by Adam Mitzner
Sam reached for the veal as if the conversation about business had been completed. Will watched him pull half the platter onto his plate. Will shoveled a quarter of the fried peppers for himself, and then added the other half of the veal.
“Unfortunately, there’s some paperwork that needs to be filled out to get the internal approval to open a new account,” Will said.
Sam took a mouthful of veal. Will watched him slowly chew, only realizing that Sam had swallowed by the bobbing of his Adam’s apple.
“Come to my office tomorrow. I’ll give you the particulars concerning the corporate structures, ownership, and anything else you need,” Sam said.
“Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.”
“I’m at 666 Fifth. That’s between Fifty-Second and Fifty-Third. Thirty-third floor. It’s listed under Red Keep. Let’s say nine sharp.”
Will knew the building, a landmark in Manhattan. It was as well known for its dotted aluminum facade as for its satanic address.
Will nodded, but before he could confirm audibly, Sam said, as if it were an afterthought, “The first deposit, which I expect to make as soon as the accounts are opened, will be in the six-million-dollar range.”
Will tried not to choke. Six million dollars!
He quickly did the commission analysis in his head. Maeve Grant charged 1 percent of AUM per year. Will took home 25 percent of that. A $6 million deposit meant $60,000 in commissions to the firm, and $15,000 for him.
His salary was $50,000. He’d just gotten a nearly 33-percent raise.
As if people made seven-figure deposits with him on a daily basis, Will said, “That sounds good.”
“Into each of the three entities . . .” Sam clarified. “So eighteen mil in total.”
9.
The next morning, at precisely 8:55 a.m., Will stepped off the elevator of 666 Fifth Avenue and onto the thirty-third floor. He could only smile at the thought of Wolfe’s 6:45 call going to voice mail and Brian’s then telling Wolfe, “No, I don’t know where Will is.”
A sign opposite the elevator directed him to Red Keep, Inc. He walked down the hall until he came to a metal door bearing the same designation.
Will pressed the buzzer beside the door. A moment later he heard a click and then let himself into a large, empty room. Truly empty—it was barren. No chairs, no table, no rug, no receptionist. Just stark white walls and a midnight-black marble floor.
Sam opened the door separating the empty entryway from his office. “Welcome. Come on in.”
The difference between the outer room and Sam’s office was night and day. Sam was situated behind a sleek steel desk that reminded Will of a jet and that was at least thirty feet from the door. The wall of corner windows behind him captured the city skyline in all its glory. A long conference table sat in one corner, and a separate seating area that could accommodate eight filled the other. A mansion-size Persian rug in gold covered most of the herringbone floor.
It was the kind of workspace that Tony Stark would occupy. Yet the furnishings were not the most alluring thing to catch Will’s eye. That distinction belonged to Eve, who was sitting in one of Sam’s guest chairs.
Will extended his hand. “So nice to see you again, Eve. I hope you’re well.”
“Nice to see you again too, Will.”
Sam recaptured Will’s attention, saying, “You may not have noticed, but the reception area is a bit barren. One of Evelyn’s many talents is that she is a professional decorator, albeit one with very expensive taste. So after you and I complete our business, Eve is going to come with me to an auction at Sotheby’s and spend some of my money.”
“You can afford it, Sam,” Eve said.
“Only if Young Will here is as good as he says he is at managing my wealth.”
“That seems a perfect segue,” Will said.
Will reached into his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers. After he laid the documents on the desk, Sam removed a Mont Blanc pen from his suit jacket and began to sign where noted by the SIGN HERE sticker tabs, without making the slightest pretense to first read any of it. A moment later, Sam handed the executed papers back to Will.
“I also need copies of the articles of incorporation for each company, as well as something indicating that you have signature authority. Normally it’s in the bylaws. Also, some form of identification for you. Driver’s license or passport works.”
Sam rose from his desk and walked out of his office. Will had not seen any doors from the entry area other than the one that led to this space, but then it occurred to him that Sam might lease other space on the floor or elsewhere in the building that was not connected to his personal office. Perhaps the incorporation documents were stored there.
As soon as they were alone, Eve said, “Ready to wade into the fierce gravitational pull that is Sam’s orbit?”
Will laughed, more to mask his insecurity than because he thought it was amusing. It was a question he’d been asking himself too: Was he ready to handle this much money? To venture into the big time? He didn’t know for sure. The truth of the matter was that he had scarcely a clue as to what he was getting himself into.
“Any words of advice?”
“You wouldn’t take it, even if I shared it.”
Will was about to ask what she meant by that when Sam reappeared. In his hand were a few sheets of papers flapping around.
“The articles of incorporation and the bylaws for each of the entities. And a copy of my passport, proving that I am none other than Samuel Richard Abaddon,” he said, handing the papers to Will.
Will scanned the documents quickly to see that they were all there and properly executed. Satisfied that everything was in order, he tucked the pages back into his briefcase.
“Excellent,” he said. “Thank you. Give me forty-eight hours for the accounts to open, and then we’ll be good to go.”
As Will and Sam were making their way across the rug, Will said, “I’m going to confess, Sam, that once I knew the proper spelling of your name, I googled you again. Part of the SEC’s Know Your Customer rule.”
“And what tidbits did you find out about me on the internet?” The look in Sam’s eyes suggested he already knew the answer.
“Nothing. And I mean that literally. You have no cyber footprint at all. At least not that I could tell.”
Sam smirked. “Then you learned a great deal, my friend. I see no reason to court attention from people with whom I’m unwilling to share that information directly. But, seeing that you went out of your way to check up on me, what do you want to know?”
“For starters, what business are you in?”
“You would think, after all these years, I’d have a ready answer to that question. The truth is that I have varied business interests. The unifying theme is that I exploit opportunities for financial gain.”
Will laughed. “You don’t think you could be more mysterious about it? I mean, are you in finance, art, real estate . . . ?”
Sam smiled. “All you need to know about my business, Young Will, is that if you do well by me, I’m going to do well by you. Really, really well.”
The men shook hands, after which Will said goodbye to Eve with a wave.
As the elevator descended, Will couldn’t shake the niggling suspicion that something was odd about the situation. Eve’s question—Ready to wade into the fierce gravitational pull that is Sam’s orbit?—rang in his ears, this time taking on a more sinister tone. Had she been warning him?
Will cast away the thought. He needed to be like the dog. Sam Abaddon was heaven-sent, and like he’d said, all Will had to do to make his own dreams come true was do well by Sam.
10.
The moment Will entered the Maeve Grant office, Brian knew something was up. Will was trying to mask his good fortune with a casual air, but by the way Brian was smiling at him, Will knew his poker face had been nothing of the sort.
“Blowing off the Wolfe’s 6:45 call and then showing up two hou
rs late to work? It looks to me like someone got laid last night,” Brian said. “The girl with the rack?”
Given the likely things that could cause Will to enter the office with a spring in his step, Brian was playing the safer odds. No way would he have guessed that Will had raked in $18 million in AUM.
“Something even better.”
“She has a twin sister?”
Will laughed. “I reeled in my whale.”
“That Flintstone wine guy?”
“The very one. Just came from his office, where I had him sign the new-account forms. And get this. He’s wiring . . . wait for it . . . eighteen mil today.”
“Jesus. That’s . . .” Brian paused to do the calculation that Will had already done a dozen times. “That’s forty-five K. You’re locked to graduate. Not to mention that you practically doubled your salary.”
“I’m just waiting for the Cage to confirm.”
The Cage was the department at Maeve Grant responsible for receiving and distributing customer securities, as well as cash deposits. Officially it was called “Operations,” although only people who actually worked in that department called it that.
Years ago, the people in the Cage had actually worked behind bars, like bank tellers. Back then, each customer’s stock certificates were physically deposited in a segregated account, much like a bank’s safety-deposit boxes. In the early 1970s, firms began holding the vast majority of stock in what is called “street name,” which meant that Maeve Grant was listed as the beneficial owner, and actual ownership was signified only by a ledger entry. That meant that bars were no longer necessary—there were no longer physical pieces of paper of value that needed to be locked away—but the nickname nevertheless remained.
“The Wolfe was looking for you. And he didn’t seem happy.”
That’s how Brian referred to Will’s boss. Sometimes, when they were out of the office, at a bar or someplace noisy, he’d follow it up with a howl.
“Think how sad he’s going to be when I tell him that I’ve got more than enough AUM to graduate.”
“You’ll know in about five seconds, because he’s making his way over here.”
“Good morning, ladies,” Wolfe said, his usual greeting when he knew none of the female employees could hear him.
Brian left Will’s cube without even offering an excuse, like a frightened kitten whose hiding space had been found.
“I got to tell you, Matthews, I took a deep dive into your numbers this morning. I figured that the reason you were late was because you’ve finally given in to the inevitable and you were busy exploring all the opportunities that await you in the food services industry.”
Wolfe laughed at his own joke, as if the end of Will’s career was something he relished.
Will would have preferred to keep his boss in the dark about Sam’s investment until the money actually arrived. More than one client had promised a huge deposit only to later think better of it. And unlike the saying about love, losing a big client before he funded was certainly worse than never having had him in the first place. But Wolfe’s presence made it impossible for Will to pretend he didn’t know about a game-changing event now and then act like he’d earned it two hours later.
“Not exactly. I was actually with a new client. He’s going to fund enough so that I’ll make my numbers this quarter.”
“Ah, the power of prayer.”
“No, it’s something more tangible. I’m expecting eighteen million to be wired in today.”
There were precious few moments—come to think of it, no moments—that Will had enjoyed in Wolfe’s company. Which made this a first. He watched his boss swallow, at a loss for words. Will knew the moment would pass soon enough, and Wolfe would regain his position as the dominant figure in their relationship. But that didn’t mean that the few seconds during which the tables were turned were not pure bliss.
And then Will saw something click inside Wolfe’s brain. He literally bared his teeth, looking as lupine as his name denoted.
“No offense, Matthews, but why in the hell would he do that?”
The question was a fair one. In fact, it was one that Will had been asking himself since last night. Still, he wasn’t going to give Wolfe the satisfaction.
“I assume because he thinks that I’m going to be able to manage his money. That is what you’re training me to do, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be a wiseass. There are ten billion money managers out there, this guy has eighteen million lying around uninvested, and he decides to invest with twentysomething Will Matthews, who’s about to get fired for underperforming?”
Wolfe made no effort to keep his voice down. Which made this a very public flogging.
“We’re from the same town back home,” Will said, gilding the lily a bit. “So we have that in common. He took a liking to me and, I assume, sees it as a relationship that can grow through the years. My guess is that the eighteen million is part of a much larger portfolio. So he’s really just giving me a taste right now. Like a trial run.”
Wolfe’s eyes burned into Will. “You tell your client that I want to meet him.”
Introducing Sam to Wolfe would be, to excuse the quite literal nomenclature, letting the wolf into the henhouse. Right after the hand shaking, Wolfe would tell Sam that he’d be more than willing to oversee the accounts at no extra charge, emphasizing Will’s inexperience. The moment Sam agreed, Wolfe would demand a fifty-fifty split of all commissions. And that would just be the beginning. In no time at all, Wolfe would be reaching out directly to Sam, telling him about the latest opportunities in the market, giving him a taste of a hot IPO that Will didn’t have access to. Before long, Wolfe would be telling the higher-ups at Maeve Grant that the account was all his and there was no reason for him to give half of the commissions to Will.
Will decided his best play was to stall. Although Wolfe would never let up with his demands, Will hoped that, given time, he’d establish a tighter grip on Sam, and that would make it more difficult for Wolfe to elbow his way in.
“The client said he was traveling for the next couple of weeks. That’s why I had to meet him this morning. But sure. When he comes back to the city, I’d be happy to schedule something between you and him.”
Wolfe’s face was a mask of contempt. But he was smart enough to know that calling Will on the lie wouldn’t get him anywhere. Not without proof that Sam was still in town, and there was no way that Wolfe could know that. Which meant that Wolfe had no choice but to fold.
“Reach out to him today, Matthews. Put something on the calendar for ASAP.”
“Will do.”
Wolfe turned to walk away, and Will sighed with relief. He had already planned in his own mind that Sam’s “foreign travels” would last well into next month.
“Oh . . .” Wolfe said, as a seeming afterthought, although Will had the distinct impression it was anything but. “I’m going to tell the Cage to freeze all trading until that meeting happens.”
“That’s not fair,” Will said.
Wolfe actually seemed amused by the invocation of justice. “What’s fair, Matthews, is knowing your fucking place. I told you I wanted to meet your client, and you’re giving me some crap about him being unreachable. Well, here’s a reminder that I still call the shots. Even with eighteen million in your column, all it takes is one word from me that I see reputational risk, and Compliance will be so far up your new client’s ass that when he swallows, they’ll be able to taste his goddamn food.”
There were two things that Maeve Grant preached on a daily basis: make as much money as you can, and don’t get on the wrong side of a reputational-risk equation. During one of the many interminable orientation presentations Will had endured during his first two weeks at Maeve Grant, an older guy in Compliance with bushy white eyebrows and not a hair on his head otherwise had said, “There are two types of risk in the brokerage business. Losing your clients’ money is the less important one. Markets rebound, and money lost can be re
gained.” He waited a beat and then, in a somber voice, as if he were describing a new disease without any known cure, said, “A blow to the firm’s reputation, on the other hand, could put Maeve Grant out of business.”
If Wolfe decided to raise a stink, Compliance would be duty bound to investigate to rule out money laundering or whatever Wolfe told them he was concerned about. No one welcomed regulatory scrutiny. Which meant that no matter how much of a shine Sam had taken to Will, he’d reconsider entrusting $18 million to a guy who couldn’t handle his own boss.
“I’ll talk to him first chance I get and put something on the calendar,” Will said.
“Yeah, I thought you would,” Wolfe said with a satisfied smirk.
11.
Gwen had initially assumed there was little chance of finding any precedent to support the idea of excluding a prior claim of abuse in a murder trial. She based that legal analysis on her viewership of the O. J. Simpson miniseries, in which Marcia Clark (as played by Sarah Paulson) had no problem getting O. J.’s spousal abuse into evidence—for all the good it did her. But after spending a few hours glued to the Westlaw database of legal decisions in cases that had not been made into TV miniseries, she was surprised to find that there was actually a basis for exclusion after all.
The case was called Crawford. In it, the United States Supreme Court ruled that out-of-court statements about abuse were inadmissible at trial. In layman’s terms, it meant that juries would never hear about 911 calls or prior police reports of spousal abuse unless the abused spouse took the stand. And that never happened when the abuser was on trial for murdering the abused.
Two years after Crawford was decided, the Supreme Court revisited the issue in two cases decided on the same day—Davis and Hammon. In Davis, the Court held that a 911 call was admissible when the caller was reporting a crime. But in Hammon, the same justices ruled that a battered spouse’s statement to the police at the scene was “testimonial” and therefore inadmissible at trial if the spouse failed to testify.
