She arrived at the lobby at 8:15. The receptionist looked at her, looked at her clothes, and asked if she was here for the cleaning staff entrance.
"No, ma'am," Ivory said. "I'm here for the board meeting."
The receptionist made a phone call, then another, then a security guard walked her to the elevator without a word.
The boardroom sat on the 20th floor: floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking Lake Michigan, mahogany table, leather chairs—the kind of room designed to make powerful people feel more powerful and everyone else feel small. Ivory didn't sit down. She stood near the door and waited.
The room filled: Arthur Pemberton at the head of the table; four board members along the sides; Nathan Whitfield near the back, hands in his lap, leg bouncing under the table; six senior engineers who had been told to attend but not told why; and seated quietly in the last chair along the wall, Dr. Elaine Prescott.
Pemberton had called her personally: "Elaine, I need an independent technical mind in the room, someone with no ties to Stonebridge, someone whose opinion the DoD would respect." Prescott agreed without hesitation. She already knew whose video Pemberton had seen; she didn't say so.
Then Garrett walked in. He was mid-sentence talking to Brent Calloway about a golf outing when he saw Ivory standing by the door. His face went through three expressions in 2 seconds: confusion, recognition, disgust.
"Arthur!" His voice cut across the room. "What is this?"
"Sit down, Garrett."
"Is this—" He pointed at Ivory. "Is this the cleaning woman's daughter? You brought her here to a board-level session about a defense contract?"