White House Dinner Party
Washington, D.C., September 1992.
A black Lincoln Town Car rolled along Pennsylvania Avenue.
Beyond the window, the Washington Monument’s obelisk was slowly turning gold in the sunset.
“Wow, it’s really the White House…… I can’t believe I’m actually seeing a place like this in my lifetime. Dad was right—who you know really does matter.”
Victor, seated behind the driver’s seat, leaned toward the passenger side and whispered. Grace, beside him, said in a low voice, “You’re already this nervous and it hasn’t even started yet?”
“I, I am?”
“Relax. You’ll be attending plenty of events like this from here on out.”
Grace closed her eyes as she spoke.
Victor admired how composed she looked, but… I had already seen her unclasp and clasp her fingers together three times.
Before long, the car passed through the northwest gate and the North Portico of the White House came into view.
Its snow-white exterior, the row of Neoclassical columns at the entrance, and the neatly trimmed shrubs on either side—above them all, the Stars and Stripes fluttered slowly in the evening air.
When we stepped out of the car, the waiting staff came forward.
They were impeccably dressed protocol officers in their early forties.
Their job was to manage the flow of White House visitors and guide them through official procedure.
“Mr. Lee, Miss Fairfax, Mr. Hamilton. Welcome. This way, please.”
We were led into the North Portico foyer.
A red carpet ran over the polished marble floor, and portraits of former presidents lined both walls.
Lincoln, Roosevelt, Kennedy…… Following the protocol officer down the long corridor, we came to the great doors of the East Room.
This was the White House’s largest space, used for state dinners, press conferences, presidential addresses, and other major official events.
“Whoa……”
Victor let out a breathless gasp.
Three grand chandeliers hung from the ceiling, bathing the entire room in a golden glow.
The evening light slipping in through the tall windows blended with the cream-colored walls and gave the room an old-world elegance.
A massive portrait of George Washington hung on the wall, and beneath it clusters of guests with cocktail glasses in hand mingled in animated conversation.
The Next-Generation Business Leaders Dinner.
It was an annual event sponsored by the Harvard Alumni Association and hosted by the White House.
Alumni associations from Ivy League and major universities across the country recommended “promising young entrepreneurs,” and the White House staff selected around thirty of them to give them a chance to mingle with the President.
In Harvard’s case, the winners of the Oddball Entrepreneur Competition were automatically added to the recommendation list.
That was why the invitation had gone out to the three of us, the winning team.
Every connection made here was an opportunity—especially for a young ambitious woman like Grace.
“Mr. Lee.”
A familiar voice came from behind me.
When I turned, Charles Winsrop, a director of the Harvard Alumni Association, was beckoning to us.
Black tuxedo, silver-gray tie, and as straight-backed as ever.
Beside him stood a man and a woman I didn’t recognize at first glance, though their faces seemed oddly familiar.
Grace, Victor, and I approached and bowed politely.
“It’s an honor to see you again, Director.”
“Glad you made it. Let me introduce a couple of distinguished guests.”
Winsrop gestured to the two people beside him.
“This is Michael Ferguson, the Chicago chapter president of the Harvard Alumni Association, and Linda Harrison, secretary-general of the New York chapter.”
One by one, Grace, Victor, and I introduced ourselves.
“I’m Lee Sanha. I’m in the energy business in Texas.”
“Grace Fairfax.”
“Victor Hamilton.”
Winsrop added with a laugh, “Ha-ha-ha—this year’s Oddball Entrepreneur Competition champions. Normally we only invite up to second place, but this year the runner-up refused to attend the dinner……”
At that, one face rose in my mind.
Jane Ryu, the Chinese-American girl who had been taking art lectures with me.
She turned down a White House invitation? That’s a strange one, no matter how you look at it.
Meanwhile, Ferguson, the Chicago chapter president, seemed intrigued and treated us with unusual warmth.
“You were the team that turned the competition upside down with a lottery business, weren’t you? I read the judging report. Arbitrage using information asymmetry—quite impressive. And Miss Fairfax is from the GreenHell family, I see. The daughter of Chairman Silver Fairfax herself stepping directly onto the startup front lines, huh? Your team composition is extraordinary from the start.”
“Come to think of it, I heard Mr. Lee here also runs separate oil field and gold mine companies.”
Harrison, the secretary-general, seemed especially focused on me.
“And I heard you’ve already completed vertical integration all the way into refining facilities recently. Is that true?”
“Yes. We began with a small oil field in Garden Queens, and now we own everything end to end—drilling, refining, and distribution.”
“Not even twenty years old and you’re spanning upstream to downstream? That’s remarkable. The energy sector isn’t exactly an easy place to operate these days.”
“Because of the downturn, we were able to secure equipment and labor well below market rates. It was an opportunity, really.”
Winsrop laughed heartily. “Now do you see why I approved Platinum membership for these young people?”
“Absolutely.”
Harrison handed me his business card.
“We’re interested in energy infrastructure investments in Chicago as well. If the opportunity comes up, I’d like to speak with you separately.”
“I’d be delighted.”
I accepted the card and bowed lightly.
While I was speaking with Harrison, Grace had already been surrounded by more than a dozen people.
“Miss Fairfax, you’re with the Fairfax family of GreenHell, correct?”
An elderly gentleman with white hair approached, champagne flute in hand.
He introduced himself as someone who had done business with GreenHell for years and began asking questions of one sort and another.
“How is Chairman Silver Fairfax’s health?”
“Yes, he’s still active on the front lines.”
“That’s good to hear. And Blood & Guts, was it? I heard your daughter started it herself. The angel-investment matching business you’re running through the Alumni Association, right? I hear your results are already substantial.”
“This year alone, we’ve matched investments into seventeen startups, and our average return so far is forty-seven percent. It’ll likely go even higher soon, since the startups that received equity are racing ahead toward IPOs.”
At Grace’s answer, the people around her all leaned in.
She continued in a tone that was both confident and modest.
“The structure is simple: we connect Harvard startups with Harvard Alumni Association angel investors, and collect fees and equity from both sides. We’re planning to convert to a formal corporation sometime next year.”
“You’re even considering a Nasdaq listing?”
“Yes. Fundraising is progressing smoothly as well. A few people here today have already expressed interest.”
“The Fairfax bloodline really is something else. I’d better get in line before I miss out. Opportunities to make an early investment in a high-quality company like this don’t come around often. Would you mind exchanging cards?”
“Of course.”
The old gentleman exchanged cards with Grace, looking thoroughly impressed.
I stepped back and watched the scene unfold around her.
People approached one after another to hand her cards, make business proposals, and express interest in investing.
Just the fact that she carried the Fairfax name brought an invisible layer of credibility with it.
She was a likely heir to the multinational energy giant GreenHell, and not only did her background glitter—her own abilities were exceptional, too.
Victor slipped quietly up beside me.
“People are swarming all over Grace.”
“Of course they are.”
I lifted my champagne glass.
“Grace has everything. A phenomenal family background, real capability of her own, pedigree, intelligence, beauty—there isn’t a single thing about her that hasn’t been vetted.”
“And you’re the man who has that perfect woman?”
“I told you, that’s not how it is.”
“Yeah, right. Grace talks about you all the time. Remember her roommate from before? The tarot reader. Oh, right—Sarah! She even had Sarah do a love reading for her once. Wanted to know if you two were compatible. By the way, Sarah said Becky and I are 120 percent compatible.”
While Victor and I were wasting time with meaningless chatter, the protocol officer announced, “His Excellency the President is entering.”
In an instant, the entire East Room fell silent.
Every eye turned toward the door.
Step— step— step— step—
President George H. W. Bush walked in slowly.
Tall at 6 feet 2 inches, his hair had gone a little gray, and deep lines were etched across his forehead.
Behind him came First Lady Barbara Bush and several aides.
“I’d like to thank all of you for joining us this evening.”
The President stepped up to the podium and gave a brief greeting.
“You are the future of the United States. The innovation you young entrepreneurs are building will make this country stronger.”
Applause broke out across the room.
The President came down from the podium and moved among the guests, shaking hands as he went.
“Ah, there’s something especially good about spending time with young founders. It makes me feel young again.”
“A sandwich chain? That’s excellent. My wife has taken an interest in healthy food lately, too. Perhaps you might supply the White House?”
“A recycling collection business, hmm. Environmental issues are only going to become more important. Very forward-thinking.”
“Same-day delivery service? Time is money in this world. You’ve got a good feel for the times.”
“A video rental chain? Families do love watching movies at home these days. I think that’s a fine business.”
President Bush greeted and encouraged every young entrepreneur invited to the dinner, one by one.
I watched from a short distance away.
Then a Deputy Assistant Secretary, one of the President’s close aides, approached me.
“Mr. Lee.”
He lowered his voice.
“The President would like to move to another room and speak with you privately for a short time. Would that be convenient?”
“……”
I gave a quiet nod.
The letter I had sent through Caroline—or more precisely, through her father, Martin Channing—was finally taking effect.
“I’ll be right back, Victor.”
“Sanha……”
Victor grabbed me as I tried to leave.
“You…… you’ve become the kind of man the President wants to sneak away with? You’re still coming back to the dorm later to eat pizza with me, right? Don’t just forget me now that you’ve made it, okay?”
It wasn’t exactly wrong, but seeing Victor whimper like a fawn abandoned by its mother left me with a rather strange feeling.
* * *
Deputy Assistant Secretary James White personally escorted me.
He was a tidy man in his early fifties, his hair flecked with gray, deep creases around the eyes, and a navy suit that never looked anything less than perfect.
A deputy assistant secretary is a senior official in the American executive branch, ranking just below an undersecretary.
Among them, White, I had been told by Martin, was attached to the White House Chief of Staff’s office and handled the President’s unofficial schedule and top-secret meetings.
He was a shadow-like figure who moved apart from the official protocol chain.
What did it mean that such a man had delivered a request for a private meeting with the President?
Step— step— step— step—
Once we left the East Room, a long corridor stretched out before us.
A thick cream-colored carpet swallowed the sound of our footsteps.
At the far end of the hallway, after turning right, we arrived at a small sitting room.
Two red leather sofas faced each other, with a low walnut table set between them.
“Please wait here.”
Mr. White stepped back.
About five minutes passed.
Creak—
The door opened, and President George Bush came in.
He was alone.
“Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Lee.”
President Bush spread his hands slightly.
“I received the letter you delivered earlier.”
He got straight to the point the moment he sat down.
That meant he felt considerable interest in me, but also an equally considerable urgency.
“Thank you for reading my letter, Mr. President.”
“I had my staff review the contents you laid out in it. I’m very sorry the review took so long personally.”
The President paused for a moment, then continued.
“……The staff’s analysis concluded that the information you provided is highly credible.”
His gaze fixed on me.
“There are less than two months left before the November election. Right now, our campaign needs someone with a perspective like yours.”