Sons of Fortune

Although Su Ling didn’t raise the subject again that night, when Nat arrived at his office the following morning, he asked his secretary to dig up all the financial details she could find on Kirkbridge & Company of New York. She was back an hour later with a copy of their annual report, and latest financial statement. Nat checked carefully through the report and his eye finally settled on the bottom line. They had made a profit of just over a million the previous year, and all the figures tallied with those Julia had talked about over dinner. He then checked the board of directors. Mrs. Julia Kirkbridge was listed as a director, below the chairman and chief executive. But because of Su Ling’s apprehension, he decided to take the inquiry one step further. He dialed the telephone number of their office in New York, without going through his secretary.

“Kirkbridge and Company, how can I help you?” said a voice.

“Good morning, would it be possible to speak to Mrs. Kirkbridge?”

“No, I’m afraid not, sir, she’s in a board meeting,” Nat glanced at his watch and smiled, it was ten twenty-five, “but if you leave your number, I’ll ask her to call you back just as soon as she’s free.”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” said Nat. As he put the phone down it rang again immediately. “It’s Jeb in new accounts, Mr. Cartwright, I thought you would want to know that we have just received a wire transfer from Chase for the sum of five hundred thousand, to be credited to the account of a Mrs. Julia Kirkbridge.”

Nat couldn’t resist calling Su Ling to tell her the news.

“She’s still a phony,” his wife repeated.

31

“Heads or tails?” asked the moderator.

“Tails,” said Barbara Hunter.

“Tails it is,” said the moderator. He looked across at Mrs. Hunter and nodded. Fletcher couldn’t complain, because he would have called heads—he always did—so he only wondered what decision she would make. Would she speak first, because that would determine at the end of the evening that Fletcher spoke last? If, on the other hand…

“I’ll speak first,” she said.

Fletcher suppressed a smile. The tossing of the coin had proved irrelevant; if he’d won, he would have elected to speak second.

The moderator took his seat behind the desk on the center of the stage. Mrs. Hunter sat on his right, and Fletcher on his left, reflecting the ideology of their two parties. But selecting where they should sit had been the least of their problems. For the past ten days there had been arguments about where the debate should be held, what time it should begin, who the moderator should be, and even the height of the lecterns from which they would speak, because Barbara Hunter was five foot seven, and Fletcher six foot one. In the end, it was agreed there should be two lecterns of different heights, one on either side of the stage.

The moderator acceptable to both was chairman of the journalism department

at UConn’s Hartford campus. He rose from his place.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Frank McKenzie, and I will be moderator for this evening’s debate. The format calls on Mrs. Hunter to begin with a six-minute opening statement, followed by Mr. Davenport. I feel I should warn both candidates that I will ring this bell,” he picked up a small bell by his side and rang it firmly, which caused some laughter in the audience and helped break the tension, “at five minutes to warn you both that you have sixty seconds left to speak. I will then ring it again after six minutes when you must deliver your final sentence. Following their opening statements, both candidates will then answer questions from a selected panel for forty minutes. Finally, Mrs. Hunter, followed by Mr. Davenport, will each make their closing remarks for three minutes. I now call upon Mrs. Hunter to open proceedings.”

Barbara Hunter rose from her place and walked slowly over to her lectern on the right-hand side of the stage. She had calculated that since ninety percent of the audience would be watching the debate on television, she would address the largest number of potential voters if she spoke first, especially as a World Series game was due to be aired at eight thirty, when the majority of viewers would automatically switch channels. Since both of them would have made their opening remarks by that time, Fletcher felt it wasn’t that significant. But he also wanted to speak second so that he could pick up on some of the points Mrs. Hunter made during her statement, and if at the end of the evening, he had the last word, perhaps it might be the only thing the audience would remember.

Fletcher listened attentively to a predictable and well-rehearsed opening from Mrs. Hunter. She held the lectern firmly as she spoke. “I was born in Hartford. I married a Hartford man, my children were born at St. Patrick’s Hospital and all of them still live in the state capital, so I feel I am well qualified to represent the people of this great city.” The first burst of applause flooded up from the floor. Fletcher checked the packed audience carefully, and noted that about half of them were joining in, while the other half remained silent.

Among Jimmy’s responsibilities for the evening was the allocation of seats. It had been agreed that both parties would be given three hundred tickets each, with four hundred left over for the general public. Jimmy and a small band of helpers had spent hours urging their supporters to apply for the remaining four hundred, but Jimmy realized that the Republicans would be just as assiduous carrying out the same exercise, so it was always going to end up around fifty-fifty. Fletcher wondered how many genuinely neutral people there were sitting in the auditorium.

“Don’t worry about the hall,” Harry had told him, “the real audience will be watching you on television and they’re the ones you need to influence. Stare into the middle of the camera lens, and look sincere,” he added with a grin.

Fletcher made notes as Mrs. Hunter outlined her program, and although the contents were sensible and worthy, she had the sort of delivery that allowed the mind to wander. When the moderator rang the bell at five minutes. Mrs. Hunter was only about halfway through her speech and even paused while she turned a couple of pages. Fletcher was surprised that such a seasoned campaigner hadn’t calculated that the occasional burst of applause would cut into her time. Fletcher’s opening remarks were timed at just over five minutes. “Better to finish a few seconds early than have to rush toward the end,” Harry had warned him again and again. Mrs. Hunter’s peroration closed a few seconds after the second bell had rung, making it sound as if she had been cut short. Nevertheless, she still received rapturous applause from half of the audience, and courteous acknowledgment from the remainder.

“I’ll now ask Mr. Davenport to make his opening statement.”

Fletcher slowly approached the lectern on his side of the stage, feeling like a man just a few paces away from the gallows. He was somewhat relieved by the warm reception he received. He placed his five-page, double-spaced, large-type script on the lectern and checked the opening sentence, though in truth he had been over the speech so many times he virtually knew it by heart. He looked down at the audience and smiled, aware that the moderator wouldn’t start the clock until he’d delivered his first word.

“I think I’ve made one big mistake in my life,” he began. “I wasn’t born in Hartford.” The ripple of laughter helped him, “But I made up for it. I fell in love with a Hartford girl when I was only fourteen.” Laughter and applause followed. Fletcher relaxed for the first time and delivered the rest of his opening remarks with a confidence that he hoped belied his youth. When the bell for five minutes rang, he was just about to begin his peroration. He completed it with twenty seconds to spare, making the final bell redundant. The applause he received was far greater than he had been greeted with when he first approached the lectern, but then the opening statement was no more than the end of the first round.

He glanced down at Harry and Jimmy, who were seated in the second row. Their smiles suggested he had survived the opening skirmish.

“The time has now come for the question session,” said the moderator, “which will last for forty minutes. The candidates are to give brief responses. I’ll start with Charles Lockhart of the Hartford Courant.”

“Does either candidate believe the educational grants system should be reformed?” asked the local editor crisply.

Fletcher was well prepared for this question, as it had come up again and again at local meetings, and was regularly the subject of editorials in Mr. Lockhart’s paper. He was invited to respond as Hunter had spoken first.

“There should never be any discrimination that makes it harder for someone from a poor background to attend college. It is not enough to believe in equality, we must also insist on equality of opportunity.” This was greeted with a sprinkling of applause and Fletcher smiled down at the audience.