A Harvest of Thorns

by Corban Addison

  Josh paused and allowed Rana to catch up. “Workers like you are invisible to people in the United States, and Presto and its competitors are happy to keep it that way. They don’t want their customers to see you because their customers aren’t all that different from you. They’re just people, fathers and mothers, aunts and uncles, grandfathers and grandmothers. They would never allow their kids to work in places like Millennium, Rightaway, or Sun Star. The reason they buy the clothes made in those factories is because they don’t see the truth. Your pain and toil and tears have been erased from the picture. All that’s left is the transaction, which makes Presto money, and keeps the engine of the economy humming, and gives politicians their power, and allows Presto’s CEO to take home twelve million dollars a year. I could go on and on. Now imagine what would happen if the deception were exposed. Imagine what would happen if Presto actually had to account to the world for its sourcing practices.”

  Josh traded a look with Madison and handed off the baton. He watched as she leaned forward in her chair and straightened her back like a lawyer preparing to speak. She’s in her element, he thought as her eyes began to glitter. This is what she was made for.

  “I’m newer to all of this than Josh is,” she said, looking at Alya first, then Jashel, Ashik, and Sonia, “but for the last month, I’ve been thinking about almost nothing else. I remember where I was when I saw the photograph of Sonia on the TV. I was helping Lily with her schoolwork.” Madison’s eyes moistened. “I remember looking at that picture, and looking at Lily, and hoping that finally the corporations who profit off the mistreatment of workers like you would be forced to admit the truth. But it didn’t happen. The media milked the fire for ratings and moved on. Presto flooded the airwaves with propaganda. I remember watching the news a few weeks later and hearing that Presto’s sales on Black Friday had been 20 percent higher than the year before. Then the story disappeared. No one talked about it. No one cared.”

  Madison took a breath and gave Rana time to translate. “Unfortunately, this is often the way the world works. This kind of truth is ugly and painful and inconvenient. It doesn’t help people pay their bills, or care for their kids, or get a better job, or go on a nice vacation. But the truth is essential. Because our blindness allows Presto to treat people like you horribly, people who are also just trying to feed their families and improve their lives. Across history, the powerful have enriched themselves by exploiting the poor. The only power greater than theirs is the law. That’s why I went to law school. That’s why Josh and Rana went to law school. That’s why we’re here. In a courtroom with a good judge and great lawyers and solid evidence, you will no longer be invisible. The truth will be safe, and Presto won’t be able to hide.”

  God, I love her, Josh thought. It’s never that simple, but her passion is beautiful.

  By the time Rana finished interpreting, Alya’s eyes were shining and Jashel and Ashik were nodding along. There was an extended period of silence as they processed what they had heard. Then Alya adjusted her headscarf and began to speak. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she didn’t wipe them away. Rana listened to her words carefully and translated them verbatim.

  “When I was at Sun Star, I prayed every night for Siraj to leave me alone. Then one day a man came to visit the factory. I don’t know who he was, but the next day Siraj was gone. I was so grateful. I thought that was enough. But then Fazul was born and my contract ran out, and I came back to Dhaka and realized I had no one to take care of me. Those days were very hard. Then you found me and brought me here and gave me a job I love. I will come to America and speak to the judge. But whatever happens, I want to say thank you. May God bless you.”

  Josh met Madison’s eyes and knew that she, too, was thinking about Cameron. None of it could have happened without him. “You’re very welcome,” he said for all of them. “We’re going to do everything in our power to see that justice is served.”

  PART SEVEN

  Joshua & Cameron

  November 2015–April 2016

  CHAPTER ONE

  L2 LOUNGE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  NOVEMBER 7, 2015

  10:55 P.M.

  The lounge was like a film set in a dystopian future, a rustic-glamorous fusion of old brick and neon light, shiny metal and unpolished stone. Josh was sitting in one of the alcoves, a martini glass in hand, earbuds in his ears, the digital recorder clipped to the inside pocket of his blazer, tracking the sounds picked up by the tiny microphone under Madison’s shimmering red dress. She was at the bar not far away nursing a Long Island iced tea, her dark hair swirling around bare shoulders, her legs silhouetted by flamingo-pink light. The effect of the three-hour makeover—done by a makeup artist who once worked for Vogue—was trans-formative. Instead of forty, she looked twenty-five, a siren among the singles aiming for a drink or a dance or a score. The hook was baited, the lure just right. Their target wouldn’t be able to resist.

  They had planned this moment for more than two months, hiring a private detective to track his movements, to plot the points when he was in a public space without his bodyguard at his side. It had been a jigsaw puzzle. He lived in a penthouse on the Potomac, had a chauffeur who drove him from there to his office—garage to garage—had a housekeeper who went shopping for him, never took a predictable walk, and never seemed to dine in the same restaurant twice. But he had one routine that verged on habit: his Saturday trip to the L2 Lounge in Georgetown, and afterward, if he was lucky, to the Hay-Adams hotel with a girl half his age.

  Josh watched the bodies moving in the dim light and kept an eye on his wife. She had been at the bar less than a minute, but already she had had to rebuff a thirtysomething finance-type who tossed her a clichéd compliment and slipped an arm around her waist. Josh wasn’t a fan of the setup, but it wasn’t his idea. It was Madison’s brainchild. He had objected, but she had overruled him: It’s my body. Try to stop me. In the end he conceded because she was right and because he understood her anger. Ever since their trip to Bangladesh, she had thrown herself into the lawsuit with a zeal that bordered on obsession. She needed to do this for herself almost as much as she needed to do it for Sonia, Jashel, and Alya. She needed to make this personal.

  Josh’s iPhone vibrated with a text from the detective. “Target en route and alone.”

  They didn’t have long to wait. Josh spotted Vance Lawson at the same time that the chief executive saw Madison. He was wearing a blue suit and a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his salt-and-pepper hair cut short like an athlete’s, a trace of stubble on his chin. He stepped up to the bar and ordered a martini, then glanced around like he was waiting on a friend. The first time he caught Madison’s eye, it happened almost in passing. The second time he did it more intentionally—as did she. He left his seat and glided over to her, a casual smile on his face.

  “I’m Vance,” he began as Josh listened in from twenty feet away. “I’d offer to buy you a drink, but that would be redundant. You already have one.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “I think that’s the least original pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

  Vance’s grin widened. “I can do worse. I was tempted to say you’re a vision.”

  “Yes.” She laughed, playing with an earring and leaving him hanging.

  “Yes, what?” he persisted, meeting her eyes.

  She softened her gaze, inviting him in. “You can buy me a drink.”

  Vance summoned the bartender. “Vodka martini for the lady, shaken with a twist.” He turned back to her. “So what do you like to talk about, Miss . . . ?”

  “Sophia,” she replied. “And the answer is everything. How about you?”

  If before he was merely attracted, now he was intrigued. “Where is home, Sophia?”

  “I’ve lived many places,” she said. “But Paris is where I feel most alive.”

  “The city where every scene is a story. Like waking up in a novel.”

  Her surprise was unaffected. “Is that yours? Or did you
read it in a book somewhere?”

  He smiled wryly. “My pickup lines may be uninspired, but the rest of me is not.”

  “A double entendre hidden in a double negative. How’s that for panache?”

  Damn, she’s good, Josh thought as their chatter turned to badinage and she matched him wit for wit. They covered politics and business, philosophy and art history, dabbling and dueling, agreeing and disagreeing. Josh was astonished by Vance’s erudition. He knew opera and ballet, Kant and Sartre, horses and Tokyo hotels. After one martini multiplied into three, his hand found Madison’s arm, and he suggested they move somewhere more comfortable. Josh watched as they passed him, angling toward one of the alcoves. He saw Vance’s bodyguard out of the corner of his eye, repositioning himself but staying discreet. Almost time.

  He listened through his earbuds as Vance ordered another pair of drinks. He knew his cue, but she had yet to speak it. She had taken her performance beyond setting the hook. Now she was burying it with relish. Minutes passed, and their conversation deepened to relationships. He told her about his ex-wife, Jackie, and his daughter, Annalee—the origins of his Francophilia. She gave him a fictional account of her own “misbegotten marriage,” the cheating husband, the painful separation and divorce, and the move to DC. She spoke with such verisimilitude that Josh knew some of it was authentic. I hear you, he thought with no small dose of guilt.

  It had been eight months since his call with Maria, and he still hadn’t figured out what to do about her girls. When he wired her more money, he knew he would hear from her again. She made his gift last until June, then sent another request. He had gnashed his teeth for a week before sending twice as much and telling her it was all he had—which wasn’t quite true, but would be soon enough if nothing changed. To Lily’s delight, he had ditched his apartment and moved back home. But he had no income beyond dwindling book royalties and no job prospects that interested him. Maria’s third e-mail, which arrived three weeks ago, had prompted yet another tranche and yet more soul-searching. He knew he had to cut the cord. But Maria’s girls were orphans. If he abandoned them, he didn’t know how he could forgive himself.

  Madison’s words brought him back to the present. The cue was improvised, but it was his summons all the same. “Will you excuse me for a minute? I need to use the ladies’ room.”

  Josh stood up quickly and collected her coat and messenger bag from the seat next to him. He meandered through the crowd and met her in the shadows outside the restrooms.

  “How’d I do?” she whispered.

  He smirked. “If I were a talent agent, I’d take you to Hollywood.”

  The smile she gave him was brief. “Are you ready?”

  “I’ve been ready for a week.”

  She pursed her lips, psyching herself up. “Let’s get this over with.”

  They strolled back to the alcove together, hand in hand. Josh watched Vance’s eyes when he caught sight of them, saw the glaze of lust deaden into shock. He opened his mouth as if to ask a question, but Madison preempted him, channeling her nervousness into indignation.

  “My name is not Sophia. It’s Madison. This is my husband, Joshua.” She took the perfect-bound, 104-page complaint from Josh and dropped it in Vance’s lap. “This is a lawsuit for fifty million dollars on behalf of garment workers in three countries who suffered terribly making clothes for your company. Consider yourself served.”

  With that, she turned away and they fled the lounge, ignoring the stares of the patrons who looked at them as if they had stolen something. They headed east down Cady’s Alley, then up 33rd Street, dodging late-night revelers and laughing like teenagers who had just pulled off the world’s biggest practical joke.

  “That was incredible!” Madison exclaimed, her breath forming clouds of vapor in the chilly November air. “He’s never going to forget it.”

  “I think that may go down as the brassiest opening in the history of civil litigation,” Josh exulted. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

  She stopped abruptly and turned toward him, taking his hands. “You did this,” she said brightly. “You made it possible.” She leaned in and kissed him, then whispered in his ear, “Now we go to war.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  PRESTO TOWER, 16TH FLOOR

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  NOVEMBER 8, 2015

  8:05 A.M.

  “What the hell is this?” Vance said, thrusting the lawsuit into Cameron’s hands as soon as he entered the corner office. It was early on a Sunday, and the building was deserted. Cameron had woken from a rum-tinged sleep to find Vance’s summons on his phone—sent in the middle of the night. He knew what it meant. He had been anticipating it for weeks. He looked at the complaint, heart thudding in his chest, as Vance paced the floor like a caged beast.

  “Someone gave them information,” the chief executive was saying. “They had to. The workers, the factories, it doesn’t make sense—”

  “Slow down,” Cameron interjected, taking a seat on the couch. “Whatever this is, we’re going to handle it like we always do, professionally and deliberately.”

  But Vance didn’t seem to hear him. “We’re three weeks from Black Friday. It’s like some kind of demented déjà vu. And they’ve got a reporter on their side—Joshua Griswold. The guy won two Pulitzers. The media is going to eat us for lunch.”

  Cameron scanned the complaint with a practiced eye, the tranquility on his face masking the turmoil he felt inside. Joshua’s research had been even more painstaking than he expected. The allegations were excruciatingly detailed, the language at once precise and flamboyant. There were more quotable lines than Cameron could count. Yet somehow, in all of its invective, it didn’t overreach. Everything in it was true—and damning.

  “I know who the mole is,” Vance was saying, his eyes flashing.

  Cameron took a steady breath. “Who?”

  “Declan Mays.”

  Cameron chose his words with care. “Vance, think about it. By the time I gave my report to the board, a lot of people knew about it. Even if you’re right about a leak, it could have been any of them. It could have been Paula or Anderson. It could have been me.”

  Vance shook his head contemptuously. “It was Declan. He’s a zealot. I had that thought when I first met him. He has no appreciation for nuance. And he was privy to your investigation from the beginning. Come on, Cam. I bet he was livid about the board’s decision.”

  “Declan is an officer of the company,” Cameron objected. “What you’re talking about isn’t just a breach of fiduciary duty. It’s a crime.”

  Vance rubbed his face with his hands. In their thirty years of friendship, Cameron had never seen him so unglued. “I want you to find proof. I want him out.”

  Cameron kept his tone measured. “The last thing the company needs right now is a witch hunt. We’d never keep it quiet. It would destroy morale.”

  “Damn it!” Vance exploded. “I don’t care if we don’t have proof. Somebody has to take the fall for this. If you can’t do it, I’ll fire him myself.”

  Cameron allowed the threat to hang in the air, giving Vance an opportunity to climb down from the ledge. The scene was unfolding as he had expected. Vance was the accusatory type and Declan the obvious target. No one—not even Rebecca Sinclair—would question Cameron’s own fidelity. After his ill-fated meeting with the board, he had followed their orders, shoring up compliance, overseeing the selection of new auditors in every country, speaking at Presto’s sourcing conference, and drafting a letter, with Rebecca’s input, to the office directors overseas about the consequences of violating the Red List. After that, he had returned to his duties—or so he had made it appear—distinguishing himself as a valued adviser, voice of reason, and defender of Presto’s honor. No one had a clue about how he had spent his free time, how meticulously he plotted his course, how cautiously he planned every move before he made it. He had long since crossed into uncharted waters, but he felt no fear, only sorrow and guilt. />
  “I understand how angry you are,” he said. “But we can’t act precipitously. The world is going to judge us by what we do from this moment forward.”

  Vance pounded his fist in frustration. “How is it that I can be the CEO of a sixty-five-billion-dollar company and there isn’t a damn thing I can do?”

  Cameron ignored the outburst. “How did you get this? Lawsuits usually come to me.”

  Vance grimaced. “They served me at the L2 Lounge. The lead attorney—Madison what’s her face—was at the bar dressed like a vamp. She acted like she was into me.” He shook his head again, as enraged at himself as anyone else. “I can’t believe I didn’t see through it.”

  The Griswolds have a taste for theater, Cameron mused. Then he guided Vance into productive action. “I’ll get Kristin to put the critical incident team together. I’ll also call Rusty Blackwell at Slade & Barrett and engage his litigation team. You assemble the board for an emergency meeting. We have to prepare for a full-scale media blitz.”

  Vance started nodding, his executive instincts finally overcoming his reptilian brain. “I want everyone in on this. We’re going to salvage the fourth quarter, whatever it takes. And we’re going to hit back. I want these people to feel the pain they’re causing.”

  “That’s the Vance Lawson I know,” Cameron said.

  He closed the complaint and studied the cover page. They had filed the case in the Western District of Virginia, which meant that Rusty—the nastiest courtroom brawler he knew and a card-carrying member of the Mensa genius club—would have to conjure a literal rabbit out of a hat to contest venue. Cameron read the caption with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

  Ashik Hassan, as Parent and Guardian of Sonia Hassan, a Minor Child, and as Administrator of the Estates of Nasima Hassan and Joya Hassan; and Jashel Sayed Parveen; and Alya Begum, All Residents of the People’s Republic of Bangladesh v. Presto Omnishops Corporation, a Virginia Stock Corporation.