Doctors gave my six year old twins ten days to live, and for the first time in my life, every dollar, every weapon, every favor, and every ounce of power attached to my name meant absolutely nothing.
Then a penniless woman appeared outside my Chicago estate and refused to leave.
When she told my security chief she knew my children were dying, I discovered she was carrying something that had belonged to my dead wife.
My name is Lawson Mercer.
For most of my adult life, people had said my name carefully.
Bankers returned my calls before the first ring finished.
Politicians remembered my birthday.
Men who had spent decades building corporations suddenly became very interested in friendship when I entered a room.
I owned shipping companies, commercial property, private security firms, laboratories, warehouses, and enough land across Illinois and Wisconsin that I had once flown over part of it
