“And I expected the college to be financially self-sufficient by the last decade,” Oscar said.
Her grandfather nodded in agreement. “When your father was president of the college, he wasted far too much money on expensive professors and overly ambitious research.”
Gwen looked away. Her husband had been a perfect example of one of those idealistic professors who was brilliant but profligate with his research budget. “We always knew the college would initially lose money—”
“It’s been thirty years!” Uncle Oscar interrupted. “The entire idea was a foolish endeavor to pacify Theodore. He had no business being a college president if he couldn’t even balance a checkbook.”
Gwen maintained her serene expression. “It wasn’t to pacify my father, it was to turn around the reputation of a family name that had become synonymous with greed and avarice. We’ve spent decades improving our reputation, and now you want to throw it all away?”
Oscar lifted a book off the table and tossed it at her. Its pages splayed as it flew, but she caught it just before it hit the ground. She read the title on the cover and gasped.
The Flamboyant Life and Adventures of Mick Malone: A Memoir
Mick Malone, the man who haunted her childhood nightmares. She didn’t even realize he was still alive.
“That book will be released in September,” Oscar said. “One of those seedy journalists from the New York Sun got an advance copy and wanted my opinion. It’s slated to become a bestseller. Your fancy college has done nothing to dampen the public’s appetite for sordid gossip.”
Gwen’s mouth went dry as she read the summary of the book, which promised the details of Mick Malone’s colorful life of crime, including special insight into the Blackstone scandal and the injustice he endured at the hands of the most powerful family in America.
The irony was that Mick Malone wasn’t a victim, but a criminal who had perpetrated a profound crime against her family. Everyone knew he was guilty of kidnapping and killing her three-year-old brother shortly before Gwen was born. Her father paid the ransom, but her brother was never returned. Days went by, then weeks, then years, but young William Blackstone was never found.
Her father hired an army of private investigators to hunt for the kidnappers. Within a week, they caught Malone, along with undeniable proof of his guilt. His apartment contained hundred-dollar bills with serial numbers matching those in the ransom payment and the typewriter with the flawed key that had typed the ransom note. Most chillingly, there was a single shoe belonging to little Willy Blackstone that was stained with blood.
Malone was put on trial for kidnapping and murder. It was a hanging offense, but a slippery defense attorney distracted the jury by putting the Blackstones’ reputation on trial. At that time, the Blackstone name was synonymous with greed and exploitation. When the prosecutor objected, the defense attorney claimed the shameful details were essential to Mr. Malone’s defense because the list of Blackstone enemies was endless. How could the laughing Irishman who loved his wife and went to church every Sunday be a villain who kidnapped children? Day after day, the defense attorney presented witnesses who testified to various Blackstone depredations and pointed to other suspects, such as union leaders, anarchists, and disgruntled businessmen who’d been driven into bankruptcy by the unforgiving policies of the Blackstone Bank. There were plenty of suspects who might have killed Willy Blackstone, and the jury wanted to send a message.
They found Mick Malone not guilty despite the overwhelming evidence against him.
Not guilty. The verdict practically killed her father but delighted the press. People hailed Mick Malone as a working-class hero, a man who challenged the hated Blackstones and lived to tell the tale. While everyone agreed it was a shame about the child, unsympathetic journalists touted the plight of other children who labored in Blackstone-financed coal mines and factories. Twelve men considered all the evidence and decided there wasn’t enough proof to send Mick Malone to the gallows.
The verdict changed her father forever. Theodore suffered a nervous breakdown, and he began believing the hatred against his family was justified. In a desperate attempt to find meaning in his son’s death, Theodore created Blackstone College, dedicated to education and curing the diseases of the poor. Her grandfather never liked the expensive venture that had yet to turn a profit, but he agreed because Theodore asked it of him.
The college had helped the Blackstones slowly rehabilitate their image, but all that goodwill would suffer if this revolting memoir stirred up old animosity against them.
She placed a trembling hand over the book. “I didn’t even realize Mick Malone was still alive.”
“He’s a washed-up old drunk,” her grandfather said. “I won’t take this lying down. We’ve already filed paperwork with the court to halt publication. I’ll sue them for libel and defamation of character.”
Gwen instinctively recoiled from lawsuits, lawyers, and anything that smacked of conflict. Why couldn’t people simply behave like decent human beings? She and her father had created a paradise on earth in their forty-acre campus where people respected and supported each other. It was as close to the Garden of Eden as could exist in a fallen world, and this awful book on her lap awakened old demons she believed were safely consigned to the past.
“I don’t think so,” she said, scrambling for ways to mitigate this disaster. “Suing Mick Malone will roll back decades of goodwill we have garnered from the college. We need to handle this with finesse.”
“What do you recommend?” Oscar asked. In truth, her uncle wasn’t a horrible man. He was smart and had suffered more than most from the hatred aimed at her family. Perhaps she could work with him to defeat a common enemy.
“Mick Malone is obviously in need of funds,” she said. “I suggest we quietly pay him off. A thousand dollars ought to do it, and it will save us the headache of this memoir seeing the light of day.”
“Absolutely not,” Oscar snapped. “That man killed my nephew and destroyed my brother’s spirit. I won’t pay him a dime.”
“Then look the other way while I do it,” she said. It was galling, but her family’s peace of mind was worth it.
Uncle Oscar began pacing. “Malone will never settle for a thousand dollars. He knows the book will earn far more.”
“Agreed,” Gwen said. “That’s why we offer his lawyer the same deal to persuade him to settle.”
Uncle Oscar’s brow quirked in reluctant admiration, but he shouldn’t be surprised. It was impossible to grow up in the Blackstone family without a bit of their cunning rubbing off on her.
“The lawyer will know that we have unlimited funds to stop this book,” she continued. “We can drag this out, delay their profits, and cost Malone’s publisher a fortune in legal fees. Or we can pay Malone’s lawyer in hope that he will pressure Malone to come to terms.”
Uncle Oscar wanted to keep arguing, but Frederick lifted a hand to call an end to the discussion. “An excellent suggestion,” he said. “I’ll have one of our lawyers begin the process.”
