As angry as he was about Sun Star, he had to stay under control. The problem wasn’t just the Dubai office and its director, Hosni Shaaban. Like Presto’s offices in Dhaka and Bangkok, Dubai was a symptom of a more insidious disorder. Cameron no longer had any doubt that compliance failures were rife in Presto’s sourcing system. The only question that remained was whether the corruption was parasitic or an essential feature of Presto’s business model.
He watched as Declan led Shaaban across the terrace to the table. They had summoned the Dubai director to Amman on the pretense that they were conducting a compliance review of Presto’s overseas offices. Shaaban had accepted the invitation with gusto, particularly when Cameron sweetened the deal by dispatching the Gulfstream.
Cameron stood and shook Shaaban’s hand. The man was impressive at first glance—tall and lanky with a chiseled Arab face, imperious eyes, and a salt-and-pepper beard. His résumé was equally striking. Egyptian by birth, he was the son of a diplomat and had spent his formative years in London, obtaining degrees in economics from Cambridge and management from Bath before taking the helm of the Dubai office at its inception in 1998.
After exchanging pleasantries, they took their seats, and a server appeared with menus. Cameron was about to speak when Shaaban turned the tables on him.
“Are you a fan of Middle Eastern food, Mr. Alexander?” he asked, speaking the Queen’s English. “We can eat family style if you like.”
Cameron nodded, playing along. “Why don’t you order for us?”
Shaaban did so with flair, engaging the waiter in a dialectical exchange—part English, part Arabic—that synthesized in a diverse array of selections.
After the waiter left, Cameron said, “Declan and I have reviewed our sourcing data. I wouldn’t have guessed it, but it seems that Presto has deep roots in Jordan.”
“We do indeed,” Shaaban replied energetically. “We were one of the first companies to take advantage of the Qualifying Industrial Zones established by President Clinton. Even today, some of our most reliable factories are in the QIZs. The free-trade agreement gives Jordan a distinct advantage over other garment-exporting countries. Because their shipments are tariff-free, they can charge us less and pay their workers more.”
Cameron kept his tone light, buttering up Shaaban. “I imagine that makes our regional sourcing director quite happy. What’s his name again? Bentley Adams?”
“Yes,” Shaaban replied. “He’s quite fond of our relationships in Jordan. Under his leadership, we’ve encouraged our suppliers to modernize their equipment, and we’ve supported them by expanding our orders year after year.”
The waiter appeared again with water goblets and appetizers.
Shaaban pointed to a ball of spiced cheese. “This is shanklish. It’s Lebanese.”
Cameron spread the cheese on a piece of pita and tasted it, enjoying the savory and pungent flavors. As soon as the waiter departed, he homed in on his first point. “Some years ago, we set a limit on the percentage of a factory’s total capacity that our offices are allowed to book. That limit is 40 percent. We’ve heard through the grapevine that some of our suppliers here in Jordan are receiving orders at a higher percentage. Do you know anything about that?”
Shaaban finished chewing an olive. “We are very careful to observe that policy. With all due respect, I believe your sources are incorrect.”
“What if I told you my sources are workers?” Cameron asked.
Shaaban didn’t break stride. “There must be some mistake. Might I ask which factories? I know many of the owners personally.”
“Sun Star Enterprises,” Cameron said.
Shaaban’s smile had every appearance of being genuine. “Ah, yes, one of our oldest partners in Jordan. Hamad Basara is a good man, and quite dependable.”
“So what you’re saying is that the workers at Sun Star are wrong.”
“They must be,” Shaaban replied, showing no hint of deception. “I approve all the orders myself. What other explanation is there?”
Cameron kept his face impassive. Either he is an extremely adept liar, or he takes me for a fool. “Do you know the name Ghada Azizi?”
The office director hesitated a fraction of a second. “I can’t say that I do.”
“How about Al-Karama?” Cameron pressed, scrutinizing Shaaban’s face. He saw it then, a twitch just above the man’s left eyebrow. He was good, but not that good.
“I think I’ve heard of them,” Shaaban admitted. “Aren’t they an activist group?”
Cameron allowed his lips to spread into a thin smile. “What if I told you that Ghada Azizi, Al-Karama’s director, sent you an e-mail last week and called you twice to follow up, going so far as to confirm with your receptionist that you were in the office?”
Shaaban was caught, but he didn’t concede. “I would say you are here for reasons other than what you disclosed to me. There is no global compliance review, is there?”
“No,” Cameron said, admiring the director’s brazenness. “I’m here because Ms. Azizi is a persistent woman. She was about to go to the press.”
Shaaban shrugged. “Activists are always whining about something. Most of the time the media ignores them. And when they listen, the story comes and goes in a heartbeat.”
“So you ignored her,” Cameron said, barely veiling his rage.
“Mr. Alexander,” Shaaban replied, “I direct an office that sources half a dozen product lines in four countries. I don’t have time to worry about every grievance brought by groups like Al-Karama. My job is to ensure that our suppliers deliver our merchandise on time at a price point that maximizes Presto’s profits.”
In a moment of introspection, Cameron realized that six months ago he would have said the same thing. But his dismissiveness had been the result of blindness. His focus had been on satisfying the regulators, dispensing advice to Vance and his stable of executives, directing the train of corporate litigation, keeping up with the paper mill of contracts and deals and memos and policy statements, and inventing ways to streamline the compliance and administrative systems to make them more cost-effective. Perhaps Shaaban’s oversight had been legitimate. Or perhaps he was concealing a more deliberate form of blindness.
“If you had listened to her story,” he said, “you wouldn’t be so cavalier.”
Shaaban’s brow furrowed. “And what story would that be?”
“It’s about a production manager with a fetish for pretty female workers.”
As Cameron watched, Shaaban’s left eyebrow twitched again. He’s heard this before, Cameron thought. Does he know about Sun Star? Or does it go beyond that?
The director held out his hands in a gesture of reasonableness. “Is that such a scandal? When men and women work in close quarters, things happen.”
In an instant, Cameron’s anger boiled over. “It’s a scandal when it’s rape.”
Shaaban was taken aback, but he recovered his poise quickly. “Who’s saying that? The workers? Al-Karama? And what factory is it? I’m sure if we heard both sides of the story we would see that it was all just a harmless misunderstanding.”
Cameron twisted his wedding ring under the table, his blood pressure in the stratosphere. Shaaban was either a misogynist or the densest human being on the planet. Cameron was about to reply when more food arrived. This time, however, Shaaban made no attempt to explain the cuisine. Instead, he fingered his napkin distractedly.
When the waiter left, Cameron lowered his voice until it was almost a growl. “You asked what factory? You tell me. I can see this isn’t the first time you’ve heard about this.”
Shaaban shook his head, undisturbed. “What do you want me to say? It’s the oldest instinct on earth. I bet if you could take a candid survey of every factory in the world, you would find workers and managers having sex. Especially in places like Jordan, where most workers and managers are from foreign lands and don’t see their families for years at a time.”
“I’m not talking about se
x,” Cameron said slowly. “I’m talking about sexual assault. How many allegations of rape have arisen from our factories in this country?”
Shaaban didn’t answer right away, so Cameron repeated his question more insistently. Finally, Shaaban said, “Over the years, there have been a few. Each time my compliance team has looked into the claims and found no merit in them.”
Cameron’s eyes bored into Shaaban. “Did any of those allegations come from Sun Star?”
When the office director’s eyebrow twitched a third time, Cameron said, “I’ll take that as a yes.” He turned to Declan. “Have you heard about any of this?”
“Never,” Declan said, fury in his eyes. “No official report from our Dubai office has ever referred to allegations of sexual assault in Jordan or anywhere else.”
“How do you explain that?” Cameron asked Shaaban.
Shaaban calculated every word of his answer. “We didn’t deem the allegations significant enough to demand the attention of the corporate office. We took care of them ourselves.”
“By doing what?” Cameron demanded. “Talking to the owners?”
“Yes,” Shaaban replied. “Like I told you, we know many of them quite well.”
Cameron felt sick to his stomach. “I have something you should hear.” He reached into his pocket and took out his iPhone. After a few touches, he played the recording of Hamad Basara’s panicked confession. The owner’s voice sounded tinny through the miniature speakers, but his words were as clear as the Jordanian sky. While Shaaban listened, Cameron cataloged the changes in his face, tracing his emotions from surprise to dismay to revulsion to antipathy.
After it was over, Cameron took off his sunglasses and locked eyes with Shaaban. “So here’s the way this is going to work. I am going to ask you some questions, and you are going to tell me the truth. I can see when you’re lying, and quite frankly, it sickens me. You may be the longest-standing office director in this company, but I have Vance Lawson on speed dial. If I need to, I will place a call, and he will dismiss you on the spot. Do you understand?”
For the first time that afternoon, Shaaban looked afraid. “I understand,” he said quietly.
Cameron ticked off his points one by one. Was Siraj Ahmed the focus of any rape allegation in the past? What were the names of the other factories where allegations had arisen? Why did the factory audit reports, compiled by a supposedly independent auditor in Jordan, reveal nothing about rape at Sun Star or any other factory? How had the auditors found no hint of forced labor among foreign guest workers, when numerous international agencies had reported such abuse? Wasn’t it true that Presto was booking Sun Star at a rate far higher than 40 percent of capacity? And how was it possible that not a single factory overseen by the Dubai office had been called out for material violations of the Code of Conduct and demoted to the Red List?
Shaaban’s answers were tepid but sincere, at least as far as Cameron could see. The problem in Dubai was not just a Middle Eastern preference for politeness over honesty. Shaaban thought of himself as invulnerable because he was doing exactly what Presto’s sourcing director for the Middle East and Africa, Bentley Adams, had asked of him. Jordan was a honeypot of inexpensive, high-quality garment production. Shaaban’s task was to keep the engine well oiled and unencumbered. Unless absolutely necessary, he ignored complaints from the outside and handled all internal issues without involving corporate. Also, to avoid bumps in the road, he had hired an auditing company known for its slapdash approach and justified it on the basis that all of Presto’s factories received supervision and training from the ILO’s Better Work Jordan program.
“Your candor is a breath of fresh air,” Cameron said in the end. “On account of it, your position is no longer in peril—as long as you do exactly as I say.”
He outlined his terms and obtained Shaaban’s assent to each one. Sun Star would remain a supplier at current levels; the Dubai office would reduce all other orders to 40 percent of a factory’s capacity; the current auditing company would be fired and replaced with a credible auditor; the new auditor’s first order of business would be to evaluate the merits of all sexual assault allegations, no matter how stale, except for Sun Star, which Cameron had already handled; and from now on, any complaints raised by a reputable agency or media outlet would be forwarded to Declan’s office for immediate review.
“There is one final matter before we can enjoy the food,” Cameron said.
The office director gave him a look at once chastened and wary. “What is that?”
“You keep this to yourself—this conversation, this visit, everything we’ve discussed. And if your office’s performance numbers go down and Bentley Adams ever asks why, you tell him that you’ve had a change of heart, that compliance matters for a whole host of reasons, and that if he has a problem with your priorities, he can take that up with me. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Shaaban replied wearily.
Humility becomes you, Cameron thought. “Excellent. Let’s eat.”
CHAPTER FOUR
PRESTO TOWER, 16TH FLOOR
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
MAY 30, 2014
4:51 P.M.
All was still and quiet in Cameron’s office, so quiet, in fact, that he could hear the march of the second hand on the wall clock across the room. Outside his door and in the fifteen floors below him, the workday vortex continued to spin, holding thousands of people in its orbit and churning out reports and memos by the terabyte to meet end-of-month deadlines. The swirl had consumed Cameron until thirty-one minutes ago when he shut the door, issued instructions to his secretary to turn everyone but Vance away, spread out the contents of the Black File on the great slab of Berkshire walnut, and picked up the Targeted Risk Assessment he had received from Kent Salazar, reading all twenty-eight pages until the findings were cemented in his brain.
From Malaysia: (1) strong documentary evidence of forced labor and debt bondage among migrant workers in Presto’s apparel supply chain, thanks to a corrupt and exploitative system of outsourced labor; (2) minor documentary evidence, but strong suspicion, that Presto’s suppliers routinely use unauthorized subsidiary factories, bringing Presto’s supply chain into further contact with human rights abuses and corruption; and (3) minor documentary evidence, but strong suspicion, that Presto’s suppliers, and outsourcing agents acting on their behalf, have used bribes and other forms of illegal inducement in the course of business.
From Jordan: (1) strong documentary evidence of forced labor and debt bondage among workers in Presto’s factories; (2) minor documentary evidence, but strong suspicion, that Presto’s Jordanian partners have bribed public officials to gain commercial advantage; and (3) strong oral evidence that female workers in an unknown number of Presto’s supplier factories have suffered sexual harassment and rape while making clothes for Presto.
From the “spot” audits of Red List suppliers outside South Asia: minor documentary evidence, but strong oral evidence, that factories on the Red List have continued to receive occasional Presto orders in spite of their prohibited status, though it was unclear whether Presto’s local offices were complicit in the unauthorized subcontracting or unaware of it.
Cameron then turned to the three-page addendum and read its opening paragraph:
After conducting a series of interviews in the Ashulia district of Dhaka, Bangladesh, and the village of Kalma, Bangladesh, researchers from Atlas were able to determine that the girl depicted in the photograph taken anonymously on the night of the Millennium Fashions factory fire is Sonia Hassan, age fifteen, the daughter of Ashik and Joya Hassan; that Joya Hassan and Sonia’s sister, Nasima, age twenty-four, perished in the fire; that Sonia is still living, though she suffered damage to her brain that rendered her blind, deaf in one ear, perpetually exhausted, and incapable of work. The following is an account of the fire and its aftermath delivered to Atlas researchers by Ashik Hassan.
It had been less than twenty-four hours since Cameron received the report
, but he knew Sonia’s story by heart. He was so consumed by it, in fact, that he had scarcely slept the night before. He had imagined the narrative from beginning to end—the heat of the flames, the fabric of the Piccola pants, the acridness of the smoke, the cries of jumpers, the climb onto the ledge, the descent along the makeshift rope, and then the fall. Somewhere in the throes of insomnia, the story had taken on an existential dimension in his mind. Sonia’s fear became his fear. Her suffering became his suffering. In that moment, more than in any that had come before it, he knew he had to do something. He couldn’t bring Joya and Nasima back to life. He couldn’t restore Sonia’s broken body. But he, Cameron Douglass Alexander, could do his damnedest to make sure it never happened again.
He put the report down and stood up, looking out the window at the Lincoln Memorial in the distance. He remembered the day his father had first taken him there with his sisters, to the shrine of the Great Emancipator, and brought history to life.
“Do you see these people?” Ben had asked them, sweeping his hand over the tourists milling on the steps. “Most of them will never understand this place. I don’t fault them for that. It’s beyond them. Only the free children of slaves can truly appreciate the gift—and the burden of all the work that remains to be done.”
After that, Ben led them into the hall, pausing only briefly before the statue of Lincoln before drawing them into the north chamber.
“This,” he had said, pointing up at the wall and the engraved words of Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address, “is the greatest speech ever delivered in the English language. Read it. Let your heart hear the words as he spoke them.”
And Cameron had. He was only twelve, but he was old enough to understand that justice had a price, and that price was sometimes more awful than men could bear.
“One month after Lincoln gave this speech he was murdered,” Ben had said. “The life he lived and the death he died leave us with questions. Will we—will you—continue the work? Are we—are you—willing to make the sacrifice?”
A Harvest of Thorns Page 18