Frame-Up (5 page)

"I insist that you get me out of this shit. You owe me that … You hear
me?"

We both remain silent for several long seconds. How can he ask me to
do this? The person I’ve counted on to be my support now turns against
me. For once, I’m lost for words.

"Are you still there?" he questions gruffly.

"Yes."

"Look Cecilia, that’s the only way to get me clear. You have to do
this."

I notice that this is the first time in our conversation that he calls me
by name.

"You owe this to me. If you don’t retract your statement, I don’t know
what I’m going to do. I may flatly deny that you ever mentioned this …
and, come to think of it, I won’t hesitate to point out that you’re often
economical with the truth."

This is it! I press the end-call key. I’m livid, hurt, suddenly
apprehensive of what is coming next. I’ve just lost my job. I’m accused
of fraud. And now I also seem to have lost the man I viewed only the
other day to become my partner for life. Things are going from bad to
worse. Are the police already on the way to arrest me? Then I remind
myself that I’m innocent, that I have to fight this and get out of it
unscathed.

Keeping up my strength is part of it, I remind myself. So, although I
don’t really feel like eating, I search the refrigerator for something
palatable. I find a tomato, slightly overripe, half a container of cottage
cheese, and an avocado, its flesh discolored brown, some of the spots
turning indigo, smelling fermented. I throw it into the rubbish. It reminds
me that I need to stock up. I cut up the tomato, mix it with the cottage
cheese, and flavor it with some liquid organic vegetable condiment I
bought in a health food store on my last trip to Lugano. While I eat, not
really tasting it, I replay my conversation with Gary. I’ve never
deliberately lied to him. How could he say that I’m economical with the
truth? I feel bruised. And he doesn’t care in the least about my
predicament. He’s only concerned about his precious self. It hurts. And
there I thought he loved me, as I love him, maybe not the all-consuming
infatuation of a Mills and Boon novel, but a solid commitment. He
revealed a side of himself that he kept mostly well hidden. Did it need
adversity or a crisis for it to come out? Is this a truer picture of what he
would be like in the long run than what he let me see so far? And would
I ever be able to trust him again after this? I doubt it and it makes me sad.
It feels like this important aspect of my last two years has been a failure,
a dead-end.

Suddenly I yearn for a close and intimate girl friend, one who would
listen to me, one to whom I could confide my innermost thoughts and
who wouldn’t judge me; who would take me the way I am; who would be
supportive if I need comforting; who would help me laugh at myself; one
for whom I could also be the same kind of friend. But when my mother
took me to Switzerland, I left my only real highschool friend in South
Kensington, nor might that friendship have survived beyond highschool
or developed into a close and intimate one. Back in Montagnola, suddenly
thrown into Italian, any spare energy I could muster I felt had to be
directed toward looking after my brother. At that point in our life, Italian
was largely a foreign language for both of us. Since my father didn’t
speak it, even our mother didn’t use it at home. True, we heard her speak
Italian to Swiss relatives and the occasional Italian acquaintance. Our ears
were somewhat attuned to it. But keeping up with my highschool studies
in an unaccustomed language demanded extra effort, and I was unhappy
to be no longer at the top of my class, as I had been in England. Later, at
university, determined to get top grades, I juggled my energies between
studies and continued support of my brother, which was getting more and
more onerous as he got into his late teens. So, again, any friendships
remained superficial. And the competitive dog-eat-dog climate of the
MBA program almost precluded forming close friendships with both
sexes. By then I was also looking for sexual fulfillment in my
relationships.

Don’t wallow in self-pity, the survivor in me admonishes once more.
Becoming despondent won’t help. Maybe with a bit of distance Gary may
come to his senses, regretting his outburst, wanting to make up. But right
now, I’ve more pressing things to worry about. I force my mind to think
about what I need to tell my father. He likes people to be precise and to
the point and becomes easily impatient if they ramble on, and at this
moment I need his goodwill.

After my return to London, my father and I mended our relationship.
By that time I had come to the conclusion that there was no reason why
my life should be ruled by what had happened between my parents, that
neither my brother nor I carried any responsibility for their divorce. Nor
did being on good terms with my father imply that I abandoned my needy
mother. Dad invited me regularly for meals. I even discovered that he
hadn’t really traded my mother for a younger, shapelier model. Although
eight year younger than my mother, Lucy is no beauty, but she has a
pleasant, tranquil homeliness about her and is a good cook of traditional
English fare, features that my father must have appreciated after my
mother’s erratic behavior and her esoteric southern cuisine. In fact, I
learned to like Lucy and found my two little stepsisters a delight. It felt
affirming that my father was proud of how well I did at university and of
my successful career as a stockbroker. I think he recognizes in me some
of his own traits: intelligence, determination, often to the point of
stubbornness, reliability, and loving a challenge. He once mentioned that
he would have loved a son with my character.

The kitchen clock shows 2:25 p.m.. I’ve already drunk my second
espresso and am getting anxious. It is crucial that I consult with a lawyer
before the police come knocking at my door.

Monday, 3:05 p.m.

No phone call yet, only the buzzer of the building entrance intercom
hauling me out of the trance I’ve slid into. I answer.

"DI Willis and DS Somes. Miss Walker, please let us in. We need to
have another talk at the police station."

Are they going to arrest me? And dad hasn’t called yet, nor do I have
a lawyer. My anxiety rises sharply. But there is nothing I can do. I press
the release button for the front door. "Come up. Unit 37, level 7," I reply.

My father must have sensed my panic or so it seems to me when the
phone rings a second later. I rush to leave the apartment door ajar and
then sprint into the kitchen to answer the phone.

"Miss Walker, I will connect you with your father," I hear the voice of
his secretary.

I don’t give dad even time to say hello, and instead immediately
launch into my story and the police summoning me again to the station.
I hear the knock at the front door, quickly cover the mouthpiece of the
phone, calling out: "Come in. I’m on the phone in the kitchen."

My father chides me. "Cecilia, why didn’t you call me earlier, right
when it happened? You should have known better than to talk to the
police without a lawyer."

"Because I didn’t expect this thing to blow up like this. The
accusations are absurd. I’ve done nothing criminal or illegal, but now I
need a lawyer. Please, help me, dad. Two detectives are already waiting
to take me away."

In fact, they are standing right behind me. Somes’ facial expression
leaves no doubt that she doesn’t like me talking on the phone, as if I were
already conspiring against them.

"All right. I’ll call in a favor from one of my fellow lawyers, and don’t
say a word until he is there. You got that? To which station are they
taking you?"

"I guess the Snow Hill Station." Turning to Willis, I ask: "Is that
correct, sir?"

"Yes," he replies.

"Thanks, dad. I knew I could count on you. Bye."

Without waiting I inform Willis that my father is arranging for a
lawyer to be present during any interview.

The drive to the City is slow, the traffic heavy. Peter Crawford, the
lawyer my father sent, looks to be in his early forties, a head taller than
I, and I top five foot seven. A gaunt, somewhat sullen face, drawing the
eye irresistibly to his large nose. His clothing hangs loosely on a bony
frame. I notice that his shoes need polishing. Whenever he talks, his
Adam’s apple bobs up and down. It’s hard keeping my eyes off it. Not the
image of the dashing and eloquent defense lawyer portrayed in TV court
dramas who will have all charges dismissed against all odds. However,
he seems to know his business. He insists that we be given privacy for a
briefing first. His facial expression and his questions remain stoic,
completely uninvolved, while I tell my story. Nothing provokes any
reaction, except for a slight raising of the right eyebrow when I report
Gary’s demand that I perjure myself. He strongly advises against that.

The police interview itself is largely a repeat of the first one, except
that Somes doesn’t ask uneducated questions about insider trading. She
must have done her homework. This time it is recorded. They probe
extensively around how I learned about the rumor on the Lufthansa
contract and why and how I tried to verify it. They throw in Garland’s
claim that few insiders gave it credibility, so why did I? Willis wants to
know why I did not ask my boss for advice, and I reply that the latter just
recently chided me to do my own research. Crawford remains silent
during most of the interview. Before answering the question about my
contact at Goldsax, I briefly look at him, and he nods. I assume that this
means to tell the truth. After more than an hour, Willis finally comes out
with his accusation.

"Miss Walker, the way you went about executing this sale transaction
and your justification for the steps you undertook also fit neatly into a
rather different scenario. In fact, I posit that you had advance information
about Singapore Airlines going to sign with Sanvino, and you either knew
of the rumor about the Lufthansa contract and/or after being told by
Edward Long saw an opportunity for a sudden windfall by getting
Ventura to sell their shares, obviously not letting them know that you
were the buyer, and then sold them promptly once the price had risen
after the information about the Singapore Airline deal was made public.
Being an intelligent woman, you tried to cover your tracks by first
seeking confirmation of the Lufthansa rumor, most likely via an
accomplice, and then tried to go around the insider trading prohibition by
having a third party do the buying and selling for you. I suggest that you
come clean now, make restitution for the damages you have caused, and
I will do my best to convince the prosecutor to ask for a non-custodial
sentence. I think this would be in everybody’s best interest."

Very neatly put, offering both a carrot and a stick, I have to admit,
except I’m not going to bite. Crawford preempts my response. "Miss
Walker, do not deign this with an answer." Addressing Willis, he
continues: "Detective Inspector, are you trying to charge my client on the
basis of some speculative scenario, naively giving credence to the
accusation of Miss Walker’s former boss and not backed up by a single
piece of concrete evidence? Let me assure you that I could easily come
up with at least another half dozen equally plausible scenarios that fit the
circumstances and show that my client is simply another victim, such as,
for instance, that one of Miss Walker’s colleagues or even Mr. Garland
himself is involved. If this is all you have, Miss Walker and I will now
leave." Without waiting for a response, he briefly touches my arm and
says: "Let’s go, Miss Walker."

I hear Willis talk into the microphone: "Interview terminated at 5:54
p.m.." A click indicates that he has shut off the machine.

Somes’ red face advertises her frustration. She glares at me
menacingly. We leave without saying good-bye. Neither of us speaks
until we are outside on the street.

"Thank you, Mr. Crawford, for your help. Simply having you at my
side gave me courage."

He acknowledges this with a nod.

"Mr. Crawford, as I told you, I made a bad call in this matter, but I did
nothing illegal or unethical. I want you to believe me that I told the truth."

Again, he raises his right eyebrow. "Miss Walker, at this point I am not
interested in your guilt or innocence. In fact, I prefer not to know. I will
defend your legal rights to the best of my ability. Good night." He turns
abruptly, before I can return his goodnight wish. I keep staring after him,
wondering, until he is swallowed by the crowd. Is he that off-putting with
everybody or only with his clients?

Rather than go home directly, I chance to catch my father still in his
office. I do and tell him in detail what has happened so far. He is sweet
and supportive. "Cecilia, you will weather this. They have no evidence
and only run on speculation."