The Standard Weakly Standard

Ain't That A Hole in Your Boat!

Chapter 42

Ain’t That a Hole in Your Boat?

While Father worked away in his office hammering out an explosive editorial on Grain/Ag’s efforts to take over Kansas land through nefarious means, I struggled to string words together in a way that sounded like a reasoned, fact-based news story. My story had to ring true devoid of opinion or innuendo. What bothered me is that I had no real hard evidence only hear-say, and the background from FBI, which I figured if I quoted them as a source they would disavow since it was still an active investigation.

Then it struck me. I could at least reiterate the bombing and attribute it to a Russian bomb maker and ascribe that information to unnamed sources in the FBI. I could suggest how the FBI’s investigation as reported to this newspaper knew of ties between Osipov, the bomber, and Federov. The more I typed words on the screen, the more my armpits grew moist. My gut told me I was on the right track, but my head feared that once this was published we’d be a target for more threats, violence, and litigation directed at our tiny newspaper.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Eva, our postal delivery person, drop off a large package at the front desk. Mabs gave it to Father and within seconds Father barged into my office. “Hoo-hah!” he said. “Here it is.” He ripped open the package in front of Mabs and me to reveal an official looking bound report.

“Here’s what?” I said. Mabs joined us, wide-eyed and eager to hear more.

He thumbed through the report, eyes glancing across the pages, smiling like a Cheshire Cat. “I told you I still have friends in the business.” He handed me the report. “Paul Greenhouse and I were best friends in J-School. He went on to work with Radio Free Europe and CNN International and is now part of a global network of investigative journalists called The International Crime Reporting Consortium. I called in a favor.” Father pointed to the report. “This, my dear, is the evidence we need.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A few years ago, funds went missing from the Russian treasury and ended up in several American companies, in offshore accounts in Panama and Cyprus, and into the pockets of Russian oligarchs, all with ties to the Russian president. Guess who one of the oligarchs is?”

“Federov?”

“Bingo. Ding. Ding. Ding. You win the jackpot!”

“But what has he done that’s illegal?”

“To start with, he’s using stolen funds. He invested one million into Grain/Ag, took over the board of directors two years ago and anointed himself president and CEO. The funds he used to invest in Grain/Ag came from an offshore firm called Tenner Worldwide based in the British Virgin Islands, which doesn’t ask companies to disclose its ownership records. Federov then transferred funds to a trust based in Cyrpus. He used the Athena Trust to invest in Grain/Ag.”

I was speed-reading the report as Father talked. The more I read and heard the more I felt dumbfounded.

“There’s more,” Father said. “Grain/Ag then, just last January, received a contract from the EPA of $2 million for a study to buy agricultural land to redevelop as wind farms. Federov and his cronies kill off valuable cattle stock, pressure farmers and ranchers to sell at bottom prices. They get the land on the cheap and build wind farms. Those farmers who don’t sell out but stay and accept lease agreements get revenue from Grain/Ag, while Grain/Ag sells the electricity it generates to the power grid. It all sounds like a win-win doesn’t it?”

Mabs chimed in, “Well, ain’t that a hole in your boat?”

The front door blew open as Aunt George rushed in. Her bright red dress flapping in the breeze she created. “I’m here to pay for my ads.”

Father turned. “Come in here Georgie. I have a question for you.”

Aunt George stalked in. “I’m not talking to you, you old coot.”

Father grinned. “Now that’s no way to talk to your older brother.”

“I have no business with you.” She looked at Mabs. “Honey, how much I do owe you for my campaign ads.”

But Father held up a hand. “Hold on. Before we accept your money. I need to know who’s paying for your campaign. It’s public record, you know.”

Aunt George huffed. “Well, if you must know, everybody who owns a business on Main Street and most of the county have chipped into my campaign.”

“And, who from out of state?” Father wanted to know.

“Why, uh, several friends of mine, business owners, investors, you know. I do have connections far beyond Standard who believe in me to represent this fine state.”

“I’m sure you do. Would Grain/Ag be one of them?”

The cocky expression on Aunt George’s face melted. “I, uh, I’m not sure. I’ll have to check my records. There are hundreds of donors. I can’t remember them all.” She pivoted to Mabs. “C’mon, Mabrey. Let’s settle up.”

Father cut her off again. “Georgie, so you know, we’re writing a hard-hitting piece against Grain/Ag backed by a report from an esteemed group of international investigative journalists, and information we’ve received from the FBI. Are you sure Grain/Ag isn’t one of your investors?”

“Uh, well. I don’t know. Can’t say for sure. Let me get back to you.” Aunt George backed away.

Mabs, who was quick on the uptake, applied the hook. “I’m ready, Miss Mayor. Let’s go to my desk. This will just take a minute. We’re glad to have your advertisements appear in the Standard Weekly Standard.”

Aunt George continued to back toward the front door. Her eyes glancing every which way. “Hold off on printing those ads, Mabs. I’ll get back to you.” She reached behind her and opened the front door still facing us. She pointed a gnarly but well-manicured finger at Father. “You. You bastard!”

“If you find me offensive, then I suggest you quit finding me,” Father said.

She slammed the door shut on her way out, her red dress caught in the frame. Her neck jerked. She opened the door, pulled her dress free, and stormed off.

Father grinned. “I think we just witnessed the shortest campaign for senator in Kansas history.” He turned to me. “Read that report carefully, honey. It’s public, so feel free to quote from it. I want to see your news story by the end of the day.”

‘Yessir,” I said.

Father and Mabs left me to work in peace. My heart was pounding, and peace was the last thing I was feeling. What I needed to write was a story of truth, but truth also has its unintended consequences. A story like this could be devastating and if carried out to the ultimate finality might cause Grain/Ag to implode which would put hundreds of employees out of work. At the same time, I owed it to our innocent farmers and ranchers to have some semblance of justice. Most importantly, if Federov did kill mother, then I wanted to see him hang in the public square. A part of me felt thrilled to be in this position, but another part of me longed to return to New York and just observe the news. I didn’t know if I was cut out to make news—this kind of news.