The Chairman

by Stephen Frey

  “Dragged?”

  “You heard me.”

  Stockman straightened up in his chair and paused, moving his lips without speaking. Silently counting to ten to let off steam. “Do you understand what will happen if you don’t cooperate with me?” he asked. “Do you understand how powerful I am?”

  Gillette remained silent.

  “You’ll have an enemy in Washington instead of an ally.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Is that good business?”

  “Maybe not, but I’m chairman of Everest, and I have to do what I think is best in the long run. And I think it’s best to stay out of this.”

  Stockman smiled. A fake smile. Like he had a pain in his side but was trying not to let on. “I hear Everest Capital is going to be raising a new fund soon.”

  Gillette looked up slowly from the table. “How did you hear that?”

  “I hear lots of things. Which is why you’d be a fool not to work with me.”

  Gillette ticked off the different ways Stockman could have gotten that information. Remembering who he’d told about his plans for the new fund. “What are you saying?”

  “You still own shares of companies you’ve taken public. Don’t you, Christian?”

  When private equity firms sold companies to the public, they didn’t sell all their holdings in the initial public offering. The investment bankers—who distributed the new shares to their individual and institutional clients—wanted the private equity firms to retain at least some of their ownership after the IPO. As a sign of good faith. So the new investors would feel like the existing owners had continuing confidence in the business’s prospects. That they weren’t getting out at the top. And, once a company was trading publicly, there were strict rules governing how and when the original owners could sell their shares.

  “That’s right,” Gillette agreed. “We own some publicly traded stuff.” Which was no secret. Stockman’s aides could have found that information in the mandatory SEC filings available on the Internet. “But we don’t count those as portfolio companies. Not like the twenty-seven we control.”

  “One of those public companies you still own a piece of is Dominion Savings & Loan down in Virginia,” Stockman continued. “It’s headquartered across the Potomac River from Washington in Alexandria, but it has branches in the District. I see them all over the place on my way in to the Capitol from my apartment in Georgetown.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “What if the federal regulators were to uncover problems at Dominion?”

  “Dominion’s squeaky-clean. There’s nothing—”

  “Still, what if they did? Would that be a problem?”

  “It’s a waste of time to talk hypothetically. At least, in this case.”

  The senator smiled thinly. “Humor me, Christian.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  Stockman spread his arms, shrugged, and gave Gillette a quizzical look. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “It’s just a simple question. If the feds start a probe into Dominion’s IPO, would that be a problem for Everest?”

  “Depends on what they find,” Gillette said bluntly.

  “My aides tell me Everest took in two billion dollars on that IPO. After investing just two hundred million three years ago,” Stockman added.

  “Our profit on the deal was a billion eight,” Gillette acknowledged. “It was a great transaction. And, like I said, we scrubbed Dominion with Ajax and steel wool for ninety days before the SEC came on the scene. Then they were in our shorts for months before the IPO.”

  “All the same, if an investigation was announced, it wouldn’t be good for your next fund, would it? Might make your partners wonder what was going on at Everest. Might even make them not invest.”

  Dominion’s loan portfolio was almost forty billion dollars. In a loan portfolio that huge, there were bound to be problems, especially when the portfolio was grown quickly. And Gillette knew that to maximize the value of the transaction, to get that billion eight profit, Donovan had grown the Dominion loan portfolio very quickly during the year before the IPO. Gillette also knew that Donovan had given Dominion’s employees huge bonuses to grow the business, even the credit officers—the people charged with making certain the loans Dominion made were good-quality loans, loans that were likely to be repaid—had gotten something. Which was a tremendous conflict—to pay credit officers to grow a portfolio rather than protect it.

  Donovan had been chairman of Dominion while Everest controlled it, and Marcie Reed had been his second—like at Blalock. She and Donovan hadn’t told the other managing partners much about what was going on, but Gillette knew that the general strategy had been to grow Dominion as fast as possible. Suddenly he was concerned that Stockman’s threats might be backed up by credible information.

  “One of the Big Four accounting firms audits Dominion,” Gillette pointed out, “and has since before it was public. I’m comfortable everything is fine there.”

  Stockman chuckled snidely. “Are you now?”

  “Yes.” Not really. As Donovan had gotten older, he’d developed a bulletproof mentality, as if he thought he was somehow above the law. It wouldn’t surprise Gillette at all if Donovan had done something shady at Dominion to assure Everest of that huge payday.

  The senator drew himself up in his chair, his forced smile fading. “Are you going to support me, Christian?”

  “Senator Stockman, I think we should—”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Not to the extent you’re talking about. Now, I’m willing to consider—”

  “Thank you for the drinks,” Stockman said, standing up abruptly. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time for lunch thanks to your being so late. I wish you all the best as the new chairman of Everest Capital.” He smiled again. “For as long as you are chairman, anyway.”

  Gillette watched the senator move off, stopping to shake hands at several tables as he worked his way toward the door, smiling and chatting with people as if his nasty exchange with Gillette hadn’t happened.

  Tom McGuire knew that Bill Donovan had found out something about Stockman. Something so significant that, in McGuire’s judgment, Stockman would have wanted Donovan dead. And, by extension, now would want him dead.

  Gillette had been tempted to tell Stockman that he knew about Rita Jones, but he’d held off. It was something he could use more powerfully later. Especially if he could get evidence.

  He eased back into the chair, pulled out his Blackberry, and began scrolling through his e-mails. It was Stockman’s move now.

  Gillette punched in Jeremy Cole’s number on his cell phone as he steered the rented Taurus south on the Jersey Turnpike. McGuire was going to be pissed. Pissed that Gillette had given his security detail the slip and gone out on his own. But it had to be this way. He didn’t want McGuire—or anybody else—knowing about this trip. He checked the rearview mirror as the line rang in his ear. He hadn’t noticed anyone following him.

  “Hello.”

  “Jeremy, it’s Christian Gillette.”

  “Hey, Christian. How are you?”

  “Fine. Glad I caught you. I thought you might be at practice.”

  “Nah, we’ve done our field work for the day. Gotta go watch films in a few minutes. Pain in the ass, but, hey, gotta do what you gotta do, you know?”

  Gillette guided the car off at Exit 8 and headed west toward Princeton. He’d been out of New York City for an hour. “Did your agent hook up with the Giants yet?”

  “Yeah. The deal’s gonna be announced tomorrow. The lawyers are making a few last-minute tweaks, but it’s basically done. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. That was amazing. Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Gillette handed the woman in the toll booth a five, then drove through the gate without waiting for the nickel change. “I need a favor.”

  “Name it. Anything.”

  “I need a bodyguard. Know where I can get one?”

&nb
sp; Cole thought for a moment. “Some of the guys on the team use them. A couple of the running backs and one of the wide receivers. You know, the megabuck guys.”

  “Yeah, like you now.”

  Cole hesitated. “God, you’re right. I hadn’t even thought about that.”

  “Talk to those guys and find out who they use, then call me back. All right, Jeremy? As soon as you can.”

  “Of course. I’ll get back to you tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  Gillette tossed the cell phone onto the passenger seat and picked up his Blackberry, scrolling down the small screen as he drove. Thinking about how he needed to hire his own security detail, not one arranged for and managed by Tom McGuire, who was going to be mad as hell when he found out he wasn’t going to be able to buy his company back from Everest. Not without a lot more than three hundred million, anyway.

  A horn blared and Gillette’s eyes flashed up from the tiny screen. While he’d been focused on the Blackberry, the Taurus had drifted into the oncoming lane. He jerked the steering wheel right, barely avoiding the dump truck bearing down on him, then to the left to miss a telephone pole. Finally, he skidded to a stop on the gravel shoulder.

  Gillette put his head back, closed his eyes, and let out a long breath.

  Twenty minutes later he swung the Taurus into Jose Medilla’s driveway. For the first few minutes after the close call with the truck, he’d been able to stay focused on the road, able to keep his fingers off the cell phone and the Blackberry. But the shock had worn off quickly and his fingers had gotten itchy. After one last scroll through the screen, Gillette put the Blackberry onto the seat beside the phone, climbed out of the car, and headed toward the house.

  Isabelle opened the door before Gillette even knocked. He froze. He’d been expecting Selma.

  She gave him a wide smile. “Buenos dias, Señor Gillette.”

  “Buenos dias.” She was even prettier than he remembered. Delicate features. Beautiful black hair. Those huge brown eyes. A vulnerability hiding behind the long, curved lashes that naturally made him want to protect her. “May I come—” Gillette stopped himself, searching for the words in Spanish. College, just to the west of here, seemed so long ago. He’d been good with Spanish back then, but had forgotten a lot since. “Um, los siento. Puedo entrar—”

  Isabella opened the door wide. “Sí. Come in. Selma’s expecting you. She’s upstairs with Maria.”

  “Oh,” he said, stepping into the foyer, “you speak English.”

  She held her hand out, turning it from side to side. “I’m pretty okay. We grew up speaking Spanish and English in Puerto Rico. My father said it would come in handy one day to know English. I guess he was right.”

  “He was definitely right.”

  “Chreeees!”

  Maria bounded down the stairs, followed by another little girl Gillette didn’t recognize. “Who’s this?” he asked, picking up Maria. Watching Isabelle move off toward the kitchen.

  “This is Julie,” Selma explained. “She’s Alex’s youngest. Alex and his wife are down here today buying furniture. I’m sure Alex’s wife will have them shopping until the stores close.” Selma kissed Gillette gently on the cheek. “You’re wonderful. I’ve never seen Jose and Alex closer. This has been an amazing experience for them.”

  Maria threw her short arms around Gillette’s neck and kissed his other cheek. “You like me better than Mommy, don’t you, Chris?”

  “I like you better than anyone.” He spotted Isabelle in the kitchen, putting something away in a cabinet. “When will Jose be home?” It was almost five o’clock.

  “He should be here in a few minutes. Come in and I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  “No, I’m fine,” he said, following Selma toward the kitchen, Maria still in his arms. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s cold out. A plate of my rice and beans will do you good.”

  Isabelle was coming the other way. She had on a pink sweater and jeans, and it occurred to Gillette that he hadn’t noticed what she was wearing when she first opened the door. Usually he noticed things like that. “Where are you going?” he asked her, putting Maria down beside Julie as she passed by.

  “Upstairs to read.”

  “Why don’t you stay down here and talk?” he called after her.

  “I’ll come down later,” she called back, trotting up the stairs.

  “Come on, Chris.” The two little girls pulled Gillette toward the living room. “Play with us.”

  “You two let him go,” Selma ordered. “Maybe he’ll come in there with you in a few minutes. Go on.”

  Gillette eased into a chair at the kitchen table as Selma shooed the girls away.

  “You should ask Isabelle to dinner,” Selma suggested, pulling a bowl from the refrigerator and turning on the oven.

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “I see the way you look at her.”

  “Well, she’s pretty easy on the eyes.” He glanced out through the French doors at the house he’d just bought for Alex. “But I doubt we’d have anything in common, and she seems kind of shy.”

  “You’d be surprised. She’s quiet at first, but there’s a lot to her once you get to know her.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  The same age as Faith. He’d thought she was younger. “How long is she visiting?”

  “We’re trying to get her into the local community college. If we do, she’ll stay with us until she has a chance to get on her feet and get a place of her own. I don’t want her going back to Puerto Rico. There’s nothing for her there.”

  Gillette heard a car pull up outside. Jose. “Would she go out with me if I asked?”

  Selma laughed. “I don’t know. Ask her and find out.”

  Gillette spotted Isabelle as soon as he and Jose emerged from the small study off the living room. She was sitting at the kitchen table, reading. “Thank you, Señor Medilla,” he said, shaking Jose’s hand.

  “Sure.” Jose’s voice was low.

  Gillette could tell that what they’d discussed was still sinking in.

  “I always told you I’d do anything you asked,” Jose spoke up. “And I meant it. I’ll talk to Alex when he gets home.”

  “Good.” Gillette spotted Selma coming down the stairs. “I hope Alex and his wife had a nice time shopping tonight,” he said. “The bills for their credit cards will come directly to me. The same way it works for you and Selma.”

  Jose shook Gillette’s hand warmly. “Thank you, Christian. I don’t know what to say. Your kindness is very great.”

  “Don’t say anything. It all evens out in the end.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Jose agreed quietly. “Would you like something to eat?”

  Gillette smiled. They were always trying to feed him. “No thanks.”

  “Honey, I need you upstairs for a few minutes,” Selma said, moving beside her husband.

  “Why?”

  “There’s a lightbulb out in the bedroom.”

  “I’ll take care of it later. I want to talk to Isabelle about something.”

  “You’ll take care of it now,” Selma ordered, taking Jose’s arm and tugging him toward the stairs. “Bye, Christian,” she called.

  Gillette hesitated as Jose and Selma climbed the steps. He could hear Jose grumbling, then there was silence.

  He took a deep breath. He could deliver Bill Donovan’s eulogy to a congregation packed full of Manhattan luminaries and hold them spellbound. Fire the CEO of a $3 billion company and barely feel his heart rate change. Take a pop star to dinner and charm her. But suddenly, standing in this middle-class home in central New Jersey, his palms were clammy.

  “What are you reading?” he asked, moving into the kitchen and sitting down across from Isabelle. She had the book in her lap.

  “Gone with the Wind.” She held the book up so he could see the cover.

  “Wow. That’s a big project.” He couldn�
��t think of anything else to say. “You know, you have very pretty eyes.”

  “Gracias. I mean . . . thank you.”

  He gazed at her. Her whole face lit up when she smiled. “So, what do you do for fun around here?” He chuckled to himself. A silly thing to ask, but he was a little on edge. His natural ability to make conversation was jammed by her incredible beauty. Something he wasn’t accustomed to.

  “Not much,” she answered, putting the book down.

  She still hadn’t looked directly into his eyes, he realized. “Want some dinner?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not hungry but I can fix you for something.”

  He laughed. “No, you don’t understand.” Her eyes raced to his for the first time, and he saw a flash of anger, as if she thought he was making fun of her grammar. “I mean, I didn’t explain myself very well.”

  “Oh,” she said softly, her anger evaporating as quickly as it had condensed. “What did you mean?”

  “I’d like to take you out for dinner.”

  Her gaze fell to her lap again.

  “Don’t get so excited. All that jumping up and down might be tough on your heart.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m kidding. I was just hoping for a different reaction.”

  “I don’t think it would be a good idea to go out for us,” she said quietly.

  “Not even for a quick bite?” he asked, holding back a smile at the way she had mixed her words a second time.

  “No,” she answered, standing up, “but thank you. I’ll tell Jose you’re leaving,” she said, heading quickly out of the kitchen.

  “Isabelle,” he called after her, rising from his chair.

  But she was gone.

  Gillette scrolled through his e-mails as he waited at the stoplight. The New Jersey Turnpike, on the other side of the small village of Hightstown, was only a couple miles away. Ahead of him, Route 1 lay across the road he was on. He’d be back in Manhattan in an hour.