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Chapter 6

Kennedy Carter

Watcha Cove, July 2015

For many years, William Carter Jr. had been fond of sending memos—an effective way to communicate with his employees, and by extension, the family, who were usually so busy and scattered. Growing up, every weekday, each person in the Carter household would receive a personalized agenda with their schedule for the day, but if there was a change or something additional to look out for, it came in the form of a memo attached to the front page. Several people had a hand in creating the memos: a choreographed coordination of schedules helped keep everything in the Carter universe moving smoothly. Of course, there was no memo for William’s death, but the memos leading up to it were forcefully insistent that the family go into lockdown and not communicate with outsiders. Kennedy had suspected that at least some of the secrecy had been in response to her attempt to uncover information for her video project.

Today, the absence of this document felt like a visible hole in a well-worn sweater. All three living Carters were in the same room when Jermaine Davis arrived on-site looking like he’d been through hell to get there. He had inched his black Range Rover over to Watcha Cove, perilously navigating the fallen trees and obscured visibility to arrive at the estate for this last-minute war council. He assembled everyone to instruct them on what to do next. The main office at Watcha Cove, where Kennedy, her mother, and her brother had gathered, was the room that felt it had the most, if not all, of her father’s presence.

Jacqueline had ordered the staff to leave the family alone but firmly commanded that they not speak with any members of the press. Kennedy assessed the somber demeanor of the room and tried her best to stay present.

Jermaine spoke first, accustomed to hosting meetings. “So, what we’re looking at in the immediate is a cancellation of the party. People will want to pay their respects, but we have to first flip the property to be able to receive guests, assuming you want to do that here and not in the city. There already are a lot of people in town for the birthday party, and you’d be surprised how close people become once someone dies,” he said, glancing at Jacqueline.

“We should receive guests in the city,” Jacqueline said definitively.

“Done. Next, we need to decide what statement to make to the press. So far, I don’t think we know enough to say anything. William was a visibly healthy man about to celebrate his birthday. Of course, he was older, but people will want answers, so we should hold off on talking until we have them. This storm obviously complicates things.”

The three living Carters nodded.

Jermaine stood up and went to the window. “There’s another, more sensitive matter,” he began.

“The money?” Asher interjected.

“Ah, no not exactly. Your father was famously meticulous about estate planning. Your trusts have been established since birth. You’ll still get access to the majority of your cash funds when you turn thirty. The Carter Corporation’s controlling shares will be split between the two of you, and as your mother is aware per her prenuptial agreement, what she inherits is up to your discretion. The homes and material assets are paid for, but there will be a legal team to advise you on how to proceed with tax payments and any other maintenance fees.”

Kennedy stole a look at her brother, who gave her a frigid glare. She dropped her gaze.

“No, what I was referring to,” Jermaine pressed on, “was that over the last few months, William had been receiving progressively concerning messages from his internal security team about someone who’d been investigating the origins of the company, particularly on certain activity in Ghana beginning in the late sixties and stretching into the eighties. I think your father managed to contain all information, but there are some things that might ... come up now that he’s gone.”

Kennedy’s heartbeat spiked at the mention of Ghana.

“Like what?” Asher demanded, jumping to his feet.

Jacqueline rested a hand on his forearm and sighed as she gently tugged him back to a seated position.

Kennedy squirmed. She wondered to what extent her probing was the reason that her father had been receiving security alerts. That was obviously what Asher thought. Kennedy hadn’t exactly been forthcoming in sharing that she’d gone rogue with the assignment her mother had given her, and she’d only told Asher about it because she wanted to get him on camera for the video and felt that, ethically, she had to share with him what she was discovering.

At first, all her research had yielded ordinary results. She already knew most of everything, but as she dug into the more complex elements of her father’s backstory, she was confused. Years ago, the international nature of a company might present a logistical obstacle to completing research, but the internet was worldwide. She had begun digging around on leftist forums, and she discovered a robust community of people online who harbored hateful, negative opinions about her family.

“He’s proper evil, William Carter Jr. He’s destroyed Ghana and he’ll do it anywhere you let that company in.”

“Heard he ‘gets rid of’ anyone in his way.”

“Elitist scum who’s betrayed his brothers and sisters ...”

She knew that he wasn’t everyone’s favorite person, but these comments, though from random, unverified sources, made her feel ashamed. She knew if she asked him questions, her father would react defensively, as he always had to criticism, but there was something in those threads that she couldn’t dismiss.

Over the years, she’d read things written about her online too, that she was a “brat,” “spoiled,” and “entitled.” She wanted to numb herself to such judgments, like Asher seemed to have mastered long ago, but the words began to eat at her like bacteria infecting a host. Eventually she found herself shrinking from the critiques, trying to anticipate what actions of hers might be interpreted as “bratty,” cultivating a way of being that was deferential and humble.

There were people, she knew, who harbored intense feelings about wealthy people, wealthy Black people especially, but her father had worked diligently on his image and asserted that there was no way to make everyone happy, especially when one was worth billions. But finding the forums felt sinister to Kennedy, like they needed further analysis. What part of her father was “evil”?

As part of her discovery, she’d found an invoice addressed to a woman in Ghana that felt like a lead. According to the timeline Kennedy was building, this woman had seemed to know her father back when he was a university student. Earlier in the spring, Kennedy had set up a time to talk to her, but the woman was old, and their Skype connection was unstable. Kennedy gathered that she had been on the Carter Corporation payroll for over twenty-five years, from what Kennedy could tell via company documents, as a consultant who was paid more than $5 million. Alone that wasn’t too surprising, but on the video call, she’d said that her background was in housekeeping.

Before the call was disconnected, the woman’s daughter, a lawyer in Ghana, said in accented English that her mother was potentially in violation of an NDA. “The person you need to look for is Kofi Asare.” Kofi Asare, was the man who’d been smiling with her father in the Polaroid her friend had sent her. The video connection had continued to cut out in spurts, but that name again. With that, Kennedy was newly energized to uncover the mystery of Kofi Asare. When she did, what she had found left her with even more questions.

Kennedy tuned back into Jermaine’s monologue and caught the tail end of him saying, “So don’t give any statements to press. Your mother and I will handle everything, okay?”

He didn’t know that she’d been digging. He couldn’t. She’d only been trying to keep her project protected from any prying eyes, which was how she’d ended back up at Watcha Cove, head down and steadfastly working for two blissful weeks in solitude before the rest of her family had arrived.

In the coming days, she expected her father would be memorialized by his friends and in the media, but for now, the image she had of her father was as muddled as ever.