Chapter 2 - THE ISAIAH CARTER FUND
Naomi had never heard of the fund.
That frightened Silas more than anything Helen said.
The Isaiah Carter Community Arts Fund had existed for forty-one years.
Silas created it personally.
Original endowment:
Three million dollars.
Current assets, according to public filings:
More than thirty-seven million.
Its purpose was simple.
Scholarships.
Music programs.
Community centers.
Emergency grants for working families.
And one condition appeared in the original charter:
The fund shall remain dedicated to the values and memory of Isaiah Carter.
Memory.
Naomi looked at Silas.
“You thought he was dead.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever tell his family about this?”
“I couldn't find them.”
“My grandfather has lived under his own name for decades.”
Silas looked stunned.
“Where?”
“Atlanta.”
“How?”
Naomi's voice sharpened.
“That's what I'd like to know.”
Helen interrupted:
“This has nothing to do with tonight.”
Wallace looked at her.
“It has everything to do with tonight.”
He handed Silas another page.
Helen had recently proposed moving twelve million dollars from the Isaiah Carter fund into a new luxury arts development called Bellmont Cultural Tower.
A gala centerpiece.
Her project.
Her name attached.
The board had questioned whether the transfer violated donor restrictions.
Helen insisted she had obtained approval from Isaiah Carter's surviving estate representative.
Naomi stared.
“Estate representative?”
Silas looked at Helen.
“Who?”
Helen said nothing.
Wallace read:
“Malcolm Carter.”
Naomi laughed in disbelief.
“There is no Malcolm Carter.”
Silas's eyes narrowed.
Helen recovered.
“That's what the legal documents say.”
Naomi shook her head.
“My grandfather had one son. My father. David Carter. He died eight years ago.”
“No Malcolm?”
“No.”
Wallace folded the papers.
“Then we have a serious problem.”
Helen's anger returned.
She pointed at Naomi.
“This is exactly what she wanted!”
Naomi stared.
“I didn't know the fund existed ten minutes ago.”
“You came here to embarrass me.”
“I came here because I work here.”
Helen looked toward hotel manager.
“Fire her.”
The manager hesitated.
Silas answered:
“No.”
Helen turned.
“Excuse me?”
“You don't employ her.”
Silas looked toward manager.
“And neither do I.”
Then to Naomi:
“Your job will not be decided in this ballroom.”
Basic fairness.
No immediate reward because of grandfather.
No firing because of Helen.
Naomi appreciated that.
Then hotel security requested statements about the confrontation.
Naomi agreed.
Helen demanded police.
Security called.
Good.
No private billionaire justice.
Video from ballroom cameras clearly showed Helen advancing first and Naomi moving defensively without striking her.
Witnesses differed on details.
The footage did not.
Helen stopped demanding arrest once she watched it.
Then she began demanding privacy.
Too late.
Twenty phones had recorded the scene.
One clip was already online.
RICH HEIRESS ATTACKS BANQUET WORKER AFTER CHARITY SCANDAL
Naomi closed her eyes.
She hated viral attention.
Silas understood.
“Do you want transportation home?”
“No.”
“Security?”
“No.”
“Anything?”
Naomi looked at him.
“Yes.”
He waited.
“Tell me what happened to my grandfather forty-nine years ago.”
Silas looked toward the crowd.
“Not here.”
“Why?”
“Because the truth involves people in this room.”
Naomi followed his gaze.
Wallace.
Helen.
Several elderly board members.
And one man near the back.
Seventy perhaps.
White dinner jacket.
Silver cane.
He had not spoken all evening.
Naomi noticed his face when Silas said Isaiah's name.
Fear.
The man turned toward the exit.
Silas saw him.
“Arthur.”
The man stopped.
Silas's voice hardened.
“Don't leave.”
Arthur Bell turned slowly.
Silas's younger brother.
Helen's father.
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And according to the oldest version of the story, the last person who had seen Isaiah Carter alive.
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