Chapter 24

THE MAYOR OF SHANGHAI

I didn't know it at the time, but the next test wouldn't come from crisis. It would come from ceremony.

Since my earlier trip to China, conversations had become concrete. Don's ideas about health cities in China—integrated care, academic partnerships, joint ventures—were no longer abstract. Meetings were scheduled. Details were finalized.

Now, Don and I were going to China.

This time, I wasn't traveling with students. I wasn't counting heads or checking curfews. I was going as president.

From the moment we landed, it was clear this was not a visit. It was a reception.

In Beijing, in Luoyang, in city after city, officials were already waiting. Conference rooms were prepared. Chairs arranged with intention. Interpreters stood just behind shoulders—close enough to whisper, never intrude. Nothing was casual. Nothing was improvised.

There were motorcades. Don hated them.

Once we were in, we were boxed in—front, back, sides. No pulling over. No changing course. Movement itself had been decided for us.

At train stations, entire platforms were cleared. Cars drove directly onto the platform so we didn't have to walk outside. When we boarded the train, the sleeping compartments had been reserved. The entire train car.

According to protocol, I was not allowed to walk beside Don. I walked behind him.

At one point, Don handed me his briefcase. Instinctively, I turned and passed both his briefcase and my own to the person behind me. Without hesitation, they were passed farther back, out of reach.

No one explained anything. Even objects had rank.

On campus, doctors and staff lined the lobby in orderly rows, bowing as we approached. A welcome banner stretched across the entrance to the main building. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and polished stone.

I recognized them immediately—the same doctors and staff I had met years earlier when I came with students. Familiar faces, older in small ways, unmistakable.

Near the center of the line stood a young female doctor I remembered well. On my last visit, I had nicknamed her the Iron Butterfly—small, disciplined, unflinching. She stood exactly the same way now.

Don stepped forward and shook her hand.

"How you doin'?" she asked, in a clear New York accent. Don paused, then turned to me.

"Lisa."

"We were here three weeks," I said. "Sometimes, I got bored.

What do you expect?" He smiled.

She laughed. For a moment, the line softened. Protocol loosened its grip, and something human slipped through.

After the campus tour, we were driven into the city to meet

government officials. Entire districts were under construction—cranes everywhere, roads unfinished but already in use. Nothing felt tentative. Everything moved forward as if the decision had already been made.

The following day, we toured Henan University, followed by formal meetings and then a signing ceremony.

A long table stretched across the room beneath a red banner. Officials sat with precise spacing. Papers aligned. Pens lifted together. Cameras clicked softly. No one rushed. No one spoke out of turn.

This wasn't symbolic. It was declarative.

That evening, there was a banquet.

Large round tables filled the room, each crowned with a lazy Susan heavy with dishes. Steam rose as plates rotated past—fish, porcelain, lacquer. Someone stood directly behind Don at all times, leaning in to murmur instructions I couldn't hear.

Small white cups were placed in front of us, filled with baijiu—clear, strong Chinese liquor that smelled like gasoline.

"Ganbei."

Each man stood, drank the entire cup in one motion, then turned it upside down on the table to show it was empty.

Don did the same.

And because I couldn't drink without causing offense, Don drank for me too.

Toast after toast. Governor. Director. Official. Each cup inverted. Each gesture watched.

At some point, Don ripped open his shirt—buttons flying. The room erupted. He began challenging everyone at the table to arm wrestle—governors, officials, anyone close enough. Laughter spread. Chairs scraped back. The formality dissolved into spectacle.

To this day, people tell me they were there that night. More and more of them every year.

Later, security carried Don back to his suite. I asked them to lay him on the bed with his head near the edge, a bucket close by. I was

afraid he might die. The interpreter stayed with me. I slept on a cot in the living room.

The next morning, the local newspaper came out. Don's photograph was on the front page.

Below it, folded into the paper like an afterthought, was the second story: Colin Powell.

I kept that paper in my briefcase.

Sarah had organized the logistics for the student trips years earlier. She had connections throughout China, knew how to navi-gate systems, and had proven herself reliable when it mattered.

She joined us for breakfast.

We were scheduled to leave for Beijing that afternoon. One meeting, then a direct flight to New York.

She smiled.

"The mayor of Shanghai's representative said that the mayor would like to meet you and invites you to Shanghai."

"Sarah, we are leaving for Beijing. There is no time to change the schedule now," I said.

"I tell you true," she said, suddenly serious. "It would be a great insult if you do not meet with the mayor of Shanghai."

She looked from Don to me. "A great insult."

Against instinct, we took the two-and-a-half-hour flight to Shanghai and went straight to the hotel.

Then Sarah added, almost casually, "There is someone who would like to take you to dinner. He is a famous and rich busi-nessman."

"Sarah," I said, "this is not what we agreed to." Don motioned to me. It was fine.

The dinner was long. The man was gracious. His elegant daughter and her husband—a friend of Sarah's—were there. Nothing was overtly wrong—but nothing felt right.

The next morning, we entered a banquet room arranged in a horseshoe. People lined the walls. Photographers clustered near the front.

Business cards were exchanged ceremonially—held with both hands, accompanied by a slight bow.

As we sat down, something struck me.

He wasn't dressed like a mayor who would spend his days in front of cameras.

As he spoke, I glanced at his card.

Vice president of a company. Is this a setup?

I leaned toward Don and whispered, "He's not the mayor of Shanghai."

I tilted my head toward Sarah, standing behind me, and showed her the English side.

"He's not the mayor of Shanghai."

She stood immediately, speaking rapidly in Chinese. The room shifted. Voices rose.

Then she turned back.

"No, no," she said. "He just doesn't have his new cards yet." I knew then.

She had set this up.

As soon as I told Don, we both stood up. I was furious. I had trusted her.

Back in Don's suite, I said, "Does the president of Henan University know you did this? That you cut our meeting short for this?"

"Yes, yes," she said quickly. "Then call him."

She dialed. She spoke. Paused. Spoke again. I looked at Don.

"I bet there's no one on the phone."

I stepped forward and took the receiver. "Ni hao."

Silence.

"Seriously? You just lied again!"

She pleaded. Explained. Apologized.

That's when she told us. She had a friend, Johnny. He was married to the daughter of a wealthy man who owned a custom yacht manufacturing business. The father-in-law didn't think highly

of Johnny. Johnny wanted to impress him—to show he was connected to someone of Don's stature.

Sarah owed Johnny a favor.

The mayor—an actor. His entourage—actors. The photogra-phers, the reporters lining the walls—all hired. The banners. The ceremony. The entire production staged to get photographs that would prove Johnny was connected.

Later, Don said, "You always think in black and white. Most people live in the grey area. No one is all bad or all good."

He understood what she'd been doing. She was trying to gain power in China. Status. By delivering someone of Don's stature—bringing him to people who mattered—she thought it would give her more power.

"She probably thought by delivering me, it would give her more power," he said.

I understood what he meant. But the betrayal still stung.

When it was time to leave China, security delayed us. Docu-ments were rechecked. Voices rose. Sarah argued rapidly, frustration spilling into her tone.

I stepped forward.

I took the newspaper from my briefcase, unfolded it, and held it up. I pointed to the photograph. Then I pointed to Don.

No words.

The official looked at the paper. Then at Don. Then back at the paper.

There was a pause.

Apologies followed immediately. Quiet. Precise. Unmistakable. We were escorted to the plane.

What I Took Home

Hierarchy can be absolute. Ritual can replace truth. And silence can carry more weight than speech.

Everything meant something.

STADIUM COURT

The letter arrived first.

New York State Education Department had accepted the self-study. A site visit was scheduled.

That was the pivot point. Acceptance didn't mean approval. It meant the institution would be examined in person. From that moment on, everything mattered—documents, systems, consistency.

I went into tournament mode.

You don't wait for the match to discover your weaknesses. You prepare until nothing surprises you.

The self-study was finished. It was honest and exhaustive—governance, academics, finances, student outcomes, services. Every claim either held or didn't.

But a site visit isn't passed on paper alone. So I shifted from writing to readiness.

I brought the team back together. Marion and John already knew the institution and what it had taken to secure re-accreditation years earlier. What I needed now wasn't explanation. It was pressure.

I added a third person—someone who had written the accredi-tation manual for another agency and had overseen our re-accredi-tation in 2003. He knew the standards backward and forward.

Before any questions were asked, we reviewed the documenta-tion. Not a surface pass. A real one.

Policies against practice. Data against claims. Outcomes against promises.

If something existed only in intention, it surfaced. If something worked but wasn't documented, it was fixed.

By the time questions began, the paper trail matched the institution.

Then came the mock site visit.

They were tougher than the actual site visitors would be. That was intentional. Departments were questioned. Processes traced. Where answers thinned out, we drilled down.

If anything was going to break, I wanted it to break there.

By the end of it, the conclusion was simple.

The institution functioned. Not perfectly. But credibly. This was no longer club play. This was stadium court.

By then, faculty and staff understood something important. They weren't spectators.

I was operating like both coach and quarterback—calling plays, adjusting on the fly—but the work only held if everyone ran their routes.

And they did.

I remember one faculty member—my doubles partner in this—capable, prepared, but visibly nervous.

"You already know your job," I told her. "Just play your game. If something comes back over the net, I'll be there."

That settled it.

Once people understood this was a team effort, the anxiety eased. Answers became honest instead of rehearsed.

We were ready.

The site visit itself was intense but measured.

Files were reviewed. Faculty, staff, and students were inter-viewed. Governance and oversight were tested.

King did what he did best. His academic résumé spoke in a language accreditors recognized immediately. He drew attention where it belonged.

The work, though, had already been done.

When the visit ended, there was nothing left to explain. Only waiting.

In 2007, the college was granted institutional accreditation. No ceremony. No announcement. Just a formal letter.

The decision included recommendations—strengthen faculty governance, build research capacity, support institutional assess-ment. Markers of maturation, not failure.

They did not question leadership capacity. They did not question direction.

They did not question the institution's ability to sustain standards.

They granted accreditation.

Accreditation culture is conservative. It favors precedent. And I did not fit the traditional mold.

I was forty. I hadn't come up through the faculty ranks. I was leading a college into a higher level of accreditation.

That combination was uncommon.

But accreditation doesn't measure résumés. It measures stew-ardship.

On that measure, the college passed.

The work held. The preparation mattered. The institution crossed the line.

JERRY VALE

Jerry Vale was Rita's husband. And he was family to me.

On stage, Jerry was unmistakable. The moment he stepped into a room—especially a room like a commencement hall—something shifted. He didn't need to announce himself. He didn't need to project. He carried presence the way some people carry history: quietly, without effort, and in full view.

Offstage, Jerry was even more grounded.

What mattered to him wasn't applause or reputation. It was Rita. It was his children. It was the circle of people he trusted and stayed loyal to. Family dinners. Long conversations. Showing up. That was his center.

I had been close with Jerry and Rita for years. I was in and out of their home the way you are only when you're truly welcome. Rita was my AA sponsor. When I left Los Angeles, we stayed in touch. When they were in New York, we always saw each other. There was nothing formal about it. No performance. Just continuity.

That was Jerry.

By the time most people knew his name, he had already lived the life behind it. Bronx beginnings. A shoeshine stand. Discovery. Records. A career that stretched across decades. Songs people didn't just recognize, but owned—because they had lived inside them.

But Jerry never confused success with importance.

When he agreed to speak at commencement, he didn't treat it like a spotlight. He treated it like a responsibility.

In the weeks leading up to the ceremony, we spoke often. He practiced his remarks out loud—not because he needed polish, but because he cared about getting it right. He wanted to say something that would last longer than the day.

On stage, he was exactly what I knew he would be. Still. Present. Unforced.

The room leaned toward him. Graduates listened. Families quieted. He didn't rush. He didn't fill space. He spoke about life the way he lived it—about staying connected, about resilience without drama, about honoring the people who stand with you when the noise fades.

There was no distance between who Jerry was and what he said. Afterward, offstage, he was the same man. Checking on Rita.

Greeting friends. Taking time. Not in a hurry to leave. Not inter-ested in being handled.

Leadership doesn't always announce itself. Sometimes it simply stands there—and the room adjusts.

Jerry didn't need to prove anything. He already had.

After the Applause

The ceremony ended, but the night didn't.

The after-party was held at the New York Athletic Club, in the rooftop solarium—a glassed-in room suspended above the city. Central Park stretched out below us, dark and layered, while the buildings beyond caught the last of the light. It was one of those rooms that makes people stand a little straighter without knowing why.

Another honoree that evening was the Honorable Michael Balboni, former New York State Senator and New York's first Homeland Security Czar.

And that was when it became obvious: two worlds had arrived in the same room.

You could see it immediately.

On one side were the homeland security and political guests—short haircuts, conservative suits, posture shaped by briefings and command structures. Practical shoes. Measured voices. Eyes that scanned without appearing to.

On the other were the entertainment and Vegas crowd—tailored jackets, cufflinks catching the light, coiffed hair, pinky rings. Men who understood timing and presence instinctively, who moved easily between tables, who knew how to hold a room without trying to control it.

And there they were, mingling.

Not awkwardly. Not performatively. Just… coexisting.

Two languages spoken in the same space, each recognizing the other without needing translation.

Jerry moved through it all effortlessly.

People approached him with ease. Conversations slowed when he joined them. He listened more than he spoke. Rita was never far from his side—no matter how large the room, his attention stayed close to her.

He didn't belong more to one world than the other. He belonged to the center.

What held that room together wasn't hierarchy or influence. It wasn't power or reputation.

It was comfort. Familiarity. The quiet trust that comes when someone has nothing left to prove.

Jerry had carried that long before the applause.

‍

‍