by Kyra Davis
This is where New Yorkers who rule the world live.
Perhaps the same could be said about where Travis lives and where Edmund lives.
But where does that leave the rest of us?
The question whirls around in my head until I’m dizzy, until I realize that I can’t wait any longer for Lander, or the Justice Department, or even the US Senate. It’s time to reclaim a little of what I’ve given away.
It begins the next day. I wait on the sidewalk on the Upper West Side. I’ve been reading her emails, I know their schedule.
And at 6:45, exactly when I expect them, Travis and Jessica exit their building. She’s dressed for a cocktail party and he’s dressed . . . well, like Travis. Crisp eight-thousand-dollar suit, thousand-dollar dress shirt, the only nod to the fact that this is officially a social occasion is his missing tie.
I step out of the shadows as they begin to walk to their waiting limo. “Hi!”
Both Jessica and Travis pivot at the sound of my voice.
It’s the first time I’ve seen Jessica since I quit. She’s aged years in the months we’ve been apart.
You’re still young.
Only if you measure age in years.
“Take the limo to the party, I’ll catch up with you soon,” Travis says coolly to his wife.
“But they’re expecting us—”
“Go.”
Jessica chews on her cheek and then turns and goes to the limo, each one of her steps a little heavier than the one before.
He waits until the limo rolls away before he approaches.
“Where’s Cathy?” I ask with faux innocence.
A flash of anger sparks in his eyes, but he doesn’t take the bait. “So, this is what you were up to? You planted some files in my home to help my brother incriminate me?”
A low laugh escapes my lips and I look up at the clear, darkening sky. “I gotta hand it to you, Travis. You’re good. You never let your guard down, always staying with the same story, always on the lookout for a wire tap and spies.”
“I believe I can return that compliment,” he says, not unpleasantly. “I may have found a worthy adversary in you. Speaking of which, I know why my brother is doing this, but what’s in it for you?”
“Me?” I place my hands against my heart. “I’m just a concerned citizen, trying to protect my country from those who would exploit its laws for profit.”
“I’m serious.”
“Well, that’s good, because I’m only partially joking. Laundering money for drug cartels, Travis? Do you know what those people do? People are dying, not just other drug dealers but farmers, journalists, innocents whose families can’t afford to pay ransom. And you’re also funding terrorists. You’re a New Yorker funding terrorists. You work and live in high-rises, for God’s sake. Doesn’t it ever bother you that the people you’re helping might be planning on killing you? Your children? Your wi—actually scratch that one. We all know you’re not worried about them killing your wife. But certainly you and your children.”
“I have never solicited the money of terrorists.”
“But you knew it was being solicited by people at your bank,” I point out. “You knew that people at HGVB were scrubbing wire transfers for any mention of country of origin when that country was one that might be sponsoring terrorism.”
“Who are you?” Travis asks, clearly unimpressed with my demonstration of moral outrage. “I assume Bell Dantès is your nom de guerre.”
I smile, shrug.
“So what did Lander tell you?” he asks. “Did he tell you that this information was going to send me to prison?” The sinister smile that plays on his lips is so familiar it almost makes me nostalgic. “Let me explain the difference between you and me.” He takes another step forward, moving more into my space. “If you launder money for a ring of small-time pot dealers and word gets out? The police are going to be on your doorstep within minutes. You’ll be thrown in jail. If you’ve laundered ten thousand dollars or more you’ll go to prison. No lawyer would be able to help you. But me? I could be caught laundering money for the most vile, violent crime organization on earth—”
“Which you were.”
“—and I still wouldn’t get so much as a slap on the wrist. Didn’t they tell you? People like me are given get-out-of-jail-free cards at birth. When they look at you they see someone who might need to be straightened out. Someone who may need some discipline. When they look at me? They see someone important. Someone who is not suitable for incarceration.”
“You know, Bernie Madoff probably told himself the same thing,” I point out.
“Bernie Madoff pissed off some very powerful people.”
“You’ve pissed off the US government.”
Travis chuckles. “Yes, it seems I have. Maybe when they send me another cease-and-desist letter I’ll have it framed and give it to you as a gift.”
“And you’ve also pissed me off.”
Travis’s smile shrinks on his lips. “I know that what’s happening is part of Lander’s plan,” he says. “I won’t get locked up for it, but he’ll advance. And although I don’t know exactly who you are, I suspect that your original plan for me was darker.”
Again I shrug, refusing to acknowledge that he’s right.
“Did he mislead you, Bell? That would be Lander’s style.” He puts his hand in his jacket pocket and surveys the stream of pedestrians as they hurry past each other, all focused on their destinations or their phones, never really seeing what’s around them. “It’s funny,” he says. “You clearly think that I’m the bad brother. That I’m the one who deserves your wrath. But I’ve only misled you once, that time when I sent you to meet L.J., who sold you Tylenol crushed to look like cocaine. And even then I revealed the truth pretty quickly. On the whole I’ve been very straightforward with you, and to my memory I’ve never lied to you. Can you say the same about Lander?”
When I don’t answer he releases an exaggerated sigh. “It would be a pity if it turns out you picked the wrong brother to ally yourself with. But if you’re confident that Lander’s going to come through for you and that I’ll end up going to prison for this nonsense, perhaps you’d be interested in a little wager? If I go to prison I’ll give you a hundred—no, let’s say five hundred thousand dollars. If I get off without so much as a personal fine? Well, let’s see . . . I assume you don’t have half a million dollars at your disposal. But L.J. told me that you’re in need of a spanking, and I’m beginning to think he’s got a point. So if you lose I’ll have both you and L.J. come into my office, you’ll pull down whatever undergarments you have on, bend over his knee, and he’ll give you a few good whacks for the entertainment of me and a few male HGVB shareholders who you’ve inconvenienced. Perhaps afterward we can all watch that tape of Lander fucking you in the conference room. What do you say, do we have a bet?” He pauses a moment. “No? Not that confident?” He smiles again and taps his finger lightly against the side of my head. “You see? You’re not that stupid after all.”
“Neither are you, Travis,” I say, my voice so low he has to lean forward to hear me. “You know that I’m more dangerous than your brother ever was or ever will be, because unlike him, I have nothing to lose.” I reach out and smooth his lapel. “You better pray that they do send you to prison for this. Because if the rules don’t work for me, I’ll change them. You won’t see me coming. You won’t know what to expect. This will get dark.” I pause a beat, letting the weight of my words sink in. Then I smile the sweetest, most innocent smile in the world. I give his chest a light, friendly pat. “You should go. Your wife’s waiting.”
As I turn and walk away I feel satisfied that I’ve gotten my point across. But I pray that my small speech was simply showmanship for showmanship’s sake. I pray that the Justice Department will do what it’s meant to do: dole out justice. And of course it will. This is bigger than that whole Madoff thing. I try to imagine how I’ll react when I receive the news that Travis is about to be locked up fo
r money laundering. But I can’t.
I can’t quite imagine it happening at all.
chapter thirty-one
* * *
Exactly two weeks later I wake up to a newswoman’s voice floating through my iHeartRadio alarm. “It’s the biggest penalty every paid by a bank to the US government.”
I jump out of bed, still half-dazed with sleep but aware that the world is shifting on its axis.
“HGVB will pay $1.9 billion dollars to settle allegations of money laundering.”
I blink at my cell phone. Did she just say settle?
The voice switches to an audio clip of an announcement made by an official of the US Justice Department. “Today HGVB is paying a heavy price for its conduct.”
What did she mean, settle?
“US officials also say that HGVB allowed countries such as Iran, Cuba, and Syria to do business in the United States,” the newswoman continues, “allowing them to evade US sanctions.”
And they switch to a Justice Department official: “In the end, HGVB’s wholly inadequate anti-money-laundering practices and procedures left dangerous gaps that criminals readily exploited and abused.”
I look around the room, looking for some kind of sign that I’m still asleep. Surely this can’t be real; they’re making it sound like HGVB was just careless, like they were inept and therefore taken advantage of. But that’s not what happened! The Justice Department has emails proving that Edmund, Travis, Sean, and many others knew what was going on! Not only did they know, they did their best to accommodate the criminals, they solicited their business!
“As part of its settlement, HGVB has agreed to overhaul its compliance department,” the woman’s voice says. “In exchange the Justice Department agreed to defer prosecution indefinitely. They stopped short of leveling charges against individuals for criminal conduct.”
Everything in the room falls out of focus. I can hear that the newswoman is still talking, but I have no idea what she’s saying. I’ve lost the capacity to understand words.
I reach out my hand to steady myself against the wall.
There’s a mistake. I heard them wrong, there’s a mistake.
I blink my eyes a few more times, try to understand, try to focus on the woman’s voice. “At a press conference, Justice officials were repeatedly questioned as to whether or not they thought the penalty went far enough.”
“It’s a fiction to suggest that this isn’t a very robust result,” I hear a man explain, his voice coming through scratchy and strained. “We’ve gone after the traffickers, we’ve gone after the cartels, and we’ve held a financial institution accountable.”
But the cartels and traffickers were helped by individuals in the bank!
“However, if we had taken more extreme measures against HGVB, it would have had reverberations throughout the financial sector and cost thousands of jobs.”
The financial sector? Thousands of jobs?
Only two jobs needed to be lost: Edmund’s and Travis’s.
They still have their jobs!
My breath is coming too fast; I’m on the verge of hyperventilating.
And then everything just slows down; my breathing, my thoughts, my heart. I’m barely aware of having a pulse. The only thing that beats in my breast is a pounding, uncontrollable rage.
I place my hand against my poster of Bellona and with one hand I slowly rip it in half.
chapter thirty-two
* * *
I call in sick to work. It’s the third day in a row I’ve done that and I can tell that Mandy is losing patience, but I don’t care. For a short while my focus had been broadened. For a blink of an eye I had imagined a life that didn’t center around revenge and justice. This is the consequence of a blink. But now my focus, my hatred, and my voracious appetite for vengeance—it’s all back. And it’s those things that are driving me to HGVB.
When I arrive I go straight to Lander’s floor. As I ride up in the elevator the walls seem too close, the speed of my elevation too slow, like it’s trying to contain me. When the doors open I burst out and stride to Lander’s office as the receptionist at the front desk rushes after me, telling me I need permission to go to the executive offices.
The word executive crawls under my skin like a hated parasite. I find myself clenching my fists and picking up my pace as the receptionist calls for help. I fling the door open to Lander’s office. He’s there, standing behind his desk as three other men in suits are in various positions around the room, all leaning in toward Lander.
Lander, impeccably dressed and perfectly in his element, is commanding the room like . . . like a Gable. Like he belongs here, running this evil empire! Everyone here is focused on him . . . until they hear that door open and slam against the wall, and then their focus turns to me.
Before I can even open my mouth security is there. Two guards grab me by the arms and try to pull me away as I struggle.
“It’s all right,” Lander says, raising his voice above the chaos. “Leave her be, I’ll see her.”
As the guards loosen their grip, Lander turns to the other men in the room. “We’ll continue this later.”
“But, Mr. Gable, this must be dealt with immediately. The press—”
“—will wait,” Lander finishes for him. “Everyone can wait. Nothing in this settlement says that we have to work on a schedule set by CNN.”
The men look at each other and then reluctantly file out of the room as the security guards back away.
When the last man is gone and the door is closed, Lander finally turns his full attention to me. “I know what you’re thinking.”
I walk up to his desk, let my fingers caress the phone, black with dozens of buttons all designed to immediately connect Lander to a different department in this evil institution. In one swift move I pick it up and hurl it across the room, so it crashes against the wall. I then use my arms to sweep almost everything else off his desk, watching it clatter to the floor. I reach for the computer monitor that is still resting there and shove it off too.
The door to Lander’s office is flung open again. Once again it’s the receptionist and a security guard by her side, but Lander holds up his hand to stop them. “Just had a little mishap,” he explains to them sternly. “Please, no more interruptions.”
Again, the intruders back out as I stand before him, my chest heaving, my teeth clenched.
He clasps his hands behind his back and surveys the damage on the floor. “I don’t blame you for being angry.”
“You promised me.” The words come out as a growl. “You said we’d get them. You said they’d pay. This was the course that you put us on. This is your plan, a plan that you wanted me to leave in your hands for . . . what did you call it? The last lap of the relay? You lost the fucking race, Lander! You lost it for both of us!”
“It’s not over,” Lander says. His tone is soothing, gentle. It makes me want to scratch out his eyes. “I’m still looking for angles—”
“We’re not supposed to need another angle!” I scream. “This was the angle! The truth! We get them on money laundering, on trading with the enemy, on working with drug cartels. You said we had enough. That was you. My God, Travis and Edmund haven’t even lost their jobs!”
“My father handed in his resignation less than twenty minutes ago,” Lander says. “The board is insisting on it. It’s a blow to him; he lives for his job.”
“Oh, oh does he?” I put my hands over my heart in mock sympathy. “You know what my mother lived for? Me. She lived for me and she lived for the hope of a brighter future. They took all of that! She died alone and in disgrace! And wait, wait.” I back up and hold my hand up as if anticipating an interruption. “Let me see if I can get this right. I’m guessing that Edmund is going to say that this resignation has nothing to do with the hearings. He’s just getting a little too old for this shit and he wants to spend some chill time on his yacht.”
“He’s drafting a statement to give to the press now.
It will undoubtedly be delicately worded.”
“He’s crafting the statement? So he gets to be the one to put the spin on this? Wow. That’s just . . . Wow. What’s his golden parachute?”
“Adoncia, try to hear me. I’m not done with these people.”
“How much is the severance package, Lander?”
Lander hesitates a moment and then sighs heavily. “When you add it up, stock options and all, it comes to a little over sixty million dollars.”
I stand there, stock-still.
“I know this looks bad.”
“Oh my God.” The words come out a little above a whisper.
“Like I said, this isn’t over. And while Travis hasn’t been pushed out yet, I am working on it.”
“Why?” I ask, still too out of breath to raise my voice again. “So he can get a thirty-million-dollar severance package?”
“My father’s reputation is destroyed,” Lander continues. “He will no longer have any say in the company that his great-grandfather founded. He is no longer the almighty and powerful captain of industry. And when I find a way to reopen your mother’s case—”
“HGVB had to pay $1.9 billion to the United States government. What percentage of profits is that for your company?”
“Don’t do this, Adoncia. It was never about HGVB. It was about Travis, and Edmund and Sean.”
“All of whom were brought together and motivated by HGVB. Everything they’ve done has been under the protective umbrella of this organization. What’s the percentage?’
“I don’t know the exact percentage.”
“Lander.”
He pauses, his eyes wandering to the window before coming back to me. “It’s the equivalent of one month’s profits.”
Again I put my hand over my heart, but now it’s not in mockery, it’s in response to actual pain.
