Chapter 9 - The Morning Massacre
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By 8:00 AM the following morning, news of the Napa wedding disaster had exploded across the front pages of every major financial blog and tech news site in Silicon Valley.
“SELF-MADE PRODIGY OR FRAUD? WHITMORE DYNAMICS FROZEN AMID MASSIVE FRAUD LAWSUIT.”
“NAPA WEDDING TURNED FORECLOSURE: IVAN WHITMORE SERVED AT THE ALTAR.”
Ivan sat in the back of a dirty, metered taxi cab he had been forced to pay for using the last fifty dollars of physical cash left in Brenda’s purse. Brenda sat as far away from him as possible, staring out the window in icy, silent hatred.
The taxi pulled up to the glittering glass skyscraper in downtown San Francisco that housed the headquarters of Whitmore Dynamics.
Ivan jumped out of the cab, clutching his rumpled suit jacket, and rushed toward the grand glass revolving doors. Brenda reluctantly followed behind him.
Inside the marble lobby, three security guards were standing near the turnstiles, holding digital clipboards.
Ivan strode forward, trying to regain his dominant executive posture. “Out of my way. I need to get to the executive elevator immediately.”
The lead security officer stepped into his path, placing a firm hand against the turnstile.
“Access denied, Mr. Whitmore.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Ivan roared, his eyes bloodshot. “I am the founder and CEO of this company! Move aside before I fire you!”
The guard didn't even flinch. “As of 6:00 AM today, the master commercial lease for this entire building was terminated by the property owner, Whitmore Global Real Estate. The locks have been changed, and the entire executive board has been relieved of their duties pending a federal forensic audit.”
Ivan’s breath hitched in his chest. “Where... where is my CFO? Where is my board?”
“Your board resigned at midnight, sir,” the guard replied flatly. “And your CFO is currently upstairs with federal investigators from the SEC.”
Ivan stumbled backward, slamming his back against the glass pillar.
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At that moment, a sleek black elevator opened near the back of the lobby. A tall, distinguished gentleman in an expensive three-piece charcoal suit stepped out, holding a leather briefcase.
It was Samuel Brooks.
