A Statue for Jacob

by Peter Murphy

  ‘One reason we’re here today is to find out everything the family knows about Jacob’s loan certificates. Mr Powalski is going to be here this afternoon and tomorrow in the lobby, and I want everyone to talk to him. If you have some document or photograph at home that you could lend us; if you heard something from a grandfather or an uncle; even if it’s some story you heard, and you’re not even sure whether you believe it. Some detail that may seem unimportant may connect with a detail someone else has. So don’t be afraid to come forward and tell us whatever you know. We need all the help we can get. That’s the only way we can win.’

  Terri Ayles from St Louis.

  ‘I read in the newspaper that you’re expecting to get some crazy amount – more than $600 billion dollars – from the government. I don’t believe they even have that kind of money. How are you ever going to get them to pay that much?’

  There was some laughter around the room. I joined in.

  ‘I wish. No. Look, that’s just a number you come up with if you do the compound interest calculation. There’s no way the country could afford to pay that amount, and there’s no way I’m going to ask them to. We’re going to ask for a financial settlement, but I know Sam’s main goal is to make the government do something to recognise Jacob. If we can lay our hands on some evidence, I am confident that they will talk to us, negotiate with us.’

  ‘Who gets to decide how much we accept?’ Terri asked.

  ‘You do. Anyone who becomes a plaintiff has a say in what we accept. It’s not up to me. I will advise you about what I think is reasonable, but you have the last word.’

  ‘How do we get to be a plaintiff?’

  ‘It’s simple. You need to prove you are one of Jacob’s descendants. You can do that online. Arlene will show you how. You need to do a search and send the results to our website, and we will register you as a plaintiff. You don’t need to do a separate search for your children. If you are a descendant, so are they. Just make sure you list all your children on the website.’

  ‘Arlene said there was a fee of fifty dollars to register?’ Jack Simmons from Albuquerque asked.

  ‘That’s correct. Please understand that we will have significant expenses in investigating and following through with the case. The Department of Justice will represent the government and believe me, they are well-funded and efficient. They’re not about to roll over. We need a war chest.

  ‘What I can promise you is that we will not waste money. We are a lean machine. Apart from student interns, our entire team is here this weekend. I’m going to ask for help from any family members who are lawyers and are willing to help. But apart from that, if you ask me what kind of team we have to work on this, you’re looking at us. If you’re going to be part of this case, you’re going to have to help us, and I can’t promise you that fifty dollars will be enough. What I can promise you is that we will use it wisely, and I will also promise you that if I come to believe that the case is hopeless, I will advise you of that before we incur any further expenditure.’

  ‘Mary Jane Perrins from Boston, Massachusetts. What’s in this for you, Miss Harmon?’

  I’d been expecting that one, of course. But when it eventually came, it was disquieting. It wasn’t the question itself as much as the way it was asked, with more than a trace of suspicion, perhaps even hostility. The woman who asked it was a plain forty-something dressed in a Celtics T-shirt and blue jeans, all of it too tight, and she had sat through the entire meeting with her arms folded firmly across her chest. Mary Jane Perrins sounded like a woman with a chip on her shoulder. Why, I had no way of knowing, but there was no mistaking it.

  ‘Like all lawyers,’ I replied, ‘I work for a fee. In a case like this, the only realistic way is a contingency fee agreement, which means that I will take a percentage of any recovery. I have a standard fee agreement, which is in the form approved by the courts in Virginia, where I practice. You can find it on my website. Sam has signed it, and I will need anyone who registers as a plaintiff to sign it also. Please be assured that the more I recover for you, the smaller percentage I will take. Everything will be above board and transparent, and I will answer any questions you have as we go along.’

  There was some murmuring around the room as the family started to imagine what a percentage of $600 billion would look like. Sam and I exchanged glances. For a moment or two, the atmosphere had changed, and Mary Jane Perrins was smiling like a woman who had made her point. But she hadn’t quite finished.

  ‘Why can’t we have our own lawyers?’ she asked.

  ‘Each one of you is entitled to consult your own attorney,’ I replied, ‘and if you feel you need to check out what I’ve been telling you, please feel free to get a second opinion. But bear in mind that attorneys cost money, which we could be spending on the case.’

  ‘But why should you be handling the case?’ Mary Jane wanted to know.

  ‘Because Sam is the first plaintiff to file, and I am her attorney,’ I replied as calmly as I could. ‘Please understand that the court is not going to permit multiple lawsuits. That’s the whole idea of a class action – that we don’t have a series of cases about the same thing that drag on forever. I hope all of you can see that it would serve no good purpose at all to fight among ourselves. All that would do would make the government’s job a lot easier.’

  I was glad to see that most people in the audience were nodding in agreement, but I had the impression that Mary Jane was far from satisfied. Whether she would have spoken again, I don’t know. But at that precise moment, I saw Aunt Meg stand, slowly and majestically, and make her way forward towards the top table. That simple action reduced the whole room to silence. Sam walked over to meet her, and helped her negotiate the steps up to the platform. From the steps, Aunt Meg found her own way to the microphone.

  ‘You all know me,’ she began, ‘so I’m not going to waste my time introducing myself, and suchlike.’

  There was some affectionate laughter.

  ‘And you all know me well enough to know that when I have something to say, I get on and say it. And I have something to say now.’

  She paused for effect, and it worked.

  ‘I’m eighty-five years old, and nobody can prove different.’

  More laughter.

  ‘And for all those eighty-five years, I’ve been hearing about Jacob, and about the loans he made, and about how he saved the War of Independence, and about how the government doesn’t give a damn about it. And I was one of those who turned to congressmen for help in the past, and got nowhere. And that’s when I learned for myself that the government doesn’t give a damn. And, you know what? I’m sick to death of it.

  ‘I’ve been coming to these reunions since I was knee-high to a daisy, and all I’ve ever heard is talk, talk, talk, complain, complain, complain. “It’s not fair. It’s not right. Something should be done about it.” And you know what? In all that time, I’ve learned that this family is pretty damn good at complaining.’

  ‘You got that right, Aunt Meg,’ a male voice from somewhere said.

  ‘But we don’t seem to be too good at doing something to help ourselves. What have we ever done, except ask a few politicians politely whether they could find time to help us, and then give up when they didn’t follow through?’

  ‘Not a damn thing,’ the same male voice responded, even though I’m pretty sure Aunt Meg had intended her question to be rhetorical.

  ‘That’s right,’ she continued. ‘But today, we are being offered a chance to do something, and I think that we ought to be grateful to Sam and to Miss Harmon for starting this off, and for coming here to tell us about it and giving us all the chance to join in and help. There’s no way to tell whether we can win this thing. But, win or lose, at least we may eventually learn the truth. There are only two ways this can go. Either we win, and America finally honours Jacob van Eyck as it should; or we lose, and we f
inally know that all the stories we heard are just so much hogwash, or at least no one can prove otherwise.’

  She paused again.

  ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I think we win both ways. Even if we lose the case, at least we can stop obsessing about this, and we can stop boring each other to death with it every time we have a reunion. Maybe we can finally get a life.’

  This produced some applause and cheers across the room, though not from Mary Jane Perrins.

  ‘So,’ Aunt Meg, concluded, ‘what I want to say to this family this morning is: the time has come to either put up or shut up.’

  More applause and cheers.

  ‘I say thank you, Sam, and thank you, Miss Harmon, and now I’m going to put my money where my mouth is. I’m going to talk to Miss Arlene, and pay my fifty dollars and get myself signed up for this thing, and I hope you will all join me. And then, I’m going to talk to Mr Powalski until he can’t stand to listen to me any more, and I’m going to tell him everything I know. And I hope you will all join me in doing that, too.’

  21

  At the end of a long afternoon, we left the lobby together, rode the elevator to the tenth floor, and gathered in our suite, where we collapsed into chairs and on to the sofa. Sam and I kicked off our shoes in grateful unison. For some time, we were all silent, sipping the Cokes and coffees we had brought up with us.

  ‘Well, I thought that went pretty well,’ I ventured tentatively. I wasn’t sure I entirely believed that. I had talked to so many people over the past few hours, trying so hard to sound positive to them all, that my head was spinning and my smile felt as though it was hard-wired in place on my face. I could easily have sat where I was without saying another word for the rest of the day. But we were all tired, and some encouragement was needed.

  ‘Thanks to Aunt Meg,’ Sam replied. ‘Wasn’t she great?’

  ‘She’s something,’ Arlene said, ‘that’s for sure, and she sure did get them energised. But y’all did great, too. Ain’t that right, Powalski?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he replied. ‘I heard some great comments about you both. They liked you, and they liked what you had to say. You walked them up to the gangplank, and Aunt Meg made sure they came on board.’

  ‘Which is just where we need them,’ Arlene said.

  She swigged her Diet Coke. She had made a quick diversion to the bar as we were winding up in the lobby, and I wouldn’t have put money on her drink being entirely unadulterated. But what the hell. She deserved it, and we were in New Orleans after all. And it was nice of her, and of Powalski, to say what they did, even if they felt as unsure as I did.

  I smiled. ‘OK, but what do we have to show for it? How many do we actually have on board?’

  There was no immediate reply.

  ‘Arlene?’

  Arlene retrieved her briefcase, which she had thrown down beside her chair, reached into it, and extracted a file folder. She opened the folder and took her time thumbing through a pile of paper. Finally, her pencil moved up and down a list of some kind, indicating some mental arithmetic going on.

  ‘Actually, we’re doing pretty good. If my addition is right, I have forty-two signed up as plaintiffs, and a bunch more who say they will do it online, once they figure out how many children they have.’

  We laughed, a bit too loudly, but it was good to release.

  ‘They don’t know how many children they have?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Well, that’s what it sounded like. Maybe they meant they had to talk to their kids or grandkids first before they signed up. I’m sure some of them were bullshitting me, but I figure we’ll get some more. And it’s early days; don’t forget that. We had people with us in the lobby most of the day, and the news is going to hit the street once the reunion’s over and they all go home to spread the word.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Sam said. ‘But I don’t think Mary Jane Perrins from Boston, Massachusetts, will be signing up any time soon, do you?’

  Arlene snorted. ‘Jeez Louise, what a piece of work she is. I mean, I’m not exactly warm and fuzzy myself, but I’m telling you, you could freeze ice on that broad’s ass. Lord have mercy. But don’t lose any sleep over Mary Poppins, y’all. She’s not the kind that’s gonna make friends and influence people. I mean, would you want to spend time with that?’

  ‘She could make trouble, though,’ Powalski said, ‘all on her lonesome, if she wants to. I don’t think we’ve heard the last of her.’

  ‘She will be complaining as long as anyone will listen to her,’ I agreed. ‘But there’s nothing we can do about that for now. Did you learn anything from all those folks you talked to?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘Matter of fact, I found out all about Jacob’s loan certificates.’

  Needless to say, we were all jumping out of our seats on hearing that, and Powalski had to raise a hand to indicate that he was speaking in an ironic vein. We collapsed back again.

  ‘According to who you ask, the certificates: never existed; or did exist, but were lost by Jacob or by his family; or burned by the Brits in 1814; or were eaten by a dog; or were taken to France for safekeeping; or were taken to London for safekeeping; or were entrusted to someone in the family, and their descendants are hiding them away – there are several suspects around the country – or, well, you name it. There are almost as many stories as there are family members.’

  It was as though the air had been sucked from the room. We were deflated, and the weariness descended again.

  ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings,’ he said, and I think he really meant it. Powalski was on board himself by now. It wasn’t just another case for him, any more than it was for me. ‘But actually, I think I may have picked up on something.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said encouragingly.

  ‘Well, don’t read too much into this, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘OK. Well, as many stories as I heard, there was one that I heard any number of times. The dog that ate the certificates I only heard once, but this one I must have heard fifteen or twenty times. It has some variations, but basically the story is that Jacob took some of the certificates to a loan office to try to collect his money.’

  ‘That would have been the proper procedure,’ I said.

  ‘Right. But when he got there, he was told the government didn’t have the money –’

  ‘They didn’t,’ Sam confirmed.

  ‘Right. So the story goes that the loan officers told him they needed to take the loan certificates to the Department of the Treasury, to verify them and arrange payment. Now, depending on when this happened, he could have done that himself. The Treasury was in Philadelphia until 1800, because that’s where the seat of government was at that time; it didn’t move to Washington until 1800. But in any case, the Treasury never did arrange payment, and those certificates haven’t been seen since. One or two family members said they paid him something, a small sum to fob him off, but they never paid anything approaching what the certificates were worth, and after that, he had no evidence that he had ever loaned any money: end of story. But most of them said that after the first batch disappeared, Jacob gave the remaining certificates to someone he trusted to look after them in the event of this death, and as we know, he died in 1812.’

  I suddenly felt cold, though it was rather too warm in the room. I stood and walked to the window and gazed down on to St. Charles Avenue for some time, my arms folded tightly across my chest, watching the cars drive slowly past the hotel. The story fifteen or twenty members of the family had told Powalski resonated with me. How could it not? I’d been there. I’d seen and heard part of it. But I couldn’t tell anyone that, and it didn’t bring us any nearer to solving the problem. I came back as Sam was in the middle of asking me something and I had to ask her to repeat it.

  ‘Kiah, if that’s true, the government may still have at least some of the certificates. It can
’t be hard to find out where they would have stored documents once the loan offices had been closed. They had to take them somewhere for safekeeping, and from there – well, they would have been moved around from time to time, but once we had the National Archives, that’s where they would have wound up, wouldn’t they?’

  Before I could answer, Arlene stood, walked behind Sam and gently put her arms around her neck.

  ‘I wish,’ she said, ‘but in your dreams, hun.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Sam asked. She sounded hurt.

  ‘Hun, if you worked for the government and you had loan certificates that might cost the government billions one day, what would you do with them? I know what I’d do, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be storing them in the National Archives, or anywhere else. I’d be feeding them straight into the shredder.’

  Tears were forming in Sam’s eyes.

  ‘They didn’t have shredders in those days,’ she protested sullenly.

  ‘Maybe not,’ Arlene replied, not unkindly, ‘but they had discovered the secret of fire, and they probably used it – assuming the Brits hadn’t already done it for them.’ She bent down and kissed Sam on the top of her head. ‘Sorry, hun, but maybe we need to face the facts.’

  I returned from the window.

  ‘It’s not necessarily that simple,’ I said. ‘For one thing, governments aren’t always as well organised as that. Governments depend on civil servants, and civil servants tend to hoard things. They say the Nazis hoarded enough paper to convict them all several times over. Besides, no one would have thought in terms of billions of dollars back then. That’s two hundred years later.’

  ‘Maybe so, but it was still a pretty large sum,’ Powalski said quietly. ‘Arlene’s right: it has to be possible that someone got rid of the certificates while they had the chance.’