The Dirty Secret by Brent Wolfingbarger Read Free Book Online Page B

Smithsonian to pass the time. Less than a minute later, a man called from across the lobby. “Jack?”
    Glancing up from the magazine, Jack saw a tall, slightly-built man in a crisply-tailored suit staring back at him expectantly. His rusty-colored hair was thick on top with an emerging widow’s peak. Light brown eyes gazed through a pair of rectangular metal eyeglasses, and dark freckles dotted the man’s middle-aged cheeks and forehead.
    The banker smiled and approached him, extending his right hand. “I’m Marty Tharp. You want to come on back?”
    Jack accepted the grip. “Thanks for seeing me. You lead the way.”
    Tharp whirled on his right heel and headed back across the lobby toward a pair of stainless steel elevator doors. Jack followed suit.
    The banker pressed the call button. “So how was your drive over from Saint Marys?”
    “Not bad. Route 50 was a little boring, but at least I didn’t hit any deer along the way.”
    Tharp chuckled. A bell rang, and the elevator doors parted, revealing the cabin’s rich mahogany walls. “Yeah, it’s about that time of the year, isn’t it? Are you a hunter?”
    “Well, I like to get out in the woods during rifle season when work allows it. But I haven’t bagged one in a while, so I hope I’m due for one this year.”
    The doors shut, and the elevator car began to rise accompanied by the soothing melodies of some song Jack thought was by Kenny G. As the digital screen morphed from a four into a five, the elevator slowed to a stop, and the doors opened. Tharp walked directly across the hallway into an open conference room. Jack mentally steeled himself as he followed the banker into the room with his laptop draped over his right shoulder.
    A massive oval table was situated in the middle of the room. Tharp sat in a black, ergonomically-sculpted chair positioned within easy reach of Jack’s loan application package, which was neatly spread out in a semicircular pattern atop the table. The banker spun 90 degrees and faced Jack, gently reclining his chair. “I understand you have a PowerPoint presentation for me.”
    “I figured that would be easier than asking you to dig through all that paperwork like you’re looking for a needle in a haystack.”
    Tharp motioned to a projector stationed in the middle of the conference table, focused on a large white screen protruding from the ceiling. “Go right ahead.”
    As Jack spoke, he felt like he had been transported from his body. He had memorized the script down to a tee, having practiced at least fifty times. Smoothly transitioning from slide-to-slide, he gave his spiel to the banker with the same polished delivery that had earned him votes for years.
    Tharp stared across the room at the projector screen, nodding as Jack used his laser pointer remote to highlight important language from his exploration geologist’s report. He pointed out the gas pocket believed to exist about 8,500 feet below the Schoolcraft property, and the likelihood that a thick strand of the untapped Marcellus Shale strata ran through the property about 6,500 feet underground.
    “But isn’t your lease on that tract tied up in litigation right now?” the banker asked, his red eyebrows furrowed above his eyeglasses.
    “We can’t actually drill on the property until the lawsuit is resolved,” Jack conceded. “But our lawyer thinks the lease will remain valid because the plaintiffs can’t prove we haven’t ‘reasonably developed’ those resources. After all, until this new ground-penetrating radar equipment was created, no one could have envisioned such an unusual sandstone formation at that depth. Plus, until recently, no one had devised a way to economically harvest the gas trapped in the Marcellus.”
    Tharp slowly nodded his head, but the skepticism did not fade from his eyes. “Who’s your lawyer?”
    “Rikki Gudivada.”
    The banker’s posture loosened, and his eyebrows smoothed out. “She’s one of the best. When’s the case