Frame-Up (4 page)

"Gary, come, let’s enjoy this evening and not have it spoiled by this
matter. There’s nothing we can do about it tonight," I plead.

He sighs. "All right."

I signal to Silvio who guides me with a light touch on the shoulder to
our reserved table in the dimly lit corner of the restaurant. Over the meal,
we both indeed make an effort, but our interactions lack the usual
spontaneity. We drink rather more than our normal quota. When I suggest
going to a disco, Gary’s bad mood resurfaces. He’d rather be distracted
by the latest James Bond movie, he replies. Reluctantly, I agree, although
I hate the supercilious dialogue of these movies, the ridiculous sexual
games, the implausible script, and the graphic violence. All these people
getting killed off. The interminable sequences of fistfights. Nobody can
get knocked about for several minutes, as Bond does, and then walk
away, only needing to straighten his cravat and brush dust off his sleeves.
Maybe these films are supposed to be spoofs, but they are not my type of
satire. So I endure the violent fights, the unnecessary shoot-outs and the
unerotic bedroom scenes of strategically crumpled up shiny sheets, while
my mind is going over what happened these last three days, as well as
Gary’s adverse reaction this evening.

It is nearing midnight by the time a taxi deposits us at the entrance of
my building. During the ride, I hardly responded to Gary’s enthusiastic
comments about James Bond’s exploits. We go to bed, it feels to me,
almost like a long-married couple, hardly looking at each other, engaged
in an indifferent ritual of copulating the moment we are under the
eiderdown. Not even a kiss. It leaves me hanging, frustrated.

 
I wake next morning with a dry mouth and a headache from too much
alcohol, wishing that the man turning his back to me had left discretely
some time during the night, so that I might enjoy a leisurely morning, a
hot, strong cup of espresso and a croissant, followed by a long, luxurious
bath. Instead, I promise myself to be pleasant to my boyfriend and try to
mend a relationship that has suddenly revealed itself so fragile. It occurs
to me that Gary doesn’t really cope well when things don’t go his way.
I’m reminded of our holiday on the Amalfi coast, of how his mood easily
turned sour over insignificant mishaps or irritants, such as taking the
wrong turn leading down rather than up in the steep villages rising from
the sea and having to back up again, or the boat back from Capri being
late by half an hour.

Monday, 20
^th
October, 10:55 a.m.

Once more I’m summoned to Garland’s office. This time he doesn’t
bother to rise, but remains slouched in his chair, as if he wanted to make
himself smaller, as if he hated what he is going to do next.

"Miss Walker, you have put me into an impossible position. I am being
threatened by your client over the Sanvino debacle."

You mean my ex-client
, but I keep quiet in heavy anticipation of what
is coming next.

"He wants that our firm compensate him for his loss, which obviously
my board would never agree to. The only thing that I can offer him is to
sever our ties with you —"

"You mean, fire me?"

"Yes, I have no other choice." He straightens himself and puts both
hands on the desk. "Frankly, the way you made the Sanvino transaction
is so out of character with your previous performance that I don’t know
anymore whether Carvaggio’s accusations are true or not."

"What do you mean? Are you accusing me of having defrauded
Ventura deliberately?" I ask, startled by my aggressive tone.

"Yes, the more I think about it, the more this appears to be the only
explanation. Even involving your boyfriend for confirming the rumor,
and I have checked the rumor out with a number of people — most
dismissed it as lacking credibility — even that now looks suspicious. He
could well have been your accomplice."

Do I hear him correctly? Not only am I going to be his scapegoat, but
he’s dragging Gary into it too. I break out in cold sweat and take a few
deep breaths.

"You have no reply to that?" he says with a rising pitch, when I don’t
immediately repudiate his accusations.

"But what you say is absurd. I have done nothing fraudulent. All I can
be accused of is that I misjudged the situation." As an afterthought I add:
"Please, sir, keep Gary Buxton out of this. All he did was to ask around
at Goldsax whether they had heard of that rumor."

"It’s out of my hands. It’s now a police matter."

He rises, so do I. I become aware that I’m holding my breath and
tightly squeezing my hands together, as if to prevent myself from flooring
him with a single Aikido chop. He doesn’t give me time to respond.

"Miss Walker, your employment with Lewis Stockbrokers is
terminated as of this moment. Until the police have cleared this matter,
I am compelled to put a freeze on your commission account, as well as
hold back as surety all your shares in deposit with us. I’m sure you
understand the reasons for this. You have fifteen minutes to clear your
desk and leave the building. You are forbidden to touch your computer."
It sounds rehearsed. "And don’t forget to hand in your building security
pass to Maggie." He turns his back to me and sits again at his desk.

I remain standing there, dumbfounded by the suddenness of it.

"Miss Walker, there is nothing more to discuss," he comments when
he sees me.

Rather than go to my desk, I again seek refuge in the ladies’ room. I
look at myself in the mirror. Early last week, I was looking forward to a
hefty commission payout. And now I might never see any of it, nor any
of my close to four hundred thousand pounds worth of shares. Even if I’m
going to be cleared of all allegations, Garland might still try to use them
for partial compensation of Ventura’s losses. I would have to fight a
costly court battle and the outcome is by no means certain to go in my
favor.

And what about Gary? We partially mended our relationship over the
weekend, but I still figure that it remains fragile. I fear that getting
dragged into this may well drive him away for good.

How can a good thing turn so quickly into disaster? It surprises me
though that my eyes remain dry. All the mirror reflects is somber hurt for
the injustice I’ve been dealt. Admittedly, I made a bad decision, but I’m
no crook. I allowed myself to be let astray by Long. Did he feed me that
rumor deliberately, knowing that it lacked credibility? Would he have
been that mean? If I dismissed the guy as an immature twit previously, I
now feel nothing but scorn for him. Then I catch myself. Wallowing in
self-pity and hatred is only going to sap my energy. I must take hold of
the cold determination not to crumble in the face of adversity — the same
determination that pulled me through the trying years during and after my
mother’s divorce.

My career at Lewis might be over, but I’m going to fight. I’m going to
clear myself of this absurd accusation. I will get myself a good lawyer. As
I collect my personal possessions from my cubicle, these words resonate
in my mind like a mantra. I will clear myself; I will clear myself.

At this moment the likelihood of never getting another position as
stockbroker is the least of my worries. The money is good, but the
predatory nature of stock exchange trading and the constant pressure are
far less palatable, not to mention the widespread sick culture in brokerage
circles of bending or circumventing the rules against insider trading.

 From hints dropped by several of my colleagues I know that Lewis is
no exception. Garland, Long, and others cultivate links with clients,
captains of industry, company directors, property tycoons, who are more
than happy to brief them about the performance and planned developments of their companies and doing so even during the so-called closed
period — the two months prior to making public the annual financial
results or financially significant trading developments. Brokers, as well
as company insiders, are by law prohibited from taking advantage of such
information by trading on their own account. It is obvious that the brokers
who are first to act on such information or even a rumor, such as a
possible takeover bid, can cash in on that by buying up shares and then
selling them after the share price has risen. Even if the rumor is false —
and a few brokers plant them deliberately — this can be exploited as long
as the broker offloads the shares again before the rumor has been
debunked. Tipping off a financial journalist, keen on hot publishing
materials, will help to ramp up the share prices, as so-called ‘mug
punters’ and gullible speculators act on the rumor.

It is far too easy to get around the prohibition against insider trading.
You let a broker at another firm carry out the deal — an accomplice with
whom you split the profits and for whom you return the same ‘little’
service. There is practically no chance of getting caught by the Financial
Services Authority, the large volume of trading on the stock exchange
providing an effective screen.

Monday, 1:20 p.m.

Back in my apartment, the first thing I do is to phone my father’s office.
He is a lawyer, albeit of the corporate type, but he still is the best person
to advise me. It’s also opportune that he hears of my trouble directly from
me rather than through second-hand gossip. His secretary promises that
the moment he returns from lunch she will pass on the message that he
urgently calls me back at my apartment number.

Next I dial Gary’s direct office number from my cell phone. I want to
make sure my land line is kept free, should my father call back promptly.
I owe it to Gary to warn him of what happened, of Garland’s accusations,
particularly his suspicion that he is my accomplice. The very thought of
that makes me irate. Accomplice of what? Nothing happened! I’m
innocent, and Garland is simply using me as a scapegoat to appease
Carvaggio. Nor do I believe that Carvaggio will let himself be that easily
appeased. From my dealings with him, I guess that he has to be taken by
the horns and told in no uncertain terms that since he approved the sale,
this is the end of the matter. Lewis will lose the Ventura account, but so
be it. I never felt really comfortable about this client. The very fact that
the outfit is registered in Liechtenstein, a notorious haven for tax evaders
and money launderers, but operates out of Milan doesn’t look kosher. I
once searched for their location on the Google street view map — a villa
somewhere in the eastern suburbs, surrounded by a high stonewall with
glass shards embedded on top. Rather suspicious.

Gary isn’t yet back from lunch. So I try his cell phone. He answers,
apparently just on his way to his desk. I tell him that I’ve bad news. He
cuts me off, asking me to call back in a minute. I guess that he is going
to their conference room, to be alone so that nobody can infer anything
from his answers. I wait and then hit the recall button.

"Gary, I got fired this morning. Garland accused me of insider trading
and defrauding Ventura. But he also hinted, and that’s what’s really
upsetting, he hinted that he thought you were my accomplice."

"Shit, the bastard."

"I’m really sorry, Gary —"

"Being sorry can’t even come close. I’m utterly annoyed with you, no,
more; I’m fucking pissed off. You got me into this shit. You now also get
me out again. You hear me?" I’ve never heard Gary use foul language
like this.

"How can I?"

"You tell that fucking detective that you lied about having sought
confirmation of that rumor from me, that it was somebody else."

"But both Garland and Long know that it was you."

"I don’t care. Just do it."

"Gary, are you serious? You want me to perjure myself? I’m already
in trouble."

"Yes. It’s all your fucking fault. For what I care, you can tell them you
never sought any confirmation at all, that you simply made that up to
protect yourself."

I cannot believe my ears. Is this the same man with whom I’ve been in
a loving relationship for almost two years? With whom I went on a fun
vacation to Italy? With whom I made love a hundred times or more? His
reaction seems completely irrational. I try again: "And what about your
response to the woman detective when she questioned you? Didn’t you
tell her that you confirmed the rumor?"

"No, I’m a bit more clever than that. I remained deliberately vague. I
told her that we call each other at least once a day and that I don’t
remember if this ever came up. So I’m in the clear unless you put me in
the shit. It’s your duty to undo the damage you’ve already done to me."

"Gary, I am not going to perjure myself. I have done nothing criminal
or illegal," I emphasize each word, "and I’m not starting now. Nor have
you done anything wrong."