The Trust (13 page)

I rolled up my sleeves and invited him to take off his jacket. “Make yourself comfortable, Father.”

He stayed formal but welcomed me to the board. “I look forward to working with you, Grove.”

Claire and JoJo flanked the reverend, who was sitting at the head of the table. The two women insisted he take the seat reserved for guests of honor.

Father Ricardo turned to JoJo and held her eyes for a good five seconds. Same thing with Claire. He appeared to absorb their pain and replace it with his inner strength, a potent trade coming from a priest. “I’m making a nine-day novena for Palmer.”

We all paused for a moment of silence, letting the good father decide when it was appropriate to continue. And sure as I’m the life-support system for a mouth, Wall Street had nothing on that priest. He was one helluva salesman.

“Some of this may be repetitive.” Father Ricardo glanced at the Kincaids for their permission. “I want to bring Grove up to speed.”

“Good idea,” agreed Claire.

“But just so you know,” he said, still addressing the women, “we stumbled across a new opportunity. It’s big. It means everything to us. And I need to discuss our funds.”

We trustees exchanged glances.

With an overhead projector, Father Ricardo flashed PowerPoint slides against the wall. My first thought was,
Not the Church.
PowerPoint is the great enabler of Wall Street’s toxic waste. Derivatives, CDOs, the securities nobody understands till somebody gets hurt—it takes slick presentations to hawk that crap.

No matter my misgivings, the good father hooked me within thirty seconds. It was his focus on the kids, their faces, those smiles that still haunt my dreams.

“Mahatma Gandhi once said, ‘There are people in the world so hungry that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread.’” He paused to gain my complete attention.

I could taste his bitterness.

“There’s an evil more sinister than hunger. It’s more vile than malaria, AIDS, and other problems you associate with third-world countries. And the Catholic Fund needs your help to fight it.”

Every so often Claire and JoJo checked my reactions. Unlike me, they had embraced his mission long ago. I was completely mesmerized, waiting to hear what was next.

Father Ricardo zipped through head shots of orphans, one after another. They were all smiling, scrubbed and squeaky clean the way kids are. “Here’s Grace. And Jacinto.” And so on.

Once, he stopped to describe a five-year-old boy with a Magic Marker mustache. “Eduardo asked me to draw it so he would look fierce.” I smiled at the child’s innocence and half chuckled until Claire shot me a look.

What’s that about?

The answer came when Father Ricardo clicked on a photo of Grace. Her whole body, not just her face. She had no foot.

Then he showed Jacinto, no arm. One after another the priest scrolled through photos, all the bright faces. Every one of the kids suffered a dismemberment of some kind. Eduardo was the one who got me. His right hand was gone. He couldn’t draw his own mustache.

There were tears streaming down JoJo’s face. I almost lost it on the spot. “Were the kids born like this?” I had to ask.

“Afraid not.” Father Ricardo shook his head from left to right. He bristled with anger.

“What happened?”

Claire’s face clouded. Her bangs fell low, her face full of distress. I had never seen her in such distress. “There was this kid in Manila. Mabini Street. One foot. He saw me and came racing over on crutches.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He was a beggar,” explained Father Ricardo. “Just like my kids in the photos. At one time, they all worked for men who maimed them.”

“What!”

“Crippled kids get more money.” Claire’s blue eyes moistened.

“Sick.” JoJo bent down to pick up Holly. Her yappy dachshund had just run into the room. She snuggled the dog in her arms.

“And I refuse to sit back and watch.” The priest’s face grew cold and steely, his jaw set. His knuckles grew white from clenching the side of the table. “Which is why our opportunity is so important.”

“Sorry, Father. I still don’t know what you do.”

“You’re right. I’m getting ahead of myself.”

“Grove needs to hear the whole story,” observed JoJo.

Claire nodded her head in agreement.

“We get the kids. We make them safe and give them the tools to live their lives with dignity. That’s one reason our relationship with the Palmetto Foundation is so important.” He looked at Claire and hesitated.

“Go ahead.” She leaned forward.

“I doubt you understand, Grove.”

“You’re probably right.” Eduardo’s photo was still showing against the wall, sweet face, black ink mustache, no right hand.

“We’re dealing with gangsters. Cruel men who regard the kids as their slaves. They won’t let the kids come with us.”

“What do you do?”

“Take them.” Father Ricardo spoke in a low voice, guarded, almost a whisper but one vibrating with rage.

“Excuse me?”

“We pay men to rescue the children.”

“You mean mercenaries?”

“That’s not how we think of them.”

“How do you think of them, Father?” Priest or not, the reverend was mincing his words.

“Rescue teams, bodyguards, ex–Special Forces—they’re angels if you ask me. We hire guys with training you can’t get in the seminary. And our team, as you might guess, is a highly sensitive issue for the Catholic Church.”

The revelations floored me. I think Father Ricardo stopped speaking because of what he saw in my face. I finally said, “You’re a priest.”

“Yeah, a Maryknoll priest. Our mission is to ‘foster self-worth and dignity.’ Look at Eduardo.” Father Ricardo pointed to the PowerPoint slide. “You think he had much dignity before we saved him?”

When I was a kid at the Air Force base, the Maryknoll priests visited our church on a regular basis. They described poverty in third-world countries and talked about water-purification plants, classrooms, and facilities to treat tuberculosis. There was always a second collection plate on the days they visited. But there was never a hint of missions like the one Father Ricardo had described.

“You grabbed Eduardo! Isn’t that a job for the authorities?”

“Yeah, if they weren’t so corrupt. And prayers don’t stop them from taking bribes.”

Father Ricardo was intense. He was pragmatic. I liked him and was beginning to understand the reason behind our involvement. “The Palmetto Foundation enables you to remain anonymous?”

“We do things the public would never understand. Things that would bury the Catholic Church if the press ever found out. And the last thing we need is another PR fiasco.” He glanced at Claire and hesitated again. Even here, inside our private conference room, he worried his secrets might slip out.

“It’s okay, Father. Grove’s one of us.” She swept the bangs from her face.

“We maintain safe houses across Manila. First we get the kids away from their captors. Whatever it takes. Then we relocate them off the island of Luzon.”

“Why?” I asked.

“If we kept the kids in Manila, the gangsters would find them and put them back to work. That’s why I’m so guarded.”

“You relocate kids out of the country?”

“Too complicated. The culture shock would overwhelm them. But we have seven thousand islands in the Philippines. We hide our kids with families on Cebu and the surrounding islands, fit them with prosthetics, and teach them skills. They never leave the country.”

I started to think about the operation. The logistics were massive: maintaining safe houses, evacuating the children, and finding homes with families in other regions. It was a noble cause. But it was time- and labor-intensive. “How many kids can you rescue?”

“Every child we save,” Claire interrupted, “is a victory.”

“But we have an opportunity to do more,” added Father Ricardo. “Which is why I’m so excited.”

“Tell us,” Palmer’s daughter urged.

“How much do you know about the Visayas?”

“The region in the middle of the Philippines?” JoJo sipped coffee, her words half question and half answer.

“Right, the Visayas are the islands I mentioned before. Cebu and maybe one hundred and sixty others surrounding it. We have the opportunity to buy a hotel on one of them. It’s perfect for an orphanage and school. We can buy it, refit it, and not worry about finding foster families in Cebu before we get the kids out of Manila.”

I didn’t ask how much it cost. I had a different concern. “Where do we wire the money, Father?”

“Same as before. The Manila Society for Children at Risk.”

“We fund your programs in our name, and nobody can tie the Catholic Fund to your activities in the Philippines.”

“Right,” he confirmed.

“Did Palmer sign off on this?” I asked the other trustees.

“One hundred percent,” replied JoJo.

Claire nodded yes. “Why do you ask?”

“We’re linking the Palmetto Foundation to mercenaries.”

“You’re saving kids,” protested Father Ricardo, his voice testy.

“What if the gangsters visit Charleston?”

“Why would they do that?” He threw his palms in the air, exasperated with me.

“We threaten their income.”

“That’s alarmist. They’re small-time hoods operating out of Manila.” Father Ricardo shook his head in a wistful way. “They don’t even follow us into Cebu.”

I suddenly regretted my words. “How much money do you need?”

“We’ve budgeted for all of it,” he said.

“Sixty-five million?”

“Minus your fees,” he confirmed. “We have acquisition and renovation costs, not to mention our operating expenses. It’s expensive to hire angels, lease safe houses, and find families on the islands. We have too much momentum to stop our good work.”

“When do you need the money?”

“Now.”

“Why the urgency?”

“The seller’s about to declare bankruptcy. If you think American courts are slow, you should see them in the Philippines. If the seller files, we lose our chance. I’m not talking about saving hundreds of kids. I’m talking thousands.”

“How’d you raise the money in the first place?” I asked, switching gears.

Claire glanced at her watch and then at me. I didn’t understand the signal. There was no time constraint, to my knowledge.

The reverend smiled. “Palmer asked the same thing. We target Catholics in the United States through different websites focusing on specific cities. New York, Los Angeles, San Diego—to name a few.”

“No mention of your activities in the Philippines, right?”

“Too risky.”

“I’d love to see your websites.”

“Can we break for a few minutes?” Claire spoke in her Southern-syrup CNN voice. Something was eating at her. But I had no idea what.

Father Ricardo checked his watch, twisting his wrist to expose it from underneath his white cuff. “I had hoped to wrap this up.”

“Just fifteen minutes,” soothed Claire. “JoJo, Grove, and I need to talk among ourselves.”

We do?

“Well, I’d love coffee and a doughnut,” he said.

“I’ll order something from the café across the street,” offered JoJo. “You can use my office while you’re waiting.”

“Don’t bother. I need the walk. So does your dog.”

“Charge it to the Palmetto Foundation,” JoJo said, passing Holly to the priest. “We have an account there.”

“Do you have a leash?”

Holly looked happy. I had never seen the dachshund snuggle up to anyone but JoJo.

“On the hook next to the door.”

When I turned around and saw Claire, she was staring daggers at me.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE PALMETTO FOUNDATION

“What are you doing?” Claire was pissed.

I had no idea why. “What do you mean?”

“Father Ricardo. I don’t get the inquisition.”

“We’re fiduciaries. It’s our job to investigate grant recipients.”

“I’ve been to Manila.” Claire leaned forward. “I’ve seen the kids for myself.”

“What about the safe houses?”

“And blow their cover—are you kidding? We’ve been working with the Catholic Fund for two years. What more do you want?”

“Your dad’s money isn’t here yet. Sixty-five million is almost half of our total assets.”

Claire folded her arms, the right hook of nonverbal communication. “It’s the Catholic Fund’s money.”

“It was.”

“They’re paying us six hundred and fifty thousand dollars to stay invisible. The last time I checked, we have competitors and they have options. Why are you being such a hard-ass?”

Claire had a point. But I was still right to exercise caution and watch the details. “I’m sure your dad described our due diligence to Father Ricardo.”

“The Palmetto Foundation agreed to fund his cause a long time ago.”

“Did you sign something?”

Our exchange resembled a tennis match. JoJo watched in silence, her head turning back and forth with each volley.

“Dad did it on a handshake,” replied Claire.

“I don’t see the problem with my questions.”

“You’re wasting Father Ricardo’s time.”

“Palmer’s word was his bond,” added JoJo.

“I wasn’t here.”

“We still need to honor his verbal commitments,” Claire pressed. “It’s good business.”

“How did you meet Father Ricardo anyway?”

“Referral from one of my husband’s friends.” JoJo touched Claire’s forearm and leaned toward me, the two united in their opposition. “But the Catholic Fund is Claire’s baby. She built the relationship from scratch.”

Claire flashed a wan smile at her stepmother.

I looked at Claire. I looked at JoJo. The voting math was clear. “Can’t I have one week to study the organization?”

“No,” insisted Claire.

“You heard Father Ricardo. He needs the money.” JoJo squeezed my hand. The gesture filled my head with images of Eduardo and the other orphans.

“So if we vote right now, the Palmetto Foundation will wire the funds?”

The two women checked each other. Then they looked at me, nodding their heads in unison.

“Fine, I quit. I won’t be bullied into a decision I don’t understand.” I regretted my words at once. The petulant-little-boy crap worked at SKC, but it could destroy my lifelong relationship with the Kincaids.