Authors: Jeff Buick
Reginald Morgan was a living icon. He was fourth-generation industrialist, and first-generation philanthropist. His great-grandfather,
Ezra Morgan, had worked the Virginia coal mines for six years during the Civil War era as a
butty
, doling out the underground jobs and walking about the mine looking for sections that were susceptible to collapsing. It
didn’t take long to realize the coal dust was killing him. He asked for a transfer to the head office, and since he had a
quick head for math, was assigned to the accounting and payroll department. The patriarch of the Morgan clan rose quickly
through the ranks, and by the age of thirty-six he was in charge of mining operations.
Ezra changed the way things were done. Child labor, used to mine the coal from the seams and then pull it to collection points
in a coal dram, was eliminated. He designed a complicated network of underground railways to move the coal, and an updated
version of the mechanized pulley system to bring the coal back to the surface. His mines were patrolled by men who understood
the causes and dangers of methane gas and who knew what to look for when a collapse was imminent. Ezra Morgan’s mines were
the safest in the country.
Over the generations, the family name became synonymous with not only coal but also electricity. They mined the coal, then
transported it to their electrical generating plant a few miles away in the foothills bordering the Rich Mountains in West
Virginia. Providing power to the eastern seaboard proved to be a very lucrative business and the Morgan family fortune grew
exponentially. Control of the business was kept in the family, eventually settling on Reginald Morgan. But now it appeared
the dynasty was about to end. He and his wife tried for many years to have children, something that had not happened. He remained
at the helm, trying to stave off the day that his company would pass to an outsider.
But Reginald Morgan was getting old. His seventy-third birthday had come and gone and his physical strength was waning. His
mottled scalp showed under remnants of what had once been thick silver hair and his face was almost with out color. Veins
were visible under the paper-thin skin. He spent time staring at the back of his hands, likening them to road maps of some
county he’d never visited. It struck him as odd that he didn’t know the back of his hand anymore.
A second man entered the room and Reginald Morgan looked up from the papers on his desk. It was Derek Swanson, president of
the Morgan empire of companies. Swanson was midfifties but didn’t look a day over forty-five. His daily regimen included a
six-mile jog and weight training. And he ate properly. Vegetables, fruit, no fat and no sugar. His face was rugged and tanned,
the result of the many hours he spent outdoors, and he carried a hundred and ninety pounds on a six-two frame. His deep brown
eyes were focused and penetrating. If eyes were truly the window to the soul, Swanson’s inner persona was all business.
“You wanted to see me, Reggie.” He slipped into the soft leather chair facing the company’s Chief Executive Officer.
“Yes, thanks for coming,” Morgan said, his voice still surprisingly strong for the frail body. “And on short notice. I know
you’re busy.”
“Making us money,” Swanson said.
“Yes, of course. Money.” Morgan steepled his fingers and cocked his head slightly. “I’m not sure about the conversion, Derek.
I don’t think I’m going to back it.”
Derek Swanson’s face didn’t change. His breathing didn’t alter from its even cadence and he didn’t tap a finger or wiggle
a toe. Nothing spoke of the internal turmoil those few words had set off. “What’s your reasoning for that?” he asked, his
voice normal.
Morgan waved a hand as he spoke. “This company was built on solid business practices. Slow, steady growth with an eye to the
future. Income trusts are dangerous, Derek. They deplete companies of surplus cash, and right now we need that cash. Lombard
II needs work. It was state of the art when we built it, but not anymore. On your recommendation, we’ve been holding off installing
scrubbers and moving to new technology since we hired you. That’s eight years, Derek. It’s time to move ahead. It’s time to
clean up our act and stop polluting.”
“Why the sudden surge of conscience?” Swanson asked. Morgan shook his head. “Nothing sudden about it. I’ve been pushing for
new technology for years now. You were against it. And your opinion was what the shareholders listened to. Higher share prices,
larger dividends—all money driven. It’s time for that to stop. My family never knowingly destroyed the environment. Not while
we ran the company.”
“Are you saying that since you hired me as president, your company’s ethical position has changed?” Swanson asked, a slight
edge to his voice.
Morgan measured his response for a minute, then said, “You put profits ahead of people, financial gain ahead of the environment.
When we brought you on, we were ready for change. You’re the reason that change has never happened. We’re still burning our
coal dirty and cheap. And it’s having an effect on our community.” He wet his thin, pale lips with a quivering tongue. “You
can label it ethics if you wish, Derek. But this company has not moved in the right direction since you took over.”
“We have plans to clean up our emissions,” Swanson said. “But it’s expensive. The conversion to an income trust will generate
a lot of money. Money that can be used to upgrade our facility.”
Morgan laughed, a full-bodied chortle that took a full thirty seconds to completely die out. “Now who’s having an attack of
conscience? You could have implemented those changes anytime over the past eight years. Phased in over time, the effect on
our bottom line would have been almost negligible. But you didn’t.” He leaned forward on his desk. “And now, when you have
fifty million dollars riding on this conversion, you tell me the real reason you want it to happen is to initiate changes
that will benefit other people. That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“The conversion is a done deal,” Swanson said. “We have regulatory approval from the stock exchange and DC Trust is behind
it. There’s no stopping it, Reggie.”
“I still have some influence,” Morgan said. “My great-grandfather built this company.”
“And now the shareholders tell us what to do,” Swanson snapped back. “And they like the idea of the value of their shares
increasing by forty percent overnight. I couldn’t stop this if I wanted to. And neither can you.”
Morgan’s face took on color. “Don’t underestimate me, Derek. That would be a mistake.”
Swanson sat back in his chair, his voice returning to normal, his demeanor composed. “The conversion is an excellent business
decision. The wheels are in motion. It’s out of our hands.”
“Nothing about this company is ever out of my hands,” Morgan said. “And you’re forgetting one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Senator Claire Buxton. Her new fresh-air initiative. If her bill goes through, our equipment will be obsolete. Overnight.
That makes our company unattractive to investors. Unless we have the money for the necessary upgrades.” He paused and stared
hard at the younger man. “Which, at this precise moment, we have. But you convert to an income trust and pay out hundreds
of millions of dollars, and that money is gone. Buxton’s initiative could sink us.”
“It’ll never happen,” Swanson said.
“Why? Because you’ve hired a handful of lobbyists to protect companies that pollute the environment?”
“Careful. You’re grouping your own company in with the bad boys.”
“I am,” Morgan said emphatically. “We pollute the air. We create massive impoundment ponds filled with sludge. We strip the
tops off mountains to mine the underlying coal seams.”
“I don’t think you want to repeat that outside this office,” Swanson said.
The elder man’s face contorted with rage. “I’ll say whatever I want, Derek. I’ve been pushing for more environmentally friendly
methods of mining the coal and burning it since we hired you. You, however, have managed to talk the shareholders into keeping
the status quo.” He slammed a weathered fist on his desk. “I swear to God, Derek, I’m not going to let you run roughshod over
this company, my family name, or our legacy any longer. The conversion is out. It’s not going to happen.”
Swanson struggled to retain his composure. “Like I said, you can’t stop it.”
“Yes, I can.” Morgan’s eyes burned with a strange mixture of desire and hate. “And I will.”
Derek Swanson stood up and adjusted the sleeves on his suit so a half inch of dress shirt cuff showed. “This is going nowhere
right now. We’ll talk about it when you get back from your vacation.”
“Maybe,” Morgan said. “By then Senator Buxton’s bill could be tabled. That will kill your conversion on the spot. The regulatory
body at the exchange and the bank will immediately pull their support.”
Swanson turned and walked to the door without looking back. He closed the door quietly behind him, his mind a seething mass
of hate and loathing. The old man was a dinosaur. The company may have originated with his ances- tors, but the shareholders
controlled its destiny now. And the shareholders wanted what he wanted: the hundreds of millions of dollars the conversion
to an income trust would pump into the company’s book value. That he would personally benefit by almost fifty million dollars
was simply a convenient by-product of the restructuring. And without Senator Buxton’s bill passing through the Senate and
Congress, there was no reason to change the way they did business. Although he knew they should.
Coal-Balt was a poster child for environmental destruction. They tore mountaintops apart to reach the coal seams, then pumped
millions of tons of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere when they burned the coal to produce electrical power. But people wanted
air-conditioning in the summer and lights in the winter. They couldn’t live without the thousands of megawatts of energy that
the steam-powered turbines generated. And that was going to make him even richer than he already was.
Swanson slowed as he passed Reginald Morgan’s executive assistant. She glanced up at him and smiled. “What are you going to
do when your boss is gone?” he asked.
“Catch up,” she said cheerfully. “The only time I get a chance to clear off my desk is when he leaves for a week or two.”
“Where are Reginald and Amelia going?” Swanson asked her.
“Caribbean,” she answered.
“Their place in the Caymans?”
“No, Mr. Morgan wanted to move around a bit. They’re taking a cruise.”
“Late in the season for a cruise.” Swanson headed for the door. “Almost hurricane season.”
“Mr. Morgan thought of that. He figures the best place to be is on a cruise ship,” she said. “They simply change course and
miss the storm.”
“Makes sense.” Swanson gave the CEO’s assistant a nod of his head. “Unless the storm comes looking for you,” he said quietly
under his breath.
Leona finally left the office at twenty minutes to seven. She had opted not to drive to work in the morning, and hailed a
cab and gave the driver the address to her restaurant. Invited guests would be arriving by eight and she wanted to help Tyler
with the setup. Her mind wandered as the taxi moved with the evening DC traffic, past Washington Circle on Pennsylvania Avenue.
The tightly fitting buildings, like a precise jigsaw puzzle, melted away as they traversed Rock Creek Park. They came out on
the west side and entered Georgetown.
Anthony Halladay had dropped quite the plum on her desk. She should be thrilled; they didn’t hand out vice presidencies at
the bank very often. Currently there were six. Now seven. Her take-home pay would go through the roof, and her profile in
a city built on profile would increase exponentially. But his comments bothered her. The caveat attached to the position.
It goes without saying how important Coal-Balt is to us. I don’t
foresee any problems with this conversion. I hope you don’t either.
His words were specific—don’t screw this up. But his tone was normal, not malicious or threatening. She was probably reading
too much into it. Monday was her first day on the twelfth floor, her first day on the income trust conversion. She’d worry
about it then. Right now, she had a weekend ahead of her, starting with a fundraiser to host.
The cab slowed on M Street in Georgetown, then pulled in behind a Foggy Bottom shuttle, finally arriving in front of Gin House.
She paid the driver and checked her watch as she cut across the sidewalk to the front door. Seven-thirty. Plenty of time.
The outside of the restaurant was in contrast to the name. Stylish taupe-colored acrylic pillars bordered each of the eight
floor-to-ceiling picture windows. A portico of the same color and texture jutted out over a stylish patio packed with diners
listening to light rock on the Boettger sound system as they ate or drank.
She glanced at the menu posted inside the front door. It was the food, and how they prepared it, that set Gin House apart
from every other DC restaurant. Everything was organic, and locally grown. The chickens were free range, the beef grassfed
and the vegetables had somehow reached maturity without being sprayed with chemicals. The concept had caught on, not just
with tree huggers, but with average people who liked fresh, well-cooked food and didn’t mind paying a premium. Leona Hewitt
loved to cook, and owning a restaurant was a dream that had happened more by happenchance than good planning.
Mildred, her favorite aunt, had bought the building that housed the restaurant twenty-five years ago when DC real estate was
still reasonable. For the next quarter century, a deli occupied the main floor and a tailor ran his business from the upper
level. Her aunt had never bothered getting involved with running either business. Instead she collected the rent every month,
paying off the mortgage in fifteen years. Until her death, about a year ago, the building provided her with a steady form
of income. When her will was read to the family, one line was a shock to almost everyone. It was the line where she left the
building to Leona, with the provision that it could not be sold for at least five years, and that Leona would use the hundred
thousand dollars also allocated to her in the will to convert the building to a restaurant. It had cost almost five hundred
thousand for the build-out, but with the building as collateral, the bank had been only too willing to lend the other four
hundred. Leona had the restaurant she had always dreamed of owning. But with her job at the bank, which she needed for the
income, she didn’t have time to run it. So she relied on the chef, Tyler Matthews.
Leona waved to her serving staff as she wound her way through the crowd and got smiles and waves in return. Another thing
that made Gin House stand out was how she and Tyler treated their staff. The restaurant had a separate lounge with a plasma
television and comfortable chairs for the servers and cooks. Each staff member had a private locker and there was always tea,
coffee and fresh sandwiches on the counter. Her staff turnover was almost zero. She reached the kitchen, took a deep breath,
and pushed open the door.
Tyler’s domain was organized mayhem. With a hundred and twelve seats plus the rooftop patio, a lot of dishes got plated every
night. Leona caught Tyler’s eye as he tested a sauce, nodded to the cook and headed straight over. Only twenty-eight, Tyler
was already an excellent chef. He was self-taught, from years on the job working with a slew of different chefs, each with
their own strengths and quirks. There was little he hadn’t cooked, and nothing he couldn’t cook. The menu reflected his, and
her, eclectic nature. She hated boring, and the restaurant was anything but that. The name, Gin House, reflected the fusion
of French and Thai cuisine. Translated to English, Gin, in Thai, meant
let’s eat
.
“Hi,” he said, and they hugged. Tyler was a bit over six feet and wiry, with blond hair that tended to red. His eyes were
shocking blue and honest. He had a quick grin, and a couple of scars from some of his rougher drinking nights. He’d learned
a lot of lessons over the years, but backing down from a fight wasn’t one of them.
“Busy tonight,” she said.
“Always. Good food, lots of business. People come back.”
A cook waved him over and he crossed the kitchen in short jerky moves. He tested the sauce, nodded, and returned to Leona.
“We’re ready for the fundraiser. The gals have it set up on the patio. Nice weather for it.”
“What are you serving?”
“Roasted lamb short loin with sugar snap peas and chanterelle risotto.” The excitement in Tyler’s voice grew as he talked
about the food. “And if they like seafood, a little grilled lobster tail with heirloom tomato and arugula salad to start.
Plus sweet corn and okra fritters with preserved lemon sabayon. Should be delicious.”
“Well, the kitchen’s your domain. Whatever you think.”
“This will get them in a giving mood. Great food always does.”
Leona left her head chef and climbed the back stairs the kitchen staff used to ferry food and drink to the rooftop patio.
The steep stairway was old, but well lit with bright lights her contractors had mounted in the ceiling. Still, the walls felt
constricting. Her breathing was quick and shallow when she reached the upper landing. The early evening air was warm and the
potted ferns swayed about in the soft breeze. The terra-cotta motif was perfect for the weather, and each table was garnished
with a hand-carved elephant, no two the same. The tablecloths were white linen, the wineglasses cut crystal. The clientele
for this one were some of Washington’s most generous philanthropists. She expected to raise a quarter million dollars. Minimum.
More was always better.
Three staff members were putting finishing touches on the tables, but there was a fourth person on the patio. He was dressed
in business casual and standing next to the roof edge, looking down on the street scene. She threaded her way through the
tables and approached him. He was tall, well over six feet with a friendly face and wire-rim glasses. She figured him a couple
of years older than her, maybe forty.
“Hi. I’m Leona Hewitt.”
He extended his hand. “Ross Carpenter.”
“Are you here for the fundraiser?”
He nodded. “I’m early. I flew in from London a couple of hours ago and set my watch wrong. An hour late. Which got me here
an hour early.”
“Not a problem.” Leona waved over one of the servers and they ordered drinks. “So where are you from and what brings you to
Washington?”
“Pittsburgh. And I’m here for a video-game conference.”
Leona tilted her head slightly and narrowed her eyes. “You’re here to play video games?”
“I wish,” Ross laughed. He accepted the Perrier water from the server and thanked him. “I’m in town on business. My partner
and I come up with new concepts for video games and then develop them and get the new games on the market.”
“Video games,” she said, interest creeping into her voice. “Can’t say I understand the appeal. I never played them and grew
up in a house with no brothers and sisters, so I had very little exposure to them.”
He nodded and looked away for a few seconds, scanning the street scene below. Two cars jockeyed for one parking spot. “Well,
lucky for us, most people have at least tried playing them.” He took a sip of water and switched the conversation. “I’m very
interested in your fundraiser. A friend of mine called and passed along the invite to come as his guest. He knows I’m passionate
about Africa. And from what he said, your foundation not only provides protection for the elephants, but it pumps money into
helping the villagers as well.”
Leona grinned. This was her turf. Her strength. “I’ve worked a deal with the Kenyan government where they’ve given me a tract
of land around Samburu, with about eighty to a hundred elephants.”
“Kenya?” Ross asked. “I though they had a functional park system. More than functional, actually. It’s touted as being the
best in Africa.”
She nodded, her ringlets bobbing with the motion. “They do have a great parks system, but even the best conservation efforts
in Africa need help. The poachers are always better funded and armed. If they really want to kill the elephants, they do.”
“Except in Samburu.”
“Exactly. The money we raise pays a team of ex-police and military to patrol the roads and plains. They’re well armed and
know how to use the guns. And the poachers know this. That’s the biggest deterrent to them coming around. So they mostly leave
us alone.”
“What do you do for the villagers?” Ross asked.
Leona spent the next ten minutes giving him the details she had hammered out with the government. How they had agreed to bring
in engineers and drill wells for drinking water and irrigation. The number of schools they had built and the increase in the
local hospital’s capacity. When she was finished, he stroked his chin thoughtfully and nodded.
“Wise use of the money. I like it.”
“Thanks.” Leona glanced about the rooftop. Twenty-plus people had arrived and were standing about with drinks. She looked
back to Ross. “I’ve got to mingle. You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.” He extended his hand. “This is your party. That’s your job tonight.”
She shook his hand. “It was really nice meeting you.”
“You, too.”
For the next two hours she worked the crowd one-on-one, then gave them ten minutes of prepared words. The applause was long
and loud, and people were nodding and reaching for their checkbooks. She had them. She’d make her goal of a quarter million
dollars, perhaps more. It was a lot of work to set up a fundraiser like this, but worth the cost in hours and dollars. The
difference she was making in Africa was substantial—life altering to many of the poor villagers. Lifesaving for the elephants.
Leona worked the room until the last guests had left for the night. She made a special note of thanking Ross Carpenter for
stopping by, then headed down to the main floor. One of her helpers was totaling the donations and glanced up when she entered
the small room off the kitchen. He ripped the paper tail off the adding machine and handed it to her.
“Five hundred and twenty-three thousand dollars,” he said. “Pretty good night for the elephants.”
“Wow.” Leona looked down the tape. Her eyes stopped on one of the entries. “Who gave fifty thousand?”
“That fellow from Pittsburgh you were talking to when we were setting up. You must have impressed him.”
“Not me.” She let the tape drop to her side. For a moment she was back on the arid African plains, the dry wind coursing through
her hair. Vast open spaces under cloudless skies—eerily quiet and deceptively peaceful. Kubala by her side, the elephants
splashing in the water hole. Life as it could be. Life as it should be. “The kids. The elephants. They were the reason he
gave the money.”