Chapter 6 - The Fall of Waverly Enterprises
The boardroom on the fiftieth floor of the Manhattan Municipal Commerce Building was surrounded by three hundred reporters, four television crews, and an army of corporate attorneys.
Today was the public auction of the assets of Waverly Enterprises.
Under normal circumstances, such auctions were dry, bureaucratic affairs where distressed debt was traded between private equity sharks. But today was different. Today was the public execution of a one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old family legacy.
Claire sat at the head of the Whitmore delegation.
She wore a charcoal pinstripe suit, tailored with razor-sharp lines, her dark hair pulled back into an elegant, severe chignon. Julian Vance sat on her right; Carter sat on her left. Graham sat two seats down, deliberately choosing to let his daughter occupy the center seat of power.
Across the long mahogany table sat the court-appointed trustee, the bankruptcy judge, and Preston Waverly.
Preston had been forced to attend by court order. He sat between two public defenders, his suit wrinkled, his hands shaking so violently he had to sit on them to keep the room from noticing.
"Item forty-seven," the bankruptcy trustee announced into the microphone. "The intellectual property, historical trade names, commercial holdings, and outstanding accounts receivable of Waverly Enterprises Incorporated. The opening court-mandated appraisal is set at one hundred and ten million dollars."
The trustee looked around the room.
Several vulture fund managers checked their notes, but none of them raised their paddles. No one in New York was stupid enough to bid against Whitmore Global.
"Do I have an opening bid of one hundred and ten million?" the trustee asked.
Silence.
"Do I have a bid at eighty million?"
Silence.
The trustee sighed. "Does the primary creditor wish to submit a credit bid?"
Carter leaned forward, but Claire raised one slim, manicured hand, stopping him.
She leaned toward her microphone.
"Whitmore Capital submits a bid of one dollar," Claire said clearly.
A collective intake of breath rippled through the press corps. The cameras zoomed in on Preston’s face.
Preston shot out of his chair. "One dollar?! That company was founded by my great-grandfather! We built the first commercial dry docks in Brooklyn! We built the Midtown exchange! You cannot buy our entire history for one dollar!"
Claire didn't flinch. She looked at him with the cool, unblinking detachment of a surgeon examining an incision.
"Your company carries six hundred and forty million dollars in unhedged environmental liabilities in the Gowanus Canal," Claire stated, her voice slicing through the room with absolute mastery of the facts. "Your commercial towers have a vacancy rate of sixty-two percent. And your accounts receivable consist primarily of unpaid invoices between shell corporations your mother created to evade state taxes."
She leaned slightly forward.
"Waverly Enterprises is not worth one dollar, Preston. It is worth negative five hundred million. But I am offering one dollar so that your great-grandfather’s name can be permanently dissolved from the corporate registry of this state."
"Judge!" Preston screamed, turning to the bankruptcy referee with wild eyes. "This is personal vengeance! She is abusing the court system to destroy my family!"
The judge, an elderly woman with half-moon spectacles who had spent three weeks reviewing the Waverly family’s fraudulent bookkeeping, looked down from the bench with utter disdain.
"Mr. Waverly," the judge said dryly. "If someone offers to assume six hundred million in toxic liabilities for one dollar, this court considers it an act of profound civic charity. Bid accepted. The assets, names, and properties of Waverly Enterprises are hereby transferred to Whitmore Global Holdings."
The gavel came down with a sharp *CRACK*.
It sounded like a gunshot.
Preston collapsed back into his chair, his head hitting the table, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.
The press erupted. Flashbulbs blinded the room.
Claire rose from her seat. She didn't look at Preston. She gathered her leather portfolio, turned to Julian, and smiled softly.
"Let's go," she said. "We have actual work to do."
As they walked down the private corridor toward the executive elevators, Julian fell into step beside her.
"One dollar," Julian murmured, an admiring grin spreading across his face. "Ruthless, Miss Whitmore. Truly ruthless."
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"Eleanor Dawson taught me the value of money," Claire replied, her silver eyes shining. "She taught me that you never pay full price for garbage."
***