by Ken Morris
“Cartel money in my account is my death warrant,” she said to Dawson, her face aflame, “and that simpleton banker says he does not have access to transfer information. What do you want from me?”
“You talking to me?” Dawson asked. “Yes. I guess you are. I’ve already got everything I need in life. If safety’s a concern, I can place you in the Witness Protection Program. You interested?” Dawson’s motion sickness disappeared.
“I have my own protection, you fool. You can’t get away with this.”
“Get away with what, Mrs. Guzman? Giving you immunity? That’s a done deal. Can’t transport you to Mexico? We’re halfway there. Can’t take those documents?” Dawson nodded and the man who had escorted her into the cabin wrested Hannah Neil’s pages from her hands.
“We’ll drop you off within the hour,” Dawson continued, “and we’ve arranged for land transportation to your villa. Director Ackerman wants me to express his gratitude for your cooperation.”
“I won’t cooperate with you. I will renounce this immunity agreement.”
“I don’t blame you,” Dawson said, his smirk widening. “Nevertheless, we will honor the terms. We are men of our word. You are immune, and will remain so.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
FERNANDO GUZMAN CHOSE THIS DAY TO SETTLE OLD SCORES. To gather courage, he focused on his brother’s death. Of one thing Fernando was certain: Sarah Brigston Guzman had done to her husband what she had done to her own father. She murdered them both.
As he approached the front gate without stopping, Fernando drove under the gate-arm, waved to the guard, and passed through without a search. In the old days, the soldiers had been steadfast and professional. Now? Now they were open to auction. For ten thousand U.S. dollars, Fernando could have parked an atomic bomb in the courtyard.
Fernando stumbled through that courtyard and down the esplanade, where he and his brother had once played as children, where he had not been welcome for the three years since Enriqué’s death. He continued up the stairs, no longer guarded by men with automatic weapons. A worker with a bucket and mop splashed water and cleaned the rust-colored esplanade. As Fernando passed, the worker nodded recognition before arching his back to continue his labors.
Fernando arrived at the heavy door with the brass knocker. He debated whether or not to knock. Out of habit, he knocked.
“Come in,” Sarah said.
Fernando opened the door and stepped in. He still shook at the sight of his sister-in-law. She not only had been a deadly force in his family’s life, but had schemed to torture him beyond human imagination. Despite the fact that her beauty had faded these last weeks, she still had the eyes of a devil. And as hard as he fought the thought, being in her presence sent him back into that hole for those three days. At night, he now slept with the lights on, and never again could he tolerate the dark. The risks of losing his mind were too great.
“Get out, Fernando,” she said, regarding him as nothing more than a silverfish, nibbling on a scrap of toilet paper. “I do not have time for you.”
She was on the phone, whispering to someone. Begging, Fernando guessed, for money, help, understanding, her life. He stood, unmoved and uncaring.
She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and repeated: “Out, you worthless old man.”
She looked away as Fernando pulled a handgun from his overcoat pocket. Nerves forced him to use both hands to steady his aim. But from ten feet, he did not miss.
For nearly a month after that climactic day at the beach, Peter and Kate didn’t have a single opportunity to talk at length in private. Peter was too busy with the legal system. He had arranged for Dawson to indict him on insider trading, knowing full well that the government would eventually drop the charges. But for the time being, Dawson made Peter look like a target, rather than a confederate. The ruse worked.
With her own mounting and potentially all-consuming problems— with the SEC, her clients, and Sarah Guzman—Stenman thought nothing of Peter. He wasn’t even a blip on her radar screen, and would stay that way for the foreseeable future. He was the forgotten man, and that was what he hoped to remain.
On the personal side of the ledger, Peter originally had intended to keep the story of Jason Ayers and his father to himself. It was one of those things, he had thought, better left buried in the past. But with all that had occurred, he understood he had to tell Kate.
“Our fathers were best friends and roommates in college,” Peter began, during the first chance he dared be alone with Kate. He told her everything he had learned. That her father had a gambling problem in college, bet on games, got in over his head, couldn’t repay his bookies. “His career was going to be ruined before it began. If exposed, he could never have gotten into law school, much less become a lawyer.”
“This is about a gambling debt, forty years ago? That’s what brought on all this misery?” Kate asked.
“Your father was in a jam, and kept doubling up on his bets. Then he said something that changed everybody’s lives. He told his bookie that his best friend was Matthew Neil, star wide-receiver. If it became necessary, he said, he could ask my father to help with a bet.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Point shaving. Jason intimated he could get my dad to drop a few passes, keep his team from covering the point-spread on a game. He hoped the boast would buy him time. But New York money, interested in betting on a sure thing, told him to put up or shut up. He approached Dad.”
“And your father agreed?”
“Dad said no. Jason then told him that the bets were already down, that his own reputation and life were on the line. Dad never admitted anything, not even to your father, but he dropped two passes in the end zone that Saturday. Had he made either catch, the point-spread would have been covered. The school quietly investigated, but with no money changing hands, they cleared Dad.”
“He saved Father, then.”
“Jason told me he was certain that those dropped passes were the reason Dad never turned pro—shame and concern that one day he’d be asked to help fix another game.”
“That’s awful, Peter. I’m sorry.”
“So was Jason, all those years. That’s why he was always trying to make it up.”
“All he did was make things worse, though,” Kate said. “Why did our fathers have a falling out later?”
“While my father was failing financially, Jason was becoming a supersuccessful attorney, with loads of money. One night, when all of you came to our house for dinner, Jason, who knew of Dad’s financial problems, tried to give him a check for fifty thousand dollars. Dad threw him out of the house and never spoke to him again.”
“Why? That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you knew Dad. He had given up his professional football dream for the sake of a close and important friendship, but never even spoke of it. When Jason later offered him money, he trivialized my father’s sacrifice, or so my Dad thought. He would never have done what he did for money.”
“I think I understand,” Kate said.
“Then try and understand your father as well. Jason lost a son. Always felt my dad’s cancer was the result of anxiety and guilt that he had caused. Then, when Guzman and Nuñoz murdered Mom, he fell apart. He began drinking and became afraid he’d lose you and your mother. I’m not saying he was faultless. He wasn’t, but he had reasons for what he did, and his demons were very real. That’s why he planned his own death. Aiming a starter’s pistol at a known killer amounted to suicide.”
“He did that to protect Mother and me, didn’t he?”
The way she asked the question made it seem rhetorical, which it was. She knew. Peter nodded anyway. “I’m certain of it. He understood that if he were dead, there’d be no advantage in anyone going after you or your mother. He couldn’t have predicted Sarah Guzman’s murder or that Carlos Nuñoz would disappear and end up in the middle of nowhere with nobody caring about his civil rights.”
A moment passed as they
held hands and digested what they’d shared. For the next ten minutes, they sat and spoke of related matters while Peter gathered courage. “Kate,” he finally said, softly.
“Yes?”
“Your father told me you broke off your engagement. He also said I needed to work at regaining your trust. I want to. I’d like us to start over, and this time, I’ll get it right. I’m not saying I won’t make mistakes. I will. What I’m saying is I won’t make the same ones all over again.”
Kate took Peter’s hand and squeezed. “More than friends?” she asked.
“Definitely,” Peter answered. This time they shared a meaning.
They kissed, then spoke for another minute. In mid-sentence, Kate interrupted herself: “How stupid of me. I almost forgot.” She reached into her purse. “A present for you.”
“A present? From you?”
“No. From the DA.”
“You mean Hanson? I’m afraid of what it’s going to be. After all, he was ready to personally punch my ticket.”
“He’s not such a bad guy, Peter.” Kate tried to keep a straight-face, but her mouth twitched and stretched into a grin. She then completely gave in and laughed. It was a short laugh, but healthy and real. “He’s got a good heart and he had a lot of reasons to doubt you. Hard to blame him. Here.” Her face glowed with anticipation.
She held out her hand and opened her palm, one finger at a time. When she had completed the dramatic unveiling, Peter couldn’t contain his surprise. Or delight. “My moonstone. I can’t believe he gave it back. Wasn’t it booked into evidence?”
“He owed you, and they didn’t need it to make their case. I told you, Hanson isn’t such a bad guy.”
“Tell him I said thanks.” Peter took the small oval and enveloped it in his fist. But, for the first time he could remember, he did not feel the need to rub it. He slipped the gem into his pant pocket, where the slight weight and heft again felt natural.
“You ready to go?” he asked.
Kate nodded.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
It is natural that the headlines we read focus on people who abuse investors — that’s what sells newspapers and jacks up TV ratings. It is also natural that a novel like Man in the Middle contains its share of fictionalized bad apples — that helps sell books and moves the story along.
It is also a truism that evil people abound in the financial markets. I’ve seen them, been in the same rooms with them, fought trading battles with them (won some but lost a lot, too), and watched, sometimes in awe, at their criminal aplomb. Sad but true, they got away with it in 99 percent of the cases.
I can now say it: My Street experience brought me plenty of good with the bad. It was filled with friends and acquaintances who did their jobs the right way, plugging away, day after day, year in and year out, fighting the fight with the rulebook tucked tightly under their arms. Many of these individuals deserve recognition for the example they set, and the friendship and inspiration they provided me — then and now.
This is also a chance to encourage their email contact. Ten years is a long time to neglect friends and those whom I held in high esteem for so long. My dropping out was one thing, but a decade of no-contact is far too long. (I encourage contact through my new webpage at www.financialthriller.com.)
First, my belated thanks to those who worked with me and whose memory I continue to carry in my heart:
Betty Wood, Palmer Smith, Carole Machold, Jack Gaffney, Scott Schaefer, Ray Fernandez, Ulrike Zeilberger, Priscilla Coker, Jay Rodin, Regina McSloy, Nancy Bennett, George Christophersen, Pat Fallon, Jim O’Donnell, Kevin Ertell, Mike Doherty, Brad Bilgore, Bill Scovin, Allison Campenelli, Helene Pientek, and George Vesos.
Second, I had the privilege of conducting business with a large cross-section of institutional clients I greatly respected and who I continue to hold in high esteem. By and large, they were tough (a necessary trait in their profession), but they were also fair and honest, and thus need to be thanked for their professionalism: Barbara Palma, Lou Simpson, Fiona Biggs, Don Strand, Grace McLaughlin, John Shapiro, Glen Greenberg, Rusty Robinson, David Schaefer, Tony Campbell, Alex Lamont, Andy Kneeter, Rod Reed, Roger Yates, Billy Joyner, David O’Connell, Allison Hockler, Kathy Burns, Arch Spencer, and Gloria Westlake.
Other Wall Street citizens who I continue to think highly of are: Rod Berens, Mike Gallo, Michael Kaye, Ed Braniff, Bob Boiarski, John Mack, Dick Fisher, Mitchel Fromstein, and Amy Bonoff.
As I was preparing this section of the book, I encountered the name of another man whom I held in enormously high regard—Jim Gantsoudes. Upon checking, I discovered he had passed away several years ago. That news saddened me greatly. I nearly went to work for Jim at Morgan, Stanley’s Chicago office before being assigned to block trading in New York. He was talented, kind, and a gentleman. I wish his family well.
To all those mentioned, I continue to look back fondly at our association. To the hundreds of others I may have inadvertently omitted, I beg your forgiveness.
I’d be greatly remiss, too, if I failed to single out my mentor from the day I first parked my wet-behind-the-ears self on the Morgan, Stanley trading desk. One of the most talented block traders in the history of the financial markets, if not the most talented, Dick “Skyball” King had the character of a near-saint and the patience of a kind father, all rolled into one. I could never repay him for the lessons he taught me.
With respect to the creation and dissemination of Man in the Middle, I need to lavish special praise on my publisher, Bruce Bortz, and his firm, Bancroft Press, not just for his input in the novel itself, but for his penchant for dreaming big dreams. His work ethic, determination, and doggedness would have made him a Wall Street titan, had he chosen that route instead of the more difficult pathway of publishing.
To my dear friend Leiv Lea, an accountant/CFO extraordinaire, and his wife Deborah, thanks for reviewing the earliest version of this work and the helpful feedback.
I would also like to single out Joel Fishman for pulling my manuscript out of the slush pile and encouraging my early writing efforts. Without his input, Man in the Middle would never have been completed.
Finally, to Paul Korngiebel and Hilary Hinzman, your comprehensive review and literate commentary improved the final product greatly. Thank you.
KEN MORRIS
Del Mar, CA
Author photo: Michael Campbell,
Michael Campbell Photography
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A Southern California native, Ken Morris obtained his undergraduate degree from UC-Santa Barbara, and his MBA from UCLA. In the 1980s, he became a stock trader for Morgan, Stanley in New York, and by the age of 31, had become a celebrated, much-sought-after trader operating at the highest levels of the world’s capital markets.
In 1992, at the tender age of 39, he stunned and perplexed the financial world by turning his back entirely on Wall Street. Returning to California, he set up a part-time consulting practice, and began devoting himself to his family and to writing. Man in the Middle, the first of his financial novels to be published, has already received attention from The London Times' City Diary and Jim Cramer's RealMoney.com. His next novel, The Chosen Man, is due out in March 2004.
He lives in Del Mar, California, with his wife, a fund manager, and their four sons.
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