City of Dreams (68 page)

Jennifer Wilson’s face seemed drawn from age and stress, but a bit of eye shadow and blush gave her a brightness she never had as Sally, a naturalness she never had as Erica.

“Mr. Arsenault was half right,” she said. “I died, with so many other Americans, on 9/11. But I escaped death and was reborn.” She looked at Antonov, who looked over his shoulder as if looking for Vitaly.

“Don’t you worry about your boy, Mr. Antonov,” said Henry. “He be all right when he wake up. Them handcuffs ain’t too tight.”

Jennifer gave a nod to Henry and went on. “I used to dream of writing my autobiography, but in an autobiography, you’re supposed to tell the truth about yourself. I could not admit that I disappeared because I was guilty of insider trading. But I admit it now.”

Joey Berra leaned into the microphone and in his best FBI official voice said, “Just to inform you all, the statute of limitations on that crime has expired.”

Jennifer nodded to Joey, licked her lips, shifted her eyes around the crowd. “I was guilty. And I ran. A man I’d never seen before—a janitor—pointed me to life that day and probably died himself. And there were so many others who helped, who saved lives, and sometimes sacrificed themselves. And then Americans came to work at Ground Zero, to volunteer, to give money, to play the role of citizen in the best sense.” Her voice wavered. She paused and looked back at Joey.

He whispered something in her ear that seemed to give her strength.

She turned again to the audience. “I may have my guilt. But I’ve never stopped being proud of the way New Yorkers reacted on that awful day. And I’ve never stopped dreaming of doing something good for the country and the city that endured so much yet gives us so much.”

And Joey stepped in again. “That’s why she’s here, and why I’m here, to pay our debt to New York.”

Then Jennifer continued. “I’ve lived on the street. I’ve dug in trash bins for food. I’ve climbed to the pinnacle of wealth. And”—a smile fled across her face and was gone—“like the man says, I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor, and I’d rather be rich.”

Henry chuckled and said, “You got that right, babe.”

“But where does wealth end and greed begin?” she went on. “Does the glutton ever say he has had enough? Or is there always room for another big bonus while your company is laying off workers and you’re calling it creative destruction? Can you always justify strapping on the golden parachute when your company’s stock tanks and you say, ‘It would have been worse if not for me?’ And when stockholders who hoped to educate their kids with that tanking stock go into debt to pay tuitions, do you go home to your East Side co-op and count your money? When it’s bailout time, do you take your big slice, while the people who sweep the floors and wash the windows lose their jobs and wonder who’s bailing them out? And will you credit card titans ever admit that that twenty-nine-point-nine percent interest is not just wrong, it’s evil? Christ condemned usury in the Bible. Maybe you should listen to him.”

Evangeline wiped a tear from her eye. “She’s getting stronger.”

Peter said, “But where is she going?”

“When we talk about the economy, it’s always somebody else’s fault. The Democrats blamed Bush for the recession from 2000 to 2002, even though Clinton was president for half of it. The Republicans blamed Obama for the recession from 2007 to 2009, even though Bush was president for most of it. And they’re both wrong. We are all part of one big system. As the late Kathy Flynn used to say—”

That brought murmurs, turning heads. Most everyone in the crowd knew Kathy Flynn of MarketSpin.com, but apparently not everyone knew of her murder.

“—it’s like the cycle of condensation to evaporation to rain. And cycles turn, as they always have. But sometimes, there’s a money drought. That’s the nature of capitalism.” Jennifer looked at Austin Arsenault, who was still standing at her shoulder. “And the Paul Revere Foundation is right. If we don’t act responsibly, the cycles may stop. The drought may last until we are a desert, a twelve-trillion-dollar deficit desert.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said yet.” Arsenault folded his arms and struck a pose.

She said, “We cannot inflate the deficit away, though we may be forced to try. We cannot tax it away, though all of us in this room may face tax increases. We cannot cut it away, though we must cut, too.”

“That pretty much covers it all,” whispered Evangeline.

“And we cannot surrender our national sovereignty to those who buy our debt. So”—she looked them over—“what to do?”

“You had your chance and you threw it away,” said Arsenault.

“My chance in the backseat of a limo?” she answered.

But he didn’t back down. “You had your chance in the greatest country in the world.”

She looked at him for a moment and said, “If I ever need to be reminded of that, I think of what a hardworking Russian immigrant told me after the first tower felt. He said the wound would heal and scar, and we would go on, because Americans don’t quit. New Yorkers don’t quit.”

“You got that right, too,” said Henry Baxter.

Jennifer gave him a nod. “But in a generation, we have gone from the largest creditor nation in the world to the largest debtor nation. So . . . do we quit on our future and just let the deficit grow? Or can we in this room—men and women who have enjoyed the sweetest fruits of the financial system that Alexander Hamilton gave us—can we make a difference? Can we give something back?”

“That’s why we’re here,” said Will Wedge in his best honking accent.

She looked at him and smiled. “And this is why I am here.”

She opened the box and held it up so that the cameras feeding the meeting to sites around the country, and to CNN and FOX News, could pick it up. Then she slid a piece of molding from the side of the box. Then she slid a false bottom out through the space left by the molding. Then she held up the open box.

And there, on television screens around the room and around the country, were one hundred and ninety-five tiny, crudely printed pieces of paper in two neat stacks, compressed down to almost nothing.

Peter leaned closer to Evangeline and whispered, “This is
your
moment.”

“My moment?”

“Without you, those bonds would still be in Walter O’Day’s desk.”

Jennifer Wilson said, “If you believe Hamilton, you are now looking at the unretired debt of the American Revolution, almost twenty thousand dollars worth of bonds purchased in 1780 by a woman named Loretta Rogers. And this debt, like all our debts, is still growing, still throbbing like a carbuncle on the bottom of the body politic.”

Arsenault stepped closer and leaned over her shoulder. “This is what I have been saying all along.”

Jennifer held up a thin bond and showed it to Arsenault.

He reached for the box, but Joey grabbed his arm. “Look. Don’t touch.”

Jennifer glanced up at the video screens. “If the Supreme Court rules the right way, I will be rich again, because these are bearer bonds, and I am the bearer. Not Mr. Arsenault”—she jerked her head in his direction—“nor Mr. Antonov”—she glared at him. “But like Loretta Rogers, I am a patriot. So what should I do with her bequest?”

“I think you should give them to our foundation,” said Arsenault, “we can—”

She just laughed.
Not on your life
. “Anyone else?”

Evangeline whispered, “She used to be a lawyer. She must have been good.”

“Give the money to charity,” cried someone.

Jennifer nodded. “I like that. But our whole country is a charity. Anyone else?”

“I say wait until the court decision, then decide!” shouted Will Wedge.

“Mr. Wedge, Harvard genius, cutting things close and neat as always.” She no longer seemed nervous. Her voice was strong, her eye contact was good. And people were leaning forward, listening, waiting, wondering where she was headed. “You’re telling me that if Arsenault’s argument is rejected, I can forgive this debt and pretend that I’m a patriot. If it’s upheld, I can cash the bonds and proclaim that I’m doing it for the national good, for the”—she looked at Arsenault—“what do you always call it? Symbolism. But you’d take the money anyway, as you’ve always planned to.”

“That’s a damn lie,” said Arsenault.

She gave a little cock of her head. “You wanted Will Wedge and all the other smart people in this room to think that you were a patriot. But you just wanted the bonds because you’ve been losing money for years, and half the people in this room have been burned, only they don’t know it yet.”

“What?” shouted someone in the back.

“That’s a damn lie,” said Arsenault.

“Don’t know
what
yet?” cried someone else.

Antonov looked again toward the back, as if he might make a run for it.

And Henry’s voice boomed out, “This show ain’t over yet, folks. So y’all take your seats and quiet down.”

Jennifer waited a moment and looked again at Arsenault, “If what I’ve said about your financial straits is a lie, if you really started this treasure hunt because you wanted Americans to see the hazards of a deficit and what it means, then you’ll appreciate my solution for these bonds.” She positioned the box in the middle of the podium. The she pulled from her pocket a small can of lighter fluid.

“Oh, no,” gasped someone.

Arsenault moved toward her.

Joey said, “Another step and I will shoot you. And you will not be the first man I’ve shot today.”

Arsenault looked toward the left side of Joey’s jacket, saw the bulge of the holster, and stepped back.

Jennifer said, “No matter what the Supreme Court says, the best that a true patriot could do today, on this street, where Washington took the oath of office, where brokers made the Buttonwood Agreement that started a stock exchange, where J. P. Morgan did his business, is to forgive this debt . . . as thanks for all that America has done for us and for all that it will do in the future.”

She pulled a cigarette lighter from her pocket, and another gasp rose to the coffered ceiling.

Arsenault cried, “No!”

Peter Fallon began to laugh. There was nothing else to do. Just laugh at the audacity of what these two had probably been planning all along.

Jennifer snapped the lighter and the flame popped.

Two men in the back stood. Someone cried, “Stop her!”

Henry growled, “Y’all remember what I said. Let the lady make her point.”

And she touched the lighter to the bonds.

In an instant, a small funeral pyre sprang to life on the podium of the Museum of American Finance. A flame jumped and a curl of smoke twirled up toward the ceiling. Then she held out her hand and Joey Berra gave her a metal pen, with which she dug into the box, turning over the bonds to keep the flame going.

Arsenault let out a cry of pain, of true anguish, and buried his head in his hands.

Antonov stood to leave.

Henry raised a finger and said, “Don’t you be thinkin’ about goin’ nowhere. They’s folks comin’ to talk to you.”

Jennifer turned the box over and shook it to empty the smoldering bonds. Then she handed the box to Arsenault. “You should have this. It’s an antique.”

And, as cool and practiced now as if she had spent the last decade in the courtroom, she said to the audience, “That is what I have done for my country. What will all of you, the richest and most blessed among us, do now?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and took Joey Berra’s arm and gave a jerk of the head. And together, they started to walk down the aisle, Joey in his gray suit, Jennifer in her high heels, heads up, eyes front.
Tick-tick-tick
.

People started to stand. Someone stepped in front of Joey. Will Wedge began to climb over people in order to—what?

“Y’all stay seated,” said Henry to the crowd, and he removed the huge .44 Magnum from under his arm. “No need to follow ’em and throw rice. This ain’t no motherfuckin’ weddin’.”

But it was, thought Evangeline. Oh, but it was.

As Joey and Jennifer reached the back of the crowd, they turned to Peter and Evangeline.

Jennifer took an envelope out of her pocket and gave it to Evangeline. “That’s for the O’Days. Four bonds. It’ll be a good payday, if things work out.”

“And this is for you.” Evangeline took the crown finial from her purse and put it into Jennifer’s hand.

Peter laughed. “So that’s what you’ve been carrying around in that thing.”

“Thanks, but”—Jennifer gave it back—“this belongs to New York.”

And Joey said, “Thanks, Boston.”

Peter said, “Go Yankees . . . but just for today.”

Then Joey and Jennifer went down the left stairwell to the street level while Henry dropped down on the right.

After a moment, Evangeline put the finial back into her purse and said, “We can’t let them go yet.”

Peter said, “I want to know where they’re going.”

“I’d just like to say good-bye.”

So they jumped up and headed for the stairs, and their movement snapped everyone into motion. Suddenly, half the people in the place were making for the stairwell.

Peter and Evangeline got to the exit first. Henry had positioned himself in front of the door.

Peter said, “Which way did they go?

Henry jerked his thumb west toward Broadway.

Evangeline gave Henry a kiss on the cheek, then she and Peter stepped onto Wall Street as Henry raised his .44 and fired it once into the air.

The sound of it, in that space, was like a cannon shot that stopped half the business leaders of New York right . . . were . . . they . . . were.

“Now, folks,” said Henry, “seein’ as this is the most powerful handgun in the world, you don’t want me to go all Clint Eastwood on your ass, so why don’t y’all just go back up there and watch the Supreme Court do its thing while we wait for the FBI? There’s a lot of folks here who got some explainin’ to do, includin’ me.”

P
ETER AND
E
VANGELINE
were standing now in the bright sun, looking west on Wall Street.

“I can’t see them,” said Evangeline.

“But they just left,” said Peter. “They shouldn’t be more than a block ahead.”