The Trust (12 page)

He typed “guidestar.org” into his browser. The site contained 990s for most foundations. And with a few keystrokes, he pulled up the most recent filing from the Catholic Fund. On the first page under the section labeled “Summary,” the 990 read:

The Catholic Fund’s primary exempt purpose is grant-making. We partner with donors to promote economic justice. We focus primarily on the rights of children and on their ability to live in a healthy sustainable environment where human rights are preserved and protected.

“Where’s the economic justice in porn?”

“What’s that?” hollered Margaret. His assistant had the ears of an elephant.

“Nothing, darling.”

Further down the page under the “Signature Block,” Biscuit found the name “Father Frederick Ricardo, President.” Even better, he found the San Francisco phone number of the paid preparer, Donald Lim of the CPA firm Bustamante and Lim.

He looked at his watch—a little after nine
A.M.
on the West Coast—and punched in the 415 number. To his surprise, a man answered on the first ring.

“Lim speaking.”

Biscuit introduced himself, stated his profession, and explained, “I found your name on the 990 you prepared for the Catholic Fund.”

“Okay?”

“I’d like to contact Father Ricardo.”

“To make a donation?” asked Lim. “I can tell you where to mail your check.”

“No. I want to discuss the Catholic Fund’s stake in Highly Intimate Pleasures.”

“Are you looking to buy it?”

Lim’s response caught Biscuit off guard. “Is HIP for sale?”

“Everything is on the table—when children’s lives are at stake.”

Biscuit scratched his head.

The seconds dragged on.

Lim grew tired of hearing the dust settle. “If there’s nothing else, Mr. Hughes.”

“Actually, there is,” Biscuit replied. “I’m surprised.”

“About what?”

“That you would sell a business open a little over a week. That a Catholic charity owns an adult superstore.”

“Is this why you want to speak with Father Ricardo?” The explanation irked Lim.

“Better him than the NBC news affiliate in Fayetteville.” Biscuit had no desire to establish an adversarial position so soon. Nor to call the press, given the warning from Agent Torres. But Lim was about to hang up.

“Whatever.”

“Wait till the press profiles HIP.” Biscuit was desperate to flush information from the accountant. “I can see it now. Catholics package sex toys with indulgences from the pope.”

“Have you ever been to the third world, Mr. Hughes?”

“Iraq. That third enough for you, pardner?”

“Then you’ve seen the squalor and filth slide downhill.” Lim’s speech was growing faster, more animated. “Kids get the worst of it. And the good my client does outweighs any wrong you assign to taking such a gift.”

“Lemme get this straight. Somebody donated HIP to the Catholic Fund?”

“I’ve said too much,” backtracked Lim. “I’m not at liberty to discuss donors.”

“Fair enough. But I still want to speak with Father Ricardo.”

“He’s a busy man.”

“And my clients are furious about Highly Intimate Pleasures.”

“Tell them to focus on the kids.”

“Easy for you to say,” countered Biscuit. “Your backyard isn’t a magnet for perverts.”

“Like I said before,” replied Lim. “If your clients don’t like HIP, make us an offer.”

Click.

“Why don’t you pour yourself a cup of kiss my ass?” Biscuit replied to dial tone. He had Lim’s phone number and office address, a respectable location at 44 Montgomery Street. The accountant would talk, if not over the phone at least in court.

Maybe.

*   *   *

It was always fifty-fifty whether Biscuit’s assistant would mash down the Talk button or holler from around the corner. This time Margaret used the intercom. She spoke in a hacksaw voice, raspy from Lucky Strikes and the nightly marinade that included two drinks of gin.

“Biscuit honey. Mrs. Locklear is here to see you.”

“Shit.”

“I heard that,” growled Mrs. Jason Locklear. Much to his growing consternation, Biscuit realized his thumb was still on the intercom’s Talk button.

Short, stout, seething, she stormed through the door even before he could say, “Send her in.” The woman’s face was red, the bridge of her nose a whopping wrinkle. For just a moment, Biscuit wondered if he should fire his client before she fired him. But he thought better of it.

“Nice to see you.”

“Why didn’t you call this morning?”

Biscuit rounded his desk and held out the guest chair. “May I get you some coffee?” He knew the only way to disarm an angry crowd, or five sisters, was to listen with compassion. Mrs. Jason Locklear was a mob of one.

“I don’t believe in caffeine.”

“Water?”

“Cut the crap. We have a big problem.”

“Oh?”

“One of my girlfriends just took a job with HIP.”

“These are tough times.” Biscuit thought the Swiss solution best. He intended to stay neutral.

“That’s my point. The heathens are paying us to work.”

“Okay?”

“You don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” she snapped. “We’re losing our will to fight.”

Biscuit’s expression remained blank.

“They throw thirty pieces of silver at a few employees,” Mrs. Jason Locklear ranted. “Meanwhile, home prices are dropping like hot horseshoes.”

She had a point. Nobody wanted a truck stop in his backyard. Biscuit tried to soothe her anyway. “Maybe HIP has its own problems.”

“How so?”

“HIP’s been open a little over a week,” he explained. “And they’re already recruiting new employees. I wonder if somebody quit—if they have personnel issues.” Lim had suggested that HIP could be bought. Biscuit knew that organizations sometimes put themselves up for sale when problems cannot be cured.

“Issues? Yeah, they can’t handle the foot traffic.”

“How do you know?”

“The manager told my girlfriend. The store’s putting up thirty new billboards this week.”

“HIP doesn’t sound like a company that’s up for sale.”

“What are you talking about?”

Biscuit described his conversation with Lim and repeated the accountant’s exact words: “Everything is on the table.”

When he finished, Mrs. Jason Locklear asked, “Can’t we take a petition to our congressman?”

“If you like. But there’s not much he can do.”

“It’s not right, Biscuit.”

“I’m working it.”

“It’s not right,” she echoed, throwing up her hands and shaking her head.

*   *   *

Ten minutes later Mrs. Jason Locklear exited like a tempest, draining the law office of all oxygen in her angry wake. Biscuit hated arguing with clients. The process made him uncomfortable—the hashing and thrashing out of details. To his way of thinking, there were more productive ways to waste time.

Biscuit glanced at his watch. Too early to head home for dinner. Right about now, he’d kill for a Navy Grog down at Phil’s Polynesian. That and a plate of sweet-and-sour wings. But he eyed the Catholic Fund’s 990, still open on his computer screen. It was time to pay attention, time to unclutter his mind and focus on the details.

Easier said than done.

The 990 was the print equivalent of sleeping pills. Boring, boring, boring. His mind drifted, which Biscuit suspected was the body’s natural defense to the fucking insufferable parade of forms from the IRS. But when he came to Schedule I—“Grants and Other Assistance to Organizations, Governments, and Individuals in the United States”—the answers piqued his interest.

The Catholic Fund’s accountant won’t talk,
reasoned Biscuit.
But its grant recipients might.

Last year, the Catholic Fund had supported dozens of nonprofits located in cities around the country: Los Angeles, New York, and Spokane among others. There was the Catholic Victims Fund, the Catholic Endowment for Children, and the Catholic Center for Mercy. Most received large eight-figure grants, although Biscuit noted that Sacred Heart Parish in Anacostia received only $100,000.

“Father Mike got hosed.”

Biscuit searched for Sacred Heart’s 990 without success. He assumed the diocese, or a more senior entity in the Catholic hierarchy, handled the parish’s paperwork. He found the 990 for the Catholic Victims Fund, though. He was curious what the charity did to earn a $50 million gift.

Its summary of activities read: “The Catholic Victims Fund aids families in crisis. We fight domestic violence and work with donors to shield children at risk. We defend those who can’t defend themselves.”

The language sounded similar to the Catholic Fund’s summary. Biscuit scrolled down, thinking it would be odd if he found the same accounting firm—Bustamante and Lim at 44 Montgomery in San Francisco.

He didn’t.

The accounting firm was Foz and Associates, based in Spokane. Michael Foz had signed the 990. Biscuit dialed his phone number, which was listed on the form.

“May I tell him what this is in reference to?” asked the receptionist.

Fifteen seconds later, he was speaking with Michael Foz.

“How can I help, Mr. Hughes?”

“I was looking at the 990 for the Catholic Victims Fund.”

“Right. They’re a fine organization.”

“Can you describe its relationship to the Catholic Fund?”

“Are you with the IRS?”

“I practice law in Fayetteville, North Carolina.” Biscuit rolled his head.

“Right. What makes you think the organizations have a relationship?”

“The Catholic Fund made a fifty-million-dollar gift to your client.”

“Right. Can I get your phone number?”

Biscuit sensed Foz was about to hang up. “What for?”

“I’d rather my client answer all your questions,” the accountant explained. “That way I don’t make any mistakes.”

“Fair enough. When should I expect to hear back?”

“Give me a call if you haven’t heard anything in a week.”

“You’re kidding. That long?”

“They run a lean ship.” Foz spoke with an accent, which Biscuit could not identify.

The big lawyer hung up a few moments later. There was something about Foz. Nice, but in a pasty kind of way. Too breezy. Too Left Coast. Biscuit’s prodigious gut told him the Catholic Victims Fund would never call back.

For a while, he considered the $50 million gift from the Catholic Fund to the Catholic Victims Fund. It was so disproportionately large relative to the $100,000 Sacred Heart had received. The more Biscuit pondered the difference, the more it nagged him. He scrolled down to Schedule I for the Catholic Victims Fund, wondering whether its grants would offer any insight. Catholic Fund. Catholic Victims Fund. The names were so similar, so close, so hard to remember what was what. He wondered whether there was any real difference between their philanthropic missions.

Again, Biscuit found dozens of grant recipients. But one caught his attention, one that received a $20 million gift last year. He had seen that name before, somewhere, somewhere recent. The big attorney clicked back to the Schedule I for the Catholic Fund, back to a $30 million gift made last December. Just as he recalled.

Both organizations had made eight-figure donations to the Palmetto Foundation.

“What’s with that?” Biscuit asked aloud. He still couldn’t tell the difference between the Catholic Fund and the Catholic Victims Fund. But the good news was that he could see the principals at the Palmetto Foundation in person. Charleston was only a four-hour drive from Fayetteville.

“Hey, Biscuit,” Margaret called. “Everything okay?”

“Fine, darling. You mind sending out for some food?”

“So that’s why you keep talking to yourself.”

“I’m working late.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE PALMETTO FOUNDATION
TUESDAY

Claire, JoJo, and I were sitting in the conference room with Father Frederick Ricardo of the Catholic Fund. Both women had stressed the importance of this meeting several times since my arrival in Charleston.

His organization had made a $65 million gift to the Palmetto Foundation. Today he was updating us on the progress of the charitable project for which the money was intended—what had been done and what was left to do.

I wasn’t sure why the Catholic Fund needed an intermediary. The Palmetto Foundation offered anonymity and the expertise to manage a long-term gift. But as the newest trustee, I intended to find out more about our role.

My job was to evaluate the charitable projects of donors, while protecting the Palmetto Foundation’s interests. Trustees can’t wire out money willy-nilly. We have a fiduciary obligation to investigate the recipients of our donor gifts. Otherwise, the IRS would question whether we’re entitled to tax-free status.

Technically, the $65 million belonged to us. But Father Ricardo gifted the money with a specific purpose in mind. So in all honesty, I expected to rubber-stamp his proposal. The Palmetto Foundation would never stay in business if we gummed up the wishes of our donors.

I confess. I was feeling good about myself. It was an honor to sit on the board of a charitable organization that already had $140 million in assets. With Palmer’s gift, the Palmetto Foundation would soon oversee an additional $150 million. It was a lot of money, $290 million in total. It was a lot of power, all those contributions targeted for a greater good. My position as a trustee afforded me world-class bragging rights back at SKC.

And therein was the crux of my problem. On Monday I had faxed disclosures to SKC’s compliance people—me joining the board of the Palmetto Foundation. They had not replied. And given my boss’s lack of support, I probably should have waited to accept the position.

But Palmer was my friend and mentor. Deceased or not, he had invited me into his inner circle. He was always saying, “Sometimes you do the best you can and just say fuck it.” My exact thoughts now. I couldn’t turn my back on his request

Or wait for SKC’s Business Prevention Unit to get back to me.

*   *   *

Father Ricardo was well put together, five foot nine and built like a mailbox. His eyes were brown, his hair the color of coal. He wore a black suit, a black shirt, and a white clerical collar. There was an aura about him, the freshness I sometimes notice in people with a spiritual calling.