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“As I’m here to begin getting Camilla Rose’s affairs in order,” Grosse began, leaving his coffee untouched, “I thought that there were a number of items you should be made aware of before they became publicly known to all.” He paused, then added, “To give you time to prepare for them, as opposed to being blindsided.”
Mason Morgan nodded.
“That is quite considerate, Michael. And, frankly, unusual. I am not accustomed to such.” He paused again, then said, “Forgive me for asking, but do you feel comfortable doing that? Is it . . . ethical?”
You’re questioning my ethics? Screw you, you pompous, arrogant ass!
“Of course,” Grosse said. “Absolutely ethical. These events have already happened. And I am not violating any lawyer-client privilege.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“My office received from Morgan International’s charity office a copy of the notice sent to John Austin demanding the return of its investments.”
“It was absolutely necessary,” Mason Morgan said, stone-faced, his tone equal parts officious and defensive. “As was the timing. And, I’m sure you’ll agree, there never is a good time for that sort of large-scale financial separation.”
“I do understand. Minimizing the pain is akin to the docking of a dog’s tail. Far better to do it all at once than a little at a time.”
Morgan made a face that suggested he found the analogy distasteful, which pleased Grosse.
“As it’s often said,” Mason went on, “and quite correctly, I might add—it’s not personal, it’s business.”
Grosse pursed his lips and nodded.
And you said that with a straight face, he thought.
Johnny was right about at least one thing. You are a fucking prick.
“I did mention the notice to Mr. Austin last night when I arrived,” Grosse went on. “He was not yet aware of it. Understandable, I think you would agree, considering the recent circumstances.”
“True. I heard he was badly injured in the attack. But . . . I am sure he has staff he can direct to execute the necessary papers.”
“He does have the staff,” Grosse said, pausing before adding, “What he doesn’t have is the funds.”
“I’m sorry? What?”
Michael Grosse explained.
As he spoke, he could see anger building in the red-faced Morgan. When Grosse had finished, Morgan’s entire body appeared to quiver.
“Absolutely incredible!” Mason Morgan exploded, his jowls shaking. “I anticipated bad things coming because of him. But not this bad. Now Camilla Rose is dead. And more than a hundred million dollars squandered.”
“Mr. Austin did say she was not aware of his actions,” Grosse said. “And, for what it’s worth, I believe him. I certainly was unaware. She told me nothing, even as I arranged for some of her own personal investments.”
Morgan was silent as he stared across the room. His face grew deeper and deeper red.
“Well,” he said, “perhaps the saddest part is that her legacy, her children’s charities, will be lost along with the money. Such a shame.”
Grosse, shocked, just stared at Morgan.
You won’t make sure that the philanthropy continues to fund that?
You would punish not only her memory but also all the sick children her work helps?
You are worse than a miserable prick . . .
An indignant Mason went on. “I will see that that son of a bitch Austin goes to jail and that they throw away the key!”
“I’m pretty sure that between the charges that will be brought by the Manhattan U.S. attorney’s office and the Securities and Exchange Commission, that that will happen with or without your, no doubt, wide influence.”
