Frame-Up

by Gian Bordin

  In fact, they are standing right behind me. Somes’ facial expression leaves no doubt that she doesn’t like me talking on the phone, as if I were already conspiring against them.

  "All right. I’ll call in a favor from one of my fellow lawyers, and don’t say a word until he is there. You got that? To which station are they taking you?"

  "I guess the Snow Hill Station." Turning to Willis, I ask: "Is that correct, sir?"

  "Yes," he replies.

  "Thanks, dad. I knew I could count on you. Bye."

  Without waiting I inform Willis that my father is arranging for a lawyer to be present during any interview.

  The drive to the City is slow, the traffic heavy. Peter Crawford, the lawyer my father sent, looks to be in his early forties, a head taller than I, and I top five foot seven. A gaunt, somewhat sullen face, drawing the eye irresistibly to his large nose. His clothing hangs loosely on a bony frame. I notice that his shoes need polishing. Whenever he talks, his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. It’s hard keeping my eyes off it. Not the image of the dashing and eloquent defense lawyer portrayed in TV court dramas who will have all charges dismissed against all odds. However, he seems to know his business. He insists that we be given privacy for a briefing first. His facial expression and his questions remain stoic, completely uninvolved, while I tell my story. Nothing provokes any reaction, except for a slight raising of the right eyebrow when I report Gary’s demand that I perjure myself. He strongly advises against that.

  The police interview itself is largely a repeat of the first one, except that Somes doesn’t ask uneducated questions about insider trading. She must have done her homework. This time it is recorded. They probe extensively around how I learned about the rumor on the Lufthansa contract and why and how I tried to verify it. They throw in Garland’s claim that few insiders gave it credibility, so why did I? Willis wants to know why I did not ask my boss for advice, and I reply that the latter just recently chided me to do my own research. Crawford remains silent during most of the interview. Before answering the question about my contact at Goldsax, I briefly look at him, and he nods. I assume that this means to tell the truth. After more than an hour, Willis finally comes out with his accusation.

  "Miss Walker, the way you went about executing this sale transaction and your justification for the steps you undertook also fit neatly into a rather different scenario. In fact, I posit that you had advance information about Singapore Airlines going to sign with Sanvino, and you either knew of the rumor about the Lufthansa contract and/or after being told by Edward Long saw an opportunity for a sudden windfall by getting Ventura to sell their shares, obviously not letting them know that you were the buyer, and then sold them promptly once the price had risen after the information about the Singapore Airline deal was made public. Being an intelligent woman, you tried to cover your tracks by first seeking confirmation of the Lufthansa rumor, most likely via an accomplice, and then tried to go around the insider trading prohibition by having a third party do the buying and selling for you. I suggest that you come clean now, make restitution for the damages you have caused, and I will do my best to convince the prosecutor to ask for a non-custodial sentence. I think this would be in everybody’s best interest."

  Very neatly put, offering both a carrot and a stick, I have to admit, except I’m not going to bite. Crawford preempts my response. "Miss Walker, do not deign this with an answer." Addressing Willis, he continues: "Detective Inspector, are you trying to charge my client on the basis of some speculative scenario, naively giving credence to the accusation of Miss Walker’s former boss and not backed up by a single piece of concrete evidence? Let me assure you that I could easily come up with at least another half dozen equally plausible scenarios that fit the circumstances and show that my client is simply another victim, such as, for instance, that one of Miss Walker’s colleagues or even Mr. Garland himself is involved. If this is all you have, Miss Walker and I will now leave." Without waiting for a response, he briefly touches my arm and says: "Let’s go, Miss Walker."

  I hear Willis talk into the microphone: "Interview terminated at 5:54 p.m.." A click indicates that he has shut off the machine.

  Somes’ red face advertises her frustration. She glares at me menacingly. We leave without saying good-bye. Neither of us speaks until we are outside on the street.

  "Thank you, Mr. Crawford, for your help. Simply having you at my side gave me courage."

  He acknowledges this with a nod.

  "Mr. Crawford, as I told you, I made a bad call in this matter, but I did nothing illegal or unethical. I want you to believe me that I told the truth."

  Again, he raises his right eyebrow. "Miss Walker, at this point I am not interested in your guilt or innocence. In fact, I prefer not to know. I will defend your legal rights to the best of my ability. Good night." He turns abruptly, before I can return his goodnight wish. I keep staring after him, wondering, until he is swallowed by the crowd. Is he that off-putting with everybody or only with his clients?

  Rather than go home directly, I chance to catch my father still in his office. I do and tell him in detail what has happened so far. He is sweet and supportive. "Cecilia, you will weather this. They have no evidence and only run on speculation."

  His words give me courage and I feel closer to him than ever.

  Monday, 9:20 p.m.

  Repeated calls to Gary’s cell phone remained unanswered. It is getting late before I finally reach him on his home number. I come right to the point: "Gary, I was again interviewed by the police, this time in the presence of my lawyer —"

  "And did you do what I told you to do? Tell them that you never talked to me about the Lufthansa contract?"

  "No, I didn’t —"

  "You promised —"

  "No, Gary, I never promised. I told you that I was not going to perjure myself, and this is also the firm advice of my lawyer."

  "You’re totally useless. You simply leave me in the shit, only think of yourself and how to save your own fucking ass."

  "Gary, listen to yourself —"

  "You listen to yourself. I warned you what I’ll do if you don’t retract your statement, and don’t think I won’t."

  "Gary, how can you be like this? Does all we had in the past —"

  "Forget about the past. You messed up my future, my promotion. If the past counts anything for you, then get me out of this shit."

  "I’m sorry you feel that way. I thought —"

  "I don’t care what you thought."

  It sounds like a gunshot when he slams down the phone, and then the line is dead.

  I was standing next to a kitchen counter during the exchange. Now I sink into a chair. I notice that my vision is blurring. Somehow this exchange has taken more out of me than the police interview. The latter was something external, something I could fight with logic and reason. The row with Gary threatens my self-image, my self-esteem. It makes me doubt my judgment in people, leaving me confused, at a loss of how to respond, hurting. Is this the end between Gary and me?

  I seek refuge in the bathroom, see my despondent expression in the mirror and try to wash it away with cold water. Gary’s electric toothbrush and toothpaste sit in a corner of the vanity. He is very particular about the brand, not liking my choice. Two Bic disposable razors, shaving foam, and a small bottle of aftershave cologne are in the mirror cabinet. The bathroom towels I always set out for him hang on the heated towel rail next to mine. It is only ever turned on for him. Will he use them again, I wonder? I leave them hanging. I’ll remove them the next time I’ll wash all towels.

  Tuesday, 21st October, 0:01 a.m.

  The precious Neuenburger clock in the living room — a graduation present of my grandparents on my mother’s side — has just struck midnight. I went to bed an hour ago, but sleep refused to rescue me. I tossed and turned, my thoughts exploring my relationship with Gary like searching through a maze. I got stranded in one blind alley after the other, the looked-for, yet undefined r
esolution evading my search.

  My lawyer’s remark that I could be the victim of a scam by one or several of my colleagues, or even my boss, keeps intruding on my thoughts. They all knew that Ventura was holding twelve million Sanvino shares. The boss made a big splash about it when I landed that deal a bit over a year ago, setting me up as an example to my colleagues. I guess that’s what triggered the cooling in their attitudes toward me. Up till then, they simply saw me as the token toward the Securities and Futures Association’s call for more female members. From their behavior I guess several were convinced to bed me sooner or later. Suddenly, the unthinkable happened. A female might eclipse them. I metamorphosed into a threat to their male egos. Long’s gibes all at once turned vicious. If some of the other colleagues had kept their distance prior to that, their glee and laughs egged him on for more.

  Could it be that I’m simply the butt of a joke somebody played on me on the spur of the moment? A joke that went horribly wrong? Somebody tricking me? Misleading me with a rumor about the Lufthansa contract getting cancelled? Suggesting that I check with Goldsax and then maybe even making sure that my inquiries confirmed the rumor? And how could that be arranged? I don’t like the answer that suggests itself. Everybody in the office knew that Gary is my boyfriend. I was bound to ask him. Could he have been involved? Like stirred by an insidious worm I remember that he never complimented me on my success as a stockbroker. Did I not more than once catch a whiff of jealousy that my commission earnings exceeded his? Could jealousy have induced him to go along with the joke? This would explain why he suddenly panics when he sees the joke backfiring on him? I feel the heat rise in my cheeks for even thinking along these lines.

  Or is it even more sinister, something carefully planned, days, possibly weeks ago? This would imply that the perpetrator knew of the prospects for the Singapore Airlines deal already a while ago. Could Long have known about it? He flies Singapore Airlines whenever he can and has hinted more than once that he gets specials deals. So he might have a source inside that company who tipped him off.

  Crawford is right; it is easy to think up plausible scenarios that fit the circumstances. For some I’m no more than a gullible victim of a sick joke. For others I’m the target of a carefully set trap that allows them to portray me as a schemer who uses insider trading to profit from possibly privileged information. In all scenarios my client loses two million pounds and I’m finished. The threat of a female surpassing them is removed. But discovering what really happened seems near impossible. Whoever might have done it would hardly have left any clues sitting around, or would they? A word here, a whisper there, was all that was needed to launch me on my path of self-destruction. Now they will only have to sit tight and they’ll be safe. If this is what really happened, then my only course of action is to wait and hope that the police will ultimately drop the investigation for lack of evidence. I will never be fully cleared. A cloud of suspicion will remain hanging over me, becoming an obstacle for any new career in a position of trust.

  Tuesday, 6:45 a.m.

  Although I turned off the alarm clock, I wake promptly at my usual time. Force of habit drives me out of bed before the realization sinks in that I need not get ready for work. There is no work, at least not the type I’m paid for. I go through my usual morning routine, maybe at a more leisurely pace than the day before. After a shower and shampooing my hair, I automatically reach for my ‘business uniform’ and startle myself with: "Ceci, put that way to the back of the wardrobe." Instead, I don my tracksuit, eat a bowl of cereal and fruit, and drink a strong espresso.

  The sky is a milky blue. I might as well take advantage of this forced holiday and go for a run in Kensington Gardens, I tell myself. Forty-five minutes later I’m back in my apartment, ready for another quick shower. I feel physically good. There is nothing wrong with my fitness. What’s wrong is all in my mind. Being dumped by Gary and its possible unsavory reasons weigh heavily on me; this feeling of helplessness, of having lost control over my life; this uncertainty of the future. It was too sudden. How long is this whole thing going to take? What am I going to do until it’s over? Should I look for another job right away and what kind of job? I waitressed during my university years. It wouldn’t bother me to do it again for a short period, even if the pay is miserable. Does it though make sense to take another job as long as this investigation remains hanging over me?

  Maybe the first thing to do is a bit of financial planning. With all my commission due to me and my investments locked up with Lewis and no income, how long will I be able to survive on my current bank balance?

  I log on my bank’s web site and check the balance in my check account. 4,016.54 pounds — under normal conditions a sizable sum. Next I make a list of all nondiscretionary outgoings: mortgage payment for the apartment: almost 250 per week; building management levy: £80 per month; local rates: about £100 per month; health insurance: about the same; telephone and broadband access: £40; electricity: £60, maybe a bit more with winter approaching; fire and household insurance: not due for another eight months. That amounts to a bit more than £1300 a month. If I’m out of a job for two months, that leaves roughly 1400 pounds for food, transport, and everything else, or about £150 a week — enough to survive, I figure. However, if it takes any longer, I’ll be in trouble. It might be a good move to take advantage of the mortgage policy clause that permits me to go on an interest only payment schedule for a period of up to six months. That will reduce the mortgage payment to £150 a week and provide me with a welcome added buffer. If need be, I can also start charging certain outgoings to my gold credit card and simply make the minimum payment on it. Not an option to my liking. In my view, credit card interest rates are set at usury levels. And what if Carlo needs help again?

  Maybe I should promptly look for a manual job, just to be on the safe side. The idea of falling back on my father doesn’t appeal to me, although I may have to ask him to lend me the money for the lawyer. And first thing this morning I’ll go household shopping of a different kind than in the recent past. Rather than impulse buying, I’ll revert back to what I did during my MBA, i.e., shop for bargains, stock up on specials, buy cheap generic brands rather than expensive name brands, and forego treats that tempt my taste buds, drink the water from the built-in water filter in the kitchen rather than imported San Pellegrino with its heavy carbon footprint.

  Tuesday, 7:20 p.m.

  I’ve done the shopping, stocked up on staples for at least a week. My apartment is clean. I’ve done all the wash, including Gary’s bath towels and ironed what needed ironing. I’ve even ironed the kitchen towels, duvet cover and pillowcases, something I’ve never done in the past, but which my mother does almost religiously, and I’ve always viewed as a bit eccentric, if not outright superfluous.

  For dinner I eat a frugal risotto with fresh greens, while I replay the news that my DVD/HDD unit recorded earlier as usual. A way to skip over the advertisements and uninteresting parts of the news.

  Halfway through the news, the phone rings. I answer.

  "That police bitch pestered me again this afternoon." It’s Gary. He speaks rather louder than necessary. "When are you going to retract your statement? Telling them that you never spoke to me about fucking Sanvino."

  He is back on the old track. He really doesn’t know me if he expects that I back down on my word not to perjure myself. Maybe I should tell him once more.

  "Good evening, Gary. I thought that I made myself absolutely clear. I will not perjure myself, not to save my skin, or yours. You have done nothing wrong. At least that is what I believe …" I hesitate for a moment as the nagging doubt raises its head. "… or am I mistaken? Have you done something wrong?" I regret the words the moment they cross my lips. It’s bound to inflame the situation.

  "What the fuck do you mean? Is this what it’s all about?" he shouts.

  It hurts my ears. I hold the phone a bit away.

  "You bitch! Trying to implicate me to save your fucking ass?"<
br />
  I again wonder about his sudden use of foul language. It seems out of character. Gary has become a stranger.

  "No, Gary, I’m not," I reply, forcing myself to remain calm. "Look, the police have no evidence of any wrongdoing by you or by me. They are only trawling the waters based on unfounded accusations by my former boss."

  "So why the fuck say I did something wrong?"

  "Gary, I didn’t say that. I only asked you if you did."

  "You wouldn’t ask if you didn’t think so."

  "Please, Gary, let’s not fight. I’m sorry I said it. It just slipped out. I really don’t think you would do anything to hurt me. Please, believe me for old times sake."

  "Then call that bitch and retract your statement. I insist that you do that. You owe it to me."

  I’m getting tired of this repeated demand. "Gary, it would not help. They wouldn’t believe me anymore. And I’m not going to worsen my situation by perjury."

  "I warn you, you fucking do it or else." There is an earsplitting bang as he again slams down the phone.

  How could the man who I thought loved me turn so nasty within the space of two days? Am I getting to see a side of him I didn’t know existed? And will I ever be able to forgive him? This seems to be the final dead-knell to our relationship. For a moment I feel myself swamped by dismay, hurt, and then emptiness. Two years for nothing? Wasted?

  I make a deliberate effort to banish these thoughts and call on reason to rule my mind. This reminds me that he still has a key to my apartment and also knows the access code of the building entrance door. Fortunately the latter will soon be out of date. The building management changes it every two or three months.