A Harvest of Thorns

by Corban Addison

  “I was in Dhaka meeting with an office director who told me lies.”

  In an instant Salazar relaxed. “Welcome to my world. Lies are everywhere in global supply chains. The important question isn’t whether your people are telling them, but who they’re deceiving. The most dangerous lies are the ones you allow yourself to believe.”

  Cameron was intrigued. “Give me an example.”

  Salazar responded instinctively. “You think your supply chain is free of slavery.”

  Cameron stared at him incredulously. He couldn’t recall the last time he had been caught so completely off guard. Slavery was an explosive word in any setting. But to an African American descended on his mother’s side from a band of Guinean tribesmen who survived the Middle Passage only to greet the whip on a Louisiana plantation, and on his father’s side from one of the first Africans forced to labor in the New World, it nearly wrecked his poise.

  “If that’s a lie I tell myself,” he replied slowly, “it’s one of omission.”

  Salazar tilted his head. “We shield ourselves from the truth by pretending not to see.”

  Cameron was about to reply when he heard the sudden pop of a champagne cork. He took a flute glass from the waiter and sipped it, looking over the menu even though he knew most of it by heart. His mind was abuzz with follow-up questions, but he decided to set them aside. If they were relevant, he would ask them later.

  After everyone ordered and the waiter disappeared again, he began. “As you can imagine, this is a difficult moment for our company. It’s the biggest shopping week of the year, and our sales are lethargic. Our stock price is at a four-year low. We have activists demonstrating on our doorstep. And the media has yet to let go of the story. The fire exposed us at the worst moment.”

  “It wasn’t the fire,” Salazar said. “It was the girl in the photograph.”

  Cameron met his eyes. “Unfortunately for us, that photo is only the beginning. I’ve been in the corporate world a long time. I know how to manage risk. But in the last three weeks, I’ve heard things I never expected, things that go way beyond my ability to control. That makes me nervous. Presto pays me to spot cliffs and steer away from them. We just went over one I never saw coming. If there are others out there, I need to know where they are.”

  Salazar leaned back in his chair. “People like you come to us for different reasons. Some want a Band-Aid—a quick-fix audit to clear the air, either because the compliance department found a problem or some reporter stirred up controversy. Others want a media shield, a report on our letterhead proving they did their due diligence in case the wolves come baying for blood. Very few ask us to tell them what’s really going on beneath the surface. The truth, I’m afraid, can be quite ugly. Before we go any further, I need to know: What kind of person are you?”

  Cameron looked at the candle flame dancing in the centerpiece. It was a question he had heard many times before from the mouth of his father. A lot of lawyers are liars, Ben had told Cameron and his sisters when they were growing up. They use their skills to conceal the truth. A few fight to reveal the truth so the rest of us can see. What kind of lawyer will you be? Justine and Noel had made their father proud, taking public interest jobs advocating for the disenfranchised. But Cameron had followed his own path, marrying law with business and devoting his energies to protecting the powerful from their mistakes. People like Vance. Companies like Presto. His father had never forgiven him for it.

  “Let’s imagine I’m one of the few,” Cameron said. “What are we talking about?”

  “That depends on how much time you have,” Salazar replied.

  “I can give you six months.”

  Salazar nodded. “Then I can offer you a glimpse. There are two statutes you need to look at—the Federal Corrupt Practices Act and the Trafficking Victims Protection Act. Legal departments like yours aren’t paying much attention to them right now. But one of these days some enterprising lawyers from the Justice Department or one of the activist NGOs are going to bring a lawsuit that will give you nightmares. Under the corruption act, the Justice Department can come after you if your employees or suppliers anywhere in the world are using bribes to get ahead. The same is true of forced labor and human trafficking. But the trafficking act has a private right of action, so anybody can sue.”

  “I know about corruption,” Cameron said. “Tell me about trafficking.”

  Salazar nodded. “Since Presto sells everything, your headache could be massive. Coffee, sugar, rubber, shrimp, electronics, toys. The tainted goods list is longer than any of us would like to believe. But for now, let’s limit ourselves to garments. Victoria, what are the hot spots?”

  “Malaysia and Jordan,” the researcher replied. “The BRIC countries, except Russia. And Thailand and Vietnam. The problem is acute with foreign workers and prison labor.”

  Cameron felt light-headed, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what Salazar was describing. “Do you know how many of our apparel suppliers are in those countries?” he asked, then turned to Declan. “Were you aware of this?”

  Declan answered quickly. “There’s a whole section in our audit questionnaire about it. When our auditors talk to workers, they’re supposed to look for signs of forced labor. But the system isn’t working. Out of thousands of reports, I’ve seen only a handful with flags. Those factories went onto the Red List. But I’m sure there are a lot more.”

  Victoria gazed at Declan admiringly. “I’m impressed. A lot of companies don’t even know the problem exists, and others don’t want to deal with it.”

  “He’s a wizard,” Cameron said. “But I’m far from relieved. I need a way to manage this.”

  Salazar was about to reply when the waiter brought their appetizers. They filled up their plates while the waiter poured the rest of the champagne.

  When they were alone again, Salazar said, “Let me ask you about the Red List. Millennium was on it, am I right?”

  Cameron pursed his lips. “That’s why we went to Bangladesh.”

  Salazar gave him a piercing look. “Let me guess. You discovered that your supplier subcontracted the order and your sourcing people looked the other way.”

  Cameron kept his expression ambiguous, but inside he was astounded. “Either you’re clairvoyant, or you’ve seen this before.”

  Salazar laughed. “In Bangladesh and many other places. Supply chains are a law unto themselves, but human psychology is constant. If you follow the incentives, it’s easy enough to understand why this sort of thing happens.”

  Cameron frowned. “Are you saying the system is beyond repair?”

  “No,” Salazar replied. “But there’s a paradox in it. Everybody agrees that it’s wrong to abuse workers. But government placates business to keep business from going elsewhere. And business placates consumers to keep them spending money. And consumers don’t look behind the veil because they like the price they’re getting. When something like Millennium comes along, it shakes everybody up. But nothing’s going to change until people like you get really serious.” He fixed his eyes on Cameron. “Are you really serious, Mr. Alexander?”

  Cameron thought of his father again, his great baritone booming out all the reasons why men failed to act in the face of injustice, chief among them cowardice and greed. He pictured his mother, the cancer spreading through her lymph nodes, infecting her blood. He knew what she would say, what she had always said. Your heart is good, Cameron. Follow it. He thought of the girl lying in the dirt in front of Millennium, and Olivia slumped against the car door, her eyes closed, never to see again. It’s time, he heard her say from beyond the grave.

  “I’m serious,” he said suddenly, looking at Declan and seeing his eyes sparkling.

  “Excellent,” Salazar replied, raising his glass. “Now let’s talk about how we do it.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  PRESTO TOWER, 16TH FLOOR

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  NOVEMBER 27, 2013

  11:52 P.M.

 
When Cameron walked into the corner office two days later, he found Vance stretched out on the couch, shoes off, feet on the coffee table, a glass of bourbon in hand. In the distance, the lights of Washington twinkled and glowed. It had been a murderous day for both of them, a dawn-to-dark rush to the witching hour of Thanksgiving. But now, minutes before midnight, it was over, all threats deflected, all blazes under control—at least for the time it would take Presto’s legion of antagonists to carve a turkey, play nice with their in-laws, stuff their faces, and stampede the aisles of their favorite stores. It was a bleak vision of the holiday, Cameron knew, but after a day like this, he felt little generosity. What he needed was a drink.

  The bottle of Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve 20 Year was on the coffee table, a tumbler beside it. Vance poured generously and passed along the glass.

  “To escaping the gauntlet with only cuts and bruises,” he said, raising a toast.

  “Cheers,” Cameron replied and took a swig of the burgundy liquid. For most of his adult life he had disliked whiskey. But on his first day as general counsel, Vance had introduced him to Pappy, and in the years since it had become a tradition between them to chase away the most hellish workdays with the world’s finest bourbon.

  “I heard from Lane Donaldson,” Vance said, swinging his legs back onto the table. “The funds have agreed to a truce—for now, at least.”

  Cameron sat down beside him and loosened his tie and shoelaces. “I just reviewed our summary judgment motion in the product liability class action. I think the judge will grant it. I wouldn’t be surprised if the plaintiffs come begging for a settlement.”

  Vance’s eyes shined with conviction. “We don’t settle.”

  “I know that, but they don’t,” Cameron said, unbuttoning his shirtsleeves and enjoying the cool air on his skin. “They’ll find out soon enough.”

  It was in the Presto handbook, the principle of non-concession, and it traced its lineage to Hank Carter who, despite his everyman affectation, had idolized Rockefeller and Churchill. Our reputation will never be compromised, he had often said. If people take up arms against us, we will meet them with arms. As a consequence, Presto took an absolutist view of lawsuits, paying out damages only if ordered to do so by a court after exhausting all avenues of appeal. Of course, every rule had its exceptions. There were occasions when Presto had paid for silence. But only before the agitators went public. As soon as the media got involved, all bets were off.

  “Eve told me there were only five protesters today, and they were gone before noon,” Vance said. “What odds will you give me that they won’t be back?”

  Cameron answered with his gut. “Four to one in favor.”

  Vance took out his money clip and peeled off four Ben Franklins, laying them on the coffee table. Cameron put his own bill beside them. Gambling made as much sense to him as joining an orgy—temporary pleasure in exchange for unnecessary risk. But Vance was a thrill-seeker worth a quarter of a billion dollars. So Cameron humored him.

  “I talked to Kristin before she left,” Cameron said. “Not a single reporter called about the fire today. Her people saw only one new report—on the BBC—but it was an afterthought.”

  Vance raised his glass again. “Here’s to surviving an investor revolt, a citizen protest, and a media bloodletting.”

  Cameron nodded and took another sip. “Now if only we can resuscitate sales.”

  Vance let out a wry laugh. “Do you know how many products we’re about to sell at a loss? Eleven hundred and nineteen. I got the number from marketing. That flat-screen TV we’ve been advertising from here to the moon is such a steal that we heard from the manufacturer. They were certain it was a mistake. It’s working, though. People are camping out in parking lots. Who knows? We might even set a company record.”

  Cameron grinned sardonically. “If that happened, Donaldson might apologize.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” Vance quipped. “But it would be a good tranquilizer. No shake-up on the board. We might even keep our jobs for another year.”

  On a day like this, Cameron wasn’t sure he wanted to. “Are you going over to see Annalee?” he asked. “I know it’s been awhile.”

  Vance’s face softened at the mention of his daughter. “I’m flying out in the morning. Jackie’s letting me take her to the Canaries. It’ll be a whirlwind weekend, but I can’t wait.” He met Cameron’s eyes. “You’re going to Boston, I take it?”

  Cameron nodded.

  “How’s your mom doing?” Vance asked in a compassionate tone.

  “I’m not sure,” Cameron replied honestly. “She always puts up a strong front, but the news from the doctors isn’t good.”

  Vance shook his head. “I’m sorry, Cam. I really am. Please give her my best. She’s always been kind to me. One of these days I’m going to make it up there again.”

  “She’d like that,” Cameron said. “As would my father, for different reasons.”

  Vance’s smile returned. “If sandbagging were a sport, he’d be world champion. Give him my best too. Tell him I look forward to our next debate. I always enjoy a little punishment.”

  Cameron’s eyes glimmered. The bourbon was in his bloodstream now, spreading warmth into his capillaries. “If I come back minus a limb or two, you’ll understand.”

  Vance put out his arms to their full wingspan, stretching his chest and back. “One last item of business before I forget. We never got a chance to debrief after your trip to Bangladesh. Is there anything I need to be worried about?”

  “No,” Cameron demurred, speaking the falsehood cleanly. “Not now anyway.”

  Vance’s gaze turned inquisitive. “That’s a deflection if I’ve ever heard one.” He hesitated, then decided against pushing the matter. “But I trust your judgment.”

  “You’ll get an update as soon as I have an action item,” Cameron assured him. “Until then, the only things you need to think about are Black Friday and Annalee.”

  “Got it,” Vance said. He held up the bottle of Pappy. “Another?”

  Cameron shook his head. “I need to get some sleep.” He set the tumbler on the table and stood. “Happy Thanksgiving, Vance.”

  “You too, Cam. Now get out of here before I frog-march you to the door.”

  The Acela Express train from Washington pulled into Boston’s Back Bay station just after three thirty in the afternoon. Cameron stuffed Thomas Friedman’s The Lexus and the Olive Tree into his briefcase, donned his topcoat and fedora, and stepped onto the platform, pulling his suitcase behind him. The air was cold and moist, fogging his breath. The forecast for the holiday weekend was grim—precipitation every day with temperatures just above freezing.

  He walked up the steps and through the terminal, looking for his sister Noel. She was standing beneath the clock in the main hall, her seventeen-year-old daughter, Rita Mae, at her side. They were spitting images of one another, and of Cameron’s mother—nearly six feet tall, slender as willow reeds, hair long and raven dark, curly at the tips, eyes large and toffee brown with a touch of amethyst in a sideways light, and smiles that transformed their faces into beacons of delight. Cameron grinned without thought, as he always did when he was around them. Even when his heart felt cold, they could light a fire in him.

  “Uncle Cameron!” exclaimed Rita Mae, waving at him across the floor.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” he said, wrapping her in a bear hug. “You’re looking more like your mother every day.”

  “Hi, Cameron,” said Noel, embracing him for a long time. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” Cameron said. “Better for being with you.”

  He hadn’t seen her since last Christmas, since the days of his emotional exile, when the lash was still in his hands over Olivia and the welts on his back fresh and deep. Her face brought back the memories as if it had been yesterday, but the love in her eyes softened the blow.

  They strolled together to the parking lot and climbed into Noel’s SUV. The drive to Cambridge took
them west through Back Bay, then north along the Charles past Cameron’s old stomping grounds at Harvard Business School. He looked out the window at Baker Library, framed by leafless trees. His life as a student seemed so distant, like it had happened in another age. But he could still remember the way it felt—the rhapsody of youth, the frisson of his courtship with Olivia, the camaraderie of his section, the bonhomie of Vance’s friendship, and the allure of yacht races and Manhattan clubs and Swiss chalets and Bermuda beaches that he had seen for the first time in Vance’s company. The horizons had seemed limitless in those days. But now he knew the truth. The world beyond the cloister was full of complications and compromise. While there was an upside to everything, there was also a downside.

  After crossing the Eliot Bridge, they drove east through the upscale neighborhoods along Brattle Street. At last, they turned onto Berkeley Place, and Cameron saw the lamppost and the porch that stood like sentinels in his memory. The house was quintessentially Bostonian—a spacious two-story Federal with whitewashed brick, paned windows framed by black shutters, and a neoclassical entryway at the end of a flagstone path.

  Cameron’s mother met him at the door, clad in an aubergine dress and silver shawl that complemented her ebony skin and white hair. She pulled him close and kissed his cheek. “Welcome home, son,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”

  He felt a tear break loose and trace a path to his chin. The women in his family all had this effect on him. “You too, Mom,” he replied, looking into her eyes, then beyond her down the hallway to the kitchen. “It smells amazing. When do we eat?”

  She swatted him playfully. “Patience, dear. There’s wine and cheese in the family room.” At once, her expression became earnest. “Your father’s in a good mood. Let’s not spoil it.”

  Cameron nodded gently. “No dueling tonight.”

  He walked to the family room and found the men and teenagers all gathered around the appetizers, glasses of pinot noir and cider in hand. Justine’s trio of boys, Bennett, Charles, and Theo, stood in an arc by the cheese table, munching and trading jokes. Noel’s pair of girls, Rita Mae and her younger sister, Florence, were lounging on the leather couch, sharing pictures on their iPhones. The husbands, Noel’s Caleb and Justine’s Matthew, both attorneys, stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, chatting about politics. And then there was Ben, sitting in his favorite chair by the fireplace, like Caesar on his marble throne. At seventy-eight, he was still vigorous and handsome, his grizzled face perpetually poignant, like Sidney Poitier’s.