The Moneychangers

by Arthur Hailey

  The thought was a reminder that the bank’s directors would meet again, two days from now, to resume their interrupted meeting of a week ago.

  Now the car slowed and stopped, inched forward, stopped again. They had come to the cemetery and traveled through its roads.

  Doors of other cars were opening, figures emerging, carrying umbrellas or holding coat collars tightly, hunched up against the cold and falling snow. The coffin was being lifted from the hearse. Soon it, too, was snow covered.

  Margot took Alex’s arm and, with the D’Orseys, joined others in the quiet procession following Ben Rosselli to his grave.

  17

  By prior agreement, Roscoe Heyward and Alex Vandervoort did not attend the reconvened meeting of the board. Each waited in his office until summoned.

  The summons came shortly before noon, two hours after the board had begun discussion. Also called to the boardroom was the bank’s vice-president of public relations, Dick French, who would release an announcement to the press concerning the new FMA president.

  Already the p.r. chief had had two news releases prepared with accompanying photographs.

  Their respective headings read:

  ROSCOE D. HEYWARD

  IS FIRST MERCANTILE AMERICAN BANK PRESIDENT

  ALEXANDER VANDERVOORT

  IS FIRST MERCANTILE AMERICAN BANK PRESIDENT

  Envelopes were addressed. Messengers had been alerted. Priority copies of one release or the other were to be delivered this afternoon to wire services, newspaper city desks, TV and radio stations. Several hundred more would go out by first-class mail tonight.

  Heyward and Alex arrived at the boardroom together. They slipped into their regular, vacant seats at the long elliptical table.

  The p.r. vice-president hovered behind the meeting chairman, Jerome Patterton.

  It was the director with the longest service, the Honorable Harold Austin, who announced the board’s decision.

  Jerome Patterton, he stated, until now vice-chairman of the board, would become president of First Mercantile American Bank immediately.

  While the announcement was being made, the appointee himself seemed somewhat dazed.

  The p.r. vice-president mouthed inaudibly, “Oh, shit!”

  Later the same day Jerome Patterton had separate talks with Heyward and Vandervoort.

  “I’m an interim Pope,” he informed each of them. “I didn’t seek this job, as you’re aware. You also know, and so do the directors, that I’m only thirteen months from mandatory retirement.

  “But the board was deadlocked over you two, and choosing me allows that length of time before they need make up their minds.

  “Your guess about what happens then is as good as mine. In the meantime, though, I intend to do my best and I need the help of both of you. I know I shall get it because that’s to your best advantage.

  “Apart from that, the only thing I can promise is an interesting year.”

  18

  Even before excavation, Margot Bracken was actively involved with Forum East. First she was legal counsel for a citizens group which campaigned to get the project going and later she filled the same role in a Tenants Association. She also gave legal aid to families in the development who needed it—at little cost to them, or none. Margot went to Forum East often and, in doing so, she came to know many of those living there, including Juanita Núñez.

  Three days after the Rosselli funeral—on a Saturday morning—Margot encountered Juanita in a delicatessen, part of a Forum East shopping mall.

  The Forum East complex had been planned as a homogeneous community with low-cost living accommodation—attractive apartments, townhouses and remodeled older buildings. There were sports facilities, a movie theater, an auditorium, as well as stores and cafes. The buildings completed so far were linked by tree-lined malls and overhead walkways—many of the ideas adapted from San Francisco’s Golden Gateway and London’s Barbican. Other portions of the project were under construction, with still further additions at the planning stage, awaiting financing.

  “Hello, Mrs. Núñez,” Margot said. “Will you join me for coffee?”

  On a terrace adjoining the delicatessen they sipped espresso and chatted—about Juanita, her daughter Estela who this morning was at a community-sponsored ballet class, and progress at Forum East. Juanita and her husband Carlos had been among the early tenants in the development, occupying a tiny walk-up apartment in one of the rehabilitated older buildings, though it was shortly after moving in that Carlos had departed for parts unknown. So far Juanita had kept the same accommodations.

  But managing was very difficult, she confided. “Everyone here has the same problem. Each month our money will buy less. This inflation! Where will it end?”

  According to Lewis D’Orsey, Margot reflected, it would end in disaster and anarchy. She kept the thought to herself, but was reminded of the conversation three days ago between Lewis, Edwina, and Alex.

  “I heard,” she said, “that you had some kind of problem at the bank where you work.”

  Juanita’s face clouded. For a moment she seemed close to tears and Margot said hastily, “I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “No, no! It was just that remembering suddenly … Anyway, it is over now. But I will tell you if you wish.”

  “One thing you should know about us lawyers,” Margot said, “is that we’re always nosy.”

  Juanita smiled, then was serious as she described the six-thousand-dollar cash loss and the forty-eight-hour nightmare of suspicion and interrogation. As Margot listened, her anger, never far below the surface, rose.

  “The bank had no right to keep on pressuring you without your having legal advice. Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I never thought of it,” Juanita said.

  “That’s the whole trouble. Most innocent people don’t.” Margot considered, then added, “Edwina D’Orsey is my cousin. I’m going to talk to her about this.”

  Juanita looked startled. “I didn’t know. But please don’t! After all, it was Mrs. D’Orsey who found the truth.”

  “All right,” Margot conceded, “if you don’t want me to, I won’t. But I’ll talk to someone else you don’t know. And remember this: If you’re in trouble again, about anything, call me. I’ll be there to help.”

  “Thank you,” Juanita said. “If it happens, I will. I really will.”

  “If the bank had actually fired Juanita Núñez,” Margot told Alex Vandervoort that night, “I’d have advised her to sue you, and we’d have collected—heavily.”

  “You might well have,” Alex agreed. They were on their way to a supper dance and he was driving Margot’s Volkswagen. “Especially when the truth about our thieving operations man, Eastin, came out—as it was bound to eventually. Fortunately, Edwina’s womanly instincts functioned, saving us from yours.”

  “You’re being flip.”

  His tone changed. “You’re right, and I shouldn’t be. The fact is, we behaved shabbily to the Núñez girl, and everybody concerned knows it. I do, because I’ve read everything to do with the case. So does Edwina. So does Nolan Wainwright. But fortunately, in the end nothing really bad happened. Mrs. Núñez still has her job, and our bank has learned something which will help us do better in the future.”

  “That’s more like it,” Margot said.

  They left it there, which, given their mutual love of argument, was an accomplishment.

  19

  During the week preceding Christmas, Miles Eastin appeared in Federal Court charged with embezzlement on five separate counts. Four of the charges involved fraudulent transactions at the bank from which he had benefited; these totaled thirteen thousand dollars. The fifth charge related to the six-thousand-dollar cash theft.

  Trial was before the Honorable Judge Winslow Underwood, sitting with a jury.

  On advice of counsel, a well-meaning but inexperienced young man appointed by the court after Eastin’s personal resources had proven to be nil, a
not guilty plea was entered on all counts. As it turned out, the advice was bad. A more seasoned lawyer, assessing the evidence, would have urged a guilty plea and perhaps a deal with the prosecutor, rather than have certain details—principally Eastin’s attempt to incriminate Juanita Núñez—revealed in court.

  As it was, everything came out.

  Edwina D’Orsey testified, as did Tottenhoe, Gayne of central audit staff, and another audit colleague. FBI Special Agent Innes introduced as evidence Miles Eastin’s signed admission of guilt concerning the cash theft, made at FBI local headquarters subsequent to the confession which Nolan Wainwright extracted from Eastin at the latter’s apartment.

  Two weeks before the trial, at discovery proceedings, defendant’s counsel had objected to the FBI document and made a pre-trial motion to have it barred from evidence. The motion was denied. Judge Underwood pointed out that before Eastin made his statement he had been properly cautioned about his legal rights in the presence of witnesses.

  The earlier confession obtained by Nolan Wainwright, the legality of which might have been challenged more effectively, was not needed and therefore was not introduced.

  The sight of Miles Eastin in court depressed Edwina. He appeared pale and haggard with dark rings beneath his eyes. All of his accustomed buoyancy had gone and, in contrast to the immaculate grooming she remembered, his hair was untidy and his suit rumpled. He seemed to have aged since the night of the branch audit.

  Edwina’s own evidence was brief and circumstantial and she gave it straightforwardly. While being mildly cross-examined by counsel for the defense, she glanced several times toward Miles Eastin, but his head was down and he declined to meet her eyes.

  Also a witness for the prosecution—albeit a reluctant one—was Juanita Núñez. She was nervous and the court had difficulty hearing her. On two occasions the judge intervened, asking Juanita to raise her voice, though his approach was coaxing and gentle, since by then her injured innocence in the whole affair had been made clear.

  Juanita demonstrated no antagonism toward Eastin in her evidence, and kept her answers brief, so that the prosecutor pressed her constantly to amplify them. Plainly all she wanted was to have the ordeal over.

  Defense counsel, making a belated wise decision, waived his right to question her.

  It was immediately following Juanita’s testimony that defense counsel, after a whispered consultation with his client, asked leave to approach the bench. Permission was granted. The prosecutor, judge, and defense counsel thereupon engaged in a low-toned colloquy during which the latter requested leave to change Miles Eastin’s original “not guilty” plea to “guilty.”

  Judge Underwood, a quiet-spoken patriarch, with steel not far below the surface, surveyed both lawyers. He matched their lowered voices so the jury could not hear. “Very well, the change of plea will be permitted if the defendant so wishes. But I advise counsel that at this point it makes little, if any, difference.”

  Sending the jury from the courtroom, the judge then questioned Eastin, confirming that he wished to change his plea and realized the consequences. To all the questions the prisoner answered dully, “Yes, your honor.”

  The judge recalled the jury to the courtroom and dismissed it.

  After an earnest entreaty by the young defense lawyer for clemency, including a reminder that his client had no previous criminal record, Miles Eastin was remanded into custody for sentencing the following week.

  Nolan Wainwright, though not required to testify, had been present throughout the court proceedings. Now, as the court clerk called another case and the contingent of bank witnesses filed out from the courtroom, the bank security chief moved alongside Juanita.

  “Mrs. Núñez, may I talk with you for a few minutes?”

  She glanced at him with a mixture of indifference and hostility, then shook her head. “It is all finished. Besides, I am going back to work.”

  When they were outside the Federal Courts Building, only a few blocks from FMA Headquarters Tower and the downtown branch, he persisted, “You’re walking to the bank? Right now?”

  She nodded.

  “Please. I’d like to walk with you.”

  Juanita shrugged. “If you must.”

  Wainwright watched as Edwina D’Orsey, Tottenhoe, and the two audit staff men, also heading for the bank, crossed a nearby intersection. He deliberately held back, missing a green pedestrian light so the others would remain ahead.

  “Look,” Wainwright said, “I’ve never found it easy to say I’m sorry.”

  Juanita said tartly, “Why should you bother? It is only a word, not meaning much.”

  “Because I want to say it. So I do—to you. I’m sorry. For the trouble I caused you, for not believing you were telling the truth when you were and needed somebody to help.”

  “So now you feel better? You have swallowed your little aspirin? The tiny pain is gone?”

  “You don’t make it easy.”

  She stopped. “Did you?” The small elfin face was tilted upward, her dark eyes met his own steadily and for the first time he was aware of an underlying strength and independence. He was also, to his own surprise, conscious of her strong sexuality.

  “No, I didn’t. Which is why I’d like to help now if I can.”

  “Help about what?”

  “About getting maintenance and child support from your husband.” He told her of the FBI inquiries concerning her absent husband Carlos, and tracing him to Phoenix, Arizona. “He has a job there as a motor mechanic and obviously is earning money.”

  “Then I am pleased for Carlos.”

  “What I had in mind,” Wainwright said, “is that you should consult one of our lawyers at the bank. I could arrange that. He would advise you how to take action against your husband and afterwards I’d see to it you weren’t charged any legal fees.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “We owe it to you.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  He wondered if she had properly understood.

  “It would mean,” Wainwright said, “there would be a court order and your husband would have to send you money to help take care of your little girl.”

  “And will that make Carlos a man?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It matters that he should not be forced. He knows that I am here and that Estela is with me. If Carlos wanted us to have his money he would send it. ¿Si no, para qué?”she added softly.

  It was like a fencing match with shadows. He said in exasperation, “I’ll never understand you.”

  Unexpectedly Juanita smiled. “It is not necessary that you should.”

  They walked the remaining short distance to the bank in silence, Wainwright nursing his frustration. He wished she had thanked him for his offer; if she had, it would have meant, at least, she took it seriously. He tried to guess at her reasoning and values. She obviously rated independence high. After that he imagined she accepted life as it came, fortune or misfortune, hopes raised or yearnings shattered. In a way he envied her and, for that reason and the sexual attraction he had been aware of earlier, he wished he knew her better.

  “Mrs. Núñez,” Nolan Wainwright said, “I’d like to ask you something.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you have a problem, a real problem, something I might help with, will you call me?”

  It was the second such offer she had had in the past few days. “Maybe.”

  That—until much later—was the last conversation between Wainwright and Juanita. He felt he had done all he could, and had other things on his mind. One was a subject he had raised with Alex Vandervoort two months ago—planting an undercover informer in an attempt to track down the source of counterfeit credit cards, still gouging deep financial wounds in the Keycharge card system.

  Wainwright had located an ex-convict, known to him only as “Vic,” who was prepared to take the considerable risk in return for money. They had had one secret meeting, with elaborate prec
autions. Another was expected.

  Wainwright’s fervent hope was to bring the credit-card swindlers to justice, as he had Miles Eastin.

  The following week, when Eastin appeared once more before Judge Underwood—this time for sentencing—Nolan Wainwright was the sole representative of First Mercantile American Bank in court.

  With the prisoner standing, facing the bench on the court clerk’s orders, the judge took his time about selecting several papers and spreading them before him, then regarded Eastin coldly.

  “Do you have anything to say?”

  “No, your honor.” The voice was barely audible.

  “I have received a report from the probation officer”—Judge Underwood paused, scanning one of the papers he had selected earlier—“whom you appear to have convinced that you are genuinely penitent for the criminal offenses to which you have pleaded guilty. The judge articulated the words “genuinely penitent” as if holding them distastefully between thumb and forefinger, making clear that he was not so naive as to share the opinion.

  He continued, “Penitence, however, whether genuine or otherwise, is not only belated but cannot mitigate your vicious, despicable attempt to thrust blame for your own malfeasance onto an innocent and unsuspecting person—a young woman—one, moreover, for whom you were responsible as a bank officer and who trusted you as her superior.

  “On the basis of the evidence it is clear you would have persisted in that course, even to having your innocent victim accused, found guilty, and sentenced in your place. Fortunately, because of the vigilance of others, that did not occur. But it was not through any second thoughts or ‘penitence’ of yours.”

  From his seat in the body of the court, Nolan Wainwright had a partial view of Eastin’s face which had suffused deep red.

  Judge Underwood referred again to his papers, then looked up. His eyes, once more, impaled the prisoner.

  “So far I have dealt with what I regard as the most contemptible part of your conduct. There is, additionally, the basic offense—your betrayal of trust as a bank officer, not merely once but on five occasions, widely separated. One such instance of dishonesty might be argued to be the result of reckless impulse. No such argument can be advanced for five carefully planned thefts, executed with perverted cleverness.