Jay Giles (7 page)
Three days later, at two in the afternoon, the N.A.S.D. arrived at my office. There were four of them: two suits, two grunts. Eddie took one look at them and wrinkled his nose, his way of letting me know they were trouble.
One of the suits introduced himself as Jack Fowler. He was a thin man with a thin, taciturn-looking face, thinning hair. He was wearing a dark blue pin stripe. The suit in charge.
“Mr. Seattle,” he said politely, “we’re from the N.A.S.D. I’m assuming you know you’ve been accused of securities violations?” He gave me a thin smile.
I was so nervous I could hardly talk. “Violations? I knew about the churning accusation. I didn’t know there were more.”
Second suit—a younger version of Fowler—said, “Try and stay calm, Mr. Seattle. This isn’t a witch-hunt. We’re not here to frighten you. We’re only here to expedite an adjudication.”
“In matters like this,” Fowler continued, “our role is to collect data, which means we’re going to need your transaction records.”
Second suit nodded in agreement. “It would be in your best interests to cooperate with us fully. While this isn’t a witch-hunt, in these types of situations you are guilty until proven innocent.”
“I’m going to cooperate,” I assured them eagerly. They’d reduced me to an obedient child. I wanted them to like me, to tell me it was going to be all right. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t have anything to hide. Tell me what records you need and I’ll get them for you.” I hated myself for being so frightened.
Fowler gave me another of his thin smiles, plopped a wad of papers in my hand with a slap. “It’s all detailed in there. Nothing personal, you understand. We’re just doing our jobs.” He looked over at the grunts. “Start with the computers. Then the paper files.”
I’d expected them to ask me for Joe’s account file.
The grunts unplugged Rosemary’s computer. Rosemary began to cry.
“What are you doing?” I demanded anxiously. “Why are you taking that computer? I’ll get you copies of the records you want.”
Eddie, who had been watching the strangers, must have heard the concern in my voice. He growled. Low, threatening growls.
Second suit eyed Eddie carefully.
“It’s okay, Eddie,” I said. The growling stopped.
Second suit gave me a patronizing smile. “Those documents,” he indicated the wad of papers Fowler had handed me, “are a court order. It’s all spelled out in there. We have authorization to take all your files.”
The grunts went back to work. I stared at the top sheet of papers. It was a subpoena. I didn’t look further. I felt sick as I watched them carry Rosemary’s computer out the door to their truck. The two grunts came back in, found my office, and disconnected my computer.
“Why do you need to take both computers? They have the same information. You don’t need them both.”
“Please, Mr. Seattle, don’t make it worse than it has to be,” Fowler said in a keep-a-stiff-upper-lip tone.
“When will I get my stuff back?”
Fowler frowned. “Hard to say. Depends on the arbitrators, what they decide.”
The grunts began wheeling out my lateral files.
“How do they expect me to service my clients when you’re taking away everything?”
Fowler came over, stood very close to me, said, “Mr. Seattle, our job is to make sure abuses within the brokerage industry are curtailed. It’s not our fault your customers are being inconvenienced. I’ll remind you that it was your customer practices that triggered this investigation.”
I couldn’t believe he’d said that. I lost it. “You pompous bastard, how dare you accuse me of bad practices. The fellow I made these trades for approved every one of them. If you were doing your homework instead of harassing me, you’d have found out this is a totally false, self-serving complaint by an outsider who didn’t know anything about these trades.”
Fowler never blinked an eyelid. “Are you finished?”
“Of course, I am,” I shouted in his face. “I can’t do anything if you take all my records.”
Eddie picked up the anger in my voice, started barking. A rare display.
Neither the shouting nor the barking seemed to faze Fowler. He looked over at second suit. “Note in our report that Mr. Seattle threatened me and was abusive.” He looked back at me. “We’re not to blame here. You brought this on yourself. Your behavior now only makes matters worse.”
“That’s all the file cabinets,” one of the grunts said.
Fowler smiled. “Good. We’ll be leaving then. I advise you to read those papers carefully, Mr. Seattle. You’re in serious trouble. Serious trouble indeed.”
I stood there—stunned. As I watched them drive away, my anger dissolved into depression. The internal questioning began: Why had I lashed out at them? Why hadn’t I treated these people like my new best friends? Why hadn’t I learned more about the charges?
“This is so unfair,” Rosemary said angrily, standing behind her desk. “You were so nice to Joe. All those times you tried to put him on fee to save him money.”
She was right. There was irony in this. One of the few things Joe and I had argued about was commissions. Joe’d insisted I charge him by the trade. Since I bought and sold a lot of equities for him, those commissions added up. What I would have preferred to do was charge him a percentage on the assets I managed. I’d even put together a comparison, complete with pie charts, that showed moving to a 1% fee made sense for him.
He’d smiled benignly, dismissing my efforts on his behalf. “Matt, I’m more comfortable paying you when you do something for me, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.”
We’d argued over it enough it had gotten to be a sore point with him. If I even looked like I was about to mention a fee, he’d cut me off, change the subject.
The phone rang. “What do I say?” Rosemary wanted to know.
“Tell them I’ll call them back,” I said.
Forced to come up with a plan of action. I did. “I’ll go buy new computers; we’ll load the programs off the back-up CDs in the fireproof safe. We should be back up and running in a couple hours.”
It was closer to four. At the computer store, I was like a kid in a candy shop. A year ago, when I’d bought the computers, I’d bought basic utility. Now, I had the opportunity to upgrade. I got something stylish for Rosemary. A system with a black, flat-screen monitor, larger hard drive, more functionality. For myself, I chose a system with large-screen monitor and the ability to sync to a new laptop and my Blackberry. I loaded it all in the Saab, feeling like I’d gotten every bell and whistle.
I hoped I’d stay in business long enough to use all these toys.
Back at the office, I had a pile of pink phone message slips waiting for me. I ignored them, picked up the phone, dialed Julian’s number. Amanda answered. “He’s taking a deposition. I expect him back around eight. Want me to have him call you?”
I looked at my watch. It was seven. Enough time for me to run out, bring back a bite before he called. “Sure. Tell him I’m at the office.”
There was a Chinese place, Hop Luck’s, a block away. I got an order of chicken fried rice, carried it back. In the office kitchen, I fixed Eddie a bowl of dog food, and we ate in silence. When we were finished, he went and stood by the back door.
I let him out, stood on the back stoop while he sniffed around to find the perfect spot. It was nice out. The heat of the day had passed, the noise of downtown commuted to the suburbs.
Inside, the phone rang. I left the door open for Eddie, hustled in to take it in my office.
“Matt, it’s Julian. Amanda said to call as soon as I got in.”
“I had the N.A.S.D. here this afternoon, Julian. They took all my computers, my files. Can they do that?”
“They’d have to have a subpoena to impound your property.”
I picked up the wad of papers Fowler had handed me. “They did.”
“That means they had this approved by a judge and the arbiter. They’re moving this along. Usually, in this kind of case, the other side tries to wear you down by asking for more and more information. With you, they wanted it all at once.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I’ll have to talk to the N.A.S.D. to find out for sure.”
“Ask for Fowler. He was the guy in charge.”
I heard a click. Probably the top coming off his
Mont Blanc
. Scratches as he wrote down the name. “I’ll call first thing in the morning. My guess is Nevitt is posturing for your removal as executor.”
“Can we cut a deal here? Tell him I won’t be executor if he’ll drop these churning charges?”
“I called him, floated something like that to see if he’d go for it. He didn’t. He wants money. Specifically, return of all brokerage fees and damages for malfeasance.”
“Damages? How can he expect damages?”
“If the N.A.S.D. rules in Nevitt’s favor, he’s set to file a complaint on behalf of the estate seeking damages for malfeasance.”
“Can he do that?”
“I’m afraid he can. There’s precedent for a malfeasance suit. He can cite good case law supporting his position. But if the N.A.S.D. rules in our favor, Nevitt doesn’t have a case. Let me call this guy, Fowler, sound him out, see what we’re up against. I’ll call you as soon as I hear something.”
“Thanks, Julian.” I hung up, walked to the back door to check on Eddie. He was lying in a patch of grass, the last of the day’s sun on his back. “Tanning, huh?”
He looked at me, yawned, put his head back down.
I did the dishes, hooked the computers to the network, loaded the software and data. Once I had it all put together, I called up Joe’s account and ran the numbers. In the six full calendar quarters we’d worked together, the percentages were: 43, 61, 90, 130, 86, 78. Considering that Joe often bought stocks and sold them a few days later, the numbers weren’t as bad as I feared. High, but not over the magic number.
I looked at my watch. Ten to ten. I turned off the computers, the lights. Tried to turn off my mind. I couldn’t stop worrying. Especially when I realized there was something Julian hadn’t told me—the amount of the damages Nevitt wanted.
I got a chance to ask him next morning. He called at nine. “I just got a fax from Nevitt. We have a hearing Thursday morning at ten o’clock. Judge Nancy Ott’s court.”
I entered it in my Blackberry. “Why so soon? Why isn’t he waiting until after the N.A.S.D. hearing? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Sure it does. Ott is one of those judges who favor women. All she has to hear is the suggestion that you’ve wronged Janet Jesso, and she’ll rule in her favor. On the other hand, if you’re found innocent in the N.A.S.D. arbitration, Nevitt doesn’t have anything. It’s the suggestion of impropriety he wants.”
“What do you think will happen?”
“They got lucky when they drew Judge Ott. Based on her past rulings, she’ll side with them. She’ll remove you. That’s not all bad since you don’t want to be executor. On the other hand, removal will add credence to Nevitt’s malfeasance suit.”
“Did Nevitt tell you what he wants in damages?”
“No, and I didn’t ask. Judging by the way he was talking—compensatory and punitive damages—I think he’s going for the moon.”
“Julian, do we need to bring in a junkyard-dog attorney for this?” Julian was a good corporate attorney. He wasn’t a litigator.
“I’m working on that, I know a litigator who can give Nevitt a run for his money.”
“Get him, quick.”
“Her,” he said.
“Would that help us with Judge Ott?”
“Might. I’ll call you back when I know more.”
At eleven, Rosemary buzzed me. “Julian again.” I picked up.
“Fowler called me back. I introduced myself, said I’d be representing you, played a little dumb. Here’s what he told me. Nevitt filed the complaint against you the day after Jesso’s death. Their compliance people felt—even though the marriage was only a week old—it was a valid marriage, hence a valid complaint. He said that based on the allegations they feel an investigation is warranted. They’ll listen to arguments for dismissal only at arbitration. I asked for their date for arbitration so we’d know how long we have to prepare. They told me two to three weeks from now at the earliest.”
“Why so long?”
“Apparently, the N.A.S.D. doesn’t move quickly. Which is good. We need time to prepare for this probate court appearance. I’ve arranged for Amy Quell to litigate for us. You’ll be impressed. She’s terrific.”
He wasn’t wrong. Julian, Amy, and I met twice at his office to prepare. Amy was short and wide, with a chubby round face, long stringy black hair, and a booming voice. She had an exceptionally quick mind and seemed to have an answer for everything. I left our meetings actually feeling confident.
My confidence ebbed Thursday as I entered the Sarasota County Courthouse. Nervous, I’d arrived too early. I loitered in the lobby with most of the city’s known felons.
At precisely the appointed time, Julian swept in, Amy in his wake. “You look a little green,” she said to me.
I nodded. “I’ll be glad when this is over.”
Amy studied me. “You know the drill? You didn’t forget? I answer all questions.”
I nodded nervously.
“Let’s head on in,” Julian said.
I followed them into Judge Ott’s courtroom. Amy talked to the bailiff.
“We’re on in ten minutes,” she told us.
I used the time to get a sense of Judge Ott, an older woman with wispy, gray hair and a shriveled-prune face. She was reading someone the riot act, her voice shrill, penetrating.
“What’s going on?” I asked Amy.
She snickered. “Looks like this guy can’t account for all the assets in the estate. She’ll crucify him; just watch.”
I did. It was painful. All I could think about was that could be me up there.
“Jesso vs.
Seattle
,” a male voice called out.
Suddenly, it was me up there. We stood at our table in front of the Judge. Nevitt and the widow Jesso were at their table. The bailiff read the complaint. Judge Ott peered down from her bench, squinting at them, squinting at us.
“Counselor,” she said, indicating Nevitt. “I want to hear from you, succinctly, why you believe I should remove Mr. Seattle as executor.”
“Your Honor,” Nevitt began, “my client learned from her husband—”
“Hearsay, your Honor,” Amy bellowed.
Judge Ott looked at Amy, frowned. “Overruled. I want to hear this. You’ll get your say.”
“Thank you, your Honor,” Nevitt said gracefully. “My client’s husband felt his stockbroker, Mr. Seattle, was cheating him, that he was buying and selling Mr. Jesso’s stocks to run up the commissions he earned. This rapid buying and selling of stocks is called churning. Mr. Seattle is now under investigation by the National Association of Securities Dealers.”
Ott squinted at me. Her frown deepened. “That’s disturbing.”
“Yes it is, your Honor. My client is fearful that, as executor, Mr. Seattle will churn the estate further to create even more income for himself. Since Mrs. Jesso is the sole beneficiary of the estate, there’s no reason to subject her to that threat. We ask that under the
Florida
revised code,” he read a series of numbers and sites, “Mr. Seattle be removed as fiduciary and the Court appoint an executor to serve in that capacity. Thank you, your Honor.”
Ott’s head pivoted. She stared at Amy. “Counselor, let’s hear your side of it. Again, be respectful of the Court’s time.”
“We will, your Honor,” Amy said confidently. “Mr. Seattle was Mr. Jesso’s stockbroker for over a year and a half. At any time during that period, Mr. Jesso could have stopped using Mr. Seattle’s services. He didn’t. The fact is, Mr. Jesso had a very good relationship with my client, often spending long periods of time at his offices discussing stocks. I think that’s important because it shows Mr. Jesso was a stock enthusiast, a man who liked to buy and sell. Mr. Seattle didn’t churn Mr. Jesso’s account. Mr. Jesso liked to move quickly in and out of the market. Your Honor, if you were to look at trading records of stock enthusiasts like Mr. Jesso, I believe you’d see even more frenetic patterns of trading. The churning charges filed by Mr. Nevitt are a self-serving ploy—”
“Objection, your Honor,” Nevitt said quickly.
“Overruled. I heard what you had to say. I want to hear what she has to say—without interruption.”
“Thank you, your Honor. We believe the churning charges filed by Mr. Nevitt were trumped up to give grounds for Mr. Seattle’s dismissal. We ask you to look past this ploy. Further, the Jessos were married only a week before Mr. Jesso’s death. This was Mrs. Jesso’s third marriage—that we can uncover—all to wealthy, older men. Because this marriage was only a week old, Mrs. Jesso hadn’t gotten control of her husband’s money. We believe that’s what this fiduciary removal request is about—getting Mr. Seattle out of the way so Mrs. Jesso can gain exclusive control of Mr. Jesso’s estate. We ask, your Honor, that Mr. Seattle be retained as fiduciary.”
