The Unfortunates (40 page)
Iris was already queasy when she arrived. Whatever CeCe is talking about—disgusting. “That’s disgusting,” she says.
“What I mean is, I understand what you are going through, more than you might think.”
“Okay. Can you tell me what’s wrong with George?”
CeCe shakes her head. “When you met him, he’d been doing well a long time. A decade. I hoped it was the end and not the eye.”
“I’m not with him for the money.”
“Of course not.”
“What should we do?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never known. You are allowed to have your own standards. As to what is acceptable, for what you will accept.”
“Is that right?” Iris laughs a pitiable laugh.
“What is it you like to do? What would you like your life to be?”
Iris can’t think of an answer. She senses—memory or imagining, she can’t tell—a high ceiling, a place quiet but full of people, dim but full of light, a square of bright color.
“No idea. I guess that’s the problem.”
After Iris leaves, CeCe sits at the table and looks out the window. Esme’s no longer in sight. Yasser is digging a trench around the spoon mums. She’d tried to protect her son. She should not have. All those years. Instead of fading, one particular had gathered truth unto itself until she knew as if she’d known all along. Gravel, embedded in the young woman’s palms. The uninvited guest wasn’t Iris, has never been Iris. She’d been wrong about that. It isn’t George, or even George’s disgrace. The uninvited guest has all along been waiting inside, the spider hiding in each of her cells, plotting by the light of her neurons, knitting time until time. The uninvited guest, always and only her own self in the mirror, scuttling through. Come on already, she decides, reaching for the stick, standing to go to her desk, to take care of what is left, to take care of whom she must. Come on in. Here we are. It’s a good house. It’s been a good house. Make yourself at home.
It rained in the night. A wet blade of grass is stuck to the bottom of George’s foot from collecting the newspaper when the phone rings.
“You get it, Iris!” he calls down the stairs. He’s putting on a suit, to meet with Annie Mason and the other foundation managers in the city. They’re considering making him a consultant, a favor he’s considering accepting.
“Iris!” he calls again. “If it’s Pat, tell her I’m too busy to see them today.” Then he remembers. Iris has gone to an early showing. Nellie’s finally giving her clients. Iris will be back by lunch to meet Victor. After that there’s dinner with Pat and Lotta and CeCe again, at Booth Hill, assuming he can survive another crap round of family bonding. He can tell this lunch with Victor has preoccupied Iris—by how often she’s brought it up and yet how little she will say. Seems Victor’s been avoiding her. If she wants to hire him again, well. George will see about that.
“Yes?” he says, picking up the phone and sitting down on the unmade bed, his tie hanging around his neck.
“George, Pete Scott. Have a minute? I’d like to discuss Robert Barrow-Woods’s indictment.” His lawyer.
“Bob? I saw him a few weeks ago. What did he do?”
“He hasn’t necessarily done anything. It’s an indictment. But we should set up a meeting to discuss what kind of counsel you’ll need. Today, if you can.”
“Counsel? I’m Bob’s friend. We went to school together.”
“Yes, but your investment with him—the SEC hasn’t contacted you?”
“What are you talking about?” George looks around the room as if he might find clarity in the unmade bed, the open curtains, the crack in the skylight—since when is there a crack in the skylight? His neck goes hot.
“Ah, I see. Caution on the phone, is, well, we all watch a lot of television. But it isn’t necessary. Attorney-client privilege. Please speak freely. It’s only an inquiry, in your case. With little sustainable cause, I should add. Can you take a look at the news?”
“Everything’s downstairs. I’m trying to tie my tie. Just explain it to me.”
“All right. The indictment, for securities fraud, suggests that Mr. Barrow-Woods had a contact at the FDA furnishing him with information re pending drug approvals. There are other counts, most of them unrelated to drug development, but that’s the one we need to focus on.”
“Why? Does Bob need our help?”
“One of his more recent trades was a short sale of NewGenA, which you have a personal connection to. And because you have an account with him that recently saw a profit—”
“I don’t have an account with him.”
“We can discuss it, George.”
“But I don’t.”
“Okay. Let’s just say, if you did, Barrow-Woods shorted NewGenA, possibly knowing their main treatment was about to lose FDA approval. Let me be clear. This point isn’t even in the indictment. Indictments take years to build. What he’s being investigated for is earlier, dates most recently to 2008. But, going forward, they’ll look into all his transactions. Government’s still on a bit of a publicity rampage with Wall Street. Suffice to say, your mother was in a public drug trial. I’m confident you had no access to information beyond her experience. Which means, legally, you’re in fine standing. But it looks unusual. There’s a chance it’ll show up in the complaint.”
“I don’t understand what we’re talking about. What’s NewGenA?” Something’s happening. He runs to the window and pulls the curtain.
“The biotech that was testing Astrasyne. Astrasyne was their main development. Meaning, no Astrasyne, the company tanks. This is not like a Glaxo or a Bayer. NewGenA’s eggs are in one basket. Remember ImClone? Like ImClone. Don’t forget, this is one of many of Mr. Barrow-Woods’s trades that will be looked at. It’s unfortunate that your family, being somewhat high profile—if you get enough press, the SEC will look negligent if they
don’t
investigate. I thought you’d know by now. When the SEC does contact you, refer them to me.”
“Look, I don’t understand what you are saying. You have to believe me. No one ever believes me!” George clears his throat. His voice is trembling.
“No need to panic here. Let me explain another way. Because you have an account with Mr. Barrow-Woods and that account recently saw a profit right around the same time as his trade against NewGenA, there will be scrutiny. By investing short, he made a profit, you understand?”
“I’ve never done that stuff with Bob. We have drinks once in a while. That’s all! I don’t do the finances around here.”
“George, this is the appearance of malfeasance causing your family a headache. Not actual wrongdoing. But I do have that on May 3, Tryphon Capital deposited one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars into a joint account controlled by you and your wife. Some of which could have come from the trade against NewGenA.”
George racks his memory. “This is a mistake!” he shrieks. Who could have done this? What is their plan? How does Pete know so much? “How do you know more about me than I do?”
“There can be years of back and forth between Barrow-Woods—between anyone—and the SEC before an indictment comes down. Requests for documentation, clarification, etcetera. Indictments are not out of the blue. This also gives Barrow-Woods’s representation time to make its own investigation, to prepare. His lawyer and I—I’ll just say we were D-I squash together. We still play. So, doing his audit, your trade looked unusual, unusual enough to give pause. Even though it’s outside the timeframe Barrow-Woods is currently in the soup for. Don’t ask me more. Could you go back over your accounts? Personal finances are complicated. Can you look online while you have me on the phone?”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“Okay. Hey, take a breath. It’s kind of a pain. You need to register and set up a password. What about your financial manager? Your wife? Or, I can walk you through it, if you’re comfortable with that, and we can look together.”
George says something that sounds like
fine
. He races to his office. Doing as the lawyer tells him, he finds his checkbook; with the account number and many failed passwords—numbers and letters, numbers and letters—he registers online. Yes, there’s a newer account. There’s their primary joint checking, their secondary checking, the trust his mother has restocked, the mutual funds, the retirement accounts, and, and! A new joint account opened in March, registering one deposit: 125K, made May 3. But how can he trust what he sees? He tells Pete the login and password and immediately regrets doing so. He races back up to the bedroom. Safer in the bedroom.
“Okay, George? Hey, George? Yeah, it’s a personal trade in, one second, here we go, in your wife’s name.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, stands, sits again, puts his hand in his hair, looks under the bed, looks out the window from behind the curtains, bites his thumb, locks the bedroom door, unlocks the bedroom door.
“May third. My wife?”
“Can you come by today? This is a fish-caught-in-the-net scenario, you understand? It’s a red flag for the SEC, that’s all. I’m confident none of it will hold water. But you and your wife do need to come by. I have two other attorneys, in finance law, financial crime specifically, I’d like to bring in. Can you come down?”
“Financial crime?”
“That’s the territory.”
“I mean, we mentioned my mother to Bob but—but why does that matter? He’s a friend. Are you telling me that’s a
crime
? I keep saying, he’s never handled our finances. And they trade all kinds of things all the time, right?”
“Yes, exactly right. Maybe your family situation made him aware of the trial. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Nothing wrong either way. We’ll discuss any conversations you and he have had on that subject. Again, it’s because of the timing, because you’ve recently been in the news, the SEC most likely can’t
not
pursue an inquiry. How will it look when the
Journal
makes the connection and points out the SEC never bothered to investigate? We want to be prepared.”
“I’m trying to tell you, I’ve never fucking invested with Bob.”
“George, you have. All I can say is, you have. How’s three o’clock? Can your wife make three o’clock? We’ll need to talk to you both.”
“Wait! How did he make money if the drug went bad? This is bullshit. This is because of
The Burning Papers
, isn’t it?”
“George, no. One thing at a time. As I said, Mr. Barrow-Woods bet against NewGenA a few days before the study shut down. The profit on that specific trade was not significant, not compared to what he’s indicted for. But they’ll look at how he got his information. Again, this is not part of the current indictment. We’re trying to kill it early here. As far as we know, he could have simply gifted much of that one hundred twenty-five to you. It’s your only transaction and you never transacted back to him and that’s in your favor. I don’t think there’s a case. But you understand there’s an inquiry and there may be an investigation, evidence or not. A bumpy ride, press-wise. We’re working on strategy. Three o’clock? I’ll need you to approve additional counsel. I’m general counsel, you understand?”
“I see! I’m the joke of the world! Who’s trying to ruin me? You might be one of them. How would I know? What have I done that’s so bad?”
“This is a shock. But please, we’re your team, here.”
“Fine, I’ll see what you have to say. My wife. Even my wife? I have to be in the city anyway. I’m dressed and everything.”
“Very good. See you soon.”
Now he understands. He thought his humiliation was over. But it was never over. They’d waited until his guard was down. A mistake he won’t repeat! Three o’clock. He won’t go to the city at three o’clock. He won’t—Iris. Even Iris! He’d thought if the world was against him, it was against them together. Somehow she’s betrayed him. He’s suspected her for some time, but how he wanted to be wrong! He can’t figure it out. How many times Iris said, “You’re being paranoid.” It makes him want to cry! It makes him choke! He
is
choking, he
is
crying, he’s careening across the bedroom, clutching his own throat. He’d done a decent job, hiding how decimated he is, manning up, while talking to the lawyer. He’d thought that he and Iris were almost happy again. He’d tried to ignore his suspicions. He’d told himself he
was
only being paranoid. Things were getting better. Better and better and better and better. Now what will happen? What happens next? Will they throw him in jail?
Suddenly, he remembers Iris asking him to open the account with her. She’d come home late, said she’d been shopping in the city. So this is why she took over the credit cards and the banking those months, exerted such control! Is the screen a lie or is the lawyer a lie or is Iris—to be fooled by—it was Bob who convinced him to talk to her that day at the golf club. It was Bob who insisted he go that day, insisted he talk to the tall, pretty woman with the dog. Back to the office, ducking low! He googles Bob. He races over several articles, only a few hours old, confirming that yesterday Bob was indicted on fourteen counts of securities fraud along with two employees at the FDA. He’d resigned from Tryphon Capital, entered federal court in Manhattan, surrendered to federal authorities and was arraigned, pled not guilty to all counts, and was released pending trial.
Released! He dials Bob’s number from the home phone and is surprised to see—only more evidence, why should he be surprised?—seventeen recent calls attached to the number on the phone’s display.
He
is
surprised, however, when Bob answers the phone. He was planning on leaving a scathing message, he didn’t know what, or on terrorizing Martha.
“Hey, man,” Bob says, “I’m totally ripped up about your name getting into this.”
“You. You and Iris.”
“Listen, it’s not in your best interest to talk to me. I picked up to say I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”
“You’re fucking Iris and you fucked me!”
“Never. It’s a good girl you’ve got there. Aboveboard. All of it. The money was for you. Her heart’s in the right place.”
“For me? Then why am I learning about it today? I’ll kill you,” George hears himself say. “I’ll ruin you. You tell me, who I am and what is happening.”
