“That’s… great. I’m just wondering… what will the board think?”
There was no way for Michelle to say what she really wanted to say. That going against the board might be dangerous.
Caitlin shrugged. “They can think what they want.” Her steps picked up speed. “I’m still the president and founder. If they don’t like it, they can find somebody else.” She grinned. “Now, that would be a mess.”
Michelle had found out a few things about several of the board members just by using Google.
Michael Campbell had been a police chief in several midsized California and Midwestern cities before he retired and took on his position at ALEAAG, the American Law Enforcement Agencies Advocacy Group. He was the Vice President of Communications there. As far as she could tell from their website and a few other hits, ALEAAG advocated for “vigorous support of law enforcement officers and agencies in their mission to protect and serve American communities,” which meant, among other things, increasing police department budgets and police officer salaries, supporting programs that supplied local law enforcement agents with surplus US military equipment (apparently local police departments really needed armored personnel carriers), lobbying for laws that empowered local police departments to seize assets from lawbreakers, particularly drug-related lawbreakers, and then use said assets to fund police programs.
Then there was Randall Gates, of Prostatis.
Prostatis owned and operated prisons, along with “other correctional facilities.”
The private prison industry was a big business. Prostatis was not the largest private prison company-it came in third-but the company’s revenue last year was still close to a billion dollars. They housed around 30,000 offenders in some twenty-plus facilities, on contract with federal, state and local governments. Their annual report talked about Prostatis’s business model, how they required a steady stream of income, a certain number of beds filled, reliable profits for their shareholders. It came down to occupancy rate, as much as anything else. Like they were running some kind of hotel.
A hotel with a government contract guaranteeing 90% occupancy and a certain charge per bed.
“Our fully modernized facilities and state-of-the-art technology enable us to promote staffing efficiencies,” the annual report said.
Meaning fewer guards.
Prostatis was guaranteed a price per inmate, and the lower the operating cost, the more of that money they got to keep. What other corners were getting cut Michelle wondered.
Prostatis advertised its prison labor force on the company’s website.
“Correctional work opportunities promote individual responsibility by offering offenders a chance to pay back their debts to society and learn valuable new skills. We are privileged to play a part in inmate rehabilitation through labor and also to offer cost-effective, high-quality workers for some of America’s best companies. Our inmate workers provide staffing for industries ranging from computer, garment and aviation manufacturing to telemarketing to farming and harvesting. We are especially honored to produce helmets, bulletproof vests and more for our armed forces.”
At nineteen cents an hour, with no benefits. She’d found that number with a little extra Googling.
The annual report also dealt with potential risk factors for investors.
“Demand for our services is greatly influenced by local, state and federal law enforcement and judicial practices. Increased leniency in enforcement, sentencing and parole policies, as well as the decriminalization or legalization of activities previously classified as criminal, could result in a decreased demand and therefore smaller than forecast profits.”
The CEO of Prostatis made $2.5 million a year. Randall Gates, the CFO, made $1.7 million.
It wasn’t hard to see what stakes Michael Campbell and Randall Gates had in steering Safer America’s priorities in certain directions.
What about Debbie Landry? She came across like a typical society lady-one invested in her charities and fundraisers, because that was what you did in her position.
Like I used to do, Michelle thought.
But she couldn’t assume this was all there was to Debbie. She couldn’t assume anything about any of these people.
Like Matthew Moss. He had to be getting something out of this beyond travel expenses to make speeches. No way he was doing all this for free.
And Steve? She didn’t even know his last name.
x x x
The staff meeting wasn’t all that interesting. Porter was there, but there was no one else from the board meeting except for Caitlin. Instead it was the VP of Development, the Managing Director, the Director of Communications, the Events Manager, some assistants, people Michelle had met in passing or hadn’t met at all, cloistered as she generally was with Caitlin in her River Oaks home.
The campaign to defeat Prop. 275 and Prop. 391 had a name now: “The Coalition to Protect Our Communities.” The event in Los Angeles was “a great success.” They hoped for great things in San Francisco, though this event would be “smaller scale, in a more intimate setting.”
“We’ll have two more email blasts going out. But I think we need to work on the buy-in for donors who can’t be there in person.”
“San Francisco’s not the most fertile territory for us.”
“We’ll do all right.” Porter sat to Caitlin’s right, his bulk settled into the conference room chair, watchful and still. “The prison guards union will send some folks our way, for one. And there’s plenty of concerns about public safety there, for another, even if all those terribly enlightened folks like to pretend otherwise.” He snorted a little. Amused at his own joke.
“CCPOA has its own PACs,” the Director of Development said.
“Sure. But I think they also appreciate what we can bring to the table. And they’ve got a lot of money to spend. You find me a bigger heavyweight in California politics than the prison guards union. And it so happens that our interests align.”
At that, Porter shifted in his chair. “I’m going to have to run. I have an appointment across town.”
Caitlin leaned over to Michelle. “I’m with him,” she whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”
Michelle pulled Caitlin’s Lexus SUV into the garage. It wasn’t just the possibility of Caitlin’s drinking that had Michelle playing chauffeur. Caitlin really didn’t like to drive very much. “I don’t know, the traffic’s so bad here these days, it’s just not fun,” she’d said with an off-hand wave.
“I’m happy to drive,” Michelle had said, suspecting that Caitlin’s nerves had more to do with her attack than Houston traffic.
“I was wondering,” Michelle said now, as the garage door closed behind them. “Would it make sense for me to… familiarize myself a little with the donor database?”
Caitlin frowned. “Well, I don’t know. Is there some reason you want to? I don’t know that it enters in much to the work you’re doing for me.”
Shit, Michelle thought.
She ran over the arguments she’d worked out in advance. Opened the driver’s door and stepped out, slammed the door shut. Drew a deep breath, taking in the scent of stale gasoline and hot concrete. She waited for Caitlin to exit the SUV, punching in the access code to unlock the door that led into the house, through the kitchen.
The blast of air conditioning prickled the sweat on her skin.
“There’s a couple of things. I noticed there’s an Events section, and I thought it might make sense for me to be able to enter miscellaneous travel expenses directly into that. I mean, I’m assuming it tracks expenses for the events?”
“I think so.” Caitlin paused in front of the refrigerator and opened the door.
Was she buying this? Michelle couldn’t tell. She couldn’t see Caitlin’s face. She could only see Caitlin’s back as she grabbed an open bottle of chardonnay from the refrigerator.