Chapter 11 - A New Foundation
Spring arrived in New York with a sudden, violent burst of green and rain.
The Brooklyn sublet was gone. In its place was a modest, sunlit brownstone apartment in Park Slope with high ceilings, large windows that looked out over a row of budding cherry trees, and a kitchen table big enough to hold both Clare’s policy briefs and Nathaniel’s startup prospectuses.
The Whitmore-Ashcroft Policy Group was officially incorporated on a Tuesday in April.
They didn't take venture capital. They didn't accept institutional backing from Wall Street firms or pharmaceutical conglomerates. They funded the startup using the remnants of Nathaniel’s independent checking account and a small grant Clare had secured from an independent public health foundation.
“If we take money from people who expect a return on investment, we become the very thing we’re trying to fix,” Clare had argued during their first board meeting—which consisted of the two of them sitting on the living room floor eating takeout noodles out of cardboard boxes.
“Agreed,” Nathaniel had replied. “We charge for our research, we take transparent fees for our policy consulting, and if a client asks us to fudge the numbers on out-of-network billing, we throw them out.”
The phone on the kitchen counter rang—a sharp, cheerful chime that bore no resemblance to the ominous, demanding rings of Douglas Ashcroft’s office.
Nathaniel picked it up.
“Whitmore-Ashcroft Policy Group. Nathaniel speaking.”
“Nathaniel? It’s Julian Vance.” The former chief legal officer’s voice sounded lighter, almost relaxed, crackling over the line from a temporary office downtown. “The federal prosecutors just filed the formal indictments against Douglas and Harrison Bowmont. We’re looking at twenty counts of wire fraud, securities manipulation, and racketeering. The trial won’t start until autumn, but the defense motions have already been summarily denied.”
“Thanks for letting me know, Julian,” Nathaniel said evenly.
“How are things over at the startup?” Julian asked, a hint of a smile in his voice. “I heard you turned down a half-million-dollar consulting contract from Pfizer yesterday.”
“We did,” Nathaniel glanced across the room at Clare, who was typing furiously into her battered leather notebook while balancing a cup of tea. “The data didn't support their pricing model. We told them to go find someone else.”
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“You really have changed, haven't you?” Julian laughed softly before hanging up.
Nathaniel set the phone down and walked over to the window, watching the yellow cabs crawl down Seventh Avenue beneath the warm spring rain.
