Chapter 19
James
James recognizes the journalist’s name immediately.
Borne was a harsh and regular critic of his ever since he campaigned for the city to tear down that dilapidated property so his investment group could put up another tower.
He doesn’t remember if the project replaced an unregistered historic site or a community center.
People got so uptight about those types of things.
He has to give it to Borne, though. It is a catchy headline.
Too bad Borne, the saint, is long dead, along with anyone who might have read his disparaging take on James’s life.
Except Kate. She’s clearly read it and is allowing Borne’s claims to color her judgment of him.
James, the sinner, has a future. It would almost be worth resurrecting Borne to see the look on the man’s pasty face.
But he has more pressing things to consider now.
Slowly, he rises to his full height, only beginning to understand how complex Kate’s anger toward him really is.
He thought when he returned, she’d be pleased to see him.
The way she’d responded to his kiss . . .
well, it had him backtracking on his previous stance of refusing to be this woman’s lover in favor of kissing her again to see where it might lead.
He was about to kiss her neck, like he did earlier, and try to make up for the easily forgivable mistake of not being at the right place at the right time.
Now he knows it will not be that simple to earn her forgiveness.
She called him a monster. It is incredibly unfortunate, since during his highly unpleasant day he came to the determination that he wants this one thing—this pleasure in a sea of challenge—to be simple.
He needs to read the full article to know what there is to smooth over to make it so. But first he needs to determine how bad she thinks it is. “What’s that?” he asks.
“It seems I was right,” she says, speaking to the screens.
“About?” he urges, wishing she’ll get to the point so he can get to defending himself.
Her chair rolls backward, and he has to move so it doesn’t knock into him. She walks to her bedroom door, not facing him as she says, “There’s nothing about you to like. You’re selfish, thoughtless, and, according to numerous articles, ruthless.”
He can hear the conviction in her voice. She means it and it stings. He opens his mouth for a rebuttal, but she slips into her room. When she shuts the door behind her, she leaves a vacuum in her wake.
“Fuck,” he grumbles, torn between knocking on her door and reading the article.
As the air returns to the room, he breathes. Then he turns and glares at the monitors. Time to retread the sins of his past.
The Folly of Mourning Monstrous Men: Editorial
If a wealthy man falls in the forest, does he make a sound? In our society, he does—when his plane slams into a Colorado cliffside. News outlets across the country are heralding the tragic loss of the newest member of the Forbes Real-Time Billionaires list: James Alexander Fletcher.
But I ask, why do we mourn such a man, and not shower more media attention on the sinking of a vessel carrying over 600 migrants in the Mediterranean?
I’ll tell you why. Our society has a sick fascination with men like Fletcher. But what, besides his wealth, makes such a man worth our interest? Let’s dive in.
James Alexander Fletcher was born the first and only son to modern shipping magnate Arthur Fletcher and his international trade brokerage heiress wife Cathy Pennington.
After attending Dwight, a prestigious New York City preparatory school, Fletcher went on to Dartmouth, where he majored in industrial organization economics before dropping out in his junior year.
At this point he had amassed a modest portfolio of 10 condo buildings, had founded an up-and-coming REIT, and was on the threshold of launching what would later become his flagship enterprise, an investment group called Tiger Capital.
But how did Fletcher get his start? There are dozens of podcasts where you can watch him prattle on about what a self-made man he is.
But was he really? Are any of today’s modern billionaires?
Can they call themselves self-made considering the substantial impact of outside influences, such as their background, in-place social systems and public works, chance opportunities, or inherent privilege, that undoubtedly fast-tracked their success?
Case in point: Fletcher notoriously built his wealth from a luxury watch business he started as a ten-year-old, a story he reportedly told often.
According to Fletcher, when his father challenged him to create a business plan and implement it, founding his first company, then refused poor Fletcher’s request for a business loan, he struck out on his own, building capital little by little by selling luxury vintage watches, starting with those in his personal collection.
Mind you, he was ten, which begs the question, how many ten-year-olds do you know that sport luxury watches?
Fletcher proudly described the shock on his father’s face a few years later when he showed him his balance sheet, valued at well over five hundred thousand dollars.
Displaying situational blindness to the privileged source of his original capital—the watch collection—he called attention to his self-made status.
From there, Fletcher believed he had no limits.
Randal Carlyle, a peer of Fletcher’s from his formative years, fondly recalled, “I still remember when Fletch offered me $10,000 for my first Rolex. Of course, I didn’t want to part with the gift from my grandfather, but Fletch had a way of convincing people.
I took the $10,000, which sounded like a lot of money to me at the time, but the kid had it sold for $34,000 two weeks later. ”
If that doesn’t sound like a typical upbringing to you, we’re on the same page.
But after all he was blessed with, Fletcher wasn’t satisfied.
He developed a ruthless reputation as his private equity company purchased countless struggling businesses only to strip them of their property, a form of venture capitalism known as vulture capitalism.
Maria Rossi said of the Brooklyn apartment building Fletcher’s group purchased last year, “He told me he wanted to do something really special with the place. He had a vision.” Rossi shakes her head as she fights back tears, before continuing.
“It has been in our family for generations. I never should have trusted him.”
Of course, Fletcher did have a vision for the distressed property.
At the height of the third modern pandemic, the Rossi's low-income tenants had struggled to pay rent, resulting in financial hardship for the landlords.
Fletcher provided a quick and seemingly easy solution.
With a proven track record of turning struggling real estate investments around, he convinced them to sell.
But within months, longtime tenants received eviction notices.
After six months of around-the-clock renovation, the new luxury units were being marketed for exorbitant rates.
At the time, we reached out to Fletcher for comment, but we never received a response.
These stories are not isolated incidents. If I had more page space, I could fill a catalogue with the misdeeds of Fletcher and his peers. And the sad thing is, you would read them.
I believe humanity is on a precipice, and we have a critical choice to make.
A course correction of monolithic proportions may be the only thing we can do to save ourselves.
Because with puppet governments controlled by the ultrawealthy, and our ongoing fascination with such larger-than-life figures as James Alexander Fletcher, will we be able to slow the decline of empathy and halt the rise of narcissism before it is too late?
Timothy Borne
Editor, New England Conservator
He remembers the building Maria Rossi referred to.
The structure was a safety hazard, and they didn’t have the funds to do the proper maintenance.
As far as he was concerned, he’d done them a favor.
It’s not as if the existing tenants could’ve afforded the rents needed to justify the improvements.
Government grants and rezoning might have been possible—other wealthy families exploited such means, pocketing the profits—but he firmly rejected the idea of taking such financial assistance.
He didn’t need anyone, much less the government, to help him get a project off the ground.
So, he did what was needed and ignored the criticism.
There would always be those who fought progress.
After the plans were approved by commissioning, it only took the leasing agency a month to have the entire building rented out.
They even put together a package of special rates to help the minority-owned businesses that would occupy half the spaces on the ground floor.
Not that they needed to advertise that shit.
The name Fletcher was already engraved into enough plaques and founders’ bricks throughout the city to justify his family’s contribution to the community. To do more would have been bragging.
He’s still sitting in her desk chair, tapping his fingers on the smooth surface, when she finally emerges. For the life of him, he can’t figure out an angle to get Kate to see things his way. He’s done a little research, though, and it seems Borne wasn’t a complete saint either.
She breezes past him, heading to the kitchen.
“Listen, Kate. There are two sides to every story—”
Her shoulders tense. “I only came out to get some water. I’m not discussing this.”