than being a slave.
I knew I could never be a white person because I’d asked my mother about that before. She explained that we lived by the color we were born. That pretty much settled my doubts. Before that, I was under the impression that the color of our skin had something to do with the food we ate and even the clothes we wore.
Regardless, I told my mother that one day I would live like a white man and have everything that a white man had. Immediately thereafter, she slapped my face vigorously and told me not to repeat that ever again. I cried. Not because she hit me, but because I was too determined not to let go of this dream. It meant that, for the first time in my life, I was going to disobey my beloved mother. And I felt for her.
14
ARCATA, CALIFORNIA
Fernanda knocked on the door to Stella’s office and entered. Every morning, she would sit with Stella and go through the daily tasks ahead. Usually, she found Stella immersed in paperwork or busy on the phone, but that morning she had her arms crossed and her chair turned to the window. There was a thick fog and not much to be admired outside her office.
“Did you see the recent deforestation data coming from Asia? It’s just out. You’re not gonna believe how high the figures are,” Fernanda said, like the deforestation could reach Arcata at any minute. Her alarming tone not only pulled Stella from her thoughts, it annoyed her. She swung around in her chair and stared at her apprentice.
“You need to learn to calm down.”
“But, Stella, the three-toed sloth could be affected. You’re aware of that.”
“The sloth is a lazy animal. Every lazy animal pays the price sooner or later.”
Fernanda’s jaw dropped. Then she thought it prudent to remind St
ella of another relevant fact. “The Sloths Are Us Foundation is our client.”
“Yeah. My very first big client. You sound way too redundant today.”
Fernanda shrugged. “I’m just saying.”
“You know how many sloths die every year?”
“No.”
“Me neither. But it’s not a lot.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you know how many children die every year of undernutrition? More than three million. And that’s preventable. Now, obesity? It kills three times more. Does that shock you? This ridiculous world we live in?”
“I guess.”
“No, sweetheart, I guess isn’t shocked enough. So do me a favor, forget about the poor sloth for a moment. I’ve got more mundane stuff to think about right now.”
“Sure… I mean, I don’t want to sound hysterical, you know.”
Fernanda looked out the window. She saw a black Escalade parked outside and frowned. An old man, followed by two younger ones in suits, was nearing the door to the building.
“What is it?” Stella turned to glance outside. She laughed harshly.
“Do you know them?” asked Fernanda.
“Yeah. That was fast.”
“What?”
“Never mind. They’re TND people. That’s former Senator Charles Dulles. He’s one of their board members.”
“Damn!” Fernanda said, covering her mouth.
“What?”
“My braces. I should brush…”
“Don’t worry. I don’t think he’s here to kiss you. Go open the door.”
Fernanda rushed to the entrance hall.
Leave Her Out Page 6
