Page 4 of Worth the Risk
By month two, there’s steel beneath the politeness.We’ve submitted three formal requests for meetings and haven’t received acknowledgment. As Highland serves over 3,000 community members, we need to begin planning for service continuity...
By month three, she’s citing legal precedents and community impact studies.Los Angeles Municipal Code requires 90-day notice for displacement of community services. We received 60 days for lease termination with no discussion of transition assistance...
By month four, her emails become more frequent, more urgent.Children’s after-school programs end in eight weeks with no alternative location identified. Families are asking questions we can’t answer because Pierce Enterprises won’t respond to our communications...
Month five brings barely controlled desperation.We’ve attempted contact through every available channel. Twenty-seven phone calls to your office have been transferred or gone unreturned. This is not acceptable business practice...
By month six, she’d stopped emailing altogether. Instead, she was in my lobby with a folder full of signatures and a heart full of righteous fury, given fifteen minutes to plead her case to the CEO who’d been oblivious to her community’s plight.
The intercom crackles. “Mr. Pierce? Mr. Gordon is here to see you.”
Perfect timing. “Send him in.”
Harrison enters with the practiced ease of someone who’s shaped this company longer than I’ve been alive. At sixty-two, he’s everything I used to think I’d become—silver-haired, expensively dressed, utterly unmoved by what he’d dismiss as “sob stories about community centers and immigrant dreams.” He settles into the leather chair across from my desk as if he owns it.
“Declan, I understand you had an interesting visitor this afternoon.” His tone carries the casual authority of a man who’s been Maxwell Pierce’s voice for decades, even two years after my father’s death.
“Maya Navarro. She’s concerned about Highland Community Center’s transition process.”
Harrison’s laugh is sharp, humorless. “Transition process? That’s a generous way to describe it. The woman stormed our lobby demanding meetings she has no right to expect.”
Something cold settles in my stomach. “What compensation has Highland received for their displacement?”
“Standard notice. Sixty days, as required by law.” He adjusts his tie with casual indifference. “They’ve had six months to figure out their situation since we terminated their lease.”
“And assistance? Moving costs? Program transition support? Alternative space recommendations?”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “What are we, a charity? Those aren’t legal requirements, Declan, and you know it.”
The pieces click with sickening clarity. “Harrison, what happened to our community displacement protocols? The transition programs I approved when I took over?”
“Suggestions, not requirements.” He waves a dismissive hand. “I prefer efficiency over hand-holding.”
Heat rises in my chest. “Hand-holding? We’re talking about a community center that serves three thousand people. Highland has been operating for twenty years—this isn’t hand-holding, it’s basic corporate responsibility.”
“Corporate responsibility is to our shareholders, not every neighborhood organization that thinks they’re entitled to special treatment.” Harrison’s voice sharpens with the authority of a man who’s been having this argument longer than I’ve been in business. “We provide legal notice, they find alternative arrangements. Simple.”
I stand, pacing to the windows. “Why wasn’t I involved in Highland’s case from the beginning?”
“Because I’ve been handling community relations since your father founded this company thirty-five years ago.” The paternal tone creeps in—the same voice that used to comfort me after Maxwell’s more brutal business lessons, now wielded like a weapon. “And because I know better than to let personal feelings interfere with business decisions.”
“Personal feelings?” I turn back to face him. “This is about our reputation. About not creating exactly the kind of community opposition we’re dealing with now. Maya Navarro organized eight hundred and forty-three signatures in six months because we gave her no other choice.”
“Opposition we can manage with legal teams and security contractors.” Harrison stands, straightening his suit with practiced authority. “What we don’t do is blur the lines between corporate strategy and community charity work.”
“Since when is basic communication charity work?”
“Since it encourages dependency and entitlement.” His eyes narrow. “Declan, your father never would have questioned these methods. Maxwell understood that business success requires difficult decisions, not community hand-holding.”
There it is. My father’s ghost, summoned to end the argument. Maxwell Pierce—the man who built an empire through ruthless efficiency and calculated distance from the communities his developments displaced. The man whose shadow still shapes every board meeting, every strategic decision, every moment Harrison thinks I’m being too soft for the family business.
“My father also didn’t have to deal with social media and community organizing,” I say carefully. “Times change, Harrison. Our approaches should change with them.”
“Some principles don’t change.” Harrison moves toward the door, then pauses. “Like the difference between running a business and running a charity. Like understanding that every dollar we spend on community relations is a dollar that doesn’t go to shareholders or company growth.”
I think about Maya’s folder of signatures, her father’s incorporation papers scattered on my office floor. “What if treating Highland as a charity case creates more expensive problems than treating them as stakeholders?”
Harrison’s expression hardens. “Then we handle problems as they arise. We don’t prevent them by encouraging every community group to think they deserve corporate welfare.”
