MONEY TREE

by Gordon, Ferris,

  ‘Bank for the poor!

  Bank for the poor!

  Don’t let them kill

  The bank for the poor!’

  FIFTY SEVEN

  Round and round went the simple rhyme like a temple chant. Banners grew in size and number with the noise and the chanting. Yet there was no bad mood about the crowd. It was festive. People were wearing flowers and carrying children on their shoulders. They were rough people, poor people mainly, but here and there was a well dressed Indian and the odd Westerner. Ramesh moved forward in an increasing daze. The day was growing crazier by the hour. But something in his heart was lifting and lightening. He smiled and waved and called his thanks as they made their triumphal progress.

  Without warning they found themselves pressed up against waist-high metal barriers that marked the edge of the crowd’s sway. Beyond was an open space with some figures planted on the steps leading up to the court. Flustered policemen were holding tight to the barriers, keeping them from being tipped over. Ramesh worked to the front.

  ‘I am in court this morning officer!’ He had to shout. ‘I must get through, please.’

  ‘Who are you?!’ shouted back the policeman,

  Ramesh felt a little silly in the circumstances. ‘I am Ramesh Banerjee.’

  The policeman called to a sub-inspector who was directing affairs. The sub-inspector summoned a harassed inspector who demanded proof of Ramesh’s identity. A barrier was pulled back and one by one the three men were let through. As they walked towards the steps and what looked like a camera crew, a shout went up like thunder behind them. The roar of support went on for long seconds and Ramesh wondered what he had let loose. A young Indian woman was running towards him. His day was complete.

  ‘Meera! What are you doing here?!’

  ‘Come to support my father!’ She gained another roar from the crowd as she hugged him and was hugged back.

  ‘Was this your doing, daughter? I cannot approve of mob rule you know.’

  The light in his eyes belied his words.

  ‘Not me. Your customers’. Come and meet the woman who started this.’

  They moved hand in hand towards the camera. It was being held by one man and being directed by another tall westerner with a microphone in his hand. A white woman stood beside him. Alongside her was an Indian woman with the fold of her sari pulled up over her hair. Her arms were wrapped round a little girl who stood in front of her. Both had the same big serious eyes. The white people’s faces came into focus, but they looked different these two.

  Ted Saddler was thinner and browner and had a large plaster on his head; Erin Wishart looked ten years younger and happier. And her hair was different. Was she using henna? What had he done? What had they done? As they got within range he could hear Ted speaking into the microphone. He was wearing headphones.

  ‘I’m now about to speak to Ramesh Banerjee the Chief Executive Officer of the People’s Bank.’ Ted held out his hand and shook Ramesh’s.

  ‘Mr Banerjee, are you aware of the sensational overnight revelations about the plot to close down your bank?’

  ‘I have read some of this in the papers and seen the news.’

  ‘And what would you like to say about it, sir?’

  Ramesh gave himself a second or two to think. ‘I would like to say how sorry I am for the misguided man who has been trying to close me down.’

  Ted looked surprised. ‘You mean Warwick Stanstead, the CEO of Global American. The man who has apparently tried every dirty trick in the book to stop you?’

  ‘If the reports are accurate, yes. It is a great tragedy when a man is driven to such lengths. It is the curse of our age. None of us starts out wanting to be more than we are. The pressures in our society have many harmful effects, and some of us fare worse than others because of flaws in our make-up.’

  ‘A generous interpretation sir. But what do you think these revelations mean for the trial today? Do you think the Indian government can possibly press ahead under the circumstances?’

  ‘That is not for me to say. We are here to defend ourselves in a court of law. If these so–called revelations provide us with more evidence to defend ourselves then that is good. But forgive me, we do not want to keep the judges waiting.’

  ‘One last question sir. Did you organise these crowds of supporters today?’

  Ramesh turned round and looked at the multitude packing the roads and stretching as far as he could see. The camera swung with him to show the world. Then it cut back to a close-up of the wonder on Ramesh’s face.

  ‘No, I did not. I am astonished. I don’t really know who they are.’

  ‘I can say who they are.’

  Meera stepped into the camera angle and held her father’s arm.

  ‘They are the customers of my father’s bank. They are the poor people of India. The ones that my father’s bank has helped. This woman,’ she tugged a shy Anila into the shot, ‘is the villager who started it all. She is a customer of our bank and she tweeted that she was going to Delhi to support my father and telling them they should do the same.’

  ‘What is your name?’

  Ted held the microphone out to Anila and smiled over the top of it. Erin smiled behind him and waved her arms in encouragement.

  ‘My name is Anila Jhabvala.’

  ‘Why did you organise this Anila?’

  Meera translated to make sure she’d understood it.

  Anila looked panic-stricken for a moment, but then she responded steadily and clearly.

  ‘I did not organise this. I sent a tweet on the Internet,’ she said with a mix of embarrassment and pride. ‘I told everyone I was going to Delhi to show my support. I did it for this good man.’

  ‘Why is he a good man?’

  ‘He saved me. He saved all of us.’

  The camera swung round to follow her hand and take in the crowd. Then it panned back for a close-up on Anila and her daughter.

  ‘No-one else would help us. He gave us…’ she turned to Meera and asked for the English word. ‘He gave us dignity…’ She smiled down on her daughter and stroked her upturned face. ‘…and hope.’

  Her face shone with simple conviction. It was to be the definitive news shot of the day. It would end up on nearly every channel, web site, YouTube clip and newspaper across the globe. Ted knew a headline grabbing sound-bite when he heard it. He thanked her and turned the camera on himself.

  ‘Dignity is a word you don’t hear much around big corporations these days. And certainly those of you who’ve read or listened to the material on the world’s most famous web site – since yesterday - won’t associate dignity with what’s been happening lately at Global American and the World Bank itself.’

  He paused, looking for the words. ‘I started as a sceptic about this People’s Bank. A few weeks ago I was writing about them as if they were robbing the poorest of the poor. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to say I was wrong.’

  The camera lens moved closer for a full face shot.

  ‘I’ve been out to a village. A dirt-poor village in the middle of a man-made desert. I met some of the people there. In particular I met one young woman –you just heard her.’ He smiled to Anila off camera. ‘Anila and her friends showed me a level of courage and determination that shamed me for making so little of the talents and opportunities I’ve had in the west.’

  ‘I’ve also spent time with the managers and the staff of this bank. And I’m standing here today in front of a crowd of maybe a half a million customers of this bank. Do they look to you like people that have been robbed?’

  He let the camera pan the sea of smiling faces.

  ‘Me neither. Nor do I think that the prosecution team, in this building behind me, will find any evidence for any of their charges now.

  ‘What we have to ask ourselves is what we can learn from this sorry story. Maybe Ramesh Banerjee, the man we just interviewed, had it about right: the curse of our age is losing our perspective. Being blinded by money or power
- or the possessions they bring - so that we forget what’s really important. So that the soul dries up.’

  The camera held Ted’s burning gaze for a long, silent three seconds, then panned back to show him against the massed and festive crowd.

  ‘It’s not too late. For any of us.’ He paused. ‘The Tribune will be keeping you up to date with events as they unfold here in New Delhi and in New York. This is Ted Saddler, New York Tribune, signing off.’

  In his ears as the shot was cut, came the voice of Stan Coleman.

  ‘Getting religion, Ted? Nice job. Stick with this and we’ve got another Pulitzer.’

  Ted replied into the throat mike. ‘You weren’t listening Stan. That’s where I went off the rails before.’

  FIFTY EIGHT

  Eight hours later, as dawn swept over Manhattan, Warwick Stanstead sat at his desk without a friend in the world. Technicians had worked through the night to get a rudimentary phone and computer system up and running using tablets and laptops linked by off-the-shelf WiFi packs. Warwick had been using the phone to call in favours and make appeals to a shocked board of directors and senior figures in the establishment. The President of the World Bank was not taking his calls; not taking any calls. As news of the revelations on the web site reverberated, the World Bank was effectively incommunicado.

  Warwick got up and moved to the open balcony door, to watch the yellow light creep over the peaks and dip into the gulleys. The air conditioning was still out and the cool air was welcome. But neither the steadily increasing noise of the traffic heading into the city, nor the warm strokes of the sun, were getting through to him. In his mind he was running again. But this time he could see what he was running from. Having seen some of the material beforehand, Warwick was less minded to plough through it again.

  His body was on fire, aching and shivering. The pain was deep in the bones. Hot metal had replaced the marrow. There was no respite, no matter how much Tylenol he swallowed. He lost count of the unproductive retching in his washroom. Hardest to take were the bouts of sneezing. It was like the worst hay fever; thirty, forty, countless sneezes that wracked his whole body and left him trembling and exhausted on the floor of his office. He kept dragging himself onto his feet, and pouring water down his throat. But nothing quenched the agony or the all consuming need for just one big hit of smack. Just one would do it. Then he could cope. He could get through this and then take the cure.

  But something in him knew he had to take the punishment. If he could get through withdrawal he could get through the financial disaster. It’s how he succeeded. It’s who he was. Suck it up!

  Between bouts of pain he rounded up and deployed his legal forces. They were rousing senior figures in the justice system to get court orders to ban the web site and sue the backside off the Tribune. That goddamn broadcast from Delhi seemed to be in a loop on all channels. He wanted to wipe the smug look off that reporter’s face; him and Miss Erin fucking Wishart!

  He had his PR team putting out the line that the web site lies were part of the vicious hacking attack that had brought down the bank. The web site was muck and deception, and a deliberate and vile attempt to shatter both Warwick’s image and that of the bank. But the feedback was that the news services weren’t buying the bank’s version. Even if they did, it was still such a horrible story that the mud would never lift.

  ‘Warwick?’

  He looked up and saw Charlie Easterhouse standing in the doorway that led into the conference room. He’d come in without knocking. Charlie looked as tired as death. His fat body hung like a sack of potatoes from a frame that was bowed down with care and despondency. Behind were the others.

  ‘Warwick, we want to meet with you.’ It wasn’t a request.

  Easterhouse turned and shuffled back down the short corridor. Warwick noted that they didn’t expect him not to comply. He gritted his teeth and forced himself erect. His whole body shook and swayed. Sweat broke on his brow and poured down his back. For a moment he thought he’d pass out. Then it passed. He was left weak. He bit his knuckle to stop himself screaming with the pain.

  He began to put one foot in front of the other and shambled through to the conference room. He took up his usual seat at the end of the oval table. Cool air from the balcony played over him. He studied them. Easterhouse, Schmidt, Nightingale and Kubala. The four executives looked exhausted to the point of keeling over. How must he look? They sat slumped in their chairs looking at him with something approaching surprise and curiosity. Well, he hadn’t fallen over yet, and he wasn’t about to let this bunch of spineless bastards see him on his knees.

  ‘Give me an update.’ He barked. The men stared at him as though they found it funny. ‘I said let’s go. Where have we got to? Is this bank starting up today or not?!’

  The men looked at each other, then Charlie spoke. It was a tired voice but one with an edge to it.

  ‘Warwick, this bank is fucked. There is nothing – I mean not a damned thing – that can be done to breathe life into this organisation.’ He waved Warwick quiet to pre-empt an outburst. ‘But that’s not why we’re here. We want simple answers. Have you seen this web site?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s shit! Absolute shit! This hacking crew have done a real job on us.’

  ‘Warwick, didn’t you see the report from Delhi? Erin Wishart leading the opposition?! Aaron, have we got any juice?’ Aaron Schmidt was sitting with a portable computer in his lap. ‘Enough.’ He directed a cordless mouse at the screen on the wall. It came to life and Schmidt fingered the keyboard to bring up on the wall screen the web site itself.

  ‘We want to talk about this.’

  ‘Well I don’t! This is all shit and I’m not going to waste my time on this or you!’

  ‘Warwick, you’d better. You’d just fucking better waste some fucking time on this!’

  Kubala’s voice was a shout. It was full of an anger Warwick had never suspected from him. Warwick waved a hand and slouched in his seat. They began to pace through the menu, opening up documents and recordings. They dealt first with the attacks on the People’s Bank. The chronology led from the earliest efforts of Warwick to close it down, through to conversations with Nick Trevino during the onslaughts on their rival.

  ‘So this wasn’t just any old bunch of hackers, was it Warwick? This was the People’s Bank fighting back?’ asked Charlie quietly.

  Warwick had had enough. He was seething. The craving was devouring him alive.

  ‘What the fuck else did you expect me to do? Don’t tell me you didn’t know we were going on the offensive? I told you yellow-bellied scum a year ago that this bank was eating our lunch!’

  Kubala’s fine black features were twisting with anger. ‘Mister, if you call me a name one more time, so help me!’

  ‘Leave it, Abe.’

  Charlie leaned over to motion him down. His voice began to take on the fury that he felt. The loss of all those years defending this man. The family life he’d given up.

  ‘Abraham’s right though. We’re tired of the bully-boy stuff, Warwick, so just cut it out. What we’re trying to get at here is the truth, so we know what the hell we do next. And it seems that the truth is, there was no hacking crew out there. Not till you started the war! You never thought they’d hit back did you?’ he asked ruminatively.

  ‘Just like us, Warwick!’ Marcus Nightingale was pointing at him, accusing, angered beyond words. His heavy face was livid and blotchy.

  Schmidt moved them on to the next topic. It was the Yeardon dossier. The atmosphere had long shifted from despair and incredulity to outrage. Warwick wasn’t hearing them. He had pulled himself into a ball upright in his chair and was staring into his own small hell. They were half way through the tape recordings when Kubala got up and walked over to Warwick and stuck his face an inch away from the other’s.

  ‘You little shit! You’re not even listening to us! You’ve screwed this bank. You’ve ruined all of us! We’re finished, and we deserve to be, for letting you get away with
this. Erin Wishart’s got more balls than all of us put together! I’m ashamed of myself. I’m ashamed for all of us. We’re going to go down with you, Stanstead, and we deserve to.’

  Warwick broke from his trance. Rage distorted his face.

  ‘Get your greasy black face out of mine!’

  He pushed Kubala back and uncurled from his chair. He stood at the end of the table, crouched like he was ready to fight them. It brought the others to their feet. He snarled at them.

  ‘I’m not listening to any more of this spineless shit. None of you had the guts to face up to me before. And now when it gets tough you’re wetting your fucking pants! Look at you! A bunch of second rate, little shits with fancy houses in the Hamptons, and fancy cars, and fancy expense accounts, and fancy kids at fancy schools. You and your fancy little wives – white wives - would have been nothing, nothing without me! I made you. I handed out those big fat bonuses. And now you’re going to have give it all back. You’ll be back to nothing. Back to being jellyfish! You make me vomit!’

  Stanstead’s face was contorted with contempt. The tableau stayed frozen for what seemed like a minute. Kubala straightened up, looked across at Nightingale and nodded. The two men moved forward and grabbed Stanstead by the upper arms. Behind them, the other two unfroze and stepped forward. They bent and snatched him by the knees and lower leg. They lifted, and the stunned figure of Warwick Stanstead began to wriggle.

  ‘Put me down you motherfuckers! What the fuck is this?!’

  He was kicking and tossing his body around, but the four men held him tightly. They stumbled onto the balcony. Stanstead was ranting and swearing as he realised what was happening. He threw himself even harder against the restraints, but these men were strengthened by shame and wrath.

  They were near the edge of the balcony. They thrust his head out over the parapet. His shoulders wriggled on the guard rail. Suddenly Warwick’s body slumped, and for a moment, taken by surprise, the men almost dropped him. Then the two front men hoisted him up and pushed his upper body out into space. Stanstead’s hands gripped the rail and his eyes were staring, but not at them.