Delicate Chaos (9 page)

19

The preliminary vote was in. Bradley, her Princeton intern, had totaled the votes for and against. If everyone who had promised
to vote for her bill did so, it would pass by two votes. Tight, but who cared. The bottom line was what counted. And the bottom
line was that Claire Buxton’s pro-action bill on coal, both mining and electrical generation using it to power the turbines, was
going to pass through committee. No more free rides for the environmental murderers.

Next step, the full house. Then the Oval Office. At which point, it would be law.

Claire closed the file, tucked it in her briefcase, then set it on the floor and pushed it under the seat ahead of her. The
corner of a newspaper section poked out of the seat-back pouch and she pulled it out and perused the front page. An article
on a passenger disappearing from a cruise ship caught her attention and she read the copy. She stopped dead at the victim;
Reginald Morgan. She knew the name, but couldn’t place it. She kept reading about the mysterious manner in which the man had
disappeared. The seas were calm, no pitching action that might have thrown him overboard. No rain to moisten the deck and
cause it to be slippery. No one on the ship had seen a thing. Royal Caribbean, owners of
Brilliance
of the Seas
, was keeping their comments to a minimum. The article reminded the reader that
Brilliance
had lost another passenger a while back—George Smith, a Canadian on his honeymoon. The final paragraph was on Reginald Morgan,
and that told Claire Buxton where she had heard the name.

Reginald Morgan was CEO of Coal-Balt.

Claire set the newspaper on her lap, lost in thought. What was going on? Three hundred and fifty million people in the US
and the person who disappears from a cruise ship is the CEO of the company that hired Jack Dunn to fight her antipollution
bill. What were the chances?

The
fasten seatbelt
sign lit up and the flight attendant started down the aisle picking up newspapers and checking to see if seats were in an
upright position and belts were fastened. The senator gave the woman a smile as she passed across the newspaper and an empty
water glass. But her mind was elsewhere—aboard a cruise ship, late at night, on a deserted deck. What had happened? Had the
man stepped up on the railing to get a better look, or was he thrown overboard? What would be the upside to someone removing
Reginald Morgan? Would it affect his company’s position of opposing her bill?

Questions. Too many questions. She needed to get back to Washington and find some answers.

Derek Swanson threw the copy of
USA Today
on his desk and ran his hands through his hair. Morgan’s disappearance had made the front page. Partly because he had gone
missing from the same ship as that Canadian on his honeymoon. The press was having a field day with it. His phone kept ringing
and his voice mail was full, everyone wanting to know what had happened to the CEO of the company. Like he should know.

That he did was irrelevant. No one was asking if he was involved in Morgan’s disappearance; only if he knew what was going
on. Dumb question. How the hell would he know? Ask his wife, she was there. He gave every person his stock answer:
We’re all in a state of shock right now. We have no
idea what happened, but are in contact with the authorities.
What a crock of shit. He knew exactly what happened. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell anyone.

In retrospect, taking the CEO out on the cruise ship had been a bad idea. Throwing people overboard from a deck on one of
the floating hotels was being touted in the papers as a possible way to commit the perfect murder. But while the jurisdictional
issue made it attractive, the profile it raised was exactly the opposite.

The phone rang and he checked the caller ID. This one was important. He picked up the receiver and said, “Give me good news,
Jack. Tell me you shut her down.”

“Not good news.” The tone in Jack Dunn’s voice was anything but optimistic. “It looks like her bill will pass through committee.
I can’t get the support I need to kill it.”

Swanson’s hand trembled slightly and his voice was shaky. “When will it go through? How long do I have?”

“About ten days at the committee level, then it gets tough to estimate. Another couple of weeks in the Senate, then Congress.
Things are moving quickly these days once they hit the house floor. I’d say a month at the outside.”

“Are you sure you can’t sway them?”

“Ninety-nine percent. Claire Buxton has a handful of other senators riled up about some terminally ill young girl in Kentucky.
The only way you’re going to stop her is if she’s out of office, but she still has two years left on her term so that’s not
going to happen.”

“Okay,” Swanson said. “If anything happens to change things, let me know.”

“Immediately.”

The line went dead and Derek Swanson leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Buxton’s bill was at least a month
from becoming law, which might be enough time to have the conversion in place. Unless there was an overzealous watchdog somewhere
in the system who recognized the danger in the upcoming legislation, he should have time to dump a good portion of his stock
after the price peaked, but before the impact of the new laws was felt. It would cut into the bottom line, but forty or forty-five
million in his pocket was still possible. And that was worth the effort. Definitely worth the effort.

He glanced at the calendar. Wednesday, July 25. DC Trust was the last hurdle, and they should be onside very soon now, which
would allow them to proceed with the conversion. The effect of Claire Buxton’s bill would be disastrous, but only to the shareholders
who held on to their stock. The ones in the know, like him, would be long gone.

With the money.

Derek Swanson closed his eyes and his office faded to black. He would be retired soon. A lot quicker than he had imagined,
but what did he care. His motivation had always been money, and it wouldn’t be long before he’d be in the big leagues. Well
out of the multimillionaire slot, on his way to billionaire status. It would take time, but with a few smart investments,
he could do it. A hazy vision of Reginald Morgan floated through the darkness, but he pushed it away. The man was old, ready
to go anytime. He hadn’t sped things along all that much. Simply helped nature take its course. No more getting old with all
the aches and pains that went with age. No more worries.

“You can thank me later, Reggie,” he said quietly.

20

“What are the chances the unions will settle?” Leona asked.

She and her team were entrenched in the boardroom at the bank, piles of paper stacked on the polished wood. It was shortly
after lunch on Friday, July 27, deadline day for their reports on Coal-Balt. All four of her team were ready. The mood in
the room was anything but upbeat.

Sean Grant shook his head. “Two of them may, but the other three are going to walk unless management puts something better
on the table. And it’s not just wages. CoalBalt has been screwing these guys on their pensions for a long time and it’s coming
back to haunt them. The plans are only forty to fifty percent funded. And unless the markets take some sort of huge surge
and push their investments way up, they’re in trouble. Coal-Balt won’t be able to cover the pension checks.”

He took a drink of water and pulled another file from his stack. “The Teamsters move the coal between the mine and the plant.
And they’re not happy. A couple of their members were fired and the company ran roughshod over the grievances. There’s absolutely
no way they’ll settle when their contract is up.”

“When is that?” Leona ran her fingers through her ringlets.

“Nine months.”

“So it’s about ready to hit the fan.”

“Big-time. The Plumbers and Pipefitters are a couple of steps behind the Teamsters. And the electricians always want to earn
more money than anyone else. So they’re going to be pretty militant when their contract comes due for negotiation.”

“All right, labor troubles are massing on the horizon,” Leona said, then turned to Angela Samarach. “What about their accounting
practices? Any Enrons in the mix?”

She shook her head. “Not that I can see. They’ve been aboveboard with all their income reporting and have been depreciating
their equipment at a reasonable rate. Profits are good and appear to be legitimate. There aren’t a lot of warning lights going
off on the financial end.”

“What about taxes?” Leona asked. “They owe the government anything?”

“A few million in current taxes, but nothing in arrears. They’re right up to date. Like I said, financially, they look good.”

“Well, they owe us some money. That’s why we’re doing this.”

“I factored in all their loans. Their loan-to-asset ratio is fine.”

Leona nodded. “Jarrod, what’s up with the regulatory end of things?”

Jarrod cleared his throat and pushed back a strand of long hair from his face. “Right now, Coal-Balt is within the federal
emission guidelines, but that could change soon.”

“Why? What’s up?”

“There’s a new bill being drafted that is an extension of both the Clean Air Act and the Clear Skies Act. It closes loopholes
in the Acts and gives them real teeth. And if it passes, Coal-Balt will be greatly affected.”

“How?” Leona asked, chewing on the end of her pen.

“Right now companies that generate electrical power by burning fossil fuels can sidestep installing new technology to cut
down pollution if they renovate less than twenty percent of their facilities at a time. It’s a no-brainer that every renovation
is pegged at eighteen to nineteen percent of the value of the plant. Claire Buxton’s new bill would stop that in its tracks.
Lombard II would have to comply with the current emission standards, which means a complete overhaul, including adding new
scrubbers and other antiemis-sion equipment.”

“Do you have a dollar figure on what that would cost?”

“An estimate, but probably within ten percent.” He checked his notes. “Eight hundred and thirty million dollars.”

Leona let out a long breath. “That’s a lot of money. And they would have to implement those changes in some sort of set time
period?”

“One year.”

“Now that’s interesting,” Leona said. “You said the bill hasn’t passed yet. How did you find out about it?”

“I have some friends working as interns for a couple of senators. They let me know it’s pending.”

“I hope you did nothing wrong when you had your friends get this information for you,” Leona said. “Like insider trading in
Senate secrets?”

“No,” Jarrod laughed. “No secrets compromised in the investigation.”

“What are the chances of this bill becoming law?”

He shrugged. “Fifty-fifty. Might happen. Might not. It has some key support, but these things are always a bit of a crapshoot
until they actually get through the house. There’s a lot of influential people who don’t want to see this become legislation.”

“I can imagine.” She turned to Tracey Mendez, the final member of the team. “So what did you find that falls outside what
everyone else was looking at?”

“Quite a bit,” Tracey said, referring to her notes. “Straight off the top, Coal-Balt is involved in six litigation suits,
all as the defendant. None of them are huge, but altogether they total almost sixteen million dollars.”

“Why are they being sued?” Leona asked.

“Two of the suits are from former workers who allege that the company provided them with unsafe working conditions. One was
a miner, the other worked in the plant on the retention pond. The other four are all environmental.

Property owners suing because the company’s operations destroyed the land surrounding their houses or damage to their water
supply. Coal-Balt is fighting all of them, but they’ll probably settle out of court for about half the cost of the initial
claim.”

“So about eight million dollars, give or take. That’s not bad.”

“No, it’s not. Litigation isn’t a major concern. But they’ve got other problems.”

“Like?”

“Well, one that recently ironed itself out. The company CEO, Reginald Morgan, was opposed to the conversion. But with his
death, that’s a bit of a moot point now.”

“What are you talking about?” Leona asked, leaning forward. “There was dissension in the ranks?”

“Big-time. At least that’s the rumor. Derek Swanson wanted the change, but Morgan was looking to oppose it.”

Leona was quiet for a few seconds, then asked, “Who would have come out on top? Did the people you were talking with have
any idea?”

“Morgan was the CEO, and his family founded the company. But it’s now a publicly traded company, and the shareholders hold
the trump card these days. Swanson’s appeal would have been to sell the shareholders on the prospect of huge financial gains
in their stock portfolios. But Morgan had a lot of clout with the longtime shareholders. I’d say the consensus was in Morgan’s
favor.”

“Now that’s interesting,” she said. “Management on different pages. Doesn’t make for smooth sailing.” She mulled over the
information for a few moments, then asked, “What else?”

“I’m not an expert, but from what I’ve been able to piece together, the whole operation is shaky. Straight off the top, the
mine is running out of coal. They’ve got a very low Demonstrated Reserve Base, which is calculated on anthracite or bituminous
coal beds a minimum of twenty-eight inches thick, or subbituminous coal beds greater than sixty inches that occur within a
thousand feet of the surface.”

“What’s anthracite?” Leona asked.

“Coal is broken down into grades, and anthracite is the highest. It’s very hard, has lots of fixed carbon and burns well with
little residue. Bituminous coal is the most common grade of coal in North America and is used by power plants to generate
electricity. It doesn’t burn as clean as anthracite. Ninety percent of the coal the mine produces is bituminous.”

“That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

“No, it’s common. But the industry sets an Average Quality of Coal based on trace elements, moisture, ash and fixed carbon
among other things. Coal-Balt is producing low-quality bituminous coal from a quickly depleting supply.”

“Which means they’ll have to find another source of coal soon or they won’t have any fuel for their power plant.”

“Exactly. And the ten percent of the coal the mine is producing that isn’t bituminous is lignite. And lignite is an extremely
low grade of coal that burns dirty and pumps a lot of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere.”

“So without the new antiemission bill passing the operation is in trouble. With it in place, they’re dead in the water.”

Tracey nodded. “Five years and they’re out of business. Unless they come up with another source of coal.”

Leona was silent for the better part of a minute. She shuffled a few papers about, reviewing the high points. Her staff straightened
their papers and began refiling their reports in briefcases and file folders.

“Each of you has a full copy of the reports you submitted today,” she said, and they all nodded. “Thank you for a job well
done. Everyone.” She looked up from the stack of paper. “There’s one more thing. Everyone knows about the CEO of Coal-Balt,
Reginald Morgan, disappearing from a cruise ship. As his company is a major client of ours, we’ve been asked not to talk about
it outside the office, but among ourselves we can certainly acknowledge what happened. Mr. Morgan has been a client of DC
Trust for almost forty years. He’s a well-respected businessman and philanthropist. That his company is experiencing some
bumps in the road does nothing to detract from his character.”

“I met him numerous times at different functions around the city,” Angela Samarach said. “He was a true gentleman.”

“Yes, he was,” Leona said. “I had the privilege of meeting him once. Both he and his wife, Amelia, were wonderful people.”
She glanced around the table. “So let’s keep any comments about Mr. Morgan, even to friends, to what a warmhearted man he
was.”

The group split up, Leona heading for her office down the hall, the other four retreating back to the eleventh floor. She
stopped in the staff room and grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge. A noise from behind her caused her to turn. Bill Cawder
was entering the room, coffee cup in hand.

“Hey, Bill.”

“Leona. How’s life on the twelfth floor treating you?”

“Love it,” she said, lifting the can. “There’s never a shortage of the good stuff.”

“I think you’re the only one up here who drinks that,” he said, then asked, “What was the meeting all about? Saw you and a
few others sequestered in the boardroom for a couple of hours.”

“Coal-Balt. The results of a feasibility study for their conversion to an income trust.”

“How’d it go?” He filled his cup and added a touch of sugar.

“I’d rather not say anything until I submit my report to Anthony Halladay,” she said. This was her first assignment as vice
president and the last thing she needed was for her findings to hit Halladay’s desk before her report.

“Whatever you say,” Cawder responded. He stopped for a second, then said, “You junior or senior vice president?”

“Just a run-of-the-mill VP, I think. Why?”

“Well, if you were senior vice president, I’d have to call you sir, or ma’am.” He grinned and disappeared into the hallway.

Leona stood in the staff room, with its plush rugs and teak table and chairs, and thought about Cawder’s comment. All her
life she had pushed her way to the top, trying to be the son her father had always wanted. Why couldn’t she be the one looking
for help? Just once. Why did she always have to be the strong one? The one with the answers.

For once, she didn’t have an answer to the question.