A Harvest of Thorns

by Corban Addison

  “Lane,” Vance was saying, almost humbly, “I hear where you’re coming from, but you’re not being reasonable. The lawsuit is a distraction. Sales are starting to rebound. Share price is up 2 percent this week, 4 percent in the past month—”

  “Vance,” Lane Donaldson interjected, his voice hard-edged, “you’re not hearing me. It’s the uncertainty that’s getting to us. There was a day when Presto was a blue chip stock. You paid predictable dividends. Your growth rate was well above inflation—”

  “That was before the crash,” Vance interrupted, showing a hint of desperation. “Back then Presto could sneeze and make money. You’re talking apples and oranges.”

  “I’m not,” Donaldson disagreed testily. “I’m talking about the last year and a half since that damn factory went up in flames. Your market cap has been a Ping-Pong ball. Your growth has flatlined. We gave you a pass last year. You pulled the company out of the hole. But the lawsuit changed the game. The instability has reached an unprecedented level.”

  Vance shook his head. “This is about the New York Times.”

  “Hell, yes, it’s about the New York Times! They’re calling for divestment, like Presto is apartheid South Africa. Look, you know I’m not squeamish. I’ve never minded a little egg on my face. But this thing is different. I feel like I’m swimming in a pond of shit. If the court lets the case go forward, the pond is going to turn into an ocean. That’s the end of the line.”

  Across the room, Cameron’s neck began to tingle. He could feel the voltage in the air. He focused on Vance’s face, his breath trapped in his throat, his hands twitching.

  “What are you saying?” Vance demanded.

  “I’m saying the funds are in agreement. If this case doesn’t disappear, we’re going to clean house—the board, the C-suite, everybody. We can’t let our value erode any further.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” Vance said acidly and terminated the call. He stood frozen in place as if time had taken a pause, then from his lips came a long string of curses. He looked for a moment like he was going to dash the phone against the floor, but he caught himself and slipped it into his pocket. He sat down at the table and speared a piece of steak, chewing deliberately.

  “I saw Declan Mays last week,” he said in time. “I had half a mind to toss him out the window. He’s in a relationship with Victoria Brost, you know. I hired an investigator to track his movements. They’ve been seeing each other for a while. Maybe she turned him against us; maybe he turned on us himself. It doesn’t matter. If the judge rules against us today, I’m going to take great delight in firing his ass. I might even sue him just for the hell of it.”

  Cameron had been Vance’s friend for half his life. He could name all of his vices—pride, lust, vanity, and intemperance—but he had never known Vance to be malicious. In the past few months, however, his fortitude had started to fray, his speech had lost its lilt, and his eyes had turned shifty, almost paranoid. He had shrunk into a shadow of the leader Cameron knew him to be—the McKinsey-trained savant who had taken Presto from an antique ship adrift in a digital sea to the only retailer challenging the Internet hegemony of Amazon. Yet the lawsuit had turned it all into a house of cards, one judicial opinion away from total collapse.

  Cameron took a slow breath and steadied his hands. He may not have seen how far this would go, but it wasn’t over yet. He glanced at his watch. “It’s time.”

  Vance drained the last of his wine and picked up the bottle. “This is good. Shame we can’t take it with us. Make a peace offering to the judge.”

  They met Hector, Vance’s bodyguard, on the street and walked together down the pedestrian mall beneath the shade of willow oaks. The media swarmed them when they angled toward the courthouse. Reporters pelted Vance with questions, some confrontational, others inane. Cameron and Hector ran interference, putting their arms out and sweeping people aside. At last, they reached the glass doors and stepped inside. After passing through security, they took seats in the courtroom beside Rusty Blackwell’s army of attorneys.

  As the clock marched toward one thirty, journalists and spectators filed in. Cameron glanced across the aisle and saw Josh Griswold on the far end of the first bench, his daughter, Lily, beside him. Alya, Jashel, and the Hassans were next to her, along with their interpreter. Cameron was surprised to see the plaintiffs in attendance. The judge had scheduled the hearing only a week ago, informing counsel that he wanted to deliver his decision in person before filing it electronically. It was a rare move for a district judge. Yet it had a certain portentous logic. The case was in the national spotlight. The judge wanted the media to hear what he had to say.

  At the bottom of the hour, Judge Chandler appeared with his law clerks, and the bailiff called the court to order. From the dark circles under the judge’s eyes, Cameron could tell that the decision had bedeviled him.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he began. “This is an important moment in the life of this court and, more broadly, in the life of our society. Over the last three hundred years, America has built its legal system on the concept of equal justice for all. A case like this shows how far we have to go to attain that ideal.”

  The judge’s eyes sparked. “I’ve never said this from the bench before, but I’m going to say it today. I’m angry. I’m angry because I feel like the wool has been pulled over my eyes. We live in an age in which materialism has become our highest value—to have the look, the stuff, to keep up with the Joneses, and, if possible, to exceed them. I’m a part of the problem as much as anyone. And now I see the consequences. They’re sitting right in front of me, these lovely people whose language I don’t speak and whose suffering I can’t imagine.”

  Judge Chandler shifted in his chair. “In the last month, I have struggled enormously with the decision before me. The law governing US companies who make their products overseas is shockingly ill defined. But is it my role to clarify it? That’s the question that’s been keeping me awake at night. What does a judge do when justice demands more than the law can give? I wish I could say I found a satisfying answer. I didn’t. And that, too, makes me angry. But my decision is not a result of my anger. It comes from another place, from the oath I gave.”

  When the judge paused, Cameron cast a sideways glance at Lewis Ames. A minute ago, he had been a model of poise. Now his forehead was creased, his fingers drumming on a pad. He was waiting for the ax to fall, as Cameron was. But here their hopes divided, like rivers seeking different oceans. Here the cause of individual justice had to bow before the greater good.

  “In the context of the global economy,” the judge said, “I find the paradigm of master-servant in employer liability as offensive as master-slave. But I didn’t write the laws of Virginia, let alone Bangladesh. I must apply them as I see them. Unless the plaintiffs can plead that Presto had a daily role in managing the work performed by Sonia Hassan, I can’t allow the negligence claims to proceed. The same is true of the third-party claims. Presto’s Code of Conduct is a self-serving document, placing the entire burden of workplace safety on the shoulders of Presto’s suppliers. As a consumer, I find it repugnant that Presto would use the Code to burnish its public image and then hide behind its skirts in court. But hypocrisy is not actionable at law. Given the pleadings before me, the claims on behalf of Sonia, Nasima, and Joya Hassan must fail.”

  The judge took a heavy breath. “As for the claims of Jashel Parveen and Alya Begum, they, too, have a defect, but it need not be fatal. Mr. Parveen and Ms. Begum have sufficiently pleaded that their labor was obtained by force and threat of force, and by the abuse of legal process. They have pleaded that Presto benefited from this scheme. However, the allegations about the defendant’s knowledge lack a plausible foundation. The plaintiffs allege that persons in Presto’s legal and/or compliance departments were aware or should have been aware of forced labor in the company’s supply chain. But the plaintiffs offer the court no more information about such persons. They also fail to allege when Presto ac
quired that knowledge. Was Presto aware of Mr. Parveen’s and Ms. Begum’s abuse while it was happening, or did the company find out later on? Absent such detail, the allegations are not entitled to deference.”

  The judge turned his troubled eyes toward the plaintiffs. “Mr. and Miss Hassan, the way you have been treated is a disgrace. I would like nothing more than to send your case to trial. But the rule of law is not the rule of men. Without a proper complaint, I can’t do it.”

  Finally, the judge looked at Lewis. “As for the claims of Mr. Parveen and Ms. Begum, Counsel, I’m dismissing them without prejudice. You have until May 16 to make out a plausible story of corporate knowledge or recklessness. If you satisfy the standard, I will allow you to proceed. If not, I will leave Presto’s fate in the hands of the public. This court is adjourned.”

  Cameron closed his eyes and opened them again. He had survived. Vance and the board had survived. His reading of the law had been vindicated, and his plan was still in motion. But the victory inspired no joy in him, only the hollow ache of his betrayal. This time it wasn’t Presto he had deceived, but the plaintiffs and their lawyers and Joshua Griswold.

  He shook hands with Rusty Blackwell, then walked down the aisle with Vance and Hector, following the bodyguard through the clot of reporters outside the gallery and ignoring the barrage of questions. Neither he nor Vance spoke again until they were outside the courthouse and down the street, out of the earshot of anyone who cared to listen.

  “We made it, Cameron,” Vance exulted. “I’m going to make Donaldson eat crow.”

  “Accompanied by a glass of hemlock.” Cameron laughed wryly despite the gall churning in his gut. “Look, we were fortunate. But we’re not out of the woods yet. If there’s a mole in the company, we could be back here in May.”

  The sunshine faded from Vance’s face. “I know. There’s something I need you to do.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  PAINTED HILL FARM

  KESWICK, VIRGINIA

  APRIL 1, 2016

  3:03 P.M.

  The parlor was as quiet as a mausoleum, until Madison took a breath and broke the spell.

  “You have to talk to him again, Joshua,” she said from beside the fireplace, its logs black and cold. “You need to get more detail.”

  Josh gripped the back of the couch, consumed by an inexpressible rage. He couldn’t believe he had circumnavigated the earth, spent tens of thousands of dollars, risked his safety, and offered hope to three of the poorest people he had ever known only to be turned back by a principle of legal pleading so technical that Rana had found it impossible to explain to the plaintiffs’ satisfaction. All of them were convinced that the judge had chosen not to believe them, that he had sided with the rich and powerful, as courts did every day in Bangladesh. Their faces haunted Josh, their words of sorrow and disbelief, as did Madison’s now.

  “I’ll get in touch with him,” he replied. “If he’s still on our side, he should come to me.”

  “I don’t care whose side he’s on,” Lewis said. “What matters is whose side we’re on. If you can’t get more information, we’re going to have to put his name in the pleading. We have an obligation to our clients that supersedes our concern for Cameron and his family.”

  Josh thought of Maria and the pictures from the Hotel Caesar Park. He thought of the e-mail he had received from her a week ago, apologizing profusely but begging him for more money. Curses flooded his mind, as if a sewer line had broken inside of him. He wanted to let them out, to turn his anger toward someone or something, but he couldn’t find a target.

  “I need some time,” he said. “The judge gave us six weeks.”

  Lewis nodded. “You can have five and a half. Then we’ll make a decision.”

  Josh sped down the driveway and tore out of the boxwood gate, flooring the accelerator and flying across the hills of Keswick. He drove that way for a few miles, passing slower vehicles as if they were standing still. He knew what would happen if the police caught him—the loss of his license, the jail time. But for a handful of minutes he simply didn’t care.

  At last he slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road, staring out the windshield at the tall grass waving in the wind. In an instant, he unleashed his pent-up frustration, shouting expletives and pounding the steering wheel until his fists began to hurt. Then he rolled down the windows and let the breeze waft through the cabin, soothing his nerves.

  He took out his iPhone and opened Maria’s last message. “Joshua,” she had written, “I know you do not want to hear this, but the roof of the Casa has a bad leak. I ask our maintenance man to help, but he says no, unless I do favors. I know this problem is not yours. But the money is gone. Please. I do not like to beg. But I will beg for my girls. Beijinhos.”

  Josh tossed the phone on the passenger seat and massaged his temples. His bank account was bleeding. He hadn’t made a deposit in six months. Another royalty check would arrive any day now, but The End of Childhood had been off the bestseller list for over a year. The wave of stardom had passed, and the scandal had dried up what remained of his goodwill. He had already dipped into his emergency fund to help Madison with the bills. She didn’t need his assistance. She had more money in her grandfather’s trust than Josh would make in a lifetime. But he was her husband, and he couldn’t imagine letting her pull the weight of their family alone.

  He shook his head, trying to figure a way out of the mess. He needed to talk to Tony Sharif about getting his job back. He could work a copy editor’s desk. He could ghostwrite for another columnist. He was too valuable for the Post to cut him loose permanently. He also needed to find Maria a new benefactor. He had to sever ties. But there was something else he needed to do first, something far more immediate and urgent.

  He had to get in touch with Cameron.

  CHAPTER TEN

  PRESTO TOWER, 16TH FLOOR

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  APRIL 4, 2016

  9:36 A.M.

  The skyline of Washington was bright in the morning light, the Potomac wind tossed and slate gray. Cameron stood at his office window preparing himself for the duty Vance had given him. He thought of his mother and the grave that was her final resting place. He remembered the promises he had made to her beneath the blue and white sky of Boston, the promise to trust his heart and make his life count. He thought of the look he had traded with his father, the question he had seen in Ben’s grief-laden eyes. What will people say of you when you follow her into the earth? What will they remember? He didn’t know the answer yet, but he was on a path to find out. For the first time in a long time, he was doing something that could make his father proud.

  And that, quite unfortunately, required this.

  “Declan, come in,” he said when his compliance director knocked. “Take a seat.”

  “I have a call at ten,” Declan said, sitting across from his boss. “Should I reschedule?”

  Cameron waved his hand. “We’ll be finished by then. It’s been awhile since we had a chance to catch up. How is Victoria?”

  Declan’s expression shifted from officious to pleased. “She’s well. We’re going to Rome in June. I’m actually going to take a vacation.”

  Cameron grinned. “Declan Mays, away from the office for more than a weekend, strolling through the Eternal City with a beautiful woman. It’s almost hard to imagine.”

  “I know,” Declan replied. “I won’t know what to do with myself.” He took a breath and changed the subject. “I heard it was quite a scene at the courthouse. I wish I could have been there. What are the chances the judge will let the case go forward?”

  Cameron’s gaze turned calculating. He despised what he was about to do, but it was necessary. From this point forward, he needed Vance firmly on his side. “That depends.”

  The compliance chief tilted his head quizzically. “On what the plaintiffs allege?”

  “On what they can allege.” Cameron allowed the silence to linger before he lowered the boom. “It
isn’t clear where they got their information in the first place.”

  For a moment, Declan sat in shock. Then just as quickly he recoiled. “You have to be kidding. After all we’ve been through, you don’t actually think . . . I can’t believe this.”

  Cameron kept his face a mask. “I don’t think you had anything to do with it. But my opinion isn’t the only one that matters.”

  Declan’s green eyes began to burn. “Who’s accusing me then? Rebecca? Vance? One of the old bastards on the board? I’m not going to take this sitting down.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice,” Cameron said evenly.

  “Like hell I don’t.” Declan stood up and walked to the window. “I’m not going to lie to you. I enjoyed reading the complaint. I thought at last the truth about this industry might actually come out. Presto didn’t start the fire, but we had a role in it. The system is rigged. We care far more about price than we do about people. But I wasn’t the leak. I’d never betray this company.”

  Cameron stood up too. “It doesn’t matter. I’m giving you notice. If the plaintiffs file an amended complaint, I’m going to put you on administrative leave until we sort this out.”

  Declan turned toward him and spoke in a voice just above a whisper. “If that happens, I’ll tender my resignation. Have a nice day, Cameron. I hope it’s better than mine.”

  With that, Declan stalked out of the office, slamming the door behind him. Cameron took a breath and held it until he felt light-headed. His eyes wandered to the Lincoln Memorial, shining like a beacon in the sunlight. He thought back to the night two Februaries ago when he had heard Josh Griswold’s footsteps scuffing the marble of the main hall. He thought back a little further to the Sunday before that, when he had sat down at a computer terminal at the library in Rosedale, created an anonymous e-mail account, and sent Josh a message. He remembered how the key had sounded when he hit Send. He knew that people would get hurt. It was inevitable. But their pain would be his pain, and his pain a passage.