The Trust (17 page)

ANACOSTIA

“Sacred Heart’s a money pit.”

Father Andy, the acting pastor, pointed toward the church’s steeple. He was a young priest, late twenties, reedy and tall at six foot one, his features talcum fresh and worry free. He was showing Biscuit the parish grounds. And every so often, the two men stopped to discuss repointed bricks or freshly painted windows.

“The roof, Father?”

“Brand spanking new. I remember when it leaked like a sieve.”

“And the Catholic Fund paid for all the renovations?” Biscuit already knew the answer. The charity had reported a $100,000 donation on its tax return. But his goal was to sound sympathetic. To wring every ounce of information from the young priest.

“Without Father Ricardo, we wouldn’t be here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our bishop told Father Mike, rest his soul, to raise money for repairs. Or else the diocese would shut us down.”

“Gives new meaning to produce or perish.”

“So to speak,” the reverend said with a chuckle. “Father Ricardo solved our problem. Pews, roof, steeple, and stairs leading to the sacristy—we refurbished everything with gifts from the Catholic Fund.”

“I’m confused.” Biscuit scratched his forehead, as though struggling with a complex algorithm.

“About what?”

“I thought Maryknoll priests raised money from local congregations. Not the other way around.”

“Father Ricardo can shake donations out of a parking meter.” The young priest gazed into the distance, nodding his head with visible reverence.

“That’s a real skill.”

“We should all be so blessed, right? The Catholic Church is under real pressure these days.”

“Do you know why Father Ricardo is so successful?”

“Charisma. He makes people feel good about themselves.”

Biscuit scrunched his face again. “How’s that possible?”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought the Catholic Fund raises money over the Internet.”

“Websites legitimize the Catholic Fund. But the real money comes from face-to-face meetings. Father Ricardo has a knack for getting in front of big donors.”

“You’ve seen him in action?”

“I only know what Father Mike told me. And he said Father Ricardo is one of the best.”

Biscuit paused for a moment, as though summoning his resources to ask a difficult question. “I don’t want to offend you, Father.”

“I can turn the other cheek.” Father Andy thought his reference to the Sermon on the Mount was wise beyond his years. “Just speak your mind.”

“I’m not sure why the Catholic Fund donates to Sacred Heart. Its mission statement focuses on the rights of children. Not the renovation of churches in Anacostia.”

“We provide administrative services for the Catholic Fund.”

“Like what?”

“Answer phones. Forward its mail. Whatever it needs.”

“Not bad for a hundred thousand dollars.” Biscuit regretted his words at once. He had revealed too much information from his investigation.

“What do you mean?”

Hands in his pockets, the big man backpedaled. “I mean that’s good business. Sacred Heart serving as the back office and all.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Who negotiated the arrangement?”

Father Andy stopped walking and faced Biscuit. “You ask lots of questions. You said you’re a real estate lawyer?”

“Yes. And I don’t mean to be intrusive but—”

“Are you suing the Catholic Fund by any chance?”

Uh-oh,
thought Biscuit.

“Litigation is no good for anyone,” he replied.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“No, I suppose you’re right, Father. The truth is that my clients don’t much like your benefactor.”

“And why’s that?”

“The Catholic Fund owns an adult superstore outside their subdivision.”

“I know nothing about it.” Father Andy started walking, his pace hurried and curt.

Biscuit could feel the conversation coming to an abrupt end. “The fact is, I want to work things out. And I haven’t been able to contact Father Ricardo directly.”

“He’s out of the country a lot.”

“How often does he stop by?”

“There you go again.” Father Andy stopped at the curb. “More questions.”

“One of his accountants said the adult superstore was a gift from a major donor.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” The young priest spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. There was no outrage in his words, which confused Biscuit.

“And you’re okay with his source of funds?”

“I’m sure the Catholic Fund’s good work outweighs its association with a retail store.”

“That’s a big hurdle, Father. The store is twenty thousand square feet.”

“Thanks for stopping by.” Father Andy offered to shake Biscuit’s hand, his message clear. The interview was over.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

PRIVATE CLIENT SERVICES
FRIDAY

Stockbrokers are nomads. We travel to see our clients, not the other way around. We pack cell phones, Bluetooth earpieces, and laptops for remote access to Bloomberg. Even with these mobile devices, we carry others: iPads, Kindles, Nooks, not to mention Android anything.

We believe in redundant systems, in part because we’re technology junkies. We like our toys, the more expensive, the better. But there’s a more compelling reason than the dweeb factor to carry two of everything. We can’t afford for communications to break down. If they do, we’re dead in the water.

Gadgets have yet to replace human interaction. They miss the innuendo. And that’s a communication failure all its own. Same thing with being away for ten days. I had missed the whispers around the coffee machine. I never saw the boss rolling her eyes. Or checked to see who was visiting whose office.

Closed doors are always the first hint of trouble around the bend.

*   *   *

At 7:30
A.M.
I marched past Katy Anders. She was leading three visitors across SKC’s lobby. The suits carried briefcases and wore grim expressions. I recognized several SKC employees trailing behind them—the staff lawyers and human-resource types that come equipped with nose tethers.

The group was trudging toward a conference room. Their bearing was heavy, their morgue faces drained of energy. And I wondered whether the Morgan Stanley deal had cratered. But Anders was the wrong person to participate in those discussions.

She busied herself with the outsiders and ignored me. A woman from human resources caught my eye and flashed a wan, humorless smile. “Welcome back,” she said, which struck me as weird, uncomfortable. I knew her face but couldn’t remember her name.

“Thanks.” I pressed on.

It took me twenty-five minutes to reach Zola, Chloe, and my workstation. On the way over, stockbrokers buzzed with excitement. They wanted to talk. Not that I had any inside knowledge about our deal with Morgan Stanley. I offered a fresh take, however, on the same old questions that had been posed a million times since the deal was announced on Wednesday.

Scully looked left, and he looked right. He whispered, his voice uncharacteristically low, “Morgan Stanley’s a boiler room. My clients won’t go.”

“Yes they will.” Casper pushed aside his fingernail clippers.

Scully, who’s a big hitter on the floor, was not accustomed to the pushback. “Who pissed in your Cheerios, bright boy?”

“I’ll make this easy for you,” snorted Casper. “You answer the phone ‘Morgan Fucking Stanley.’ Nobody gets hurt, and you take home a fifty percent retention bonus.”

“Nothing wrong with that deal,” I observed.

“It’s about time we got paid around here,” Casper said.

In a room full of stockbrokers, everybody has an angle. Especially when it comes to money. Financial advisers claim to be resolute in their convictions, adamant until a better idea comes along. In practice, the vast majority of us change our minds the way pigeons change directions—straying and cooing from one leader to the next as we move inexorably toward the dough.

Patty Gershon, my nemesis on the floor, stopped me before I reached my team. Her revenues were second only to mine. But frankly, she did a better job keeping her finger on the pulse of SKC. “Thanks for coming in, Grove.”

New day. Same joke as yesterday and the day before and … You get the point.

“Any idea who Anders is meeting?”

“Lawyers from Morrison Foerster,” Gershon reported.

“Well, that’s emphatic.” Her recon surprised me.

“Jane told me.”

The explanation sounded reasonable. Gershon was a magnet for every woman in the office with something on her mind, including Anders’s administrative assistant, Jane.

“MoFo’s bad news,” I observed, referring to the law firm.

Morrison Foerster prides itself on the nickname. A line on its website reads big, gray, and in your face: “This is MoFo.” It’s an image, I think, that hard-boiled litigators embrace during court battles.

It was Gershon’s turn to be surprised. “What’s the big deal?”

“We only use them when there’s a problem.”

“Which is what?”

“Who knows? I’ve been keeping a low profile in Charleston.”

“What do you think about the deal?”

“I’m still gathering facts.”

“Better hurry up.” Gershon picked up her phone. “Anders is leaning on me to sign the paperwork. And my team is scheduled to meet with Morgan Stanley on Monday.”

Back at our workstations, Zola high-fived me hello. She was on the phone, already locked into a client conversation. Chloe, our sales assistant, pulled off her oversized headset, vintage World War II, and asked, “Did you bring me a present, Dad?”

We played this game whenever I returned from trips. Usually, I made some wise-ass remark. But this time, I handed her a tin of Charleston benne wafers. They’re sweet, sesame with a milklike buttery flavor. I can eat them by the handful.

“I was kidding.” Chloe turned crimson.

“I’m hoping you’ll share.”

“Depends how much I like them.”

“Hey, do you have my paperwork?” Our phones were lighting up, but we let the calls go into voice mail. Wall Street could wait another few minutes.

“The Morgan Stanley stuff—Anders has yours.”

“What about Zola?”

“She has hers,” Chloe confirmed. “She refused to turn it in until you got back.”

“It’d be nice to have mine.”

“Anders wants you to stop by anyway.”

“Did she say why?”

“Oh my God, these are good,” Chloe exhaled, grabbing another benne wafer. With that she offered some to me, and we began sucking them down, using sign language to urge Zola to follow our lead.

Old-time Charlestonians believe benne wafers bring good luck. But it’s like I said before: in my business, nothing good happens on Friday afternoon. And by the time the day was over, Wall Street’s voodoo had more than trumped the positive juju from our cookies.

*   *   *

“It is what it is.”

I hate that expression, the inherent fatalism, the callous marching orders to deal with a decision that sucks. Those five words mean somebody got hosed. Today, that somebody had been me.

Outside Anders’s office, the beat-down over, I decided she could screw herself. She had outpointed me and eliminated all my options. I couldn’t even complain to the client, which is the one thing every broker does in these situations.

Seething, taken aback, I turned philosophical. I decided there’s no such thing as halftime in the rat race. The contest grinds on, day in, day out, forever unraveling with no rules and no end in sight. And because there’s no clear way to win, I wondered if we all lose.

The meeting with Anders had lasted all of fifteen minutes. It began the usual way. “Chloe said you want to see me.”

“Do me a favor and close the door.”

Uh-oh.

My thoughts jumped to the Palmetto Foundation. My decision to join had been eating me for any number of reasons. First, there was Biscuit Hughes. From abso-fucking-lutely nowhere, he walked into Palmer’s office and linked our charity to an adult superstore.

Ordinarily, I would have thought him nuts. But there was something about the big attorney, something that made me trust him. From the start, he passed my smell test. And later, he withstood further scrutiny when Annie and I Googled him. Biscuit was onto something.

Then there was the modest traffic to the Catholic Fund’s websites. Father Ricardo’s story was not hanging together. And when I closed the door to Anders’s office, my misgivings gained momentum. Patriot Act. Fines and jail time. I could be going away.

Wall Street runs from trouble. Firms do everything to protect themselves rather than their people. The brass at SKC would throw me, or any stockbroker, under the bus without a second thought.

Which meant I wasn’t about to confess my misgivings to Anders. I tried a little misdirection instead. “Is this about Morgan Stanley?”

“Everything’s about Morgan Stanley.” She paused and confronted me head-on, obliterating my strategy. “Did you join the board at the Palmetto Foundation?”

“I had no choice.”

Anders shook her head in dismay. I saw trouble in her eyes. There was something deeper than disagreement between two colleagues. Something more profound and, I would add, something more unsettling.

“That’s too bad.”

“Do you have paperwork for me?” I asked, retreating to the big deal.

“It’s all here.” Anders handed me a large manila envelope with a computer-generated label bearing my name.

“I understand several teams are meeting with Morgan Stanley next week.”

“You aren’t. Not yet anyway.”

“What’s that mean?”

Anders leaned forward, her usual pose for the big show of cleavage and trust-me body language. Not today. She was attacking. “A bunch of your clients already have accounts at Morgan Stanley.”

“Every broker on the floor has the same problem.”

“But you cover our chairman.”

“So.”

“We’re moving his account to a team over there.”

“Excuse me.” Percy Phillips was not my biggest client, not by a long stretch. But no stockbroker wants to lose the CEO’s account.

“You heard me.”

The scummy reality—firms can reassign clients anytime they want, even though brokers are paid to develop new relationships. I was growing angrier by the minute. I could feel my forehead throbbing.