by Stephen Frey
Angela laughed loudly. Typical Liv. In the years since they’d met, Liv had become the older sister Angela had never had. She often sought Liv’s advice on difficult issues, both personal and work related. And Liv always made a point of inviting Angela to dinner on those Sunday nights when she had to drop Hunter off at the Reese estate after her paltry forty-eight hours a month had expired. Somehow Liv could always raise her spirits when she was down. Or calm her when her world seemed to be falling apart.
She glanced across the table, thinking back on Jake Lawrence’s reference to Sally Chambers. Liv was a lot like Sally: self-assured and confident. A lot like Sally should have been.
“What is it then?” Angela asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Well, I was irritated that you walked right past me this morning in front of the Sumter Tower,” Liv explained, picking up an open bottle of Merlot standing on one corner of the table and pouring each of them a glass. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No way to treat someone who’s—”
“I said I was sorry,” Angela repeated, glancing around at the couple a few tables away. They were holding hands and gazing into one another’s eyes, oblivious to what was going on around them. “Lord.”
“Well, what’s the matter? First you don’t return my calls, then you ignore me on the street this morning.”
“I told you. I was away a day longer on business than I anticipated, and, besides, I didn’tignore you.”
“Pretty close.”
“I was late for a meeting,” Angela explained lamely.
“Isn’t that convenient?” Liv asked sarcastically, her expression turning serious. “Are they starting to get to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have the senior executives at the bank started telling you to stay away from me?”
“Why do you ask?”
“It’s happened before. A company’s senior management not wanting employees to talk to me after I write something negative about them or their firm. As long as I’m saying good things, everybody’s my best friend. But as soon as I say something nasty, as soon as I write the truth, they all—”
“And that comes as a surprise to you after being a reporter for twenty years?” Angela interrupted. “Less than two weeks ago you might as well have called Sumter Bank’s most senior executive the grand imperial wizard of the KKK.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The article you wrote about him. The one accusing him of shutting down branches in black areas of the city. About him arbitrarily denying mortgages to blacks. ‘A carefully planned strategy to keep blacks imprisoned in undesirable areas of the city, to keep them out of traditionally white neighborhoods that offer safe streets and good schools.’ Wasn’t that what you wrote? ‘An atrocious sixties-style strategy formulated and carried out by the highest levels of Sumter Bank management.’ Do you really expect Bob Dudley to encourage employees to speak freely with you after reading that?”
A satisfied smile spread across Liv’s round face. “No, but he could nominate me for a Pulitzer. That was one of the best pieces of my career.”
“Uh-huh. But you made some assumptions you shouldn’t have.”
“I just wish I could have been there the first time Dudley read that column,” Liv said, ignoring Angela’s rebuke, “when that ass-kissing Carter Hill brought the morning newspaper to Dudley like the yapping little lapdog he is. I’d have paid a lot of money to see Dudley’s reaction.”
Angela hesitated, wondering once more if she should have come tonight. “You’d better watch out,” she warned. “You’d better keep your eyes open and your head down.”
Liv waved as if she wasn’t afraid. “I’m not worried about Bob Dudley. We’ve hated each other for a while. I told you that story, right?”
Six months ago, Angela remembered Liv telling her, the University of Richmond business school had convened a panel of important local business leaders—including, as the most senior business reporter in Richmond, Liv Jefferson—to discuss the effects of the Internet on the Richmond economy. The program had turned out to be so popular that the university’s auditorium was filled to capacity an hour before it was to start. At one point Liv had stated that the Internet’s positive effect had been less pronounced on low-income families because they needed to spend what little money they had on essentials—as opposed to computers and Internet access. That, in effect, the Internet was actually broadening the divide between rich and poor.
Dudley had quickly remarked that low-income people needed to work harder and not constantly seek handouts from those who were successful. The exchange had turned heated, and quickly intensified until the program’s moderator had imposed a ten-minute, unscheduled intermission. After the break Dudley had not reappeared on stage due to a “sudden pressing engagement.”
“Yes, you did,” Angela answered.
“Did I tell you that he called the owners of theTrib and tried to have me fired for writing the article?”
Angela looked up. “No.”
“He tried, but it didn’t work. The owners know what kind of man he really is.” Liv took a large swallow of Merlot. “Of course, I wouldn’t have been able to print that story without a copy of the memo,” she added, her voice low. “Thanks again.”
Angela gazed across the table. She’d thought long and hard about giving the memo she’d found behind the shredder in Ken Booker’s office to Liv. It had been late one night a month ago—past ten and she’d been the only one left on the floor. She’d been looking for a client file Booker had taken from her workstation earlier in the day, a file she needed to process a time-sensitive loan she was trying to get through the bank’s credit committee. Angela had stood there in Booker’s office, shaking as she read the memo. It had come from “The Chairman” to Booker, Russ Thompson, senior managing director for all Sumter funding and security trading activity, and Glenn Abbott, senior managing director in charge of all Sumter retail banking activity. Booker, Thompson, and Abbott comprised Sumter’s executive committee, or ExecCom, as it was nicknamed. They were the men who ran the bank on a day-to-day basis.
The strange thing about the memo was that it had been sent directly from Bob Dudley to the members of ExecCom. But ExecCom reported to Carter Hill, not Dudley, as Booker had pointed out to Angela this morning. Dudley had announced the reporting change to all employees with an e-mail. The e-mail had cited Dudley’s need to focus on external matters—primarily new acquisitions—as his reason for handing over ExecCom reporting responsibility to Hill. But Hill’s name hadn’t been anywhere on the memo Angela had stumbled on in Booker’s office.
The chairman’s recommendation in the memo had been clear. Sumter needed to make it as difficult as possible for people in low-income areas to get loans, whether the loans be in the form of mortgages, credit cards, or small business loans. And mortgage applications needed to be carefully scrutinized to stop “certain” people from moving into “certain” areas of the city.
She’d hustled back to her desk with the evidence tucked into a pocket of her blazer, aware that she had unearthed a stick of dynamite and, perhaps, the tip of an iceberg. Aware that she would have been fired immediately if anyone found out that she had passed the memo on to Liv. But she’d been so damn insulted that a man as important as Bob Dudley would use his influence to manipulate the poor, too damn insulted just to let it go in order to protect her career. It made her furious that Dudley’s kind still existed in what was supposed to be an enlightened society, and so she’d handed the memo over to Liv.
“You went too far in your article, Liv.”
“How?”
“You shouldn’t have turned the article into a race issue.”
“Why not?” Liv snapped indignantly. “That’s what it was.”
“The memo I gave you didn’t mention race.”
“Not specifically, but we both know what was really going on there. Low-income areas in this city are popul
ated by blacks and Hispanics. ‘Certain’ people mean minorities to Bob Dudley. You know it. I know it. You’re sounding naive, and I know you aren’t. You know the deal.”
Liv was right. That was the deal. “Still, I—”
“Look, what are you worried about anyway? It’s my neck on the line. No one will ever find out you were the one who gave me the memo.”
Angela played with her napkin nervously, regretting what she had done for the first time. Jake Lawrence had scared her. The article Liv had written might make the big New York and West Coast banks think twice about acquiring Sumter. Maybe keep anyone from making a high-priced acquisition offer for the bank. Then Lawrence would lose out on hundreds of millions, maybe even billions, in profits. Maybe evenlose money, which could easily cause his interest in helping her win back Hunter to wane. “I hope not.”
“Angela, they could jam toothpicks under my fingernails and I still wouldn’t tell them how I got the memo. I’m good for my word.”
“I know,” Angela said slowly, thinking how so many dollars might actually cause people to resort to torture. Worried Liv’s giving her word could come back to haunt her friend.
“It makes me so mad that my article didn’t get more attention,” Liv continued. “And I’m not talking about personal attention.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The fact that Bob Dudley still has his job. He still sits on top of Sumter Bank.”
“He denied your accusations. He pointed to all of the charities he’s involved with that help minorities.”
“Bob Dudley is a racist.”
“Maybe, but most of Richmond considers him a pillar of the community. People don’t believe he would ever endorse anything like what your article accused the bank of. Other than that incident with you at that business forum, he’s never had any problems in public.” Angela took a sip of wine. “And from what I read, the spin from the forum was that you were trying to bait him. That you came off as the aggressor.”
“A spin crafted by the white contingent of reporters in town who constantly kiss Dudley’s ass.” Liv shook her head. “Sometimes I want to tear my hair out it makes me so mad. That article should have turned people’s heads, but it didn’t. How can people not even care? Not even notice?”
“People noticed,” Angela murmured. Jake Lawrence might have termed the forty-million-dollar paper loss on his Sumter Bank investment “small,” but it had been important enough for him to mention the article, and to mention that theWall Street Journal was thinking about picking up on it. Angela considered telling Liv that but didn’t. Once again she couldn’t be sure if Lawrence was telling the truth, or trying to manipulate her. “You organized that protest outside the bank’s entrance this morning, right?”
Liv grinned. “You figured that out, huh?”
“It wasn’t hard.” If Liv really got things stirred up, Jake Lawrence probably wouldn’t be as calm about the situation next time they talked—if there was a next time.
“If I’m going to bring Bob Dudley down, it’s going to have to be with a grassroots effort. The black community is going to have to rise up against him, with a little help from their friends.”
Angela stared across the table at Liv. “Is that what this is all about?” she asked. “Bringing Bob Dudley down?”
“I told you. He’s a racist,” Liv said angrily. “He’ll do whatever he can to keep minorities from making any progress in the world. All the way from keeping me out of his country club to keeping my brother in a hovel on the east side. You know, I’d love to see Dudley hanging from a tree the way my—” Liv held her tongue when the waiter arrived at the table to describe the evening’s specials. When he was gone, she pursed her full lips as if she wanted to say something very important. Then she relaxed and shook her head. “Dinner’s on me tonight.”
“That’s all right. We’ll—”
“No, no. I invited you, and I’m going to pay,” Liv said firmly. “But I am going to make you work for it.”
“Work for it?”
“Last time we were together you started to tell me how I could check on Sumter Bank’s record of serving the minority community, but you had to leave before we were able to go into detail.”
“Oh, right.”
Angela and Liv had run into each other at a city chamber of commerce luncheon a few weeks ago, but Angela had had to leave before dessert to make a meeting.
“You were talking about statistical areas or something.”
“Metropolitan statistical areas: M.S.A.’s.”
“That was it,” Liv confirmed, reaching down and pulling a notepad and pen from a large leather pocketbook at her feet. “What are M.S.A.’s?”
“The federal government’s Office of Management and Budget—”
“The OMB,” Liv cut in.
“Right, the OMB. The OMB has diced the country into M.S.A.’s. The city of Richmond, the town of Crozet, the county of Henrico, and so on are M.S.A.’s. Most banks, especially big ones, operate in lots of M.S.A.’s. And the M.S.A.’s are further broken down into census tracks.”
“Go on.”
“The OMB segments individuals and households within the M.S.A.’s and the census tracks them by income. Those income categories are broadly defined as low, moderate, middle, and upper.”
The waiter returned to take their order, but Liv shooed him away, telling him they hadn’t even looked at their menus. “How does OMB define those income levels?” she asked when he was gone. “What are the ranges?”
Angela closed her eyes, trying to remember her research. “I think low is below 50 percent of the specific M.S.A.’s median income,” she said slowly. “Moderate is like 50 to 75 or 80 percent of median. Middle is 80 to 120 percent, and high is over 120 percent.”
Liv crossed her arms over her chest, a puzzled look on her face. “So it’s arelative measure.”
“That’s right.”
“The absolute level of median income in one M.S.A. might be different from that in another M.S.A.”
“Not might be, probably is.”
“But to be able to calculate a median income level for an M.S.A., the OMB has to know what everyone in that M.S.A. is making.”
“True.”
“How can the OMB possibly know everybody’s income?” Liv asked bluntly.
“They could use census information.”
“Do you think people are truthful about their incomes on that form?”
Angela shook her head. “No. I think most people don’t even fill in that box. I don’t.”
“Then how—”
“Liv,” Angela interrupted, “let’s say you could have any resource in the federal government available to you. And let’s say you wanted to know what my income was for last year. Where would you go?”
Liv thought for a second, then her eyes widened. “The IRS?”
“Right. Now don’t quote me on that. In fact, you can’t quote me on anything we discuss tonight. That’s my one condition for helping you.”
“Fine,” Liv agreed as she scribbled on her notepad. “But you’re saying that the OMB has access to IRS records?”
“I’m saying it wouldn’t surprise me.”
“But the OMB isn’t part of the Treasury Department,” Liv pointed out.
“That’s true.”
“Isn’t that interesting?” Liv muttered to herself. “Government departments sharing information about our income levels.” She looked up. “God, I’m so rude. You must be starving.”
Angela smiled. Shewas hungry and the aromas coming from the kitchen were enticing. “I am, but I doubt our waiter will come back to the table unless we beg. You almost bit his head off a few minutes ago.”
“I just get so wrapped up in all of this. Let’s eat.”
When they had both decided what they wanted, Liv waved to the small, mustachioed waiter, who hurried to the table.
As soon as he was gone, Liv started up again. “Okay, so the OMB designates areas and pegs relat
ive income levels within the areas. Then what?”
“Then they can calculate a bank’s record in each of the M.S.A.’s in which it operates. So many loans to low-income individuals, so many to moderate-income individuals, and so on. Banks are required to report certain loans they make, and certain loans they don’t make, so the government can see what percentage of low-income applications are being approved and what percentage are being denied. Then they can compare that ratio to the ratio for other levels.” Angela watched Liv write feverishly. When the pen hesitated, Angela continued. “By the way, it’s only the big banks that have to report to the government: banks with more than $250 million in assets, or bank holding companies with more than a billion. That’s about two thousand entities in the United States. Banks below those levels don’t have to report.”
“Why only the big guys?”
“The government claims the small banks don’t have enough market share or clout to really make a difference, which is totally wrong. There’s ten thousand of them, for God’s sake. The real reason they don’t require those entities to report is that they simply don’t have the manpower to monitor all of them.”
Liv nodded. “It all makes sense now. It’s against the law for banks to take an individual’s race into account when making a loan. They probably can’t even collect that kind of information, right? But, of course, you have to know someone’s income because you have to try to assess their ability to repay the loan. That’s only fair.”
“Which are two very different issues.”
Liv looked up. “What do you mean?”
“It’s definitely against the law for banks to take race into account when determining whether or not to make a loan. But, in fact, the federal governmentrequires banks to identify the applicant’s race when it comes to mortgages.”
Liv stared at Angela skeptically. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m dead serious. Go to any bank and ask for a standard mortgage application. You’ll see that the applicant’s race is one of the last questions on the form. It’s the Race/National Origin box.” Angela held up her hand. “Now, the applicant doesn’thave to respond.”
