Page 87 of Tender Offer
“Sorry to cut this short. Do you have what you need?”
“It’s good insight our coalition can use,” Jewel says in a blur of curls under a beanie. Glass buildings flash in the background. “I’m on my way to a rally but can share out.”
“Please don’t get arrested.” Madison will eviscerate my balls more than she already has if that happens.
Jewel snorts and glances at the camera. “Like I told auntie, I’m grown. I have class in two hours anyway. You just worry about not showing your ass again.”
Since the unfortunate encounter Jewel has yet to let me live down, we’ve developed an unlikely alliance that’s slowly becoming a friendship.
I pay for it, through regular investments in coalitions, mutual aid, and direct services that help people on the ground. I wouldn’t expect anything less from this wide-eyed climate activist.
This is our second week of one-to-ones, as Jewel calls them. I pick her brain on climate initiatives and answer questions aboutbillionaires to sharpen her strategies against oligarchs in the fossil fuel industry.
We’re in agreement that grassroots leaders from frontline communities should be at the center of the climate movement. My role is that of silent accomplice, funding coalitions with solutions to address the climate crisis. Jewel is educating me on the importance of direct investment in the most impacted communities and the harm of the nonprofit industrial complex. Many well-intentioned organizations take space and resources away from frontline leaders and allow foundation support to dictate decision-making, not the people with lived experience.
Our check-ins, while brief, have been eye-opening. It’s one of the few meetings I look forward to on a calendar that’s become too crowded for me to think, let alone breathe.
“Same time next week?” Jewel navigates through signs about funding climate resilience.
“That should work, but I’ll let you know,” I say.
“Okay, Richie Rich. See you around.”
“How many votes have we secured?”
“Not enough to neutralize your father,” KD says from behind her computer. Her eyes soften in apology. “At best, three. My father and brother won’t veer from Victor.”
“What about the trust instrument?”
I sigh at her headshake. “The trust your grandfather set up overseas doesn’t grant beneficiaries automatic access to all administrative information,” she says. “You must request it directly from the trustee or seek court action, which doesn’t guarantee disclosure.”
“Fucking hell.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes to ward off another headache. We’ve been at this for hours.
Outside of calling my cousin Sal to stop my father’s heart, any attempt to end my father’s stronghold on the company is a hopeless pursuit. My grandfather ensured that, shifting Donnelley Brand assets into an irrevocable trust. He was so focused on maintaining the grip on his legacy that once he retired, he never cared about the implications of a sole custodian overseeing the billions in our family chest.
Company shares.
Every piece of real estate we own.
Bonds.
Brokerage accounts.
As successor trustee, my father manages it all. William and I are beneficiaries of the trust but have no control over it. Our father keeps us in the dark and only provides minimal documentation when I threaten legal action. Even then, I’d have to fly out to Anguilla with time I don’t have to get a court to rule in my favor.
Between the sustainability audit on our properties and a deep dive into our finances, I don’t know up from down anymore. Only one person is enjoying trips to the Caribbean, and I’ll be damned if he pulls off what I think he’s trying to.
“Maybe there’s a way to work with Victor. A resort in Anguilla is a lucrative investment.” If it wasn’t for KD living a life of compromise to appease her father, I’d wonder if she were working for mine. The only reason he wants a property there is to move our headquarters.
It’s criminal how simple it is to stash wealth by parking it offshore in jurisdictions with lower tax rates—or none at all—except it isn’t.
“I will not help my father shift our profits to dodge fucking taxes. Is that the kind of man you think I am?”
It’s a serious question, because I don’t know who I’m looking at. KD has been one of my closest friends since our nannies setup playdates when we were younger. We both want to do more than our fathers did and use what we have to leave the world better than we found it. Or so I thought.
Her shoulder lifts in a resigned shrug. “All I’m saying is, choose your battles carefully, Preston. Why make an enemy who will stop your projects every step of the way? Tax havens aren’t illegal—”
“They’re immoral.” My tone leaves no room for discussion. An estimated half-trillion in corporate tax revenue is lost every year. Funding for public services gone so the super-rich can line their pockets. Many of these tax havens lack the proper transparency and financial reporting, exacerbating economic inequities to the detriment of everyday people who are left footing the bill.
