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Chapter 22

William Carter Jr.

New York City, December 1989

William Carter Jr. became a billionaire, yes, but he had suffered to get there. How much suffering anyone else was aware of was entirely up to him. He couldn’t even really remember when he started rewriting his story. His version had completely painted over the truth as soon as he had arrived in New York after graduating from Harvard Business School. But sometimes, despite his best efforts, he was still haunted by the night Kofi died in Accra.

Behind the closed doors of his room in the hotel, Professor Hill listened to William’s frantic explanation of the events and formulated a plan. Kofi, an emotional artist on the brink of realizing one of his greatest dreams, became overwhelmed by the pressure. He’d been prone to emotional outbursts, maybe even had a chemical imbalance. Tragically, he jumped to his death in Ghana at a construction site that would mirror the residential development he wanted to make.

To help make their story more believable, Professor Hill and William forged a suicide note, tracing Kofi’s signature at the bottom. And then they went to bed.

The next day, when Kofi was absent from breakfast, Professor Hill made an excuse and suggested to the rest of the party that they proceed with the schedule so as not to lose any more time. The men had drained their coffee cups, and when Kofi still hadn’t arrived downstairs, Professor Hill said, “Well, perhaps he’s not feeling well. William, you knocked on his door this morning, yes?”

William nodded vigorously. “Yes, I knocked, and he must still be sleeping.”

Mr. Ross suggested waiting. “We can give him a few more minutes, perhaps,” he said generously. He then looked around for Gifty to refill their water glasses, his rubicund face already making it look like he’d run several miles that morning. William, who’d become jumpy from the rush of adrenaline and lack of sleep, displayed uncharacteristic alacrity, trying to distract himself with jaunty chatter.

“There’s some real promise coming out of South Africa with manufacturing,” he said to fill the silence, alluding to the research he’d been doing on successful construction markets in other African nations.

“You know, there is,” Ross agreed. “We’d have to use a different approach, of course, since a lot of what we’re doing will need brand-new infrastructure, but that’s a great point. What do you think about the Ivory Coast?”

Another ten minutes passed before they decided they were finally ready to get going without Kofi. The foursome toured a factory on the outskirts of the city and met with a government official about tax subsidies that might be available to an American business looking to set production up in Ghana.

When they returned to the hotel, it was swarmed with police. Kofi hadn’t been found yet, but they’d opened his room and found it empty, so the assumption was that he was indeed missing. William, Professor Hill, Mr. Ross, and Mr. Werner all cooperated with the investigation, telling the police the series of events that had happened the night before. Well, for William and Professor Hill, not everything.

The increased activity around the hotel caused the gentlemen to want to dine independently for dinner, so everyone remained sequestered in their rooms until the next morning. William experienced another sleepless night, though this time he didn’t leave his room. He paced back and forth over the ocher floor, the limestone heating up from his energy. By midmorning the next day, the police had returned to say that a witness had found a body that fit Kofi’s description. The word “witness” had seized William with dread, but the police said that the person who’d happened upon the body said he had no idea when, why, or how Kofi died. The police searched Kofi’s room, where they found a hastily scrawled note, detailing his personal struggles, all but confirming that he had jumped to his death.

Once the authorities declared that Kofi was dead, hotel staff members held each other as they cried in the hallways, except for Gifty, who remained stone-faced and skeptical. William avoided eye contact, knowing that she saw him and Kofi leave together the night of his death. He spoke with the police again and fed them the story that he’d rehearsed with Professor Hill: They’d gone up to bed separately, and Kofi must have snuck out at some point during the night. William, a chronic insomniac, wandered into Professor Hill’s room during the night after a bad dream. After talking with him for one hour, he returned to his own room, where he remained for the rest of the night. He hadn’t seen Kofi since dinner.

Assuming then that Kofi’s death was a suicide, the police asked for a complete picture of his mental health. William filled them in on the pressures they were under at Harvard, that his final project had been a failure, and that this trip was a last-ditch attempt to see if it could be a feasible business. Kofi was stressed and scared and maybe depressed, but William couldn’t say so for sure.

The police interviewed everyone else in the hotel, and William held his breath as they took Gifty into the private room where they were conducting their meetings. When they’d concluded their search, satisfied that the case was an open-and-shut suicide, they said they would be informing Kofi’s family and that the Asares would likely arrive the next day, exactly when the American party planned on departing.

Professor Hill asked William how he’d like to proceed in terms of the business, and William was more than ready to give the deal the green light. Kofi’s death was a tragedy for his personal life but an opportunity for his professional one. He saw an easier path forward without Kofi and his incessant moral agenda.

All the men changed their tickets to be on the same flight out, citing that they would give the family time and space to grieve privately. On the plane, they upgraded William’s ticket so that he flew first-class so they could hammer out further details. They decided that William, now the sole owner of the project, would receive 51 percent of the company and Ross Financial would own the remaining 49 percent, generously giving him a controlling share. Had Kofi been alive, William and he would have to split that percentage, but that was no longer a concern. Because Kofi was so adamant about not trusting Ross Financial, William fought for the majority so that he could honor his wishes, somewhat. That was for Kofi. Plus, William was well aware that Ross Financial needed him, optically at least, for legitimacy in pushing their way into Accra. They had really needed Kofi, but William, now his proxy, was the second-best thing. This gave him leverage, more than he should have had, and he could acknowledge that.

On the plane, sitting in a plush cushioned seat, William listened to Ross and Werner present their ideal timeline.

“So within three years, we want to break ground on the first building. It should take an additional seven to eight months to complete from there. We’re hoping to get at least fifty residents to sign up by the end of year one. What do you think?” Ross said to William. It was an ambitious plan, but he was an ambitious guy.

“I think we should also consider the marketing for this property. We need to make sure that someone local—someone whom people trust—lives in the building and advocates for us. Kofi would have been that person, may he rest in peace, but I think we can get someone else who will serve the same purpose.” William did not want that person to be himself. He could appreciate that his skin color would only get him so far here. Besides, he was not planning on ever returning to Ghana.

“Great idea,” Ross said before lifting his glass of champagne to his lips. Across the aisle, Professor Hill used his hand to hide his smile. William could feel that he was on the right path.

“William,” Werner interjected, “we want to be clear that Ross Financial is also going to be providing the initial capital. We don’t expect you to front any money immediately, but we’re happy to pay you an appropriate salary. We also have subdivisions at the firm for investment and money management if you’re interested. Since we need to begin production on an aggressive timeline, it’s best to keep everything contained and under one umbrella for now. Production factories should be opened and producing materials for the future builds within a year.”

Since this was essentially an acquisition, William would work under the Ross Financial umbrella and simultaneously run the corporation independently. It sounded perfect. It was almost better this way, with Kofi not able to object to every little thing. When the plane landed back in New York, William was already fantasizing about his success as he and Professor Hill traveled on to Boston. He stopped at a newsstand and picked up a pack of cigarettes to soothe his nerves.

Because he was still in business school, William couldn’t move to New York right away. He sat in classrooms being lectured on organizational behavior and globalization. He was focused but eager to make his escape. Though he remained on Harvard’s campus, he kept to himself, not socializing with anyone except for Professor Hill. And since he could now afford to live alone, he didn’t have a roommate in the new apartment that he moved to. William found a reasonably priced studio that was a twenty-minute walk to campus, and though that was somewhat out of the way, he thought it an appropriate exchange for not being in prison.

William completed his last year of business school in Cambridge while working full-time on the development of this new entity in Ghana, which made his life a little more intense than the average student. He also began to distance himself further from his family, visiting less frequently and keeping his correspondence with his parents brief and vague. During that time, William became something akin to a monk, his private penance for Kofi. He couldn’t and wouldn’t enjoy himself. He would suffer, knowing what he’d done to achieve success.

Even as he boxed up all of Kofi’s things and sent them to his family overseas, he never cried. Kofi’s death was an accident, and as Professor Hill had assured him, there was nothing else he could have done. But Professor Hill wasn’t with them that night. William knew there was more that he could have done. He could have listened to Kofi to start with instead of meeting his objections with outright dismissal. He could have controlled his anger so that Kofi didn’t have to get defensive, and he could have reached out his hand as he was falling. He could have moved quickly and grabbed his shirt and pulled him back toward more stable footing. He could have at least tried.

William adopted a parsimonious existence, refusing to spend money on anything and putting all his funds and energy into the formation of the company. By the time he graduated, two factories were producing the module parts for homes, and they had purchased several acres of land on which to start building in the next two years.

Upon his arrival to New York, William started at Ross Financial with a generous salary, especially for someone who’d never had any real money. He moved himself into a new studio apartment close to the offices. When they finally broke ground on the first development site, sending a sizable stream of income into his bank account, he bought himself a small van Gogh drawing at auction, which became the only thing that hung on his wall for years. He didn’t even like the ugly thing but figured it was impressive to say that he owned quality art, a piece of history, remembering Professor Hill’s lessons.

Five years after he’d graduated, and the first year that they turned profitable, William received a million-dollar bonus. The feeling when it came was hollow, like he’d expected, and at the same time like he’d just eaten an enormous meal but was still hungry. He thought that it should have felt like winning the lottery, and he reached for a memory where his father had won some small sum and allowed him and Walter to get whatever they wanted. He could get whatever he wanted, and yet he didn’t want one specific item. He just wanted more.

He invested the money like Ross and Werner had advised, pouring it back into Wall Street like he’d seen so many others do. Predictably, it multiplied. At a yearly return of almost 9 percent, he now had enough cash to significantly invest in stateside real estate, which he did by buying a building in Chelsea. He thus became a landlord, and while his money was in the market and soon in as many properties as he could get his hands on, he watched his dollars grow. It wasn’t easy for him to get a loan; not many banks were willing to lend thousands to a Black man who didn’t come from wealth, but the association with Ross Financial and the relationships that he built there began to help him as he knew it would.

Not at first, but slowly, $1.1 million became 1.2, and became 1.4, and became 1.6. He was obsessed with its expansion. He would routinely go into a branch to check the number in any one of his many bank accounts, and each digit thrilled him. The opposite of a gadabout, he did not look for many outlets for socializing or spending. With the new financial abundance, he founded a separate company, one to help train sales agents in Ghana so that there was a dedicated team to sell his properties. After that one exceeded one hundred employees, he sold that company to another brokerage and took that cash and invested it back into the market. All day he would ruminate over new ideas on how best to expand the business. He would constantly look for opportunities. The Ross team was overjoyed with his work and acquisitions and, in fact, began discussing the sale of their 49 percent of the Carter Corporation to Goldman Sachs, which was rumored to want to expand into non-Western markets. It was happening so fast, but William felt like a machine. He was able to calm his mind with focus on this very specific thing, and he found salvation.

He spent sleepless nights poring over the biographies of wealthy men with last names like Astor, Vanderbilt, and Rockefeller. It was through them that he tried to forge his new personality as an executive who commanded respect. He didn’t take lovers, or indulge in a drug habit, or even drink much alcohol aside from the occasional cabernet during business dinners. He garnered a reputation as an especially serious person who appeared to be much older, which was exactly what William desired.

On a rainy Tuesday morning, as he sat in his private office reading over scouting materials for a new building site, his secretary told him that he had an urgent phone call. As he grabbed the receiver, bracing for some bad news out of Africa, he was relieved to hear Professor Hill on the other line from Cambridge.

“You need to get to campus. It’s urgent,” he said gruffly.

“Right now?” William asked him, looking out the window at the terrible weather.

“Right now,” Professor Hill said before hanging up.

William held the phone away from his face and stared into the black holes that transmitted and received sound. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought he’d just gotten a ransom call. He grabbed his briefcase, coat, and umbrella and told his secretary to clear his calendar; he was leaving to attend to an emergency and would let her know when he’d be back in the office. He boarded a train at Penn Station and sat patiently for the few hours that it would take to get back to Harvard.

When he arrived, William took a taxi directly to Professor Hill’s home, where the door was opened by a young Black girl. He did a double take, not expecting to see a female student in Professor Hill’s midst, but a lot could change in two decades. He followed the nameless girl down a narrow hallway to Professor Hill’s office, though he knew the route well. Everything about this place was so familiar, and he felt more at home here than he did anywhere else in the world.

When the door opened to Professor Hill’s office, William was seized with dread. His heart dropped straight to his stomach when he saw his sullen-looking mentor seated across from the one person he expected to never see ever again: Gifty.

“Have a seat,” Professor Hill said.

Gifty hadn’t changed much from the last time he had seen her as he was loading his luggage into the car before departing Ghana. They’d made awkward eye contact through the days following Kofi’s death, the knowledge that each of them had of that night ricocheting back and forth with a vigorous, forceful telepathy. William had artfully avoided conversation with her and thought that once he departed Ghana, he and Gifty would cease to know one another. So seeing her soft, round face, which had barely aged save for a few lines in the corners of her eyes, gave him a terrible shock.

William swallowed hard as he sat down in the chair next to Gifty opposite Professor Hill’s desk. No one spoke. Gifty’s expression seemed to be quite accusatory, though William wasn’t sure how much of that was his own imagination. He bit some skin off his bottom lip as Professor Hill spoke.

“Gifty has come here to show us something that she has found amongst Kofi’s ...”—his voice trailed as he searched for a tactful word—“... things,” he finished after a beat.

William observed the slightest tremble in Gifty’s hands as she opened the brown leather-bound book in her lap.

With horror, William recognized Kofi’s elegant handwriting on several of the pages.

“I found this,” she said in a small voice, very unlike the full and expressive image that William had of her in his memory.

“It’s a journal of some kind,” Professor Hill explained. “And it seems to indicate that Kofi had some serious objections to the project as well as Ross Financial’s being a potential partner. It’s dated.” Professor Hill folded his hands and rested his mouth on them, piercing William with his gaze. His unspoken message: This is danger.

William’s blood ran cold.

“The Carter Corporation is in all the papers in Accra,” Gifty said.

Professor Hill nodded. “Quite right. The corporation is making a major difference in housing options for many residents in the area. It’s a ... wonderful accomplishment.”

“I don’t think that Kofi wanted it that way. Right here, he says so.” Gifty paused to point at the pages in the diary. “And I think there was something funny about the way that he died. I saw him leave with you,” she continued, extending a shaking finger in William’s direction, eyes blazing. “And he didn’t come back.”

“Kofi’s death was tragic, and I know it can be hard to accept when a loved one takes his own life,” Professor Hill said. “It’s a shock.”

“It was a real shock,” William echoed. William had never forgotten how Gifty looked at him that night, doubtful but restrained. Now she had a different look on her face. Like she wanted something. She had a knowing twinkle in her dark eyes, a tiny silver sliver that seemed to wink on its own, making eye contact difficult. Gifty still looked capable and strong. And worst of all, unflappable.

“So you’re here all the way from Ghana ... to Boston ...” William quickly found his voice and added some edge, puffing himself up for a confrontation. He didn’t know where this was going but he wanted her to know that he wasn’t going to admit to anything. As far as she knew, Kofi had jumped. And yes, she saw them leave together and him return alone, but it had been many years since that happened, and all the authorities had seemed to move on, so why couldn’t she? He put a stony facade to his face before saying, “Why?”

William noticed Professor Hill’s eyes had widened in his direction.

“What he means to say is thank you for bringing this to our attention, and we’ll take it into consideration for the future buildings,” the older man said. “But right now, the ball is rolling on the projects that began before Kofi’s death, and there’s nothing we can do to stop that.”

“I flew here to tell you that I know that you’re lying about something. And that I can prove it,” Gifty said, squaring up against William, finding her own edge.

“Ah, okay,” Professor Hill said, stepping in again. “I think there might be a misunderstanding here. And that’s perfectly fine. It’s been some years. Memories can be complicated, details forgotten. Gifty, is there anything that we can do for you that would help, perhaps, to ease some of your ... discomfort?”

Gifty gripped the brown leather book closer to her chest. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean, perhaps, maybe, if you’re amenable, we can find an agreement, an arrangement, if you will—that might help you feel more comfortable knowing that we’re fulfilling Kofi’s wishes.”

Gifty’s head tilted left, and she looked like a confused puppy hearing a new noise for the first time. William prepped himself for an explosive rejection of the bribe that Professor Hill was so blatantly trying to offer, but instead Gifty said, “I want five million dollars.”

William barked out a hoarse laugh. “Five million? American dollars? Are you joking?”

Gifty gave him a blank stare of her own and said, “Not at all.”

William felt his blood pressure increase. His feelings of anger and incredulity collided, and he felt lightheaded. Even with the rejection of every epicurean pleasure he occasionally craved, he still wasn’t where he wanted to be in his career. And he most certainly didn’t have $5 million, at least not yet.

“Gifty, will you excuse us?” Professor Hill said. “William and I would like to quickly discuss this request privately.”

“No. I think this is really a take it or leave it matter. It also doesn’t seem like he is taking me seriously,” Gifty said, jabbing her thumb in William’s direction.

William immediately straightened in his chair, trying his best not to let the colorful wave of expletives he was thinking escape from his mouth, trying his best to avoid the type of escalation that would lead to his ruin. “I assure you,” he began, “I understand the seriousness of this situation, and I do believe that we can come to a resolution.”

Since Gifty refused to allow the men to have a private conversation, Professor Hill and William had to employ a series of telepathic gestures to speak without speaking. Professor Hill inclined his head down and to the left, looking over his glasses at William. In turn, William let his shoulders sag a little and shook his head, feeling ridiculous. Then Professor Hill let his shoulders rise ever so slightly, which William recognized as a miniature shrug of surrender.

They agreed to “hire” Gifty on a consultant basis, giving her regular quarterly payments that would in the end exceed the five million she asked for so that they would incur all tax costs. She departed the next day a wealthy woman, the legal paperwork executed by Professor Hill. With the ink dry on her NDA, she handed over the diary that she brought with her, which also contained new drawings for modules and ideas that William found incredibly useful. He was upset with himself for not checking Kofi’s room for something like this before he departed from Ghana all those years ago, but now there was nothing standing in the way between him and everything.

After they had sorted everything out with Gifty, Professor Hill requested that William stay over for the night. Though William had heard many of Professor Hill’s lectures over the years, none was as urgent as the one he delivered that night.

“You almost lost everything,” Professor Hill had started out, slamming his open palm down on the desk. “You can never be that reckless and confrontational. Have I taught you nothing?”

William opened his mouth to defend himself.

“Shut up,” Professor Hill snapped at him, although he hadn’t said anything yet. “Listen to me. You need to take this very seriously, extremely seriously. You need to become the best person in the world. I don’t care what you do when no one’s around, but everywhere else, people need to know that you’re a good man—no, not even good. You need to be the best man.”

William wasn’t sure what he was going on about. “I—”

“Okay, here’s what you need to do. You need to get married as soon as possible. Marriage is trust. It’s stability. Family. I know you have feelings about your brother and parents because you come from nothing, but get over it. Make a new family. And make them perfect. You need to show everyone, and I mean everyone , that you’re a humble, hardworking, deserving professional with incredible vision.”

“Professor Hill, respectfully, I don’t think Gifty is a threat, and I also don’t think anyone is going to believe her even if she says anything. I mean, look!” William said as he held up the brown leather book. “This is all she had, and we have it now. I think it’s all good.”

“Do not be glib, William. That is beneath you. I’m telling you this for your own good. You might think this is over, but this is the very beginning. And thank God you have five million to give over time, but if you want to make more money, if you want to expand the corporation and continue to do so without external interference, you need to hear me now. People will start to question you and they will dig. Who knows what they’ll find when they do? The best thing you can do is aim to control what people will believe.”

“Okay, so I get a wife and family, and I’m magically protected?”

“No. You get a wife and a family and a charitable foundation, and you start scholarships, and you donate money to youth shelters, and you have yourself photographed feeding the homeless, and you have a stellar, squeaky clean, cause-no-trouble reputation because if you do not, they will destroy you however they can.”

William was somewhat alarmed by this uptick of paranoia, but he kept listening, enraptured once again by his mentor’s words.

“Anyone can get rich, William, but it takes a very smart man to stay rich. There are certain rules of fortune. You know this; I’ve taught you. When I first met you, I said to myself, ‘That kid is smart and driven and beyond shrewd. He’s going to create an amazing legacy.’ And I don’t want to be wrong.”

The next morning, while the train rumbled back to Manhattan, William had racked his brain for how he could start to build his family, approaching the task as an affair of the head and not the heart. There were girls, sure, but none that he could think of as appropriate legacy carriers. The right candidate needed certain qualities. Young, for starters: a given. Beautiful, because image was the point. Agreeable, because he didn’t want a home where he had to fight. Black, also a given, because he would never get respect otherwise from his community.

Upon arriving back in New York City as a man who’d suddenly been accused of murder, he stopped by the diner that he had been frequenting for years. William was buzzing, and when he reached for the door of the venue, his hands were slick with sweat. He had walked the whole way from Penn Station, the wind rushing by in his ears, dodging slower-walking folks with his own aggressive pace. He was going to get himself a wife.

He beelined for one of the only women he knew, the diner’s pretty, young waitress, Jacqueline, who’d made several unsuccessful attempts to flirt with him in the past. After sitting down, he asked her to meet him outside on her break. “I can take my break now,” she said, calling out behind her to someone named Carmen and instructing her to watch her tables.

“Everything okay?” she asked once she and William were outside and alone on the sidewalk.

“How would you like to be my wife?” William asked. He had thought about this on the train ride back from Boston. Jacqueline was stunningly gorgeous; everyone looked at her. Her beauty was wasted serving customers, but what if she didn’t have to? William couldn’t quite understand how she hadn’t landed any acting or modeling jobs considering her looks, but that didn’t deter what he felt. He sensed, despite her circumstances, that she and he were very alike.

This girl, and she still seemed like a girl even at twenty-nine, was going to be the one. Well, at least she was someone whom he could make into the one.

“Well—I—I barely know you,” she replied.

“Look, we can hammer out specifics later. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I’m a rich man. I’m going to be richer. I need a partner who understands how to perform for a certain audience and won’t cause trouble. My gut is usually right, and it’s telling me that that’s you, especially since you’re a trained actress. This ... well to be completely forthright, this is a business arrangement more than anything else. You can take some time to think about it, and my lawyers can draw up a prenup outlining any arrangements you’d like to specify.”

Jacqueline Bennett clicked her teeth together. She was thinking. He could feel the wheels in her head creaking, trying to understand how this was the way that someone was asking her to marry him. She squinted her eyes at him. “Why?” she said finally.

“W-why?” William asked, repeating her question back and stumbling over the word.

Jacqueline didn’t speak as she waited for him to answer.

“Because I need a wife,” he said after a beat.

“Why?” Jacqueline asked again. William’s heart fell as he wondered if this was a preview of what their married life would be like.

“Because a man with a family is a better image than a man without one,” he said finally.

“Wow, a whole family too?” Jacqueline responded.

William gave her a lopsided smile and shrugged. “It kind of comes with the title, but please know, intimacy isn’t my primary goal,” he said.

Jacqueline nodded. She backed up until she was leaning against the building and looked at the sky. William mirrored her and watched the foot traffic and car traffic crawl by.

After a few seconds she said, “Okay.”

“Okay?” William repeated.

“Okay as in yes,” she said.

A verbal deal was as good as any. William didn’t know whether to shake her hand or hug her. Instead, he said, “Do you have to go back inside?”

“No,” Jacqueline replied, removing the white apron from around her waist and letting it fall to the sidewalk. “I quit.”