The Moneychangers

Soon after, by mutual consent and without further discussion, the board meeting was abandoned.

The death of Ben Rosselli attracted international press coverage and some news writers, reaching for the nearest cliche, labeled it "an era's end."

Whether it was, or wasn't, his departure signaled that the last major American bank to be identified with a single entrepreneur had moved into mid-twentieth century conformation, with committee and hired management control. As to who would head the hired management, that decision had been postponed until after the Rosselli funeral when the bank's board of directors would convene again.

The funeral took place on Wednesday in the second week of December.

Both the funeral and a lying-in-state which preceded it were garnished with the full rites and panoply of the Catholic Church, suitable to a papal knight and large cash benefactor which Ben Rosselli was.

The two-day lying-in-state was at St. Matthew's Cathedral, appropriate since Matthew once Levi the tax collector is considered by bankers as a patron saint. Some two thousand people, including a presidential representative, the state governor, ambassadors, civic leaders, bank employees and many humbler souls, filed past the bier and open casket.

On the morning of burial taking no chances an archbishop, a bishop, and a monsignor concelebrated a Mass of the Resurrection. A full choir intoned responses to prayers with reassuring volume. Within the cathedral, which was filled, a section near the altar had been reserved for Rosselli relatives and friends. Immediately behind were directors and senior officers of First Mercantile American Bank.

Roscoe Heyward, dressed somberly in black, was in the first row of bank mourners, accompanied by his wife Beatrice, an imperious, sturdy woman, and their son, Elmer. Heyward, an Episcopalian, had studied the correct Catholic procedures in advance and genuflected elegantly, both before seating himself and on departure later the last a piece of punctilio which many Catholics ignored. The Heywards also knew the Mass responses so that their voices dominated others nearby who didn't. Alex Vandervoort, wearing charcoal gray and seated two rows behind the Heywards, was among the non-responders. An agnostic, he felt out of place in these surroundings, He wondered how Ben, essentially a simple man, would have regarded this ornate ceremony.

Beside Alex, Margot Bracken looked around her with curiosity. Originally Margot had planned to attend the funeral with a group from Forum East, but last night she had stayed at Alex's apartment and he persuaded her to accompany him today. The Forum East delegation a large one was somewhere behind them in the church.

Next to Margot were Edwina and Lewis D'Orsey, the latter looking gaunt and starved as usual and frankly bored. Probably, Alex thought, Lewis was mentally drafting the next edition of his investment newsletter. The D'Orseys had ridden here with Margot and Alex the four of them were often together, not just because Edwina and Margot were cousins, but because they found each other's company agreeable. After the Mass of the Resurrection they would all go to the graveside service.

In the row ahead of Alex were Jerome Patterton, the vice-chairman, and his wife.

Despite his detachment from the liturgy, Alex found tears spring to his eyes as the coffin passed by and was carried from the church. His feeling for Ben, he had realized over the past few days, was close to love. In some ways the old man had been a father figure; his death left a gap in Alex's life which would not be filled. Margot reached gently for his hand and held it.

As mourners began filing out he saw Roscoe and Beatrice Heyward glance their way. Alex nodded and the greeting was returned. Heyward's face softened in an acknowledgment of mutual grief, their feud in recognition of their own, as well as Ben's mortality for this brief moment put aside.

Outside the cathedral, regular traffic had been diverted. The coffin was already in a flower-laden hearse. Now, relatives and bank officials were-getting into limousines being brought up under police direction. A police motorcycle escort, engines running noisily, was at the head of the assembling cortege.

The day was gray and cold with eddies of wind raising dust whorls in the street. High above, the cathedral towers loomed, the whole facade immense and blackened by the grime of years. Snow had been forecast earlier but so far had not appeared.

While Alex signaled for his car, Lewis D'Orsey peered over his half-moon glasses at TV and still cameramen, shooting pictures of the emerging mourners. He observed, "If I find all this depressing, and I do, the reports should Depress FMA stock even more tomorrow."

Alex murmured uneasy agreement. Like Lewis, he was aware that First Mercantile American shares, listed on the New York Stock Exchange, had fallen five and a half points since news of Ben's illness. The death of the last Rosselli a name which for generations had been synonymous with the bank coupled with uncertainty about the course of future management, had caused the most recent drop. Now, even though illogically, publicity about the funeral could depress the stock still further.

"Our stock will go up again," Alex said. "earnings are good and nothing's really changed."

"Oh, I know that," Lewis~agreed. "It's why I'll cover my short position tomorrow afternoon." Edwina looked shocked. "You shorted FMA?”

"Sure did. Advised a few clients to do the same. As of right now there's a tidy profit."

She protested, "You and I know I never discuss anything confidential with you, Lewis. Others don't. Because of my connection with the bank you could be accused of insider trading."

Alex shook his head. "Not in this case, Edwina, Ben's illness was public knowledge."

'When we eventually make over the capitalist system," Margot said, "selling short on the stock market will be one of the first things to go." Lewis raised his eyebrows. "Why?"

"Because it's totally negative. Short selling is: disruptive speculation that requires someone else to lose. It's ghoulish and a non-contribution. It creates nothing." "It creates a handy capital gain." Lewis grinned

broadly; he had crossed arguments with Margot many times before. "And that isn't easy to come by nowadays, at least with American investments."

"I still don't like you doing it with FMA stock,', Edwina said. "It's too close to home."

Lewis D'Orsey looked at his wife gravely. "In that case, my dear, after I've covered my shorts tomorrow I will never trade in FMA again." Margot glanced over sharply. "You know he means it," Alex said.

Alex wondered sometimes about the relationship between Edwina and her husband. Outwardly they seemed ill-matched Edwina elegantly attractive and self-possessed; Lewis, scrawny, unimpressive physically, an introvert except with those he knew well, though the personal reticence never showed in his roaring-lion financial newsletter. But their marriage appeared to work well, and each showed respect and affection for the other, as Lewis had just now. Perhaps, Alex thought, it proved that not only did opposites attract; they tended to stay married.

Alex's Cadillac from the bank car pool moved into the lengthening line outside the cathedral and the four of them walked toward it.

"It would have been a more civilized promise," Margot said, "if Lewis agreed not to sell anything short."

"Alex," Lewis said, "what the hell do you have in common with this socialist broad?"

"We're great in the sack," Margot told him. 'Isn't that enough?" Alex said, "And I'd like to marry her soon."

Edwina responded warmly, "Then I hope you will." She and Margot had been close since childhood, despite occasional dashes of temperament and outlook. Something they had in common was that in both branches of their family women were strong, with a tradition of involvement in public life. Edwina asked Alex quietly, "Anything new with Celia?"

He shook his head. "Nothing's changed. If anything, Celia's worse." They were at the car. Alex motioned the chauffeur to remain seated, then opened a rear door for the others and followed them in. Inside, the glass panel separating the driver from the passenger seats was closed. They settled down while the still assembling cortege inched forward.

For Alex, the mention of Celia sharpened the sadness of this moment; it also reminded him guiltily that he should visit her again soon. Since the session at the Remedial Center in early October which had so depressed him, he had paid one other call, but Celia had been even more withdrawn, gave not the slightest sign of recognition, and wept silently the entire time. He remained dejected for days afterward and dreaded a repeat performance.

The thought occurred now that Ben Rosselli, in the coffin up ahead, was better off than Celia because his life had ended conclusively. If only Celia would die… Alex quelled the thought with shame.

Nor had anything new developed between himself and Margot, who remained adamantly opposed to a divorce, at least until it became clear that Celia would be unaffected. Margot seemed willing to go on indefinitely with the arrangement they had. Alex was less resigned.

Lewis addressed Edwina. "I've been meaning to ask what the latest is about that young assistant of yours. The one who got caught with his arm in the cash drawer. What was his name?"

"Miles Eastin," Edwina answered. "He appears in criminal court next week and I have to be a witness. I'm not looking forward to it."

"At least you got the blame where it should be," Alex said. He had read the audit chief's report about the embezzlement and cash loss; also that of Nolan Wainwright. "What about the teller who was involved Mrs. Nunez? Is she okay?"

"She seems to be. I'm afraid we gave Juanita a hard time. Unjustly, as it turned out."

Margot, only half listening, now, sharpened her attention. "I know a Juanita Nunez. Nice young woman who lives at Forum East. I believe her husband left her. She has a child."

"That sounds like our Mrs. Nunez," Edwina said. "Yes, I remember now. She does live at Forum East."

Though Margot was curious, she sensed it was not a time for further questions.

As they sat, briefly silent, Edwina pursued her thoughts. The two recent events Ben Rosselli's death and Miles Eastin's foolish wrecking of his life had come too close together. Both, involving people whom she liked, had saddened her.

She supposed she should care more about Ben; she owed him most. Her own rapid rise within the bank had been due to ability; however, Ben had never hesitated as many employers did to allow a woman the same opportunity as men. Nowadays Edwina resented the parrot cries of women's lib. As she saw it, women in business were being favored because of their sex, giving them an advantage Edwina had never sought or needed. Just the same, across the years she had known Ben, his presence was a guarantee of equal treatment. Like Alex, Edwina had been moved to tears in the cathedral as Ben's body passed by on its outward journey.

Her thoughts returned to Miles. He was young enough, she supposed, to build another kind of life, though it would not be easy. No bank would ever employ him; nor would anyone else, in a position of trust. Despite what he had done, she hoped he would not be sent to prison.

Aloud, Edwina said; "I always get a guilty feeling about ordinary conversation at a funeral."

"No reason to," Lewis said. "Personally, at mine I'd like to think there was something solid being said, not just small talk."

"You could make certain of that," Margot suggested, "by publishing a farewell edition of The D'Orsey Newsletter. Pallbearers could hand out copies." Lewis beamed. "I might just do that."

Now the cortege began to move onward more purposefully. Up ahead the motorcycle escort had rewed up and was rolling; two outriders shot forward to halt traffic at intersections. The other vehicles following increased their speed and moments later the procession left St. Matthew's Cathedral behind and was passing through city streets.

The snow which had been forecast was beginning to fall lightly.

"I like that idea of Margot's," Lewis mused. "A 'Bon Voyage Bulletin.' And I have a headline for it. 'Bury the U. S. Dollar with Me! You Might as Well It's Dead and Done For.' Then, in what follows, I shall urge creation of a new unit of currency to replace the dollar the 'U. S. D'Orsey.' Based, of course, on gold. Later, when it's happened, the rest of the world will hopefully have the sense to follow suit."

"Then you'd be a monument to retrogression," Margot said, "and any picture of you should have the head facing backwards. On a gold standard, even fewer people than now would own most of the world's wealth, with the rest of mankind left bare-assed."

Lewis grimaced. "A distasteful prospect at least, the last one. But even that price would be worth a stable money system." "Why?"

Lewis answered Margot. "Because when money systems break down, as is happening now, it's always the poor who suffer most."

Alex, on a jump seat ahead of the other three, half turned to join the conversation. "Lewis, I try to be objective and sometimes your gloom about dollars and the money system makes sense. But I can't share your total pessimism. I believe the dollar can recover. I can't believe everything monetary is falling apart."

"That's because you don't want to believe it," Lewis retorted. "You're a banker. If the money system collapses, you and your bank are out of business. All you could do would be to sell off the worthless paper currency as wallpaper or toilet rolls." Margot said, "Oh, come one"

Edwina sighed. "You know this always happens when you provoke him, so why do it

"No, not" her husband insisted. "With all respect, my dear, I demand to be taken seriously. I neither need nor want tolerance." Margot asked, "What do you want?"

"I want the truth to be accepted that America has ruined its own and the world's money system because of politics, greed, and debt. I want it clearly understood that bankruptcy can happen to nations as well as to individuals and corporations.I want a realization that the United States is close to bankruptcy because, God knows!, there's enough precedent and history to show us how and why it happens. Look at the city of New York! It's bankrupt, broke, patched up with string and Band-Aids, with anarchy waiting in the wings. And that's only the beginning. What's happening in New York will happen nationally."

Lewis went on, "The collapse of currencies isn't new. Our own century is littered with examples, each one traceable to the selfsame cause a government which began the syphilis of inflation by printing fiat money unbacked by gold or any other value. For the past fifteen years the United States has done precisely that."

"There are more dollars in circulation than there should be," Alex admitted. "No one with any sense doubts it."

Lewis nodded dourly. 'There's also more debt than can ever be repaid; debt that's expanding like a monstrous bubble. American governments have spent billions wildly, borrowed insanely, piled up debits beyond believing, then used the printing presses to create more paper money and inflation. And people, individuals, have followed tl" example." Lewis motioned in the direction of the hearse ahead. "Bankers like Ben Rosselli have done their damnedest, piling crazy debts on debts. You too, Alex, with your inflationary credit cards and easy borrowing. When will people relearn the lesson that there isn't any easy debt? I tell you, as a nation and as individuals, Americans have lost what they once had financial sanity." "In case you're wondering, Margot," Edwina said,

"Lewis and I don't discuss banking much. It's more peaceful at home that way."

Margot smiled. "Lewis, you sounded exactly like your newsletter."

"Or," he said, "like the beating of wings in an empty room where no one hears."

Edwina said suddenly, "It's going to be a white funeral." She leaned forward, looking through the car's steamy windows at the snow outside, now falling heavily. The suburban streets which they had reached were smooth with freshly fallen snow and the cortege slowed as the police motorcycle escort up ahead reduced its speed for safety.

The cemetery, Alex realized, was barely half a mile away.

Lewis D'Orsey was adding a postscript. "So, for the bulk of people, all hope is gone, the money game is over. Savings, pensions and fixed interest investments are becoming worthless; the clock's at five past midnight. Right now it's every man for himself, a time to survive, for individuals to scramble for financial life belts. And there are ways to profit from general misfortune. In case you're interested, Margot, you'll find descriptions in my latest book, Depressions and Disasters: How to Make Money from Them. Incidentally, it's selling very well."

"If you don't mind," Margot said, 'I'll pass. It seems a bit like cornering vaccine in an outbreak of bubonic plague."

Alex had turned his back to the others and was peering through the windshield. Sometimes, he reflected, Lewis became theatrical and went too far. Usually, though, an undercurrent of sense and solid reasoning ran through everything he said. It had today. And Lewis could be tight about a financial crash ahead. If it happened, it would be the most disastrous in history.

Nor was Lewis D'Orsey alone. A few financial pundits shared his views, though they were unpopular and frequently derided, perhaps because no one wanted to believe an apocalypse of doom bankers least of all. But it was coincidental that Alex's own thoughts had been turning of late in two of Lewis's directions. One was a need for greater thrift and saving a reason Alex had urged emphasis on savings deposits in his presentation to the board a week ago. The second was unease about the swelling debts of individuals resulting from proliferating credit, including, especially, those plastic cards

He swung around once more, confronting Lewis. "Believing the way you do that a crash is coming soon and assuming you were an ordinary saver or depositor with U.S. dollars, what kind of bank would you want to have your money in?"

Lewis said unhesitatingly, "A big bank. When a crash comes, small banks are the first to fail. It happened in the 1920s when small banks went down like tenpins' and it win happen again because small banks don't have sufficient cash to survive a panic and a run Incidentally, forget federal deposit insurance! The money available is less than one percent of all bank deposits, nowhere near enough to cover a countrywide chain of bank failures."

Lewis considered, then went on. "But small banks won't be the only ones to fail next time. A few of the big ones will go under, too those with too many millions locked into big industrial loans; with too him a proportion of international deposits hot money which can vanish overnight; with too little liquidity when scared depositors want cash. So if I were your mythical depositor, Alex, I'd study the balance sheets of the big banks, then choose one with a low loan-to-deposit ratio and a broad base of domestic depositors."

"Well, that's nice," Edwina said. "It just so happens that FMA fills all of those conditions."

Alex nodded. "At the moment." But the picture could change, he reasoned, if Roscoe Heyward's plans for new and massive loans to industry were agreed to by the board.

The thought was a reminder that the bank's directors would meet again, two days from now, to resume their interrupted meeting of a week ago. Now the car slowed and stopped, inched forward, stopped again. They had come to the cemetery and traveled through its roads.

Doors of other cars were opening, figures emerging, carrying umbrellas or holding coat collars tightly, hunched up against the cold and falling snow. The coffin was being lifted from the hearse. Soon it, too, was snow covered.

Margot took Alex's arm and, with the D'Orseys, joined others in the quiet procession following Ben Rosselli to his grave.

17

By prior agreement, Roscoe Heyward and Alex Vandervoort did not attend the reconvened meeting of the board. Bach waited in his office until summoned.

The summons came shortly before noon, two hours after the board had begun discussion. Also called to the boardroom was the bank's vice-president of public relations, Dick French, who would release an announcement to the press concerning the new FMA president.

Already the PR chief had had two news releases prepared with accompanying photographs. Their respective headings read:

ROSCOE D. HEYWARD

IS FIRST MERCANTILE AMERICAN BANK PRESIDENT

ALBXANDER VANDERVOORT

IS FIRST MERCANTILE AMERICAN BANK PRESIDENT

Envelopes were addressed. Messengers had been alerted. Priority copies of one release or the other were to be delivered this afternoon to wire services, newspaper city desks, TV and radio stations. Several hundred more would go out by first-class mail tonight.

Heyward and Alex arrived at the boardroom together. They slipped into their regular, vacant seats at the long elliptical table.

The PR vice-president hovered behind the meeting chairman, Jerome Patterton.

It was the director with the longest service, the Honorable Harold Austin, who announced the board's decision.

Jerome Patterton, he stated, until now vice-chairman of the board, would become president of First Mercantile American Bank immediately.

While the announcement was being made, the appointee himself seemed somewhat dazed. The PR vice-president mouthed inaudibly, "Oh, shit"

Later the same day Jerome Patterton had separate talks with Heyward and Vandervoort.

"I'm an interim Pope," he informed each of them. 'I didn't seek this job, as you're aware. You also know, and so do the directors, that I'm only thirteen months from mandatory retirement.

"But the board was deadlocked over you two, and choosing me allows that length of time before they need make up their minds.

"Your guess about what happens then is as good as mine. In the meantime, though, I intend to do my best and I need the help of both of you. I know I shall get it because that's to your best advantage.

"Apart from that, the only thing I can promise is an interesting year."

18

Even excavation, Margot Bracken was actively involved with Forum East. First she was legal counsel for a citizens group which campaigned to get the project going and later she filled the same role in a Tenants Association. She also gave legal aid to families in the development who needed it at little cost to them, or none. Margot went to Forum East often and, in doing so, she came to know many of those living there, including Juanita Nunez.

Three days after the Rosselli funeral on a Saturday morning Margot encountered Juanita in a delicatessen, part of a Forum East shopping mall.

The Forum East complex had been planned as a homogeneous community with low-cost living accommodation attractive apartments, townhouses and remodeled older buildings. There were sports facilities, a movie theater, an auditorium, as well as stores and cafes. The buildings completed so far were linked by tree-lined malls and over-head walkways many of the ideas adapted from San Francisco's Golden Gateway and London's Barbican. Other portions of the project were under construction, with still further additions at the planning stage, awaiting financing.

"Hello, Mrs. Nunez," Margot said. "Will you join me for coffee?"

On a terrace adjoining the delicatessen they sipped espresso and chatted about Juanita, her daughter Estela who this morning was at a community-sponsored ballet class, and progress at Forum East. Juanita and her husband Carlos had been among the early tenants in the development, occupying a tiny walk-up apartment in one of the rehabilitated older buildings, though it was shortly after moving in that Carlos had departed for parts unknown. So far Juanita had kept the same accommodations.

But managing was very difficult, she confided. "Everyone here has the same problem. Each month our money will buy less. This inflation, Where will it end?"

According to Lewis D'Orsey, Margot reflected, it would end in disaster and anarchy. She kept the thought to herself, but was reminded of the conversation three days ago between Lewis, Edwina, and Alex.

- "I heard," she said, "that you had some kind of problem at the bank where you work."

Juanita's face clouded. For a moment she seemed close to tears and Margot said hastily, "I'm sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have asked."

"No, not It was Just that remembering suddenly… Anyway, it is over now. But I will tell you if you wish."

"One thing you should know about us lawyers," Margot said, "is that we're always nosy."

Juanita smiled, then was-serious as she described the six-thousand-dollar cash loss and the forty-eight-hour nightmare of suspicion and interrogation. As Margot listened, her anger, never far below the surface, rose.

"The bank had no right to keep on pressuring you without your having legal advice. Why didn't you call me?" 'I never thought of it," Juanita said.

'That's the whole trouble. Most innocent people don't." Margot considered, then added, "Edwina D'Orsey is my cousin. I'm going to talk to her about this."

Juanita looked startled. "I didn't know. But please don't after all, it was Mrs. D'Orsey who found the truth."

"All right," Margot conceded, "if you don't want me to, I won't. But I'll talk to someone else you don't know. And remember this: If you're in trouble again, about anything, call me. I'll be there to help."

'Thank you," Juanita said. "If it happens, I will. I really will."

***

"If the bank had actually fired Juanita Lopez," Margot told Alex Vandervoort that night, "I’d have advised her to sue you, and we'd have collected heavily."

"You might well have," Alex agreed. They were on their way to a supper dance and he was driving Margot's Volkswagen. "Especially when the truth about our thieving operations man, Eastin, came out as it was bound to eventually. Fortunately, Edwina's womanly instincts functioned, saving us from yours." "You're being flip."

His tone changed "You're right, and I shouldn't be. The fact is, we behaved shabbily to the Nunez girl, and everybody concerned knows it. I do, because I've read everything to do with the case. So does Edwina. So does Nolan Wainwright. But fortunately, in the end nothing really bad happened. Mrs. Nunez still has her job, and our bank has learned something which will help us do better in the future." "That's more like it." Margot said.

They left it there, which, given their mutual love of argument, was an accomplishment.

19

During the week preceding Christmas, Miles Eastin appeared in Federal Court charged with embezzlement on five separate counts. Four of the charges involved fraudulent transactions at the bank from which he had benefited; these totaled thirteen thousand dollars. The fifth charge related to the six-thousand-dollar cash theft.

Trial was before the Honorable Judge Winslow Underwood, sitting with a jury.

On advice of counsel, a well-meaning but inexperienced young man appointed by the court after Eastin's personal resources had proven to be nil, a not guilty plea was entered on all counts. As it turned out, the advice was bad. A more seasoned lawyer, assessing the evidence, would have urged a guilty plea and perhaps a deal with the prosecutor, rather than have certain details principally Eastin's attempt to incriminate Juanita Nunez revealed in court. As it was, everything came out.

Edwina D'Orsey testified, as did Tottenhoe, Gayne of central audit staff, and another audit colleague. FBI Special Agent Innes introduced as evidence Miles Eastin's signed admission of guilt concerning the cash theft, made at FBI local headquarters subsequent to the confession which Nolan Wainwright extracted from Eastin at the latter's apartment.

Two weeks before the trial, at discovery proceedings, defendant's counsel had objected to the FBI document and made a pre-trial motion to have it barred from evidence. The motion was denied. Judge Underwood pointed out that before Eastin made his statement he had been properly cautioned about his legal rights in the presence of witnesses.

The earlier confession obtained by Nolan Wainwright, the legality of which might have been challenged more effectively, was not needed and therefore was not introduced.

The sight of Miles Eastin in court depressed Edwina. He appeared pale and haggard with dark rings beneath his eyes. All of his accustomed buoyancy had gone and, in contrast to the immaculate grooming she remembered, his hair was untidy and his suit rumpled. He seemed to have aged since the night of the branch audit.

Edwina's own evidence was brief and circumstantial and she gave it straightforwardly. While being mildly cross-examined by counsel for the defense, she glanced several times toward Miles Eastin, but his head was down and he declined to meet her eyes. Also a witness for the prosecution albeit a reluctant one was Juanita Nunez. She was nervous and the court had difficulty hearing her. On two occasions the judge intervened, asking Juanita to raise her voice, though his approach was coaxing and gentle,: since by then her injured innocence in the whole affair had been made clear.

Juanita demonstrated no antagonism toward Eastin in her evidence, and kept her answers brief, so that the prosecutor pressed her constantly to amplify them. Plainly all she wanted was to have the ordeal over.

Defense counsel, making a belated wise decision, waived his right to question her.

It was immediately following Juanita's testimony that defense counsel, after a whispered consultation with his client, asked leave to approach the bench Permission was granted. The prosecutor, judge, and defense counsel thereupon engaged in a low-toned colloquy during which the latter requested leave to change Miles Eastin's original "not guilty" plea to "guilty."

Judge Underwood, a quiet-spoken patriarch, with steel not far below the surface, surveyed both lawyers. He matched their lowered voices so the jury could not hear. "Very well, the change of plea will be permitted if the defendant so wishes. But I advise counsel that at this point it makes little, if any, difference."

Sending the jury from the courtroom, the judge then questioned Eastin, confirming that he wished to change his plea and realized the consequences. To all the questions the prisoner answered dully, "Yes, your honor?'

The judge recalled the jury to the courtroom and dismissed it.

After an earnest entreaty by the young defense lawyer for clemency, including a reminder that his client had no previous criminal record, Miles Eastin was remanded into custody for sentencing the following week.

Nolan Wainwright, though not required to testify, had been present throughout the court proceedings. Now, as the- court clerk called another case and the contingent of bank witnesses filed out from the courtroom, the bank security chief moved alongside Juanita. .,. "Mrs. Nunez, may I talk with you for a few minutes?" She glanced at him with a mixture of indifference and hostility, then shook her head. "It is all finished. Besides, I am going back to work." -

When they were outside the Federal Courts Building, only a few blocks from FMA Headquarters Tower and the downtown branch, he persisted, "You're walking to the bank? Right now?" She nodded. "Please. I'd like to walk with you." Juanita shrugged. "If you must."

Wainwright watched as Edwina D'Orsey, Tottenhoe, and the two audit staff men, also heading for the bank, crossed a nearby intersection. He deliberately held back, missing a green pedestrian light so the others would remain ahead.

"Look," Wainwright said, "I've never found it easy to say I'm sorry."

Juanita said tartly, "Why should you bother? It is only a word, not meaning much."

"Because I want to say it. So I do to you. I'm sorry. Par the trouble I caused you, for not believing you were telling the truth when you were and needed somebody to help."

"So now you feel better? You have swallowed your little aspirin? The tiny pain is gone?" "You don't make it easy."

She stopped. "Did you?" The small elfin face was tilted upward, her dark eyes met his own steadily and for the first time he was aware of an underlying strength and independence. He was also, to his own surprise, conscious of her strong sexuality.

"No, I didn't. Which is why I'd like to help now if I can." "Help about what?"

"About getting maintenance and child support from your husband." He told her of the FBI inquiries concerning her absent husband Carlos, and tracing him to Phoenix, Arizona. "He has a job there as a motor mechanic and obviously is earning money."

'Then I am pleased for Carlos."

"What I had in mind," Wainwright said, "is that you should consult one of our lawyers at the bank. I could arrange that. He would advise you how to take action against your husband and afterwards I'd see to it you weren't charged any legal fees." "Why would you do that?" "We owe it to you." She shook her head. "No." He wondered if she had properly understood.

"It would mean," Wainwright said, "there would be a court order and your husband would have to send you money to help take care of your little girl." "And will that make Carlos a man?" "Does it matter?"

"It matters that he should not be forced. He knows that I am here and that Estela is with me. If Carlos wanted us to have his money he would send it. Si no, para que?" she added softly.

It was like a fencing match with shadows. He said in exasperation, "I'll never understand you."

Unexpectedly Juanita smiled. "It is not necessary that you should."

They walked the remaining short distance to the bank in silence, Wainwright nursing his frustration. He wished she had thanked him for his offer; if she had, it would have meant, at least, she took it seriously. He tried to guess at her reasoning and values. She obviously rated independence high. After that he imagined she accepted life as it came, fortune or misfortune, hopes raised or yearnings shattered. In a way he envied her and, for that reason and the sexual attraction he had been aware of earlier, he wished he knew her better.

"Mrs. Lopez," Nolan Wainwright said, "I'd like to ark you something." "Yes."

"If you have a problem, a real problem, something I might help with, will you call me?"

It was the second such offer she had had in the past few days. "Maybe."

That until much later was the last conversation between Wainwright and Juanita. He felt he had done all he could, and had other things on his mind. One was a subject he had raised with Alex Vandervoort two months ago planting an undercover informer in an attempt to track down the source of counterfeit credit cards, still gouging deep financial wounds in the Keycharge card system.

Wainwright had located an ex-convict, known to him Only as "Vic," who was prepared to take the considerable risk in return for money. They had had one secret meeting, with elaborate precautions. Another was expected.

Wainwright's fervent hope was to bring the credit-card swindlers to justice, as he had Miles Eastin.

The following week, when Eastin appeared once more before Judge Underwood this time for sentencing Nolan Wainwright was the sole representative of First Mercantile American Bank in court.

With the prisoner standing, facing the bench on the court clerk's orders, the judge took his time about selecting several papers and spreading them before him, then regarded Eastin coldly. "Do you have anything to say?" "No, your honor." The voice was barely audible.

"I have received a report from the probation officer" Judge Underwood paused, scanning one of the papers he had selected earlier "whom you appear to have convinced that you are genuinely penitent for the criminal offenses to which you have pleaded guilty." The judge articulated the words "genuinely penitent" as if holding them distastefully between thumb and forefinger, making clear that he was not so naive as to share the opinion.

He continued, "Penitence, however, whether genuine or otherwise, is not only belated but cannot mitigate your vicious, despicable attempt to thrust blame for your own malfeasance onto an innocent and unsuspecting person a young woman one, moreover, for whom you were responsible as a bank officer and who trusted you as her superior.

"On the basis of the evidence it is dear you would have persisted in that course, even to having your innocent victim accused, found guilty, and sentenced in your place. Fortunately, because of the vigilance of others, that did not occur. But it was not through any second thoughts or 'penitence' of yours."

From his seat in the body of the court, Nolan Wainwright had a partial view of Eastin's face which had suffused deep red.

Judge Underwood referred again to his papers, then looked up. His eyes, once more, impaled the prisoner.

"So far I have dealt with what I regard as the most contemptible part of your conduct. There is, additionally, the basic offense your betrayal of trust as a bank officer, not merely once but on five occasions, widely separated. One such instance of dishonesty might be argued to be the result of reckless impulse. No such argument can be advanced for five carefully planned thefts, executed with perverted cleverness.

"A bank, as a commercial undertaking, is entitled to expect probity in those whom it selects as you were selected for exceptional trust. But a bank is more than a commercial institution. It is a place of public trust, and therefore the public is entitled to protection from those who abuse that trust individuals such as you."

The judge's gaze shifted to indude the young defense counsel, waiting dutifully beside his client. Now the tone of voice from the bench became more brisk and formalized.

"Had this been a more ordinary case, and in view of the absence of a previous criminal record, I would have imposed probation as defense counsel eloquently urged last week. But this is no ordinary case. It is an exceptional one for the reasons I have stated. Therefore, Eastin, you will go to prison where you will have time to reflect on your own activities which brought you there. 'The sentence of the Court Is that you be committed to the custody of the Attorney General for a period of two years." At a nod from the court clerk, a jailer moved forward.

A brief conference took place, a few minutes after sentencing, in a small locked and guarded cubicle behind the courtroom, one of several reserved for prisoners and their legal counsel.

"The first thing to remember," the young lawyer told Miles Eastin, "is that a two-year prison term doesn't mean two years. You'll be eligible for parole after a third of the sentence is served. That's in less than a year."

Miles Eastin, wrapped in misery and a sense of unreality, nodded dully.

"You can, of course, appeal the sentence, and you don't have to make a decision about that now. But I'll tell you frankly, I don't advise it. For one thing I don't believe you'd be released pending an appeal. For another, since you pleaded guilty, the grounds for appeal are limited. Also, by the time any appeal was heard, you might have served your sentence." "The ballgame's over. No appeal."

"I'll be in touch with you anyway, in case you change your mind. And while I think of it, I'm sorry how things came out." Eastin acknowledged wryly, "So am I."

"It was your confession, of course, that did us in. Without that I don't believe the prosecution would have proved its case at least the six-thousand-dollar cash theft, which weighed heaviest with the judge. I know, of course, why you signed that second statement the FBI one; you thought the first was valid so another wouldn't make any difference. Well, it did. I'm afraid that security man, Wainwright, tricked you all the way." The prisoner nodded. "Yes, I know that now."

The lawyer looked at his watch. "Well, I have to go. I've a heavy date tonight. You know how it is." A jailer let him out.

Next day Miles Eastin was transferred to a federal prison, out of state.

***

At First Mercantile American Bank, when news of Miles Eastin's sentencing was received among those who knew him, some felt regret, others held the view that the retribution was what he had deserved. One opinion was unanimous: No more would be heard of Eastin at the bank again.

Only time would prove how much in error that last assumption was.

Part Two

1

Like a bubble surfacing from underwater, the first hint of trouble appeared in mid-January. It was an item in a gossip column, "Ear to the Ground," published in a city newspaper's Sunday edition. The columnist wrote:

… Whispers around downtown predict major cutbacks soon at Forum East. His said the big rehab - project has bankroll problems. Nowadays who hasn't? ..

Alex Vandervoort was unaware of the item until Monday morning when his secretary placed it, ringed in red, on his desk with other papers.

During Monday afternoon Edwina D'Orsey telephoned to inquire if Alex had read the rumor and if he knew of anything behind it. Edwina’s concern was not surprising. Since the beginning of Forum East, her downtown branch bank had handled construction loans, many of the mortgages involved, and accompanying paperwork. By now the project represented an important segment of branch business.

"If there's something in the wind," Edwina insisted, "I want to be told."

"So far as I know," Alex reassured her, "nothing's changed."

Moments later he returned his hand to the telephone intending to check with Jerome Patterton, then changed his mind. Misinformation about Forum East was nothing new. The project had generated much publicity; inevitably some was inaccurate.

It was pointless, Alex decided, to bother the bank's new president with needless trivia, particularly when he wanted Patterton's support on a major issue a large-scale expansion of FMA savings activity, now being planned for consideration by the board.

However, Alex was more concerned a few days later when a longer item appeared, this time in the regular news column of the daily Times-Register. The report read:

…

Anxiety about the future of Forum East persists amid growing rumors that financial backing may shortly be reduced severely or withdrawn.

The Forum East project, which has as its long-term goal a total rehabilitation of the city's downtown core both business and residential, has been underwritten by a consortium of financial interests spearheaded by First Mercantile American Bank.

A spokesman for First Mercantile American today acknowledged the rumors but would make no comment except to say, "An announcement will be forthcoming in due course."

Under the Forum East plan, some inner city residential areas have already been modernized or rebuilt. A high-rise, low-rental community development has been completed. Another is in progress.

A ten-year master plan includes programs to improve schools, assist minority businesses, provide job training and employment as well as cultural opportunities and recreation. Major construction, begun two and a half years ago, has so far remained on schedule.

Alex read the morning news story at his apartment over breakfast. He was alone; Margot had been out of town on legal business for the past week. On arrival at FMA Headquarters Tower he summoned Dick French. As vice-president of public relations, French, a burly, blunt-speaking ax-financial editor, ran his department knowledgeably.

"In the first place," Alex demanded, "who was the bank spokesman?"

"That was me," French said. "And I'll tell you right now I wasn't happy about that 'statement in due course' crap. But Mr. Patterton told me to use those words. He also insisted I shouldn't say more." "What more is there?"

"You tell me, Alex. Obviously something's going on and, good or bad, the sooner we put it on the line, the better."

Alex curbed a rising anger. "Is there a reason I wasn't consulted about any of this?"

The PR head appeared surprised. "I thought you revere. When I talked on the phone to Mr. Patterton yesterday I know Roscoe was with him because I could hear them talking. I assumed you were in there, too." "Next time," Alex said, "don't assume anything."

He dismissed French, then instructed his secretary to inquire Of Jerome Patterton were free. He was informed that the president had not yet arrived at the bank, but was on his way, and Alex could see him at 11 A.M. He grunted impatiently and went back to work on the savings expansion program.

At eleven Alex walked the few yards to the presidential suite two corner rooms, each with a view of the city. Since the new president had taken over, the second room usually had the door closed and visitors were not invited in. Word had leaked out through secretaries that Patterton used it to practice putting on the rug.

Today, bright sunshine from a cloudless winter sky shone through the wall-wide windows onto Jerome Patterton's pink, near-hairless head. Seated behind a desk, he wore a light patterned suit, a switch from his usual tweeds. A newspaper in front of him was folded open to the news story which had brought Alex here. On a sofa, in shadow, was Roscoe Heyward. The three exchanged good mornings. Patterton said, 'I asked Roscoe to stay because I had notion what the subject might be." He touched the paper "You've seen this, of course."

"I've seen it," Alex said. "I've also had Dick French in. He tells me that you and Roscoe discussed the press queries yesterday. So my first question is, why wasn't I informed? I'm as involved as anyone with Forum East."

"You should have been informed, Alex." Jerome Patterton seemed embarrassed. '`The truth is, I guess, we got a little rattled when the press calls showed there had been a leak." "A leak of what?"

It was Heyward who answered. "Of a proposal I’ll be bringing before the money policy committee next Monday. I'm suggesting a reduction of the bank's present commitment to Forum East by approximately fifty percent."

In view of the rumors which had surfaced, the confirmation was not surprising. What astounded Alex was the extent of the proposed incision.

He addressed Patterton. "Jerome, do I understand that you are in favor of this incredible piece of folly?"

A flush-suffused the president's face and egg-like head. "It's neither true nor untrue. I've reserved judgment until Monday. What Roscoe has been doing here yesterday and today is some advance lobbying."

"Right." Heyward added blandly, "An entirely legitimate tactic, Alex. And in case you object, let me remind you that on plenty of occasions you took your own ideas to Ben in advance of money policy meetings."

"If I did," Alex said, "they made a damn sight better sense than this one." "That, of course, is solely your opinion." "Not solely. Others share it."

Heyward was unruffled. "My own opinion is that we can put the bank's money to substantially better use." He turned toward Patterton. "Incidentally, Jerome, those rumors now circulating could be helpful to us if the proposal for a cutback is agreed to. At least the decision won't come as a sudden shock."

"If you see it that way," Alex said, "maybe it was you who leaked the rumors." "I assure you it was not." "Then how do you explain them?" Heyward shrugged. "Coincidence, I suppose."

Alex wondered: Was it coincidence? Or had someone close to Roscoe Heyward floated a trial balloon on his behalf? Yes. It might well be Harold Austin, the Honorable Harold, who, as head of an advertising agency, would have plenty of contacts with the press. It seemed unlikely, though, that anyone would ever find out.

Jerome Patterton raised his hands. "Both of you save any more arguments until Monday. We'll go over all of them then."

"Let's not fool ourselves," Alex Vandervoort insisted. "The point we are deciding today is how much profit is reasonable and how much is excessive."

Roscoe Heyward smiled. "Frankly, Alex, I've never considered any profit excessive."

"Nor have I," Tom Straughan put in. "I recognize, though' that making an exceptionally high profit is sometimes indiscreet and asking for trouble. It becomes known and criticized. At the end of the financial year we have to publish it."

"Which is another reason," Alex added, "why we should strike a balance between achieving profit and giving service."

"Profit is giving service to our shareholders," Heyward said. "That's the kind of service I put first."

The bank's money policy committee was in session in an executive conference room. The committee, which had four members, met every other Monday morning with Roscoe Heyward as chairman. The other members were Alex and two senior vice-president Straughan and Orville Young.

The committee's purpose was to decide the uses to which bank funds would be put. Major decisions were referred afterward to the board of directors for confirmation, though the board rarely changed what the committee recommended.

Individual sums discussed here were seldom less than in the tens of millions.

The president of the bank sat in, ex-officio, at the committee's more important meetings, voting only if it became necessary to break a tie. Jerome Patterton was here today, though so far he had not contributed to the discussion.

Being debated now was Roscoe Heyward's proposal for a drastic cut in Forum East financing.

Within the next few months, if Forum East was to continue as programmed, new construction loans and mortgage funds would be required. First Mercantile American's expected share of this financing was fifty million dollars. Heyward had proposed a reduction of that amount by half.

He had pointed out already, "We will make clear to all concerned that we are not opting out of Forum East, nor do we intend to. The explanation we will give is simply that in light of other commitments, we have adjusted the flow of funds. The project will not be halted. It will simply proceed more slowly than was planned."

"If you look at it in terms of need," Alex had protested, "progress is already slower than it should be. Retarding it still further is the worst thing we can do in every way."

"I am looking at it in terms of need," Heyward said 'the bank's need."

The riposte was uncharacteristically flip, perhaps, Alex thought, because Heyward was confident that today's decision would go the way he wanted. Alex was sure that Tom Straughan would join him in opposing Heyward. Straughan was the bank's chief economist young, studious, but with a broad spectrum of interests whom Alex had personally promoted over the heads of others.

But Orville Young, treasurer of First Mercantile American, was Heyward's man and would undoubtedly vote with him.

In FMA, as in any major bank, the true lines of power were seldom reflected in organizational charts. Real authority flowed sideways or in detours, depending on loyalties of individuals to other individuals, so that those who chose not to join in power struggles were bypassed or marooned in backwaters.

The power struggle between Alex Vandervoort and Roscoe Heyward was already well known. Because of it, some FMA executives had chosen sides, pinning their hopes for advancement on the victory of one adversary or the other. The split was also evident in the lineup of the money policy committee.

Ale, argued, "Our profit last year was thirteen percent. That's damned good for any business, as all of us know. This year the prospect's even better a fifteen percent return on investment, maybe sixteen. But should we strain for more?' - The treasurer, Orville Young, asked, "Why not?"

'I already answered that," Straughan shot back. "It's shortsighted."

"Let's remind ourselves of one thing," Alex urged. "In banking it's not hard to make large profits, and any bank that doesn't is manned by simpletons. In plenty of ways the cards are stacked in our favor. We've opportunists, using our own experience, and reasonable banking laws. The last is probably the most important. But the laws won't always be as reasonable that is, if we go on abusing the situation and abdicating community responsibility."

"I fail to see how staying in Forum East is abdicating," Roscoe Heyward said. "Even after the reduction I'm proposing, we'd still be committed substantially."

"Substantially, my foot. It would be minimal, just as the social contribution of American banks has always been minimal. In financing of low-income housing alone the record of this bank and every other is dismal. Why fool ourselves? For generations banking has ignored public problems. Even now we do the minimum we can get away with."

The chief economist, Straughan, shuffling papers, consulted some handwritten notes. "I intended to bring up the subject of home mortgages, Roscoe. Now Alex has, I'd like to point out that only twenty-five percent of our savings deposits are currently in mortgage loans. That's low. We could increase it to fifty percent of deposits without harming our liquidity position. I believe we should."

"I'll second that," Alex said. "Our branch managers are pleading for mortgage money. The return on investment is fair. We know from experience the downside risk on mortgages is negligible."

Orville Young objected, "It ties up money for long term, money on which we can earn substantially higher rates elsewhere."

Alex slammed the flat of his hand impatiently on the conference table. "Once in a while we've a public obligation to accept lower rates. That's the point I'm making. It's why I object to weaseling out of Forum East."

'There's one more reason," Tom Straughan added. "Alex touched on it legislation. Already there are rumblings in Congress. A good many there would like to see a law similar to Mexico's requiring a fixed percentage of bank deposits to be used for financing low-income housing."

Heyward scoffed, "We'd never let it happen. The banking lobby is the strongest in Washington."

The chief economist shook his head. "I wouldn't count on that."

"Tom," Roscoe Heyward said, "I'll make a promise. A year from now we'll take a fresh look at mortgages; maybe we'll do what you advocate; maybe we'll reopen Forum East. But not this year. I want this to be a bumper profit year." He glanced toward the bank president who had still not joined in the discussion. "And so does Jerome."

Por the first time Alex perceived the shape of Heyward's strategy. A year of exceptional profit for the bank would make Jerome Patterton, as president, a hero to its shareholders and directors. All Patterton had was a one year reign at the end of a so-so career, but he would go into retirement with glory and the sound of trumpets. And Patterton was human. Therefore it was understandable the idea would appeal to him. The scenario afterward was equally easy to guess.

Jerome Patterton, grateful to Roscoe Heyward, would promote the idea of Heyward as his successor. And, because of the profitable year, Patterton would be in a strong position to make his wishes work.

It was a neatly ingenious sequence, devised by Heyward, which Alex would find hard to break.

"There's something else I haven't mentioned," Heyward said. "Not even to you, Jerome. It could have a bearing on our decision today." The others regarded him with fresh curiosity.

"I'm hopeful, in fact the probability is strong, that we shall shortly enjoy substantial business with Supranational Corporation. It's another reason I'm reluctant to commit funds elsewhere." "That's fantastic news," Orville Young said. Even Tom Straughan reacted with surprised approval

Supranational or SuNatCo, as identified by its familiar worldwide logo was a multinational giant, the General Motors of global communications. As well, SuNatCo owned or controlled dozens of other companies, related and unrelated to its main purpose. Its prodigious influence with governments of all stripes, from democracies through dictatorships, was reportedly greater than that of any other business complex in history. Observers sometimes said that SuNatCo had more real power than most of the sovereign states in which it operated.

Until now SuNatCo had confined its U.S. banking activity to the big three Bank of America, First National City, and Chase Manhattan. To be added to this exclusive trio would boost immeasurably the status of First Mercantile American. "That's an exciting prospect, Roscoe," Patterton said.

"I expect to have more details for our next money policy meeting," Heyward added. "It appears likely that Supranational will want us to open a substantial line of credit."

It was Tom Straughan who reminded them, "We still need a vote on Forum East."

"So we do," Heyward acknowledged. He was smiling confidently, pleased at the reaction to his announcement and certain of the way the Forum East decision would go.

Predictably, they divided two by two Alex Vandervoort and Tom Straughan opposed to the cutback of funds, Roscoe Heyward and Orville Young in favor of it.

Heads swung to Jerome Patterton who had the decisive vote.

The bank president hesitated only briefly, then announced, "Alex, on this one I'll go with Roscoe."

"Sitting around here feeling sorry won't do one damn bit of good," Margot declared. "What we need is to rise off our collective asses and initiate some action." "Like dynamiting the goddam bank?" someone asked.

"Nix on that! Ike friends in there. Besides, blowing up banks isn't legal." "Who says we have to stay legal?"

"I do," Margot snapped. "And if any smart cats think otherwise, you can find yourselves some other mouthpiece and another pad." Margot Bracken's law office, on a Thursday evening, was the scene of an executive committee meeting of the Forum East Tenants Association. The association was one of many groups in the inner city for which Margot was legal counsel and which utilized her office for meetings, a convenience for which she was occasionally paid, but mostly wasn't.

Fortunately her office was a modest affair two rooms in what had once been a neighborhood grocery store and some of the ancient merchandise shelves now housed her law books. The remainder of the furniture mostly ill-assorted, comprised bits and pieces she had acquired cheaply.

Typical of the general location, two other former stores, on either side, were abandoned and boarded up. Someday, with luck and enterprise, the rehabilitating tide of Forum East might lap this particular area. It hadn't yet.

But developments at Forum East had brought them here.

The day before yesterday, in a public announcement, First Mercantile American Bank had changed rumor into fact. Financing of future Forum East projects was to be cut in half, effective at once.

The bank's statement was couched in officialese with euphemistic phrases like "temporary shortage of longterm funding" and "periodic reconsideration will be given," but no one believed the last and everyone, inside and outside the bank, knew exactly what the statement meant the ax.

The meeting now was to determine what, if anything, could be done.

The word "tenants" in the association's name was a loose one. A large segment of members were Forum East tenants; many others were dot, but hoped to be. As Deacon Euphrates, a towering steelworker who had spoken earlier, put it, "There's plenty of us, expectin' to be in, who ain't gonna make it if the big bread dean' come through."

Margot knew that Deacon, his wife and five children lived in a tiny, crowded walk-up, part of a rat-infested tenement that should have been torn down years ago. She had made several attempts to help them find other rental quarters, without success. A hope that Deacon Euphrates lived with was that he would move his family into one of the new Forum East housing units, but the Euphrates' name was only midway on a long waiting list and a slowdown in construction was likely to keep it there for a long time to come.

The FMA announcement had been a shock to Margot, too. Alex, she was sure, would have resisted any cutback proposal within the bank, but obviously he had been over-ruled. For that reason she had not discussed the subject with him yet. Also, the less Alex knew about some simmering plans of Margot's, the better for them both.

"The way I see the ball game," Seth Orinda, another committee member, said, "whatever we do, and legal or not, there's no way, but no way, we can squeeze that money out of those banks. That is, if they've their minds set on clamming up."

Seth Orinda was a black high school teachers already "in" at Forum East. But he possessed a keen civic sense and cared greatly about the thousands of others still waiting hopefully on the outside. Margot relied a good deal on his stability and help.

"Don't be so sure, Seth," she responded. "Banks have soft underbellies. Stick a harpoon in a tender place and surprising things could happen."

"What kind of harpoon?" Orinda asked. "A parade? A sit-in? A demonstration?"

"No," Margot said. "Forget all that stuff. It's old hat. Nobody's impressed by conventional demonstrations any more. They're just a nuisance. They achieve nothing."

She surveyed the group facing her in the crowded, cluttered, smoky office. They were a dozen or so, mixed blacks and whites, in assorted shapes, sizes, and demeanors. Some were perched precariously on rickety chairs and boxes, others squatted on the floor. "Listen carefully, all of you. I said we need some action, and there. Is a kind of action which I believe will work."

"Miss Bracken." A small figure near the back of the room stood up. It was Juanita Lopez, whom Margot had greeted when she came in. "Yes, Mrs. Nunez?"

"I want to help. But you know, I think, that I work for the FMA Bank. Perhaps I should not hear what you will tell the others…"

Margot said appreciatively, "No, and I should have thought of that instead of embarrassing you."

There was a general murmur of understanding. Amid it, Juanita made her way to the door.

"What you heard already," Deacon Euphrates said, "that's a secret, ain't it?"

As Juanita nodded, Margot said quickly, "We can Al trust Mrs. Nunez. I hope her employers are as ethical as she is."

When the meeting had settled down again Margot faced the remaining members. Her stance was characteristic: hands on small waist, elbows aggressively out. A moment earlier she had pushed her long chestnut hair back a gesture of habit before action, like the raising of a curtain. As she talked, interest heightened. A smile or two appeared. At one point Seth Orinda chuckled deeply. Near the end? Deacon Euphrates and others were grinning broadly. "Man, oh mans" Deacon said. 'That's goddam clever," someone else put in.

Margot reminded them, "To make the whole scheme work, we need a lot of people at least a thousand to begin with, and more as time goes on." A fresh voice asked, "How long we need ‘em?"

"We'll plan on a week. A banking week, that is five days. If that doesn't work we should consider going longer and extending our scope of operations. Frankly, though, I don't believe it will be necessary. Another thing: Everyone involved must be carefully briefed." "I'll help with that," Seth Orinda volunteered. There was an immediate chorus of, "So will I."

Deacon Euphrates's voice rose above others. "I got time comin' to me. Goddam, I'll use it; take a week off work, an' I can pull in others."

'Woody" Margot said. She went on decisively, "We'll need a master plan. I'll have that ready by tomorrow night. The rest of you should begin recruiting right away. And remember, secrecy is important."

Half an hour later the meeting broke up, the committee members far more cheerful and optimistic than when they had assembled.

At Margot's request, Seth Orinda stayed behind. She told him, "Seth, in a special way I need your help.".

"You know I'll give it if I can, Miss Bracken."

"When any action starts," Margot said, "I'm usually at the front of it. You know that." "I sure do." The high school teacher beamed.

'1his time I want to stay out of sight. Also, I don't want my name involved when newspapers, TV, and radio start their coverage. If that happened it could embarrass two special friends of mine the ones I spoke about at the bank. I want to prevent that." Orinda nodded sagely. "So far as I can see, no problem,

"What I'm really asking," Margot insisted, "is that you and the others front this one for me. I'll be behind scenes, of course. And if there's need to, you can call me, though I hope you won't."

"That's silly," Seth Orinda said. "How could we call you when none of us ever heard your name?"

On Saturday evening, two days after the Forum East Tenants Association meeting, Margot and Alex were guests at a small dinner party given by friends, and afterward went together to Margot's apartment. It was in a less fashionable part of the city than Alex's elegant suite, and was smaller, but Margot had furnished it pleasingly with period pieces she had collected at modest prices in the course of years. Alex loved to be there.

The apartment was greatly in contrast to Margot's law office.

"I missed you, Bracken," Alex said. He had changed into pajamas and a robe which he kept at Margot's and was relaxed in a Queen Anne wing chair, Margot curled on a rug before him, her head tilted back against his knees while he stroked her long hair gently. Occasionally his fingers strayed gentle and sexually skillful, beginning to arouse her as he always did, and in the way she loved. Margot sighed with gratification. Soon they would go to bed. Yet, while mutual desire mounted, there was exquisite pleasure in self-imposed delay.

It was a week and a half since they had last been together, conflicting schedules having kept them apart.

"We'll make up for those lost days," Margot said.

Alex was sired. Then, "You know, I've been waiting all evening for you to fry me on a griddle about Forum East. Instead, you haven't said a word."

Margot tilted her head farther back, looking at him upside down. She asked innocently, "Why should I fry you, darling? The bank's money cutback wasn't your idea." Her small brow furrowed. "Or was it?" "You know darn well it wasn't."

"Of course I knew. Just as I was equally sure that you'd opposed it."

"Yes, I opposed it." He added ruefully, "For all the good it did." "You tried your best. That's all anyone can ask."

Alex regarded her suspiciously. "None of this is like you." "Not like me in what way?"

"You're a fighter. It's one of the things I love about you. You don't give up. You won't accept defeat calmly."

"Perhaps some defeats are total. In that case nothing can be done."

Alex sat up straight. "You're up to something, Bracken! I know it. Now tell me what it is."

Margot considered, then said slowly, "I'm not admitting anything. But even if what you just said is true, it could be there are certain things it's better you don't know. Something I'd never want to do, Alex, is embarrass you."

He smiled affectionately. "You have told me something after all. All right, if you don't want any probing, I won't do it. But I'll ask one assurance: that whatever you have in mind is legal."

Momentarily, Margot's temper flared. "I'm the lawyer around here. I'll decide what's legal and what isn't." "Even clever lady lawyers make mistakes."

"Not this time." She seemed about to argue further, then relented. Her voice softened. "You know I always operate inside the law. Also you know why.'

"Yes, I do," Alex said. Relaxed once more, he went back to stroking her hair. She had confided in him once, after they knew each other well, about her reasoning, reached years before, the result of tragedy and loss.

At law school, where Margot was an honors student, she had joined, like others at the time, in activism and protest. It was the period of increasing American involvement in Vietnam and bitter divisions in the nation. It was the beginning, too, of restlessness and change within the legal profession, a rebellion of youth against the law's elders and establishment, a time for a new breed of belligerent lawyer of whom Ralph Nader was the publicized, lauded symbol.

Earlier at college, and later at law school, Margot had shared her avant-garde views, her activism, and herself with a male fellow student the only name Alex ever heard was Gregory and Gregory and Margot cohabited, as was customary too.

For several months there had been student-administration confrontations and one of the worst began over the official appearance on campus of U. S. Army, and Navy recruiters. A student body majority, including Gregory and Margot, wanted the recruiters ordered off. The school authorities took an opposite, strong view.

In protest, militant students occupied the Administration Building, barricading themselves in and others out. Gregory and Margot, caught up in the general fervor, were among them.

Negotiations began but failed, not least because the students presented "non-negotiable demands." After two days the administration summoned state police, later unwisely supplemented by the National Guard. An assault was launched upon the now beleaguered building. During the fighting, shots were fired and heads were cracked. By a miracle, the shots hit no one. But, by tragic misfortune, one of the cracked heads Gregory's suffered a brain hemorrhage, resulting in death a few hours later.

Eventually, because of public indignation, an inexperienced, young, and frightened policeman who had struck the mortal blow, was arraigned in court. Charges against him were dismissed. Margot, though in deep grief and shocks was enough of an objective law student to understand the dismissal. Her law training helped her also, amid later calmness, to evaluate and codify her own convictions. It was a belated process which the pressures of excitement and emote lion had prevented far too long.

None of Margot's political and social views were diminished, either then or since. But she had the honest perception to recognize that the student body faction had withheld from others those same freedoms of which they claimed to be defenders. They had also, in their zeal, transgressed the law, a system to which their scholarship was dedicated, and presumably their lives.

It was only one step further in reasoning, which Margot took, to acknowledge that no less would have been achieved, and probably far more, by staying within legal limits.

As she confided to Alex during the only time they ever talked about that portion of the past, it had become her guiding principle, in all her activism, ever since.

Still curled comfortingly close to him, she asked, "How are things at the bank?" "Some days I feel like Sisyphus. Remember him?"

"Wasn't he the Greek who pushed a rock uphill? Every time he got near the top it rolled back down again."

"That's the one, He should have been a bank executive trying to make changes. You know something about us bankers, Bracken?" "Tell me."

"We succeed despite our lack of foresight and imagination." "May I quote you?"

"If you do, I'll swear I never said it." He mused. "But between us privately, banking always reacts to social change, never anticipates it. All the problems which affect us now environment, ecology, energy, minorities have been with us a long time. What's happened in those areas to affect us could have been foreseen. We bankers could be leaders. Instead we're following, moving forward only when we have to, when we're pushed." "Why stay a banker then?"

"Because it's important. What we do is worthwhile and whether we move forward voluntarily or not, we're professionals who are needed. The money system has become so huge, so complicated and sophisticated that only banks can handle it." "So your greatest need is a shove now and then. Right?"

He looked at her intently, his curiosity reviving. "You're planning something in that convoluted pixie mind of yours." “I admit nothing." "Whatever it is, I hope it doesn't involve pay toilets. "Oh God, no!"

At the year-old memory, both laughed aloud. It had been one of Margot's combat victories and created wide attention.

Her battle had been with the city's airport commission which, at the time, was paying its several hundred janitors and cleaners substantially lower wages than were normal in the area The workers' union was corrupt, had a “Sweetheart contract" with the commission, and had done nothing to help. In desperation a group of airport employees sought help from Margot who was beginning to build a reputation in such matters.

A frontal approach by Margot to the commission produced merely a rebuff. She therefore decided that public attention must be gained and one way to obtain it was by ridiculing the airport and its rulers. In preparation, and working with several other sympathizers who had aided her before, she made an intelligence study of the big, busy airport during a heavy traffic night.

A factor noted by the study was that when evening flights, on which dinner and drinks had been served, disgorged their passengers, the bulk of the arrivals headed promptly for airport toilets, thus creating maximum demand for those facilities over a period of several hours.

The following Friday night, when incoming and departing air traffic was heaviest of all, several hundred volunteers, principally off-duty janitors and cleaners, arrived at the airport under Margot's direction. From then until they left much later, all were quiet, orderly, and law-abiding.

Their purpose was to occupy, continuously throughout the evening, every public toilet in the airport. And they did. Margot and assistants had prepared a detailed plan and the volunteers went to assigned locations where they paid a dime and settled down, solaced by reading material, portable radios, and even food which many brought. Some of the women had their needlepoint or knitting. It was the ultimate in legal sit-ins.

In the men's toilets, more volunteers formed long lines in front of urinals, each dilatory line moving with stunning slowness. If a male not in the plot joined any lineup it took him an hour to reach the front. Few, if any, waited that long.

A floating contingent explained quietly to anyone who would listen what was happening, and why.

The airport became a shambles with hundreds of angry anguished passengers complaining bitterly and heatedly to airlines who, in turn, assailed airport management. The latter found themselves frustrated and helpless to do anything. Other observers, not involved or in need, found the situation hilarious. No one was indifferent.

News media representatives, tipped off by Margot in advance, were present in force. Reporters vied with each other to write stories which were carried nationwide by wire services, then repeated internationally and used by such differing journals as Izvestia, Johannesburg Star, and The Times of London. Next day, as a result, the entire world was laughing.

In most news reports the name Margot Bracken figured prominently. There were intimations that more "sit-ins" would follow.

As Margot had calculated, ridicule is one of the stronger weapons in any arsenal. Over the weekend the airport commission conceded that discussions would be held on janitors' and cleaners' wages, which resulted in increases soon after. A further development was that the corrupt union was voted out, a more honest one replacing it.

Now Margot stirred, moving closer to Alex, then said softly, "What kind of a mind was it that you said I had?" "Convoluted-pixie." "That's bad? Or good?"

"It's good for me. Refreshing. And most of the time I like the causes that you work for." "But not all the time?" "No, not always." "Sometimes the things I do create antagonism. Lots of Suppose the antagonism was about something you n't believe in, or disliked? Suppose our names were linked together at a time like that, when you wouldn't want to be associated with me?"

"I'd learn to live with it. Besides, I'm entitled to a private life, and so are you."

"So is any woman," Margot said. "But I wonder sometimes if you really could live with it. That’s if we were together all the time. I wouldn't change, you know; you have to understand that, Alex darling I couldn't surrender independence, nor ever stop being myself and talking initiatives."

He thought of Celia who had taken no initiatives, ever, and how he had wished she would. And he remembered, as always with remorse, what Celia had become. He had learned something from her though: That no man h whole unless the woman he loves is free, and knows the use of freedom, exploiting it in fulfillment of herself.

Alex dropped his hands to Margot's shoulders. Through a thin silk nightgown he could sense the fragrant warmth of her, feel the softness of her flesh. He said gently, "It's the way you are that's the way I love and want you. If you changed, I'd hire some other lady lawyer and sue for breach of loving."

His hands left her shoulders, moving slowly, caressingly lower. He heard her breathing quicken; a moment later she turned to him, urgent and gasping. "What the hell are we waiting for?'' "God knows," he said. "Let's go to bed."

3

The sight was so unusual that one of the branch's loan officers, Cliff Castleman, strolled over to the platform.

"Mrs. D'Orsey, have you looked out of a window yet, by any chance?"

"No," Edwina said. She had been concentrating on the morning mail. "Why should I?"

It was 8:55 A.M., Wednesday, at First Mercantile American's main downtown branch.

"Well," Castleman said, 'I thought you might be interested. There's a lineup outside such as I've never seen ahead of opening time before."

Edwina looked up. Several staff members were craning to look out of windows. There was a buzz of conversation among the employees generally, unusual this early in the day. She sensed an undercurrent of concern.

Leaving her desk, Edwina walked a few paces to one of the large plate-glass windows, part of the street frontage of the building. What she saw amazed her. A long queue of people, four or five abreast, extended from the main front door past the entire length of the building and out of sight beyond. It appeared as if all were waiting for the bank to open. She stared incredulously. "What on earth…?"

"Someone went outside just now," Castleman informed her. "They say the line extends halfway across Rosselli Plaza and more people are joining it all the time." "Has anyone asked what they all want?"

"One of the security guards did, I understand. The answer was, they've come to open accounts."

"That's ridiculous! All of those people? There must be three hundred I can see from here. We've never had that many new accounts in a single day."

The loan officer shrugged. "I'm simply passing on what I heard."

Tottenhoe, the operations officer, joined them at the window, his face transmitting his normal grumpiness. "I've notified Central Security," he informed Edwina. "They say they'll send more guards and Mr. Wainwright's coming over. Also, they're advising the city police."

Edwina commented, "There's no outward sign of trouble. Those people all seem peaceful."

It was a mixed group, she could see, about two thirds women, with a preponderance of blacks. Many of the women were accompanied by children. Among the men, some were in coveralls, appearing as if they had left their jobs or were on the way to them. Others were in casual clothing, a few well dressed.

People in the lineup were talking to each other, some animatedly, but no one appeared antagonistic. A few, seeing themselves observed, smiled and nodded to the bank officials.

"Look at that!" Cliff Castleman pointed. A TV crew with camera had appeared. While Edwina and the others watched, it began filming.

"Peaceful or not," the loan officer said, "there has to be a motive behind all these people coming here at once."

A flash of insight struck Edwina. "It's Forum East," she said. "I'll bet it's Forum East."

Several others whose desks were nearby had approached and were listening.

Tottenhoe said, "We should delay opening until the extra guards get here."

All eyes swung to a wall clock which showed a minute to nine.

"No," Edwina instructed. She raised her voice so that others could hear. "We'll open as usual, on time. Everyone go back to their work, please."

Tottenhoe hurried away, Edwina returning to the plat form and her desk.

Prom her vantage point she watched the main doors swing open and the first arrivals pour in. Those who had been at the head of the line paused momentarily on entry, looked around curiously, then quickly moved forward as others behind pressed in. Within moments the central public area of the big branch bank was filled with a chattering, noisy crowd. The building, relatively quiet less than a minute earlier, had become a Babel. Edwina saw a tall heavyset black man wave some dollar bills and declare loudly, "Ah want to put ma money in the bank."

A security guard directed him, "Over there for new account'."

The guard pointed to a desk where a clerk a young girl sat waiting. She appeared nervous. The big man walked toward her, smiled reassuringly, and sat down. Immediately a press of others moved into a ragged line behind him, waiting for their turns.

It seemed as if the report about everyone having come to open an account had been accurate after all.

Edwina could see the big man leaning back expansively, still holding his dollar bills. His voice cut across the noise of other conversations and she heard him proclaim, "Ah'm in no hurry. There's some things ah'd like yo' to explain."

Two other desks were quickly manned by other clerks. With equal speed, long wide lines of people formed in front of them.

Normally, three members of staff were ample to handle new account business, but obviously were inadequate now. Edwina could see Tottenhoe on the far side of the bank and called him on the intercom. She instructed, "Use more desks for new accounts and take all the staff you can spare to man them."

Even leaning dose to the intercom, it was hard to hear above the noise.

Tottenhoe grumbled in reply, "You realize we can't possibly process all these people today, and however many we do will tie us up completely."

"I've an idea," Edwina said, "that's what someone has in mind. Just hurry the processing all you can.

Yet she knew however much they hurried it would still take ten to fifteen minutes to open any single new account. It always did. The paperwork required that time.

First, an application form called for details of residence, employment, social security, and family matters. A specimen signature was obtained. Then proof of identity was needed. After that, the new accounts clerk would take a documents to an officer of the bank for approval and initialing. Finally, a savings passbook was made out or a temporary checkbook issued.

Therefore the most new accounts that any bank employee could open in an hour were five, so the three clerks presently working might handle a total of ninety in one business day, if they kept going at top speed, which was unlikely.

Even tripling the present complement of clerks would permit very few more than two hundred and fifty accounts to be opened in a day, yet already, in the first few minutes of business, the bank was crammed with at least four hundred people, with still more flooding in, and the line outside, which Edwina rose to check, appeared as long as ever.

Still the noise within the bank increased. It had become an uproar.

A further problem was that the growing mass of arrivals in the central public area of the bank was preventing access to tellers' counters by other customers. Edwina could see a few of them outside, regarding the milling scene with consternation. While she watched, several gave up and walked away.

Inside the bank some of the newcomers were engaging tellers in conversation and the tellers, having nothing else to do because of the melee, chatted back.

Two assistant managers had gone to the central floor area and were trying to regulate the flood of people so as to clear some space at counters. They were having small success.

But still no hostility was evident. Everyone in the now jam-packed bank who was spoken to by members of the staff answered politely and with a smile. It seemed,

Edwina thought, as if all who were here had been briefed to be on best behavior. She decided it was time for her own intervention.

Edwina left the platform and a railed-ofE staff area and, with difficulty, made her way through the milling crowd to the main front door. Signaling two security guards who elbowed their way toward her, she instructed, "That's enough people in the bank. Hold everyone else outside, letting a few in as the others leave. Except, of course, allow our regular customers to enter as they arrive."

The older of the two guards put his head close to Edwina's to make himself heard. "That won't be so easy, Mrs. D'Orsey. Some customers we'll recognize but a good many we won't. We get too many here each day to know 'em all."

"Another thing," the other guard put in, "when anybody arrives, those outside are shouting, 'Back of the line' If we play favorites it could start a riot."

Edwina assured him, 'Where won't be any riot. Just do your best."

Turning back, Edwina spoke to several of those waiting. The surrounding constant conversations made it difficult to be heard and she raised her voice. "I'm the manager. Would some of you please tell me why you've all come here today?"

"We're opening accounts," a woman with a child beside her said. She giggled. "Nothing wrong with that, is there?"

"And you guys put out them ads," another voice injected. "Ain't no amount too small to start one, is what they say."

"That's true," Edwina said, "and the bank means it. But there has to be some reason why you all chose to come together."

"You could say," an elderly cadaverous man chimed in, “we're all from Forum East." A younger voice added, "Or want to be." “what still doesn't tell me…" Edwina began.

"Perhaps I can explain, ma'am." A middle-aged, distinguished-looking black man was bed shoved forward through the press of people.

"Please do."

At the same moment Edwina was aware of a new figure beside her. Turning, she saw it was Nolan Wainwright. And at the main doorway several more security guards had arrived and were assisting the original two. She glanced interrogatively at the security chief who advised, "Go ahead. You're doing okay."

The man who had been thrust forward said, "Good morning, ma'am. I didn't know there were lady bank managers."

"Well, there are," Edwina told him. "And getting to be more of us all the time. I hope you believe in the equality of women, Mr…?"

"Orinda. Seth Orinda, ma'am. And I sure do believe in that, and lots of other things besides."

"Is it one of the other things that brings you here today?" "In a way, you could say that." "Exactly what way?" "I think you know we're all from Forum East." She acknowledged, "I've been told that."

"What we're doing might be called an act of hope." The well-dressed spokesman mouthed his words carefully. They had been scripted and rehearsed. More people drew close, conversation stilling as they listened.

Orinda went on, "This bank, so it says, doesn't have enough money to go on helping Forum East get built. Anyway, the bank has cut its lending cash in half and some of us think that other half will get chopped too, that's if someone doesn't beat a drum or take some action."

Edwina said sharply, "And taking action, I suppose, means bringing the business of this entire branch bank to a standstill." As she spoke, she was aware of several new faces in the crowd and of open notebooks with racing pencils. She realized that reporters had arrived.

Obviously someone had alerted the press in advance, which explained the presence of the TV camera crew outside. Edwina wondered who had done it. Seth Orinda looked pained. "What we're doing, ma'am,

is bringing all the money we poor folks can raise to help this bank through its time of trouble."

"Yep," another voice threw in, "ain't that good neighborin' for sure?"

Nolan Wainwright snapped, 'that's nonsense! This bank is not in trouble."

"If it ain't in trouble," a woman asked, "why'd it do what it done to Forum East?"

"The bank's position was made perfectly dear in its announcement," Edwina answered. "It's a question of priorities. Furthermore, the bank has said it hopes to resume the full financing later." Even to herself the words sounded hollow. Others evidently thought so too because a chorus of jeers erupted.

It was the first note of antagonism and ugliness. The distinguished-looking man, Seth Orinda, turned sharply, raising a hand in caution. The jeering ceased.

"Whichever way it looks to you folks here," he asserted to Edwina, "the fact is, we've all come to put some money in your bank. That's what I mean by an act of hope. We figure that when you see us all, and realize the way we feel, you'll maybe change your minds." "And if we don't?"

"Then I reckon we'll go on finding more people and more bits of money. And we can do it. We've a lot more good souls coming here today, and tomorrow, and the day after. Then, by the weekend, word will have got around" he swung toward the press reporters "so there'll be others, and not just from Forum East, who’ll join with us next week. Just to open an account, of course. To help out this poor bank. Nothing else."

More voices added cheerfully, "Yeah man, a whole lot more people"… "We ain't got much bread, but we sure got numbers"… 'Tell your friends to come an' support us."

"Of course," Orinda said, his expression innocent, "some of the folks who are putting money in the bank today may have to come and take it out tomorrow, or the next day, or next week. Most haven't got so much that they can leave it in long. But then, soon as we can we'll be back to put it in again." His eyes glittered mischievously. "We aim to keep you busy." "Yes," Edwina said, "I understand your aim."

One of the reporters, a slim blond girl, asked, "Mr. Orinda, how much will all of you be depositing in the bank?"

"Not much," he told her cheerfully. "Most have come with just five dollars. That's the smallest amount this bank will take. Isn't that right?" He looked at Edwina who r added.

Some banks, as Edwina and those listening were aware, required a minimum of fifty dollars to open a savings account, a hundred for checking. A few had no minimums at all. First Mercantile American seeking to encourage small savers compromised at five dollars.

Another thing once an account was accepted, most of the original five dollars could be withdrawn, with any credit balance sufficient to keep the account open. Seth Orinda and others had clearly realized this and proposed to drown the downtown branch bank with in-and-out transactions. Edwina thought: they might well succeed.

Yet nothing illegal or provably obstructionist was being done.

Despite her responsibilities and annoyance of a few moments earlier, Edwina was tempted to laugh, though realized she mustn't. She glanced again at Nolan Wainwright who shrugged and said quietly, "While there's no obvious disturbance there's nothing we can do except regulate the traffic."

The bank security chief swung toward Orinda and said firmly, "We'll expect all of you to help us keep this place orderly, inside and out. Our guards will give directions about how many people can come in at once, and where the waiting line should stay."

The other nodded agreement. "Naturally, sir, my friends and I will do everything possible to help. We don't want any disturbance either. But we shall expect you to be fair." "What's that mean?" 'those of us in here," Orinda declared, "and those outside, are customers just like anybody else who comes to this bank. And while we're willing to wait our turn and be patient, we don't expect others to get specially favored treatment or to be allowed in here ahead of us who've waited. What I mean is, anybody arriving no matter who must go to the back of the line." "We'll see about that."

"So will we, sir. Because if you do it some other way, it'll be a clear case of discrimination. Then you'll hear us holler." The reporters, Edwina saw, were still making notes.

She eased her way through the press of people, to the three new account desks, already supplemented by two more, while a further two were being set up.

One of the auxiliary desks, Edwina noted, was occupied by Juanita Nunez. She caught Edwina's eye, and they exchanged smiles. Edwina was suddenly reminded that the Nunez girl lived at Forum East: Had she known in advance of today's invasion? Then she reasoned: Either way, it made no difference.

Two of the bank's junior officers were supervising the new account activity and it was clear that all other work today would fall seriously behind.

The heavyset black man, who had been among the earliest arrivals, was getting up as Edwina arrived. The girl who had dealt with him, no longer nervous, said, "This is Mr. Euphrates. He just opened an account."

"Deacon Euphrates. Least, that's what most call me." Edwina was offered an enormous hand which she took.

"Welcome to First Mercantile American, Mr. Euphrates."

"Thank you, that's real nice. In fact, so nice that I think maybe after all I'll pop a little more bread in this here account." He examined a handful of small change, selected a quarter and two dimes, then strolled over to a teller.

Edwina asked the new accounts clerk, "What was the initial deposit?" "Five dollars.", "Very well Just try to keep going as fast as you can."

"I’ll do that, Mrs. D'Orsey, but that one took a long time because he asked a lot of questions about withdrawals and interest rates. He had them written out on paper." "Did you get the paper?" "No."

"Others will probably have the same thing. Try to get one and show it to me."

It might provide a clue, Edwina thought, as to who had planned and executed this expert invasion. She did not believe that anyone she had spoken to so far was the key organizing figure.

Something else emerging: The attempt to inundate the bank would not be limited to merely opening new accounts. Those who had already opened accounts were now forming lines at tellers' counters, paying in or withdrawing tiny amounts at a glacial pace, asking questions or engaging tellers in conversation.

So not only would regular customers have difficulty getting into the building but, once inside, they would be further impeded.

She told Nolan Wainwright about the written lists of questions and her instructions to the girl clerk. The security chief approved. "I'd like to see them, too." "Mr. Wainwright," a secretary called over, "telephone."

He took the call and Edwina heard him say, "It is a demonstration, even if not in the legal sense. But it's peaceful and we could make trouble for ourselves by hasty decisions. The last thing we want is an ugly confrontation."

It was comforting, Edwina reasoned, to have Wainwright's sane solidity available. As he replaced the phone a thought occurred to her. "Someone mentioned calling the city police," she said.

"They came when I first got here and I sent them away. They'll haul back fast if we need them. I hope we won't." He motioned to the telephone, then in the direct lion of FMA Headquarters Tower. "Word has got to the brass. They're pressing panic buttons over there."

"One thing they could try is restoring funds to Forum East."

For the first time since his arrival, a brief smile crossed Wainwright's face. "I'd like to see that, too. But this isn't the way and, where the bank's money is on the line, outside pressure won't alter a thing."

Edwina was about to say, "I wonder," then changed her mind, remaining silent.

While they watched, the crowd monopolizing the bank's central floor area remained as great; the uproar, if anything, a little louder than before. Outside, the lengthening line stayed fixedly in place. It was now 9:45.

4

Also at 9:45 A.M., three blocks from First Mercantile American Headquarters Tower, Margot Bracken was operating a command post from an inconspicuously parked Volkswagen.

Margot had intended to remain remote from the execution of her pressure ploy, but in the end she hadn't been able to. Like a war horse which paws the ground at the scent of battle, her resolve had weakened then dissolved.

Margot's concern about embarrassing Alex or Edwina remained, however, and was the reason for her absence from the front line of action on Rosselli Plaza.

If she appeared she would be quickly identified by members of the press, whose presence Margot knew about since she had arranged advance tip-offs to newspapers TV, and radio.

Therefore, messengers were discreetly bringing news of developments to her car and carrying instructions back.

Since Thursday night a sizable feat of organization had been carried through

On Friday, while Margot worked on the master plan, Seth, Deacon, and several committee members recruited block captains in and around Forum East. They described what was to be done only in general terms, but the response was overwhelming. Almost everyone wanted a piece of the action and knew others who could be counted on.

By late Sunday when lists were totaled, there were fifteen hundred names. More were coming in fast. According to Margot's plan it would be possible to maintain action for at least a week, longer if enthusiasm could be sustained.

Among the men with regular jobs who volunteered help, some like Deacon Euphrates had vacation time due which they declared they would use. Others simply said they would absent themselves as needed. Regrettably, many who volunteered were unemployed, their numbers swelled recently by a seasonal work shortage.

But women predominated, in part because of their greater availability in daytime, but also because even more than with the men Forum East had become a cherished, hopeful beacon in their lives.

Margot was aware of this, both from her advance staff work and this morning's reports.

The reports she was getting so far were highly satisfactory.

It had been Margot's insistence that at all times, and particularly during direct contacts with bank representatives, everyone in the Forum East contingent should be friendly, courteous, and ostensibly helpful. This was the mason for the phrase, "Act of Hope," which Margot coined, and the projected image that a group of interested individuals though with limited means was coming to the "help" of an FMA "in trouble."

She suspected, shrewdly, that any suggestion that First Mercantile American Bank was in trouble would touch a sensitive nerve.

And while there would be no concealment of the Forum East connection, at no point would outright threats be made, as for example that paralysis of the big bank would continue unless construction funds were reinstated. As Margot told Seth Orinda and the others, "Let the bank come to that conclusion."

At briefing sessions she had underlined the need to avoid any appearance of menace or intimidation. Those who attended the sessions made notes, then passed the instructions on.

Something else passed on were lists of questions to be asked by individuals while accounts were being opened. Margot had prepared those, too. There were hundreds of legitimate questions which anyone dealing with a bank could reasonably ask, though for the most part people didn't. Their ancillary effect would be to slow the bank to a near halt.

Seth Orinda would act as spokesman if an opportunity occurred. Margot's script needed little rehearsal Orinda was a quick study.

Deacon Euphrates had been assigned to be early in line and the first to open an account.

It was Deacon no one knew whether Deacon was a given name or a title from one of the offbeat religions in the area who headed the staff work in advising volunteers where to go and when. He had worked with an army of lieutenants, fanning out like radii of a spider web.

Initially, for Wednesday morning, it had been essential there should be a large attendance at the bank to create a strong impression. But some of the attendees must be relieved periodically. Others who had not yet appeared were to be held in reserve for later that day, or other days.

To accomplish all this, a patchwork communications system had been set up with heavy use of local pay phones, monitored by more helpers stationed on the streets. Already, allowing for weaknesses in a short notice, improvised scheme, communication was functioning well.

All these and other reports were being funneled to Margot in the back seat of her Volkswagen. Her information included the number of people in line, the length of time it was taking the bank to open each account, and the number of new account desks in operation. She had heard, too, about the jam-packed scene inside the bank; also the exchanges between Seth Orinda and bank officials.

Margot made a calculation, then instructed the latest messenger, a gangling youth now waiting in the car's front passenger seat, "Tell Deacon not to call any more volunteers for the time being; it looks as if we've enough for the rest of today. Let some of those standing outside be relieved for a while, though not more than fifty at a time, and warn them to be back to collect their lunches. And about the lunches, caution everyone again there's to be no litter on Rosselli Plaza, and no food or drinks taken into the bank."

The talk of lunch reminded Margot of money which, earlier in the week, had been a problem.

On Monday, reports filtering in through Deacon Euphrates made it clear that many of the willing volunteers lacked a spare five dollars the minimum required to open an account at FMA. The Forum East Tenants Association had virtually no money. For a while it looked as if their scheme would founder.

Then Margot made a telephone call. It was to the union the American Federation of Clerks, Cashiers & Office Workers which now represented the airport janitors and cleaners whom she had aided a year ago.

Would the union help by lending money enough to provide a five-dollar stake for each volunteer who could not afford it? Union leaders summoned a hasty meeting. The union said yes.

On Tuesday, employees from union headquarters helped Deacon Euphrates and Seth Orinda distribute the cash. All concerned knew that part of it would never be repaid and some of the five-dollar floats would be spent by Tuesday night, their original purpose forgotten or ignored. But most of the money, they believed, would be used as intended. Judging by this morning's showing, they were right.

It was the union which had offered to supply and pay for lunches. The offer was accepted. Margot suspected a self-interest angle somewhere on the union's part but concluded it would not affect the Forum East objective, so was none of her business.

She continued to instruct the latest messenger. "We must maintain a lineup until the bank closes at three o'clock."

It was possible, she thought, that the news media might do some closing time photography so a show of strength for the remainder of today was important.

Tomorrow's plans could be co-ordinated late tonight. Mostly, they would be a repetition of today's.

Fortunately the weather a spell of mildness with mainly clear skies was helping, and forecasts for the next few days seemed good.

"Keep on emphasizing," Margot told another messenger a half hour later, "that everyone must stay friendly, friendly, friendly. Even if the bank people get tough or impatient, the thing to do is smile back."

At 11:45 A.M. Seth reported personally to Margot. He was grinning broadly and held out an early edition of the city's afternoon newspaper. "Wow!" Margot spread the front page wide.

The activity at the bank commanded most of the available space. It was more, far more, attention than she had dared to hope for. The main headline read:

BIG BANK IMMOBILIZED

BY FORUM EASTERS

And below:

First Mercantile American In Trouble?

Many Come To "Help" With Small Deposits Pictures and a two-column by-line story followed.

"Oh brother!" Maryot breathed. "How FMA will hate that!" They did.

Shortly after midday a hastily called conference took place on the 36th floor of First Mercantile American Headquarters Tower in the presidential suite.

Jerome Patterton and Roscoe Heyward were there, grim faced. Alex Vandervoort joined them. He, too, was serious, though as discussion progressed Alex seemed less involved than the others, his expression mostly thoughtful, with once or twice a flicker of amusement. The fourth attendee was Tom Straughan, the bank's young and studious chief economist; the fifth, Dick French, vice-president of public relations.

French, burly and scowling, strode in chewing an unlightod cigar and carrying a bundle of afternoon newspapers which he slapped down one by one in front of the others.

Jerome Patterton, seated behind his desk, spread out paper. When he read the words, "First Mercantile American In Trouble?" he spluttered, 'That's a filthy lie! That paper should be sued."

'There's nothing to sue about," French said with his customary bluntness. "The newspaper hasn't stated it as face. It's put as a question and in any case is quoting someone else. And the original statement was not malicious." He stood with a take-it-or-leave-it attitude, hands behind his back, cigar projecting like an accusatory torpedo. Patterton flushed with anger.

"Of course it's malicious," Roscoe Heyward snapped. He had been standing, aloof, by a window and swung back toward the other four. 'The entire exercise is malicious. Any fool can see that."

French sighed. "All right, I'll spell it out. Whoever is behind this is good at law and public relations. The exercise, as you call it, is cleverly set up to be friendly and helpful to this bank. Okay, we know it's neither. But you'll never prove that and I suggest we stop wasting time with talk about trying to."

He picked up one of the newspapers and spread the front page open. "One reason I earn my princely salary is because I'm an expert about news and media Right now my expertise tells me that this same story which is written and presented fairly, like it or not is spewing out through every news wire service in the country and will be used. Why? Because it's a David and Goliath piece which reeks of human interest."

Tom Straughan, seated beside Vandervoort, said quietly, "I can confirm part of that. It has been on the Dow Jones news service and right afterward our stock dropped one more point."

"Another thing," Dick French went on as though he had not been interrupted, "we may as well brace ourselves now for the TV news tonight. There'll be plenty on local stations for sure, and my educated guess is we'll be on network, all three majors. Also, if any paper can resist that 'bank in trouble' phrase I'll swallow my picture tube." Heyward asked coldly, "Have you finished?"

"Not quite. I'd just like to say that if I'd blown this entire year's PR budget on one thing, just one thing, to try to make this bank look bad, I couldn't have improved on the damage you guys have done unaided."

Dick French had a personal theory. It was that a good public relations man should go to work each day prepared to put his job on the line. If knowledge and experience required him to tell his superiors unpleasant facts they would prefer not to hear, and to be brutally frank while doing so, so be it. The frankness was part of PR too a ploy to gain attention. To do less, or to court favor through silence or pussyfooting, would be to fail in his responsibilities.

Some days required more bluntness than usual. This was one.

Scowling, Roscoe Heyward asked, "Do we know yet who the organizers are?" "Not specifically," French said. "I spoke with Nolan who says he's working on that. Not that it makes much difference."

"And if you're interested in the latest from the downtown branch," Tom Straughan contributed, "I went in through the tunnel just before coming here. The place is still packed with demonstrators. Almost no one can get in to do regular banking business."

"They're not demonstrators," Dick Prench corrected him. "Let's get that clear, too, while we're about it. There's not a placard or a slogan among the lot, except maybe 'Act of Hope.' They're customers, and that's our problem."

"All right," Jerome Patterton said, "since you know so much about it, what do you suggest?"

The PR vice-president shrugged. "You guys pulled the rug from under Forum East. You're the ones who could put it back." Roscoe Heyward's features tightened. Patterton turned to Vandervoort. "Alex?"

"You know my feelings," Alex said; it was the first time he had spoken. "I was against the cut in funds to begin with. I still am."

Heyward said sarcastically, "Then you're probably delighted about what's going on. And I suppose you'd give in gladly to those louts and their intimidation."

"No, I'm not in the least delighted." Alex's eyes Sashed angrily. "What I am is embarrassed and offended to see the bank in the position it's been placed. I believe what's happening could have been foreseen that is, some response, some opposition. What matters most at the moment, though, is to set the situation right."

Heyward sneered, "So you would give in to intimidation. Just as I said."

"Giving in or not giving in is immaterial," Alex answered coldly. "The real question is: Were we right or wrong in cutting off funds from Forum East? If we were wrong, we should have second thoughts, along with courage to admit our error."

Jerome Patterton observed, "Second thoughts or not, if we back down now we'll all look pretty foolish"

"Jerome," Alex said, "in the first place, I don't believe so. In the second, does it matter?"

Dick French interposed, "The financial end of this is none of my business. I know that. But I'll tell you one thing: If we decided now to change bank policy about Forum East, we'd look good, not bad."

Roscoe Heyward said acidly to Alex, "If courage is a factor here, I'd say that you are devoid of any. What you're doing is refusing to stand up to a mob."

Alex shook his head impatiently. "Stop sounding like a small-town sheriff, Roscoe. Sometimes, unwillingness to change a wrong decision is plain pigheadedness, nothing more. Besides, those people at the downtown branch are not a mob. Every report we've had has made that dear."

Heyward said suspiciously, "You seem to have a special affinity for them. Do you know something the rest of us don't?" "No."

"Just the same, Alex," Jerome Patterton ruminated, "I don't like the idea of meekly giving in."

Tom Straughan had been following both argument". Now he said, "I was opposed to cutting off Forum East funds, as everybody knows. But I don't like being pushed around by outsiders either."

Alex sighed. "If you all feel like that, we'd better accept that the downtown branch won't be much use to us for a while."

"That rabble can't possibly keep up what they're doing," Heyward declared. "I predict that if we maintain our stand, refusing to be bluffed or stampeded, the entire exercise win fizzle out tomorrow."

"And I," Alec said, "predict it will continue through next week." In the end, both predictions proved erroneous.

In the absence of any softening of attitude by the bank, inundation of the downtown branch by Forum East supporters continued through all of Thursday and Friday, until the close of business late Friday afternoon. The big branch was almost helpless. And, as Dick French predicted, nationwide attention was focused on its plight.

Much of the attention was humorous. However, investors were less amused, and on the New York Stock Exchange on Friday, First Mercantile American Bank shares closed a further two and a half points lower.

Meanwhile, Margot Bracken, Seth Orinda, Deacon Euphrates, and others went on planning and recruiting. On Monday morning the bank capitulated.

At a hastily called press conference at 10 A.M., Dick French announced that full Forum East financing would be restored at once. On behalf of the bank, French expressed the good-natured hope that the many from Forum East and their friends, who had opened accounts at FMA over the past several days, would remain bank customers.

Behind the capitulation were several cogent reasons. One was: Prior to the downtown branch opening on Monday morning, the lineup outside the bank and on Rosselli Plaza was even larger than on previous days, so it became plain that the preceding week's performance would be repeated.

More disconcerting, a second long lineup appeared at another FMA branch bank, this in suburban Indian Hill. The development was not wholly unexpected. Extension of the Forum East activity to additional First Mercantile American branches had been forecast in Sunday's newspapers. When the line at Indian Hill began to form, an alarmed branch manager telephoned FMA Headquarters, asking for help. But it was a final factor which clinched the outcome.

Over the weekend, the union which had loaned money to the Forum East Tenants committee and provided free lunches for those in line the American Federation of Clerks, Cashiers & Office Workers publicly announced its involvement. They pledged additional support. A union spokesman castigated FMA as a "selfish and gargantuan profit machine, geared to further enrich the wealthy at the expense of the have-nots." A campaign to unionize the bank's employees, he added, would soon begin.

The union thus tilted the scale, not with a straw, but a bale of bricks.

Banks all banks feared, even hated, unions. Banking's leaders and executives eyed unions the way a snake might view a mongoose. What bankers foresaw if unions became entrenched was a lessening of banks' financial freedom. At times their fear was irrational, but it existed.

Though unions had tried often, few had made the slightest headway where bank employees were concerned. Time after time, bankers adroitly outwitted union organizers and intended to keep on doing so. If the Forum East situation afforded leverage to a union, ipso facto, the leverage must be removed. Jerome Patterton, in his office early and moving with unusual speed, made the final decision authorizing the restitution of funds to Forum East. At the same time he approved the bank's announcement which Dick French rushed to release.

Afterward, to steady his nerves, Patterton cut off all communication and practiced chip shots on the inner office rug.

Later the same morning, at a mainly informal session of the money policy committee, the reinstatement was recorded, though Roscoe Heyward grumbled, "It's created a precedent and is a surrender we'll regret." Alex Vandervoort was silent.

When the FMA announcement was read to Forum East supporters at both branch banks, there was some cheering, after which the assembled groups quietly dispersed. Within half an hour, business at the two branches returned to normal.

The matter might have ended there except for an information leak which, viewed in retrospect, was perhaps inevitable. The leak resulted in a newspaper commentary two days later an item in the same column, "Ear to the Ground," which first brought the issue out into the open.