The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey) (11 page)

Holland released his grip
and the music came back into Porter’s ears.  The horns finished their vibrations and as if from Heaven, Porter heard his name and felt the heat of a bright light.  “Let’s hear it for Porter and Paloma,” said Harry as he transitioned to his next song.

Porter’s legs walked away from Holland as Paloma pulled him back toward their table, but his eyes stayed affixed to th
e monster.  Holland matched Porter’s gaze.  As the distance grew between them, Holland let a curl form on his lips as he slowly mouthed one word, “Porter.”

Chapter 11

Mexican Hillbillies

December 2011

Only Connie knew the full extent of Porter’s fortune. 
Early in his professional career, Porter realized wealth was not difficult to acquire...when he used other people's money.  Running orders for the well-connected money managers and traders at the Chicago Board of Exchange provided him with this understanding and his sizeable net worth.

Just as the key to surviving to
high school was by making Arnie Goldberg his friend, Porter used the same logic when he befriended Bart Dorton, a trader for another firm who anonymously executed all of Porter's personal trades without question. 

Porter's trades were based on his ingenious new model of letting smarter people do the work
for him.  All he was required to do was to piggy-back their orders. When Porter saw an order to buy 20,000 contracts of pork bellies was being created by one of the house accounts, he knew the house had been tipped off and was exploiting the collective ignorance.  He then front ran their orders by calling Bart with his own small order, so as to not draw attention, before those of the house were able to be executed.

After three years of this business practice, or criminal activity, depending on one’s perspective, Porter had turned $1
0,000 into $21.9 million.  Had his scheme been detected by regulators, Porter would have spent his days repelling unwanted advances by other perps in a Federal penitentiary.  But the open secret on the trading floor was that no real audit was ever conducted of those who worked for the institutions.  Audits were reserved for the individuals; giving the illusion that the watchdogs were going after the wrong doing, while they in fact, let the real scofflaws earn massive wealth and avoid any time in orange jumpers.

Porter knew this is how society existed. 
Those on the trading floors both knew more than the average investor and traded the market with inside information.  Thus, he justified his strategy of wealth accumulation and the access to the upper echelons of society this wealth provided as a leveling of the playing field for the average Joe.  A kind of Robin Hood with a trading pad...and a gun.

Masking his wealth
, however, was a more difficult task than entry into the upper class, and required one's daily focus; a job perfectly suited for his big sister Connie.  While working, Porter used Bart to disguise his trades through numerous separate accounts.  To further cloak his net worth, Porter took two years to transfer half his funds to various other retail brokerage accounts.  He still front ran the institutional orders, but in the other accounts he placed large bets on the internet infrastructure stocks. 

By November 1999, Porter’s accumulation phase was nearing its end and his net worth totaled just under $800 million. 
The pride he felt for having accumulated such a sum was only surpassed by what he felt for having never made the Forbes or Fortune magazine's lists of wealthiest Americans.  Porter was well aware the astronomical improvement of his net worth in seven years by one who only earned a high school diploma was unheard of, and would certainly be suspicious to the authorities.  But only Connie knew and he knew she would never betray his trust.

As wise investors do, Porter diversified his holdings.  For him,
owning property in the state he had called home was of paramount importance.  Most locals paid little attention to his one hundred acre farm along the banks of the Red Creek near Dolly Sods, West Virginia.  His thirty head of Black Angus cattle, dozen pigs, and three dozen chickens, as well as his orchard of apples, plums, and paw paws were all cared for by Luis Gomez, his wife Marlena, and their boys, Luis Jr., Victor, and Esteban.  The color this family added to a county of mostly Scottish and Irish descendants would have been viewed with disdain a generation before, but the polite, hardworking, and faithful parishioners of Epiphany of the Lord were welcomed in this northeastern county. 

The locals were curious about the stranger who had purchased the old Tilson farm but never lived there, and Luis handled their questions smoothly and with the utmost concern for Porter’s privacy.  When asked where his employer lived, Luis would respond
in his heavily accented English, “Mr. Porter has many homes.  I do not know where they all are.”  Or when the questions turned to the more personal side, such as if he had a family or where he was from originally, Luis would confide little.  “Mr. Porter is very private man.  I do not know much about his personal life.”  But when asked what it was like to work for his employer, Luis would gush, “Mr. Porter is very, very good to work for.  He lets me run the farm the way I know it should be.  He has been very, very good to me and my family.  When he meet me in Mexico, in Mazatlan, I was working for $10 a day herding cattle.  He was buying part of the herd and I see him watch me do my job.  He tell me he thought I do a good job and he ask if I would like work for him in the U.S.” 

“But do you kno
w what his next question was?" Luis asked, pausing for emphasis, "‘Do you go to Mass every week?’  I thought that was strange question to ask, but I tell him yes, of course.  So he met with me and the padre and the padre tell him I am a good man.  And that is that,” Luis said, moving his hands together as if he was wiping his palms clean.  “He get visas for me and my family and I have been working for him seven years now.  My sons all speak English and are getting a good education and we are safe.  Mazatlan can be very dangerous.  And I make more in a year here than I would have made in my life in Mazatlan.  So, Mr. Porter is a very, very good man.”

Porter’s
warm smile was recognizable to the locals as they had seen him on occasion driving his red F-150 to and from Moorefield to get supplies, or to do his banking at the Grant County bank.  What Luis knew that the county residents did not know, was that Porter's wealth was substantial.  Though he did not disclose the full amount of his largess to Luis, Porter provided enough detail to impress that his modest appearance was yet another disguise. 

Never doubting
Luis’s loyalty, Porter explained his plans to build a barn fifty yards behind the house on the same location as the current, but well-worn one.  “So, the barn will be a standard 54’ x 48’ building with a post and beam layout.  We’ll house all the equipment that’s in the barn now in the new one, but we’ll have a lot more room to house animals if we need, as well as other supplies as we grow the farm.”

“Sound good
,” said Luis.

“But
,” started Porter, sounding like a five-year old on Christmas Eve, “I’m going to add a room, hidden underground.”

Puzzled, Luis ask
ed, “You mean like a place to be safe from a storm?”

“Yes
,” added Porter with a smirk, “But not from a storm created by Mother Nature.  I recently encountered a situation which makes me think a time will come when I may need to protect my wealth, and maybe myself, in a place that only you and I know exists.  So, we’ll dig an extra fifteen feet down for the chamber.  And I want to build a tunnel system that goes out in four directions.  One will connect to the house and come up in the garage.  The other three will go east, west, and south.  But," Porter paused as he placed both hands on Luis's shoulders, "you cannot tell anyone about this.  If it ever comes to the point where someone comes looking for me, I don’t want your boys or Marlena to have to lie.  I’m not sure they could even if they wanted to.”

“Oh
, they can Mr. Porter,” Luis said with a laugh. “Especially Victor when I ask him if he cleaned the chicken coop.  But you are right to not have them know. I just not sure how do we dig it without them knowing?  If I bring excavator here they will be jumping down in the hole for sure.”

Porter pounced on the question with a quick answer and a big smile.  “
That's the fun part.  We bring in the excavator and we tell your boys we're digging it extra deep to use the dirt for a moto-cross trail we’re building for their four-wheelers.”

Another puzzled look from Luis.  “But
they no have four-wheelers,” he stated, not understanding Porter’s implication.

“T
hey will,” Porter said, beaming as if he was their proud uncle.

“No
," protested Luis, now understanding. "That is too much, Mr. Porter.”

“Listen
, Luis,” said Porter, “I love your boys just like nephews.  We’ve got all this land here and there is so much to explore up on Dolly Sods.  Your boys would love it.  Let me do it for them.” 

Luis said nothing
as he looked at the ground. 

Sensing he may have emasculated Luis a bit, Porter offered an alternative.  “Look, this is going to be extra work that’s not a normal part
of caring for the farm.  Because I need to have it finished yesterday, I will be paying you a year's wages to have it done before Christmas.  You and Marlena can get the four-wheelers for the boys, and I won’t be involved with it at all.  How's that?”

Luis's eyes were now wide with disbelief and searching Porter's expression to confirm what he had just said.  "A year's
wages?" asked Luis.

"You bet
," added Porter.  "We have to move fast to get it done in the next three weeks.  I don't trust the winter weather up here to hold off until January. And the other non-natural storm system could come at any time."

W
ith a more relaxed look, Luis smiled and said, “Ok, Mr. Porter.  Thank you.  You are very kind.  But how do we keep...?” 

Porter interrupted,
“How do we keep the boys from seeing the tunnels?"

"Y
es," answered Luis.

"They'll
have to be gone for us to get that part finished,” said Porter, wearing another wry smile.  “It's been a while since Marlena and the boys visited the family in Mazatlan, right?”

Luis matched Porter’s smile and said, “
Sí, señor.  A very long time.”

Chapter 12

Professors
and Pigs

January 2012

The a
nticipation of an inevitable showdown with Holland consumed Porter's thoughts.  Despite their best efforts, the new barn and tunnels were finished on December 27th.  The subterranean command center already housed $98 million in stacks of cash, gold bars, and silver coins with more arriving each week.  Though his bunker could be a refuge for him, he was not reassured.  His feeling of concern, bordering on fright, had caused him many sleepless nights as he attempted to play out the scenarios in which he would next encounter his nemesis.

To his surprise and elation,
Connie's number showed on his phone.  "Hey," he said.

"Hey kiddo.
  You back in Chicago?"

"
Yup.  Just got back a couple of days ago."

"You doing ok?" she asked.

"Doing fine," Porter said unconvincingly.

"You sure?" she asked.

"Yeah.  It's just I can't shake the thought of a surprise visit by Holland."

"
I thought something was off," said Connie, "You don't sound your normal, chipper self.  So, let me try and lighten your mood."

"Please,"
he said.

"You still have that tracker on Holland's car right?"

"I do.  I'm kind of shocked he hasn't found it yet."

"Then watch his movement really closely over the next few weeks," Connie said
, more an order than a suggestion.  "A friend of mine has a well-placed contact near the Zeta leadership and Holland's been close to them recently."

"Hold on
," said a puzzled Porter. " You have a source?"

"Well, source is a bit much,
" she said, "But I guess it fits."

"Since when?" asked Porter
, now even more shocked.

"A while now
."  Connie said as she paused to find her words, "I haven't told you this before, but I've followed up with some of those girls after you took care of their abusers."

"You what?" Porter
interrupted.  "You talked to the them after I got involved?"

"Not all of them," answered Connie, clea
rly defensive.  "Just some whose stories intrigued me after  your post-act confession.  I thought I could come alongside of them and be a different hand of mercy.  You know, one that actually is a resource in those few days of chaos.  I thought I could help them figure out how to move on and not fall into the same trap again."

Completely overwhelmed at Connie's admission, Porter asked, "So what, you would just show up and say, 'Hey, I know your pimp or boyfriend just got killed and I'm here to help?'  Did it ever occur to you that a good investigator could tie
you to them and then you to me?" he said exasperated.  "Jesus Connie."

"Not that name, Porter," she reprimanded.  "Regardless of what you beli
eve now, you won't dishonor that name."

Knowing this was her only
hard and fast rule, Porter apologized.  "Sorry, but come on.  Don't you see how you could blow my anonymity?"

"Sure.  I thought about it,
but I had to help restore the girls to some sort of normalcy.  Besides, it wasn't that many.  No more than two dozen."