CHAPTER FOUR
PRAIA DE SANTA MONICA
BOA VISTA, CAPE VERDE
MAY 10, 2016
10:20 A.M.
The old Toyota pickup bounced along the dirt track, its springs and struts groaning from the impact of potholes the size of craters. The blue-green ocean was in the distance, and at its edge lay Praia de Santa Monica, a great sweep of unspoiled sand that some had called the most beautiful beach in the world. Cameron was in the passenger seat, feeling the discomfort of the ride in every joint of his body. A gregarious young Cabo Verdean named Sergio was driving him. Cameron had found him in the town of Sal Rei, or, more accurately, Sergio had found Cameron, approaching him with a toothy grin and the offer of an island tour. On the trip to the beach, Sergio had introduced him to Cabo Verdean music, cranking up the volume until the truck rattled as much from the booming speakers as from the rutted ground.
In time they emerged from a thicket of scrub trees and crossed an expanse of dirt and sand dotted with colorful ground cover. The harmattan wind pressed against them, rocking the truck and howling through the open windows. When they reached the beach, Sergio gunned the engine, and the truck shot across white-gold sand as fine as salt. The gemstone sea stretched out before them. There was not a person to be seen for miles around.
Sergio stopped the truck and jumped out, trudging toward the shoreline. Cameron grabbed his backpack and followed, leaning into the wind and smiling without thought. His weeks at sea had retrained the muscles in his face, reminding him what it was like to discover happiness in unexpected places. At moments like this, he wished he could stay away forever. He had a home on the Breakwater. He had enough money to live out his life in comfort. He could keep sailing and leave the world behind. But, of course, he couldn’t. The world would find him. And even if it didn’t, he could never outrun his sense of responsibility.
He strolled toward the water and sat down on the sand, listening to the thunder of the pounding surf. He imagined Olivia sitting beside him in her bathing suit, Jackie O sunglasses on her face, her long ebony legs soaking in the sun. He imagined her smiling with him, telling him how good it was to see him so relaxed. You’re too serious, she had said more times than he could count, and made it her mission to loosen him up. Whatever cheerfulness he possessed, it was her gift. God, how he missed her.
As Sergio dived into the waves, Cameron found a glass jar in his backpack and filled it with sand. Then he took out Cornelius’s journal and opened to a dog-eared page. He read the passage reverently, drawing strength from his ancestor’s pain and the clarity of his vision.
It was called Windover, and it was as pretentious as its name, the plantation house three stories high, with lofty ceilings and crystal chandeliers and a grand staircase that looked like it belonged in an English court. The handsome floors were heart of pine and once had been polished to a gleaming shine, or so I assumed. The whole place was haunted now, like a grave robbed of bones, weeping dust like blood.
I walked through the rooms and imagined the Fletcher family as they went about their affairs: John doing business in the parlor; his wife, Matilda, sharing tea with a neighbor on the porch; the boys running about in the yard. And then I pictured the slaves, seventy of them according to the ledger in Fletcher’s desk—the butler and foreman and cooks and maids and farmhands. Her name was among them, as were the names of the children he stole from her arms. Esther Marshall. Born 1838 in Mississippi. Purchased 1851 in Atlanta for $1,135. It was a princely sum, a premium for her charms.
I climbed to the third story and found the bedroom she had described, the small room by the end of the banister, decorated simply with an iron bed and a wood chest and a table by the window with a view of the oak tree, beneath which five generations of Fletchers were buried. I sat on the bed and dust rose up around me. It was there on that mattress where John had plundered the dignity of my dear departed wife that I shed my first tear, and my last. The house was a monument to the monstrous cruelty of an entire way of life. But by the mercy of God that way of life was gone. Now was the hour of its judgment. And judge it I did. I could not resist.
I poured out my venom on that place. I raised my fist into the air and gave voice to my pain. And then I left it behind, walking back the way I came, to the horse I had tied to a maple tree. Many roads stretched out before me, but all of them led to one place and one man, a man who had fled the advance of Sherman’s cannons and taken shelter in the capital of the nation with men who would sooner grant amnesty to the slaveholders than justice to their former slaves. Those were the men I had to persuade with the ledger and the stories Esther had told me, the stories I have written in this diary. I did not know if I would be successful in my quest, but I knew one thing beyond peradventure—I had to try.
Cameron closed the journal and returned it to his backpack, zipping the pouch closed. Then he stood, took off his shirt, sandals, and sunglasses, and ran with the abandon of a man half his age into the surging arms of the sea. The waves pummeled him as he swam, but he didn’t care. He was alive. His purposes were true. There was work to be done, justice to be served.
But not quite yet.
Two hours later, Sergio returned Cameron to the port at Sal Rei. His dinghy was waiting where he left it, lashed to a piling on the dock. He climbed aboard and started the motor, thinking about the passage that awaited him tomorrow. At ninety nautical miles, it would take him no more than thirteen hours to reach Santiago, assuming the weather held. He would leave at sunrise and make landfall just after sunset. Santiago was his last stop in the islands and the launching point for a voyage that had lived in his imagination since he was a boy. He had never dreamed that he would make it, that he would sail the Middle Passage on the trail of his ancestors. But then he had read Cornelius’s journal, and his future had come to him as if inspired.
The dinghy bounced across the bay, sending spray into the air and dousing Cameron’s hot skin. The Breakwater was at anchor beyond a cluster of yachts, her hull gleaming in the sun. He approached the sailboat from behind and released the throttle, allowing the dinghy to glide to a stop by the ladder on the transom. After tying the line to a cleat, he opened the air cocks and allowed the bladders of the dinghy to deflate. Then he detached the motor and climbed into the cockpit of the sailboat, stowing it in a locker.
“Hello, Cameron.”
Cameron whipped around and stared up in disbelief. The face was so unexpected, and the shock so deep, that for an excruciating moment his mind ceased to function. Then the moment passed and he recovered his composure. He sat down on the bench and looked back at the man, taking in the tousled curls, the day-old stubble on his cheeks, the soulful blue eyes.
“You found me,” he said.
Josh Griswold stepped down from the rail. “I’m done playing games. We need to talk.”
CHAPTER FIVE
S.V. BREAKWATER
BOA VISTA, CAPE VERDE
MAY 10, 2016
12:48 P.M.
Josh had waited an hour for Cameron to return. The wait gave him an opportunity to plan his surprise. He watched the dock through binoculars and saw Cameron start out across the bay. He stretched out along the beam and hid behind the rigging at the base of the mast. He felt like a prowler, but he didn’t care. Cameron deserved it.
He listened to the motor and heard it cut off. He felt the sailboat rock as Cameron climbed aboard. He lifted himself into a crouch and stepped quietly along the rail, his heart thundering in his chest. When he reached the dodger, he waited a second or two, relishing the suspense. Then he spoke Cameron’s name. Oh, the delight he took from the look on Cameron’s face. For once he had the advantage.
“I’m done playing games,” he said, stepping into the cockpit. “We need to talk.”
Cameron shrugged his shoulders. “So talk. Out here, we have nothing but time.”
Josh sat down on a bench. “But that’s where you’re wrong. You have six days to stop Lewis Ames from exposing you to the world.
”
Cameron’s brow furrowed. “I thought that was your job.”
“It’s out of my control,” Josh replied. “The lawsuit has taken on a life of its own. The claims are legitimate. The plaintiffs should prevail. And the world should know the truth.”
“The truth comes at a price the world is rarely willing to pay,” Cameron said evenly.
Josh shook his head, irritated. “I’m not here for bromides. I’m here to make a deal.”
Cameron smiled opaquely. “You said something like that the last time we met. Tell me, why should I negotiate with you? The law isn’t just, but it is clear. Even if you name me in the complaint, you still can’t answer the question of when. Here’s some truth for you: I knew nothing about what was happening in our supply chain until after the fire. I didn’t know about the problems in Malaysia and Jordan until later. If you plead that I did, you’ll be staking your claim to a lie. And I can tell you from experience that Rusty Blackwell has a habit of turning groundless allegations into sanctions awards. If that’s something you can live with, along with the disclosure of the documents I have, then be my guest. I’ll resign from the company, transfer my assets to an offshore account, and stay out here permanently. Do you know how many nations lack extradition treaties with the United States? We’re in one of them right now.”
Josh’s irritation escalated into anger. “If you do that, you’ll lose everything. You’ll tarnish your family’s reputation. Your father will die in shame.”
For the first time, Josh’s words hit home. Cameron took a careworn breath. “You don’t understand. I’ve lost everything already. As for my father, the world will always love him.”
“I went to Boston,” Josh said, pressing in relentlessly. “I met with him.”
Cameron blinked. “I assumed as much. Only he and Vance knew where to find me.”
Josh nodded, imbuing his appeal with all the passion in his heart. “He didn’t help us right away. He took some convincing. And when he gave us your location, he made a request. He asked us to give you a chance to make this right. I don’t want your name anywhere near the complaint. It’s not just my marriage I’m concerned about. I respect what you did in coming to me. It was an act of profound moral courage. You have a plan. Great. I want to help you. But you have to let me. You can’t do this on your own.”
Cameron’s gaze fell to the deck. “What exactly are you proposing?”
“I’m proposing that we settle the case before the deadline, confidentially, so that when May 17 comes it will look like the case just died. The press will walk away with nothing, but the plaintiffs won’t. I didn’t come with any authority, and I know you don’t have any. But if you can convince your side, I’m sure I can convince mine.”
Cameron pondered this as the waves lapped against the hull. Finally he said, “You would have made a fine lawyer. But your reasoning has a flaw. Presto never settles after a case is filed. It’s a matter of company pride.”
“This wouldn’t be like any other settlement,” Josh retorted. “We’re talking about zero exposure. We won the media war. We’ll fall on our sword in the courtroom. The plaintiffs don’t want to get rich. They want to make a difference. So Presto doesn’t like to settle. Fine. Make an exception. I doubt you’ll see a case like this again.”
Cameron stood abruptly, his face a mask of concentration. “I need some space,” he said and walked forward along the rail to the foredeck. Josh sat back against the bench, playing the odds. There were dimensions of Cameron’s thinking that went far beyond his understanding, the calculus of leverage inside the company, the personalities and vanities of Vance and the board, matters of finance and market viability and investor confidence. Frankly, Josh didn’t understand how any general counsel of a multinational corporation kept his sanity. Yet if he knew anything about Cameron, it was that he could take the heat. The suffering he had experienced would have crippled most men. But he had allowed it to sharpen him, to turn him into a weapon. In spite of his anger, Josh admired that about him. He admired it immensely.
After a while, Cameron returned to the cockpit and spoke bluntly. “I’m willing to work toward a settlement, but only if we do another deal first.”
Josh frowned, unsure what was coming. “I’m listening.”
“Before I contacted you, I learned everything there is to know about you—your adoption, your parents, your education, the stories you wrote, the awards you won. I also learned about Madison and her family, and about Maria. I realized that your greatest strength is also your greatest weakness—your empathy. It’s what makes you such a gifted storyteller. It’s also what made you unfaithful. I hired someone to follow you when you went to Rio the last time. I had a hunch. It turned out I was right. A woman like Maria is hard to walk away from. But the photos made me angry. I would give anything to have what you have”—here, Cameron’s voice faltered—“to be able to take back the mistake I made. But Madison deserves more than the part of you you’ve given her. She deserves all of you.”
As Josh reeled, Cameron’s eyes shined with feeling. “Here are my terms. If I’m going to walk through the fire with Presto, you’re going to walk through the fire with your wife. Go home and tell her the truth. I’ll talk to Vance and the board. If we burn, we’ll burn together.”
CHAPTER SIX
OFF LONG ISLAND
ANTIGUA AND BARBUDA
MAY 11, 2016
4:48 P.M.
The speedboat blazed across the water of Winthorpes Bay, its engine thrumming with a deep-throated growl. Cameron was hunched behind the windshield, his shirt and pants billowing in the slipstream. The last thirty hours had been madness. After an overnight voyage to Santiago, he’d barely had time to pack a duffel bag, pay the harbormaster to watch his sailboat, and catch a taxi to the airport. The Gulfstream had been waiting for him on the tarmac. The flight across the Atlantic had taken five hours. From the airport on Antigua, Cameron had hailed a taxi to the marina where Jenson, one of Vance’s handymen, had collected him in Vance’s Porsche-designed Fearless 28. The speedboat was more than a little ridiculous—it looked like a prop in a Bond film—but the adrenaline rush distracted Cameron from the fear of what he had to do.
Josh’s appearance in Cape Verde had thrown all of his plans into jeopardy. Yet it wasn’t the journalist’s ultimatum that had astonished him the most; it was the deal he had proposed. In all his months of preparation, Cameron had never considered leveraging the lawsuit into a settlement prior to the dismissal of the complaint. He had expected to make his move after the dust had settled, to leverage the damage caused by the case and the threat of future litigation to press Vance and the board for systemic reform. The success of his gambit had never been guaranteed, but with the memory of the lawsuit fresh, the deck was stacked in his favor. The old guard had been weakened and the new guard emboldened. Then in a moment that still seemed surreal, Josh had tossed him a live grenade. The pin was gone, the explosion inevitable now. The only question was what Cameron would do with the blast.
The speedboat made a turn and rounded the tip of Long Island, heading toward Vance’s villa on the north shore. Every May, Vance retreated here, leaving the rest of Presto gearing up for the annual meeting of the shareholders. In the years since Olivia’s death, he had invited Cameron to join him, but Cameron had declined, unwilling to yield the reins for even a week.
Jenson pulled back the throttle and guided the boat to Vance’s pier. After securing the lines, he helped Cameron onto the dock, then led him down a boardwalk and through a stand of palm trees. The villa beyond the palms was arranged in two wings with a swimming pool in between. A girl was sunbathing on a lounge chair, earbuds in her ears. She looked no older than sixteen. For an instant, Cameron felt the sting of indignation, thinking that Vance’s libido had led him into forbidden territory. Then he saw her face.
“Is that Annalee?” he asked Jenson.
The captain spoke with the lilt of the islands. “Mr. Lawson brought her along this tim
e.”
Cameron was astounded by how much she had grown since the last time he saw her. She looked just like her mother now.
He gestured toward a cabana surrounded by flowering plants. “I’ll wait out here,” he said.
When Jenson disappeared into the house, Cameron climbed the steps to the cabana and sank into a plush armchair. He closed his eyes, wishing he could take a nap. Before long, a man in a servant’s uniform brought him a coconut with a straw and a tray of sliced mango.
“Welcome to Antigua, Mr. Alexander,” he said kindly. “I am Cecil. Will this be enough, or shall I have something more prepared? Dinner will be served at six.”
Cameron took a sip of the milk. “It’s perfect, thank you.”
Cecil nodded. “Mr. Lawson just finished exercising. He will be out shortly.”
Cameron ate the fruit and waited, his stomach churning with dread. In time, Vance appeared on the terrace and sauntered across the lawn. He was dressed in Bermuda shorts and a linen shirt, his feet bare and his skin tan.
“Look at you,” he said with a smile. “No suit. No laptop. I barely recognize you.”
Cameron stood up and embraced his friend, laughing as naturally as he could. “The sea has been good to me. I feel like a different person.”
Vance sat down and reached for a piece of mango. “I’m glad you got away. I mean it. You deserved it more than anyone. But your six weeks aren’t up yet. What’s going on?”
“Annalee’s growing up,” Cameron said, deflecting Vance’s question.
Vance laughed. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? I bet half the boys in her school are trying to get into her pants. It’s terrifying.”
And a taste of your own medicine, Cameron thought. “Is it just the two of you here?”
Vance’s eyes glinted with humor. “This week is hers. But when she goes home, I’m going to throw a party or two, bring some friends over from the mainland.”
A Harvest of Thorns Page 33