I learned later from Warren how that evening went in the Aldgate family townhouse across town. The primary lender had rejected Randolph’s plea for an extension. Prescott paced like a caged animal. Randolph drank bourbon and called anyone with capital and weak morals. Adeline returned from being publicly humiliated at a boutique when her card declined on a thirty-thousand-dollar purchase. She stormed in demanding someone fix it.
When Warren refused to hand over his own accounts so she could soothe herself with leather, she turned on him with the full ugly force of what that family truly believed beneath its polish. She told him he owed them for marrying into their world. She implied he should be grateful their name had opened doors for a Black man from Birmingham. She demanded he save them.
Warren listened until she was done. Then he walked out of the room, called the best divorce attorney he could find, and told him to freeze everything before sunrise.
Minutes later Randolph received the call from my father’s managing director. The firm had purchased the debt. The firm was interested in discussing restructuring. The firm would come in the morning.