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Chapter 29

Ernest Morris

New York City, May 2015

Ernest Morris couldn’t believe his luck. He had been afraid that his pursuit of justice against the Carter family at large would have to be sidelined permanently, but then in walked Tashia Carter (no relation), and suddenly his quest was given new life. He hadn’t known who Tashia was and just thought that she was a pretty girl. He wasn’t even looking for a girlfriend, but when the opportunity to talk to her presented itself, he was glad that he took it. Tashia just happened to be best friends with Kennedy Carter, the youngest (and apparently outcast) Carter child. If glee was an emotion that he could feel, he would have been gleeful. From what he understood, Tashia and Kennedy were in regular communication, and Tashia was even helping Kennedy work on some celebratory video about her father’s life. This last part was especially nauseating to him since he’d discovered that her father orchestrated a regulatory monopoly over real estate in Accra, but now he saw the opportunity to potentially get more information that no one else would ever know in order to finally put a stop to William Carter Jr.’s prolonged reign of terror.

He couldn’t act too curious while Tashia and Kennedy spoke on the phone if he was nearby. He knew it would be suspicious to be hovering around while his girlfriend was having a conversation with someone else, so instead he would strategically place himself nearby Tashia and busy himself with a menial task while she just happened to be on the phone. This meant that he had at least a one-sided account of what they talked about. He recorded what he learned in a notebook and then transferred these notes to his computer once he got home and was alone.

So far, he had discovered two very crucial things: 1. A man named Kofi was William Carter Jr.’s business partner, but he died by suicide shortly before the launch of the Carter Corporation. 2. His death might not have been a suicide. Ernest looked at this information and began the laborious task of establishing a proper timeline. Every time he ran into a slight roadblock, his fury was reignited by the resentment that he still felt toward Asher Carter.

Though it had been years since their last interaction, the shame and humiliation that he felt at Asher’s hand still felt present. Ernest felt that Asher had made him deliberately insignificant, that he could not find a single brain cell to dedicate to remembering his name, even though in some odd, roundabout way, they should have been bonded together by the Carter Foundation Scholarship. It haunted him on a daily basis, a persistent gnawing ache that he sought to silence once and for all by taking away all the things that made Asher feel superior: his money, power, and credibility. He once had a belief that there was a humanity within the Carters that he might be able to stoke into something useful and productive, but that fantasy was quickly flattened by the reality of Asher’s depravity.

After his brutal beating his junior year of college, Ernest Morris was released from the hospital after three days. In the time that he was in there, he did a lot of thinking and concluded that it would be appropriate to call for the expulsion of the two Ivy members who assaulted him. Two friends of his at the BSU heard his argument but tried to coax him to be realistic.

“They’re not going to get expelled,” Travis said when Ernest had told him how he wanted to resolve this dispute with the university.

“I don’t know, I think he might have a legitimate case,” Travis’s girlfriend, Nandi, said. “I mean, it’s a really serious accusation, and they fucked him up for no reason.”

“They think they had a reason,” Travis responded.

“Okay, but not a great one, and not one that warranted that kind of beating. I mean, they sent him to the hospital,” she replied.

“Look at where we are. Do you think that Princeton is going to expel two white Ivy kids because of one fight?”

Ernest, laid up on bed rest, listened to all this silently. He took everyone’s opinion into consideration, but ultimately he wanted to do what was right, and what was right was not rolling over. Other students of color, but not Asher Carter, flocked to support Ernest Morris, whom they agreed had been racially profiled and unfairly targeted by bigoted white Ivy members.

“Oh, you don’t know?” Nandi had asked Ernest when he expressed disappointment over not having Asher’s support. Ernest stared blankly in response, and Nandi sighed dramatically. “The Carters are like the worst kind of colonizers because they look like the oppressed but they’re not. They literally don’t care about anyone or anything except making more money, and they will do anything to do that.” Ernest felt his stomach lurch. It was really only because of the Carters that he could afford to be at Princeton at all.

They picketed outside Ivy for days after the incident. Multiple times a day, Asher would cross the picket line and hear insults like “coon” and “traitor” being hurled at him, but he stared back with this helpless look that seemed to communicate: What do you want me to do? I have to eat. Asher’s reaction inspired nothing in Ernest but tactile disgust.

On day three of the picketing, Ernest couldn’t stand to be ignored by this person whom he’d expected so much more from. William Carter Jr. had invested in him, had selected him out of thousands of candidates, but to his son, he was invisible. Ernest hobbled over to Asher to confront him personally. Ernest was not looking for another fight, but he wasn’t alone so he wasn’t afraid.

“Hey!” Ernest called out.

At first, Asher seemed content to ignore him, but Ernest yelled again and then dragged his injured leg behind him in a bid to catch up to Asher.

“Hey, man,” Asher greeted him, an obvious attempt at diplomacy. “I’m kinda heading in for dinner.” He lifted his chin toward the house where he saw his white girlfriend was already past the picketers.

“Yeah, I noticed that. You’ve been walking past us for days like we’re not even here. That’s pretty fucked-up, man,” Ernest said, the heat of his anger rising off his body. For some reason, he wanted Asher to care. He really wanted that. He wanted his sympathy and attention. He wanted mostly the ancillary support that would come along with Asher’s sympathy and attention, which would compound on itself and perhaps actually change something about the systemic rot that was the dining club system. He needed an inside man to care about this so that those on the outside might have a chance, but Asher wasn’t that man. Far from it.

Asher’s face collapsed into confusion. “Yeah, well, a guy’s gotta eat,” he said, finally trying to sidestep his adversary.

“We could use your support over here,” Ernest said, planting himself firmly in Asher’s path.

“Excuse me?” Asher asked, wanting to confirm that he heard what he thought he heard.

“Do you condone the systemic discrimination and racial profiling of the Ivy Club?” Ernest asked him.

“The what?” Asher asked in disbelief. His eyes roamed wildly, looking for a way out. The picketers had quieted and were tuned in to Asher and Ernest’s conversation, which had taken center stage.

“Are you aware that this eating club has a documented history of abuse toward students of color and that they escape accountability constantly because of the agenda of this university and other interested parties to protect its members?” Ernest said.

“Agenda? Do you hear yourself, bro? Eating clubs aren’t even affiliated with the university.” Asher scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“I mean, I guess you wouldn’t know a thing about that, though, would you? Since your dad made his millions—sorry billions—doing God knows what all over the world for profit. Yeah, cooning runs right in your family.”

A few members of the crowd called out their agreement in solidarity. Asher was becoming visibly uncomfortable.

“Okay, I don’t know what you heard, but that’s crazy, and my dad is a celebrated philanthropist,” Asher said, his rehearsed response rolling fluidly off his tongue. “People are always really critical of someone who makes it when he comes from nothing, but he’s done everything he can to help other people, Black people especially. He supports the community at every opportunity.”

“You really believe that, don’t you? But you don’t care about us. You haven’t been taught to. You’ve got blood on your hands for walking into Ivy and breaking bread with the assholes who put an innocent Black man in the hospital,” Ernest said, his voice rising.

Ernest could see Asher’s face flush. He felt his own temperature rising as well. Ernest knew he would lose a physical fight with Asher, but he was ready, even though he was still recuperating. This smug asshole had spent years ignoring him, letting people belittle him, and all the while pretending to be a pillar of “Black excellence.” He was a fraud.

Ernest inched closer to Asher, just to close the gap between them, to test his resolve. Asher didn’t flinch, instead shortening the space between them.

Suddenly a slim white hand was between them, and Ernest inhaled a fragrant floral scent. Shampoo, he assumed. When he looked down, he saw that the hand belonged to Tatum. “Time to go, babe,” she said, leading Asher away.

“Yeah, better go inside your white tower with your white girlfriend. Sorry, did we say too much? Don’t want to blow your cover, Incog-negro!” Ernest called out to Asher’s back.

With that, Asher turned around and charged at Ernest. Tatum was yelling his name, but Asher was not stopping. His fists were balled, and Ernest squared himself, bracing for impact. When he was back in front of Ernest, breathing hard, Asher reached into his pocket and groped for something. Ernest’s face collapsed into confusion as Asher slipped his wallet from his pants and opened the brown leather bifold. Asher quickly counted off ten hundred-dollar bills and flattened them with an open palm straight onto Ernest’s chest.

“A donation,” Asher said, “for your hospital bills. I imagine they were pretty high.” Without another word, he turned and walked into Ivy.

Ernest was mortified. The bills fell to the ground, and he bent down to pick them up and pocketed them because it was true: he needed the money, and that was the worst part. Shortly after, he took out a personal loan to pay for the remainder of his education and told the Carter Foundation that their funding was no longer needed. He did not want a dime from these people, but every day since then, he wanted to take everything from Asher Carter.

He sat with this memory while he opened the folders containing what he’d found on his laptop. He made a careful list detailing the human rights violations, labor violations, governmental interference, and theft that he had compiled about the Carter Corporation. William Carter Jr. had successfully been performing a magic trick for decades. His sleight of hand was so sophisticated that it had taken Ernest months to organize all the illegal and immoral ways that he was conducting business and turning a profit, at that. A Daedalian enterprise. William Carter Jr. controlled the police, “elected officials,” and had even made it impossible for competition to emerge in Accra, all but ensuring that he was the only business in town. He had done all this while establishing a network of charter schools, museums, and cultural touchstones that had most people convinced that he meant no harm.

He might have fooled a lot of people, but he had not fooled Ernest. Ernest knew that this kind of selfishness was hereditary, and he had seen it spread through Asher. He had wondered if Kennedy was the same, and he asked Tashia gently about her friend and her family while they were smoking weed on his couch one night. He counted on times when her guard was down to be able to question her about the Carters.

“Aren’t all billionaires quite evil?” was how he put it.

Tashia seemed to consider him. She exhaled a little stream of gray smoke. “Yes, technically, I guess. Kennedy isn’t really a billionaire though, at least not yet. It’s complicated. She’s ... never really lived a normal life. She’s like an alien. It used to really upset me, but now I think I understand her better. She’s doing the best she can, like everyone else. I also think being in that family is hard-core. Like, her parents are crazy, and so once you understand that, it’s kind of hard to be mad at her.”

Ernest didn’t understand this. He was raised by a single mother in poverty and had struggled most of his life. He resented the idea that he should even try to understand it, that somehow the wealth of the Carters protected them from any kind of critique. He couldn’t say this, though, so he took the joint she had passed him and said instead, “That’s nice of you.” He found it tragic that he couldn’t share with Tashia what he was thinking about doing, her sympathy for Kennedy like a shield. She was too close to see the flaws. He wasn’t, though.

Ernest had only been dating Tashia for a few weeks when he felt he finally had enough evidence to demonstrate that the Carter Corporation was an advanced and highly developed criminal enterprise. She had inadvertently shared so much about helping her best friend repair her tragic relationship with her family with a video project that he himself felt like a producer. He considered the implication of what it would do to his relationship with Tashia to use the information that she had told him in confidence, but it was a personal sacrifice that he had to make to restore order to the world, or at least he could try. He started calling journalists. He first started with financial reporters, the Wall Street Journal, Forbes , the Financial Times , and they all declined to meet with him. He didn’t want to send his documentation over email because he didn’t want to risk his work being intercepted. He also went national to CNN, MSNBC, ABC, and NBC. He sent dozens of emails over a five-week period and got no responses. His desperation and impatience were increasing at the same rate, and so he reached out to a friend from Princeton, a journalism intern at the Huffington Post and the one person who he thought would be on his side.

Madison Sanderson was still radiant and met him after he closed up the coffee shop one night, and they walked toward Ernest’s apartment. She was now a brunette with bangs, a mature makeover for her new life in the city as a serious reporter. Ernest gave Madison the briefest of summaries about what he was trying to do, and before he could finish, Madison interrupted. “So you’re talking about the Carter Corporation here?” she said, her voice dropping to a hurried whisper.

Ernest nodded and opened his mouth to continue talking, and Madison stopped him again. “That’s never going anywhere. William Carter Jr.’s old school. He’s got eyes and ears everywhere. There’s never, ever been any bad media coverage about him. The guy is untouchable.”

“Well, yeah, but only because people don’t have the right information, and I don’t think that anyone has been looking in the right places. It’s really dark, what I’ve found,” he said.

Madison’s face displayed pity. “Okay, so ... everyone knows that already. No one cares.”

Ernest couldn’t believe that no one cared. Someone had to care. He’d seen people get taken down before: sex offenders, tax evaders, violent criminals. “I mean, you can’t get away with this stuff, can you?” he asked Madison in a small voice.

“I think you kind of can when you’re a billionaire. Look, Earn, I know you have an axe to grind with the Carters, but my advice is to just let this go. It’s not worth it. Like you said, no one’s biting, and you’re not even getting paid for this. You’re broke! Why don’t you figure out a way to make money and stop chasing this dead end?”

“You really think it’s a dead end?” Ernest asked dejectedly.

“I don’t think anyone is ever going to run the story that William Carter Jr., premiere family man and entrepreneur, is a monster running his company like a thug, no,” Madison said with finality.

Ernest felt his stomach twist and quickly made an excuse as to why he had to go home. Madison gave him a sad hug and told him to “take care,” and he felt the pangs of shame for letting her see how ingenuous he was in this area. The rest of the walk left him fuming. It was disgusting to him that he had hard evidence that the Carter Corporation was harming people in Ghana right now and could prove it, but no one cared. When he was a senior in high school, the Carter Scholarship Foundation had published part of an essay of his on their website alongside his photo. They had used him, his life and story, as a cover for their horrible business practices, and now he was powerless.

When he got home that night to the drab studio that he rented on the upper Upper West Side, he opened another anonymous account on the same message board, started a thread titled “Carter Corporation Crimes: Exposed,” and typed up the introduction to what he knew. Again, he went to bed that night angry, but when he woke up in the morning, he had over forty responses from other people who seemed to agree with him, who knew that William Carter Jr. represented everything wrong with the myth of the self-made man. He was a greedy capitalist, and maybe this would be the way to take him down: by using the voices of the people.

Ernest called out sick at the coffee shop so that he could buy a web domain and publish his own findings directly, which he did without setting the site live. It scared him to do so, but he let the fear drive him. He thought that it might be good if his identity was discovered; then Asher would know that he hadn’t bested him after all, that he wasn’t able to do whatever he wanted all the time without repercussions. It was finally time for him to pay Asher back.