Chapter 7 - Boardroom Guillotine
The emergency meeting of the Hawthorne Preparatory School Board of Trustees was called for midnight.
No one was absent.
Billionaire hedge-fund founders, third-generation heiresses, real-estate moguls, and state senators sat in the library beneath the antique chandeliers, their phones confiscated at the door by Silas Crowe’s security team.
The double doors opened.
Evelyn entered.
She wore a simple, dark green maternity dress and an oversized wool cardigan. Her hair was pulled back into a neat braid. The left side of her face was swollen, marked by an ugly, plum-colored bruise that extended from her ear to her split lip.
Beside her walked Owen Price and his mother, Mary.
Mary was forty-one, her hands rough and red from stripping industrial floor wax, her eyes darting nervously around the room filled with the people whose offices she cleaned. Owen, tall, thin, and wearing his ill-fitting Hawthorne blazer, held his mother’s arm with quiet dignity.
At the head of the table sat Roman Vance Mercer.
Conrad Voss was absent. He was currently handcuffed to a stainless-steel bench in an interrogation room at the federal building in White Plains.
Roman did not stand when Evelyn entered. He simply pointed to the seats at the right of the table.
“Take your seats,” Roman commanded the room.
The trustees, people who collectively controlled hundreds of billions of dollars, sat down like chastened schoolchildren.
“This is Mary Price,” Evelyn said, her voice clear, steady, carrying none of the tremor from earlier that afternoon. She stood at the end of the table—the exact spot where Conrad had struck her ten hours prior. “Her son Owen has an average of ninety-eight point four in Advanced Placement Calculus and Physics. He is the top-ranked junior in this state.”
She laid a document on the mahogany surface.
“This is Conrad Voss’s confession, witnessed by the United States Attorney,” Evelyn said. “The scholarship fund did not lose two point seven million dollars to market adjustments. Conrad Voss diverted it into a private equity conduit to purchase properties in the Hamptons and pay off family debts.”
A murmur broke out.
“Be quiet,” Roman said.
The murmur died instantly.
“Hawthorne Preparatory School is technically insolvent,” Roman said, looking around the table with cold contempt. “The operational accounts are frozen. The endowment is collateralized against loans that North Vale defaulted on this morning. As of six o'clock this evening, Mercer-Vance Capital has acquired all outstanding notes on this campus.”
He leaned back, his eyes resting on Wallace Kemp.
“I own the ground beneath your feet,” Roman continued. “I own the chapel. I own the library. I own the diplomas you received forty years ago.”
A wealthy woman in a fur coat stood up, her voice trembling. “Mr. Mercer, you cannot destroy this school! Our children—”
“Your children will learn what the world actually looks like,” Roman interrupted. “Starting tomorrow, the board of trustees is dissolved. The charter is being transferred to a public educational trust managed by my sister.”
Evelyn looked at Roman. This was not what they had agreed on in the hospital room.
“Roman,” she warned.
“You wanted to fix it, Evie,” Roman said, his gaze meeting hers with an uncharacteristic softness. “You told me Nathan believed institutions could have souls if someone was willing to hold the ledger. Well. Here is the ledger.”
He pushed a thick, leather-bound volume across the table toward her.
“Thirty million dollars has been deposited into the Hawthorne Endowed Scholarship Fund in the name of Nathan Mercer,” Roman announced to the room. “It is untouchable by future headmasters, boards, or creditors. Owen Price’s tuition, housing, and subsequent Ivy League education are fully paid for.”
Mary Price began to weep, burying her face in her son’s shoulder. Owen stared at Evelyn, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and profound gratitude.
“As for the rest of you,” Roman said, rising to his feet, “you have until eight o'clock tomorrow morning to resign your positions, forfeit your donor privileges, and submit your personal audit trails to Silas Crowe. If you do not, the Southern District will receive your personal tax returns by noon.”
Roman adjusted his coat.
May you like
“Meeting adjourned.”
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