Silent Partner (29 page)

“It can’t go quite that far,” Harmon admitted. “But with 99 percent accuracy it can predict whether or not the applicant is black, Hispanic, or any other minority.”

“How?” Tucker demanded.

“For Sumter to process the mortgage request, the applicant must fill out the boxes on the application, giving name, current address, current telephone number, Social Security number, years of education, and all other personal debt, including credit cards.” The words were spilling out now, as if Harmon wanted to talk. As if all of this information had been bottled up inside of him for too long, and now that he had the opportunity to reveal what he knew, he couldn’t say enough. “The software crosses all the information from the application with reams of data bank information we purchase from third-party vendors to predict race. For instance, the current address information gets Sumter to about a 75 percent confidence level right away. The ZIP code and the telephone number tell the software three-quarters of what it needs to know. I mean, think about it: very few neighborhoods in our country are split fifty-fifty in terms of race. Then the software reviews what kind of items the applicant purchased on his or her credit cards, and where he or she went to high school or college. That kind of information further refines the confidence around the prediction until it spits out an answer with 99 percent accuracy. Actually the accuracy level is 99.4 percent,” he added. “Minority or white. That’s all the senior people at Sumter want to know.”

“And of course the race box on the application is optional,” Angela pointed out quietly. “The applicant doesn’t have to fill out that information.”

Harmon nodded. “Exactly. Now, if the application is submitted in person, the bank employee handling the application sees the applicant and can fill in the race information if the applicant doesn’t when the applicant leaves the bank branch. But over the Internet, the applicant is anonymous. There’s no way for the bank to know the applicant’s race.”

“Unless Sumter uses the ESP predictive software,” Angela said.

Harmon sighed dejectedly. “That’s right.”

“My God,” Tucker whispered, tightening his grip on Harmon’s throat again. “I oughta—”

“John!” Angela reached down into the trunk and grabbed Tucker’s hand. “Stop it.”

Harmon gasped as Tucker released his grip. “You think this has been easy for me? Knowing all of this? Being a part of all of this?”

“Why would you have
ever
supported it if it’s been so hard?” Angela demanded. “Why wouldn’t you tell someone? Why wouldn’t you have gone to the authorities?”

Harmon closed his eyes tightly. “I have a past,” he said, tightening his mouth. “The senior people at ESP found out about it, and they used it against me. I’m sure our investment guy at Sage Capital was the one who told them.”

“What kind of past?” Tucker demanded.

“What difference does it make?” Harmon shot back.

“It doesn’t,” Angela agreed. “But there is one more thing I need to understand.”

“What?”

“How does Sumter use the information generated by the ESP predictive software? Does it simply deny all minorities a mortgage?” Angela shook her head. “I can’t believe that would be the case. It would be too obvious. That information would come to light somewhere and the bank would be crucified in the Richmond press. In the
national
press for God’s sake.”

“Of course they would,” Harmon agreed. “In fact, Sumter makes many loans to minority mortgage applicants.”

“So what do they use the information for?” Angela asked impatiently.

“Obviously, the applicant must also fill out the box telling the bank where they intend to move. The address of the new home that the mortgage will be financing.”

“Yes?”

“Sumter reviews that new address and, as long as it’s in a neighborhood designated by Sumter’s senior management as already ‘heavy minority,’ the application is approved. But if the new address is in an area designated ‘heavy white,’ the application is denied.”

Angela glanced into Tucker’s eyes.

He shook his head.

She nodded silently, then looked back down at Harmon. “Is this going on in just Richmond, or all over Virginia?” she asked.

Harmon shook his head. “From what I understand, the Sumter people apply the standard to every application that comes in, no matter the address.” He hesitated. “And they aren’t the only ones,” he said ominously.

“One more question.”

“What?”

“Does Fogel know anything about this?”

Harmon looked at his bloody hand in the light from the dim bulb. “No. He doesn’t know anything.”

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Carter Hill said, making eye contact with Booker, Thompson, and Abbott in turn as they all huddled around the side of his car. “We may have an issue.”

“What is it?” Booker asked, glancing around the dark mall parking lot.

“Ted Harmon didn’t come home tonight from ESP. And, at around nine o’clock this evening, his wife put their three children in the family station wagon and drove to her parents’ house in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. It took her several hours to get there from northern Virginia, but she didn’t stop once. And our person informed me that she was doing no less than eighty the whole way.” He paused. “Something’s happened.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“He shouldn’t wake up till morning now,” Angela whispered, turning back at the doorway to take one last look at Hunter. He was asleep in Liv’s guest room, snug beneath the covers, his arms wrapped tightly around a frayed teddy bear with one missing eye. He hadn’t stirred since falling asleep an hour ago on Angela’s couch. Even on the ride over to Liv’s, or as Angela had carried him into Liv’s apartment from the car. “At least not before I get back.”

“I don’t know about this, Angela,” Liv said anxiously. “What if he wakes up? What do I do then?”

“Just get him a drink of water and put him back into bed. Maybe read him a story.”

“But he’ll ask for you.”

“I told him we were coming here before he fell asleep, and he was fine with that. Besides, he’s known you for a long time. You’re like his aunt.”

“But he’s never spent the night here alone, Angela. It’s weird. I don’t have any problem dealing with powerful people like Bob Dudley, but a six-year-old boy makes me really nervous.”

“Relax. You’ll be fine.”

Liv leaned back into the room and began to pull the bedroom door closed.

“No, no,” Angela advised, catching the door. “Leave it open a few inches. He likes the light. He’s still got a problem with imaginary monsters under the bed.”

“Oh.”

When they had moved down the hall to the living room, Liv nodded back toward the bedroom. “By the way, Angela, why is he with you tonight? Didn’t you just have him last weekend?”

“Hunter was asking for me. Sam said he was crying, so he decided it was best to bring him to me.”

Liv shook her head. “It’s sad for a child to be so unhappy. He should see you much more.”

Angela nodded grimly. “Hunter was unhappy enough that Sam defied his father.”

“I was going to say. This can’t be making Chuck Reese very happy.”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” Angela agreed, picking up her ski jacket from the couch. “I really appreciate your looking after him.”

“How long will you be?”

“Not more than a few hours. I hope.”

Liv hesitated. “What’s this all about tonight, Angela?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Angela.”

“Look, you’re the one who wants to break the Bob Dudley story before the
Herald
.” She hadn’t yet told Liv about her trip to Birmingham or what she’d found. There was one more thing she needed to do first. “Right?”

“Yes. But I don’t want anything happening to you, either.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Not going to tell me any more than that?” Liv asked as they reached the apartment door.

“It’s just something I need to do.” Angela took Liv’s hand for a moment. “Don’t worry so much. Like I said, everything will be fine.”

And then she was gone. Back to her car and headed toward the west side of town. As Angela was driving, she thought about trying Jake Lawrence on his cell phone one more time. She’d placed several calls over the past few days but hadn’t been able to reach him since the night the helicopter had been shot down. John had explained that, according to Colby, the attack had been carried out by a right-wing terrorist group that had found out Lawrence was covertly assisting governments they were fighting. Somehow they’d found out about the chopper landing but been fooled by the decoy. Now Colby had Lawrence stashed in an undisclosed location, and had cut him off from all contact with the outside world. The incident on the mountain, a bombing in Tel Aviv, and now the attack on the helicopter had Colby taking no chances.

Angela was disappointed about not being able to contact Jake. She desperately wanted to tell him what she had found at ESP, what she had uncovered in Birmingham, and what Ted Harmon had told her from the trunk of a rental car. She was certain Jake would shut down the Proxmire acquisition when he heard what she had to tell him. When what was going on at ESP and Sumter came to light, an ESP initial public offering would be off the table. For all she knew, the authorities might even shut it down.

So now she was in this thing to expose Bob Dudley and whoever else at Sumter was involved in the discriminatory practices being systematically carried out by the bank. She was in it for herself—and for Sally. Perhaps by destroying an animal like Bob Dudley she could dull the guilt that had plagued her every day of her life since Sally had fallen from the fraternity house window.

Angela took a deep breath and clenched the steering wheel. None of the fraternity members had suffered any punishment for what had happened. The Good Old Boy network had closed ranks around them and, despite Angela’s testimony and her repeated pleas to school administrators and town officials, the local police had ruled Sally’s death an “unfortunate accident.” The young men who had kept her from getting to Sally had been right. They could do whatever they wanted. She gritted her teeth. To give up the fight against Dudley now would be cowardly. He might as well have been one of those young men who forced Sally out the window.

Angela recognized a Denny’s on her left and swung her car into a strip mall parking lot just beyond the restaurant, then pulled to a quick stop in front of the Rite-Aid. She had noticed a pair of headlights behind her on the way from Liv’s apartment, and, though the vehicle had passed by when she pulled into the strip mall lot, she was glad they had taken these precautions.

“May I help you?” A man behind the front counter called when she entered the store and headed toward the aisle stocked with shampoos.

“No, thanks.”

Angela walked to the back of the store and the deserted prescription counter, which, according to the sign, had closed at 8:00 p.m. Then she moved through the swinging stainless steel gate separating it from the rest of the store and past several shelves of bottles and vials into the stockroom beyond.

“Hey, what are you doing in here?”

Angela froze, startled by a young woman taking inventory. “Oh, sorry,” she said, spotting the back door. “Wrong number.”

“What? Hey—”

Angela pushed through the store’s back door and into the cold night air. John Tucker was waiting for her there, the engine of the Jeep running. He leaned over and opened her door as she reached the vehicle.

“Were you followed?” he asked as they sped away.

“I’m not sure,” she answered over the noise of the engine, buckling her seat belt. “I think somebody tailed me out here, but they didn’t follow me into the mall parking lot. They kept going.”

“Odds are good they were following you. Probably waiting for you right now at the mall entrance or across the street. Well, they’ll be waiting for a while, won’t they?” He chuckled. “So what’s the best way to get there?”

For an hour Angela guided Tucker toward a business park on Richmond’s South Side—the opposite side of the river from downtown. Ted Harmon had given her the address. The address of a Sumter Bank location he and ESP dealt with on a daily basis. There they might confirm Harmon’s allegation that Sumter was essentially engaging in housing segregation, not only in Richmond and across the state of Virginia, but in their entire market region—from just outside Washington, D.C., all the way down through the Southeast to Florida. It was one thing for Ted Harmon to accuse Sumter of such a despicable discriminatory practice. But if she had collaborating evidence from inside the bank, the allegation would be irrefutable.

“That was the entrance,” said Angela, pointing at a sign as the Jeep raced past. “Turn around.”

“We need to be careful approaching this place,” Tucker replied. “Even at this time of night.”

A half a mile past the business park entrance the road snaked through a heavily wooded area. Tucker slowed the Jeep down, found a dirt road, and turned off onto it. A hundred feet into the woods, he pulled to a stop.

“Let’s go.”

“Wait a minute.” Angela pulled out her cell phone and dialed Liv’s apartment number.

“Hello,” Liv answered softly.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes. He hasn’t made a sound.”

“Good. I’ll call again in a little while.”

“All right. Bye.”

Angela slipped the phone back into her pocket. “Okay, let’s go,” she said, coming around to the driver’s side. Tucker had his cell phone pressed to his ear. “Who are you talking to?” she asked suspiciously. There it was. That urge not to trust. But she hadn’t paid attention to it in Wyoming and had almost been pushed from a five-hundred-foot cliff.

“Just checking messages. Bill Colby wants to know where I am every second these days.” He glanced around the dark woods. “You ready?”

She nodded slowly, wondering if this was really a good idea—or maybe the worst mistake of her life. “Yes.”

“Then let’s do it. Whatever ‘it’ is.”

“We have to get inside this Sumter location. We have to see what’s there. Hopefully there’ll be a file or a communication that confirms Harmon’s story.”

“Okay.”

They moved through the woods to the edge of the business park, then kept to the shadows as much as possible as they tried to read street signs and building numbers. The commercial park was comprised of four long, two-story buildings containing everything from graphic design firms and computer repair shops to warehouses and light-manufacturing companies. Finally, they reached their target, identifiable only by its number on the building. There was nothing on the door or the front of this section of the building to indicate that it was a Sumter location.

“Okay, now we know which one it is,” Tucker said, looking around. The long building stretched a hundred yards in both directions. “We need to mark it so we’ll know which one it is.”

“I’ve got an idea.” Angela reached down, picked up a stone from a rock garden in front of the building, and trotted out into the empty parking lot. She placed the stone down beneath an overhead streetlight that was directly in front of the Sumter door fifty feet out into the lot.

“Good thinking,” Tucker said when she returned. “Let’s get to the back of the building.”

They jogged to one end of the building, then around to the back and the delivery area, and located the first fire escape leading up the side of the building to the roof.

“What are you waiting for?” Angela asked, moving past Tucker as he gazed upward. She grabbed the first rung—four feet off the ground—pulled herself up to the third rung, managed to get her toe onto the first rung, then began climbing. She was glad it was dark so it wasn’t as obvious to her that she was getting higher off the ground with each step. She could feel the ladder shaking. Tucker was climbing too. When she reached the top rung, she hauled herself up onto the roof and waited for him.

“Come on, cowboy. What’s wrong? You look a little winded.”

He winked at her. “I’m pacing myself, Angela.”

They jogged across the long, flat roof toward the front of the building, carefully avoiding condensers, pipes, and other obstacles. When they reached the front, they turned right and kept going, staying within a few feet of the roof’s edge, checking each parking lot streetlight until they reached the one with the stone lying beneath it.

“There it is,” Angela said quietly.

“I see it.”

“I hope your friend made it out here this afternoon.”

“He did. He confirmed.” Tucker moved carefully over the roof toward the center of the building. “Here we go.” He dropped to his knees, grabbed a trapdoor handle, and pulled. “We’re in,” he said as the door came up.

Angela knelt down beside him. “How did he get in here?”

“Claimed he was a fire inspector and that he needed to look around,” Tucker replied, pulling out a small flashlight and shining it down into the darkness. “The people in charge here bought his act without a question. He left this open for us when he came down off the roof.” Tucker leaned forward and pushed down a set of folding wooden stairs. They extended to the floor. “Let’s go,” he said, placing his foot on the top step and disappearing.

Angela followed, heart pounding. Now they were guilty of breaking and entering. But it was the only way.

The three men who had trailed Angela and Tucker to the back of the building each holstered a Glock 9 mm. They were hunters, skilled in the art of stealth—and killing.

“What now?” Tucker asked when they had both descended the wooden stairs and reached the floor.

Angela grabbed the flashlight from him. “Follow me.” She led him out of a small hallway and on to an open floor furnished with several metal desks piled with papers. She moved quickly to the first desk and inspected the top folder. “Look at this,” she whispered.

Tucker moved beside her. “What is it?”

She flashed the light over the pages inside the folder. “A mortgage application.” She turned quickly to the third page. The Race/National Origin box entitled “black, not of Hispanic origin” had been checked. “Hold this,” she said, handing him the flashlight. “Keep it on the file so I can see.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Angela snatched a handwritten note paper-clipped to the front of the legal-sized manila folder and scanned it. “My God.”

“What?”

“This note states that the application can be approved because the subject can service the debt and is moving to an ‘acceptable zone.’ ”

“ ‘An acceptable zone’?”

“It must mean that this person isn’t trying to move into a neighborhood that someone at Sumter has determined he shouldn’t be moving to. He’s staying put, not trying to break the neighborhood color barrier.” She glanced up into Tucker’s eyes. “It’s incredible. There’s probably enough evidence in this office to bring down the entire Sumter senior executive team.” She caught her breath, thinking about the effect this information would have on the bank’s share price. No doubt it would tumble if the press got hold of this information. If Liv Jefferson got hold of it. Then the value of Jake Lawrence’s six hundred million investment would undoubtedly plummet.

“What do we do now?” Tucker asked.

“Keep looking.”

“This isn’t enough?” he asked, nodding at the file.

“I want more.”

She had to talk to Jake and tell him what she’d found before she contacted federal bank examiners. She had to tell Jake to dump his shares, even if he had to take a discount for liquidating so large a position so fast. If she saved him from a huge loss, he would owe her and he’d come through on his promise to get Hunter back. Maybe. Of course, technically, she’d be guilty of insider trading for giving Jake the information, because insider trading worked both ways. Whether you gave someone a tip ahead of positive news, or saved them from taking a bath ahead of bad news. But she hadn’t taken all these mammoth risks to fall short this close to her ultimate goal. And she wasn’t going to cover up what she knew. She owed Sally that—and much more.