Wilson — Boston, MA
As long as Emily was still missing, Wilson had no choice but to listen to Wayland Tate, who spent the next hour spinning a tale of good and evil in the garden of American capitalism. Including, of course, their plans to replant the garden.
“Once transformed,” Tate said, “The new capitalism will give individuals more access to insider information, more options for trading, more avenues for taking even the smallest businesses public, more ability to raise and borrow funds, more freedom to act for themselves, more opportunities to collaborate with others, and more hope for people to become what they want to become. No more wage slavery. The primary role of government will shift from controller to liberator. Continuous education for everyone will finally become the undisputed priority of democracy.”
Wilson continued to flirt with the idea of trusting Wayland Tate as he listened to the story of how Fielder amp; Company and Tate Waterhouse along with their affiliates had declared war against the status quo by orchestrating a byzantine pattern of abuses that would force change. But something felt wrong. He was being manipulated and he knew it.
“What do you want me to do, Wayland?” Wilson said tersely.
Tate eyed him cautiously. “We need you to spin off corporate restructuring from the rest of Fielder amp; Company. Make it a separate entity. We’ve already arranged for the financing.”
“Why?”
“All our manipulations were accomplished through selected segments of our operations. At Fielder amp; Company it was the corporate restructuring practice, the rest of the firm is clean. Your father planned it that way,” Tate said as he took a bite of his lamb chop and chewed for a few moments. “Once you divest corporate restructuring, completely removing yourself from the partnership, we’ll negotiate with Hearst to get Emily back. Then, we’ll prepare for disclosure.”
“Why not do it as soon as Emily’s safe?”
“Daniel’s death set us back a few months. There are files and histories that have to be recreated. If the disclosure’s incomplete, it won’t have enough shock value to galvanize public opinion. We also need time to calm the waters with some of my partners who think you’re a loose cannon.”
“I assume you’re talking about the partners who know about your ultimate objective?”
This time Tate stared hard at Wilson before responding. “Until recently, only the seven original members, and to a limited extent Daniel Redd, knew about our ultimate purpose. Damien Hearst changed all that. Right now, I’m not sure who else knows, but we have to find out before we disclose anything.”
“Everyone in the partnership except the original seven joined because of the money?”
“Basically, yes,” Tate said, removing his napkin from his lap and placing it on top of his plate. “The abuses had to be real, performed by real CEOs with real motivations to exploit the system’s weaknesses for their own personal gain.”
“How many members are there in the partnership?”
“About three hundred and fifty.”
“And you expected to keep them under control?”
Tate raised his eyebrows but didn’t respond.
“Who else was in the original group?”
Tate hesitated with a genuine look of concern in his eyes. “The original group formed many years before the Fenice Partnership was officially launched after the first Gulf War. Robert Swatling, Jules Kamin, and John Malouf,” Tate said, hesitating again.
“And?” Wilson said.
“Carter Emerson,” he said slowly.
Wilson was immediately nauseated by the response, not because he’d never considered the possibility, but because Carter had withheld it from him. Tate watched closely as Wilson struggled to keep his nausea down. “That’s six.”
When Tate didn’t respond, Wilson repeated his question. “Who was the seventh?”
“Your mother. Charles was the only one who was married when we first got together. We all loved your mother. We did everything together in those early years. It was natural to include her.”
Wilson felt his jaw drop and his head spin as he gazed in disbelief at Wayland Tate. A wave of cold sweat swept over him. He felt as though his body was melting.
“Your mother removed herself from the group many years ago. It was too much of a strain on her, even though she believed deeply in what we were doing. Carter wanted to tell you everything, but we were uncertain about your reaction, until Emily was kidnapped. Then we knew we had to tell you. I’m sure you can appreciate the precariousness of our position.”
By the time Wilson’s legs got the message to get up from the table and leave the private dining room, he was already freefalling into the abyss. He opened the door to the corridor and ran his fingers along the textured wallpaper until he reached the bathroom where he retched repeatedly. Afterwards, he washed his face, rinsed out his mouth and braced himself before returning to the private dining room. Refusing to sit down, Wilson asked Tate for a written copy of his plan to spin off corporate restructuring.
“I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you, Wilson. Are you okay?” Tate said as he stood up.
“Get me your plan by tomorrow. Let Damien Hearst know that neither he nor his clients and partners will be exposed,” Wilson said as he turned and left the dining room.
Walking back to Fielder amp; Company by himself, he felt depleted and numb. Why hadn’t his mother and Carter told him the truth? Did they actually believe they might never have to?
Tate’s story was too compelling and too complete for him to ignore or deny it. One way or another, Wilson had no choice but to cooperate with Wayland Tate. Emily’s life depended on it, and right now that was the only thing that made sense or mattered.