Page 11 of Sinner (Priest 2)
But what is there to say? “Every version of that deal went through legal at least twice,” I offer, racking my brain, trying to think of any potential snags that would have Valdman in such apoplexy. But there were none, seriously. Fucking none. It was a good deal—every contingency prepared for, every clause examined, every city code and sales tax bond painstakingly referenced and braided into the agreement. “And we did have to get special approval from the City Council, but that went better and easier than we ever could have planned for. And then we sent it through our legal a final time, after the Keegan team’s legal went through it. There’s nothing even close to illegal or unethical in there, I promise you, sir.”
Valdman grunts. “Illegal, maybe not. But unethical? You sure about that?”
I stare at him. I know I’m wrecked from no sleep and stress, I know I’m thoroughly wrung dry from the last four weeks of late nights and early mornings trying to get this deal to paper—but my mind has always worked best when pushed like this, and so I know I’m genuinely stumped. I mean, I’ll be the first to admit that in the past I’ve drafted some deals that nudged a few moral boundaries—the best money is made on the frontiers of morality, after all—but there wasn’t even a whiff of that in the Keegan deal. No trace of anything slimy or suspicious. Just some old brick buildings that will be turned into shiny new profit centers. Hell, even as a citizen I think it’s a good deal.
Valdman finally sees that I honestly have no idea what he’s hinting at, and he sets his glass down with an irritated thump. “The man selling the property—Ernest Ealey? Did he ever mention anything about a lease? Tenants?”
Easy question. “Not once,” I say firmly. “And we pulled every agreement logged in those three buildings for the last forty years. No standing leases, no liens, no surprise historical registry shit. It’s clean property, sir, I promise.”
“You’re wrong,” my boss tells me. “Because there is a lease, and there are tenants.”
I shake my head. “No, we checked—”
“Ealey lied to you, son, or he just plain forgot because it was a handshake agreement done twenty years ago.”
“If it wasn’t disclosed—”
“I don’t care about fucking disclosure right now,” Valdman says. “I care about the fucking newspapers breathing down my neck.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I still don’t understand why the press would care about some random tenants—”
“Nuns, Sean,” Valdman interrupts. “They’re fucking nuns.”
Of all the things he could have said, the word nuns was probably the farthest down on my list of possibilities and I’m still asking myself if I heard him right when he continues. “They run a shelter and soup kitchen there, and in the last year, they’ve used it as a place to put up victims of human trafficking.”
Nuns. Shelter.
Human trafficking victims.
I blink.
And blink.
Because.
This is bad.
“Good old Ernest Ealey couldn’t sell those buildings for years, so he rented them out to the nuns for one dollar a year to get the tax write-off.”
“One dollar a year,” I echo.
Shit, this is so bad.
Valdman appraises me shrewdly over a sip of scotch. “I see you’re finally grasping the extent of the fucking problem.”
Oh, I am, and here it is: it doesn’t matter how legal and aboveboard the actual deal is now. Because the story is that an out-of-state developer is kicking a group of sweet, do-gooding nuns out of the place they do good from. The story is that a place of charity will be torn down and turned into a temple of consumerism and greed. The story is that these tiny old nuns—fuck, I can see them on the news now, with little wimples and adorable wrinkled faces—just want to feed and clothe the poor, and the big, bad millionaires are punishing them and the city’s needy just to make a quick buck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. How did I fucking miss this?
I run a hand through my hair and pull for a minute, using the pain to focus. “Do you want me to find a way to cancel the deal?”
“Fuck no,” Valdman scoffs. “Do you know how much money we’re making from it?”
Of course I fucking do, but I don’t say that.
My boss leans forward, tapping the top of his desk for emphasis. “No, it’s in Keegan’s and Ealey’s best interest to move forward, not to mention ours. Keep the deal, but fix this. Fix our image.”
“Sir?”
