Ghosts of Manhattan (26 page)

I know I could go stir-crazy here, and I don't like the image of getting drunk home alone in an emptied beach community, living out a clichéd version of rock bottom. I decide I'll leave early in the morning to get a workout at the Racquet Club, then get to the office. I'll be better off if I'm not alone.

My phone rings and it's William calling. A few days ago I had spoken with the lawyer representing William in the assault charge. It turns out the assistant DA wants to speak with William's boss, so the idea to include me had never been William's or his lawyer's.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Nick. It's William.”

“What's up?”

“The ADA is hoping to meet tomorrow at ten a.m. Will you be in the city? Can you make it?”

I'll have to do it sooner or later. “I'll be there.”

“Thanks, Nick. I haven't even been charged yet, so my lawyer thinks this is a good show of confidence that I'm taking this meeting. The DA is One Hogan Place. I'll be in the office early until about nine a.m., then go to the meeting.”

“Got it.”

January 31, 2006

I FINISH MY MORNING SHOWER AND SHAVE AT THE
club, where I keep a suit in my locker. I want to keep my distance from William's problem as much as possible, so I tell him I need to run some errands and won't be in the office first but will meet him at the appointment. I get a taxi to the DA's office all the way downtown. I haven't been there before, and the taxi drops me in front of an office building that looks as though the architect's instructions were to make it look as drab and depressing as possible. Across the way is Columbus Park, which has a few sickly trees, patches of grass, and benches sunk into concrete. Only Manhattan would call this a park.

Getting through security is easier than the airports. I put my wallet and watch in a plastic dish and pass through the metal detector while lawyers and staff with badges just breeze around the whole setup. There are three elevators and I take one to the sixth floor for our meeting. I step off the elevator into a main corridor that must be fifty yards long with small tributary halls shooting off the sides. The floor is the plastic-looking Kentile from
the first half of the last century, made worse by the inconsistent fluorescent lighting hanging from a ceiling that hasn't seen new paint since they stopped making Kentile floors. The corridor is lined with cheap metal filing cabinets and natural wood benches outside the office doors. There's a big difference between a government office and a Bear Stearns office. For the price of one piece of our lobby art, they could redo this whole place.

I walk to the conference room the ADA has reserved for our meeting. A man in a suit is standing by the door and sees me approaching.

“Mr. Farmer?”

“Yes.” We shake hands. He must be the defense attorney because his suit is too nice and his hair too perfect for a government employee. His hair is completely gray but so full and groomed it's hard to believe it's gray. It has the thickness that usually only a kid can have. He has a ruddy face and is otherwise unremarkable. Average height, weight, and looks. Probably relates well to a jury.

“Thank you for coming. I'm Alan Gallagher. The ADA is inside. Peter Jeffries. You can go right in. William is waiting down the hall. I'm going to visit with him briefly, then I'll be back and we'll get started.” He smiles but it's awkward and he looks around. I follow his eyes and see a woman seated on a bench near the door. She's in a plain, matronly dress that can't hide her stripper body, stripper fake tan, bleached hair, and ankle tattoos. The clothes are overwhelmed by the woman. She's very attractive, though she looks like she's been crying. This must be the girl.

“That's fine.”

William's lawyer opens the door for me and I walk into a small conference room as drab as the building exterior. Nothing on the walls but white paint, a single window with bars across it, and a
rectangular table that fits six chairs that don't roll but need to be scraped across an ancient plastic tile.

Peter Jeffries stands from the head of the rectangle and comes to shake my hand. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Farmer.”

“Of course.” There's also a uniformed detective in the room, which is jarring but shouldn't surprise me. It's not the same cop who was at the Soho Grand.

“This is Detective Kelly, who has been handling the complaint. This shouldn't take much of your time, Mr. Farmer. The DA's office is determining whether or not to proceed with criminal prosecution in this matter. Your input will be taken into consideration as a part of our evaluation.”

Lawyers always use too many words. “All right.”

“I'll ask you a few questions about Mr. William Lansing. We'll begin once his lawyer is present. Answer honestly and fully.”

I nod. We wait less than a minute in silence, then the door opens without a knock and William's lawyer walks in. The ADA stands, then sits without shaking any hands, more like someone bumped the back of his chair. I never leave my seat. I assume William's lawyer is here because the ADA wants to make some kind of deal.

“Let's get started.” The ADA is already out of patience. “Mr. Farmer, your presence here will be required for only a short time, after which I will conclude my meeting with Mr. Lansing, then with the accuser.” He clears his throat. “Mr. Farmer, I'm going to ask you a few questions about Mr. Lansing.”

I nod again.

“Mr. Lansing is currently in your employ?”

“He's employed by Bear Stearns. He reports to me.”

“Fine. As part of your supervision of Mr. Lansing, do you conduct performance reviews?”

“I do.”

“Would you be willing to share these reviews with me in cooperation with my investigation?”

“I can fax the paperwork this afternoon. A lot of the review happens orally.”

“In addition to faxing the reviews you have filed, and please fax from as many years back as you have, would you please also describe the nature of the most recent review you gave Mr. Lansing?”

“William got an above-average review. He's a reliable employee, he shows up on time, rarely calls in sick, works hard, gets along with other employees, and his sales numbers are above the average for his position.”

“To your knowledge, have there been any disciplinary incidents with Mr. Lansing?”

“No.”

“Okay. Fine.” He seems like he's about to take a different tack with the questioning and he physically adjusts also. “Some of the following questions will be more subjective. Please do your best to answer.”

I nod.

“Please describe, in your own words, Mr. Lansing. His character.”

Jesus Christ. “I don't socialize with William much out of the office. We're very different ages and I'm his boss.”

“Did you attend the party at the Soho Grand on the night in question?”

Goddamn it. “Yes, for less than an hour early in the night. It started as a work function for clients.”

“Was Mr. Lansing there when you were there?”

“He arrived as I was leaving.”

“So you occasionally see Mr. Lansing outside the office?” He pauses for effect. “For drinks from time to time.”

“Yes.” I'm starting to dislike the ADA.

“And in the totality of your experience with Mr. Lansing on these occasions, please describe his character.”

He sounds smug and my dislike for him is probably going to play to William's benefit because I'd really like to shove something down the ADA's throat. “He seems like an okay guy.” I sound a little smug now and immediately regret it.

“Does he drink liquor?”

“Yes.”

“Frequently?”

“He drinks with customers. I don't know about other times.”

“Does he use illicit drugs?”

I pause. Damn. Whether or not I do shouldn't be relevant, but managing an employee that I know uses illicit drugs could be a problem. “I've not seen him take an illicit drug.” This is actually true. Thank God for private bathrooms.

“Do you suspect that he does?”

“It's possible.”

“Okay. Fine.” He's enjoying this but doesn't go after me further on this point. I'm sure for the purpose of this evaluation he knows William does cocaine. The police report from the Soho Grand would probably take care of that. “Does Mr. Lansing attend strip clubs?”

“Yes.”

“Does he hire the services of prostitutes?”

“Same as the illicit drugs. It's possible but I've never watched him having sex.” Jesus, I need to be careful.

The detective laughs a little, which is the first evidence he is listening. He otherwise seems bored and not motivated to pursue a case. The ADA is not amused and continues. “Okay, Mr. Farmer.
Mr. Lansing is accused of aggravated assault and rape. What is your reaction to this charge?”

This is the one I really don't want to answer. I've been thinking about it so that I'd be prepared but haven't been able to come up with the answer, so now I'm still stuck and hesitating. I want to be noncommittal, but noncommittal hangs him out to dry and I can't do that.

The ADA slides three photographs across the table to me. One is of the girl's face with a black eye and swollen upper lip. She looks like she hasn't slept in days. Her hair is oily and hangs in strings that are pushed out of the way of her bruises. The other photographs show raw and broken skin around her wrists and ankles.

I can't take my eyes from the purple and black colors that stain the young girl. The things I hate about work, or about anything, I keep at arm's length, but the ADA won't let me get away with that here. He shoves the images into me like a knife with practiced technique, then watches the physical changes in me. I can't just intellectualize about a rape anymore because it's in my face now. I'm staring at what the girl says William did, and I'm trying to keep my face still but I'm disgusted.

The truth is that I don't know William well enough to vouch for him, but I've known a lot of guys like him. Wall Street guys like coke and hookers, but violence isn't in the gene. They tend to get off on power in a different way.

“William's not a rapist.” I say it though I'm not sure of it.

“Okay. Thank you, Mr. Farmer. We're done here.”

“Okay.” I stand and nod to each of the three of them.

I step outside the room and close the door behind me. I turn and find the stripper now standing by the bench. I don't know
why I can't identify her as the woman and not the stripper, but I can't. She's looking right at me.

“You work with him?”

“I do.” I break eye contact and make for the elevator.

She lets me get a few steps. “He's a sick bastard. He'll do it to someone else.” She hurls the words into my back. In that moment she seems more like a girl and less like a stripper and I feel sick.

I don't turn but get in the elevator and leave the building. I feel too claustrophobic with my own thoughts to get in a taxi and I want to walk, so I head for that crappy Columbus Park and just walk in a circle around it, then sit on a bench in the cold.

Thirty minutes later my phone rings and it's William.

“Heya, Nick.”

“Hey.”

“The ADA indicated to her lawyer that there probably isn't enough to proceed criminally. Apparently there are some real credibility problems with the girl. I think she's cried rape before. Anyway, my lawyer headed off a civil suit and just brokered a deal with her lawyer for twenty-five grand. I'm sure your interview with the ADA was a big help. Thanks. It's over.”

“You happy?”

“Extremely.”

“Right.” I hang up.

A minute later from my bench I can see William come out of the building and hail a taxi. He has a big smile. There's nothing about Bear or the DA's office or this city that will stop William or even slow him down. The only thing that might punish William is inside William, and that won't happen because the system is rigged to reinforce to him that he's doing things exactly the right way.

•   •   •

An hour later I force my freezing body from the bench and get a taxi back to the office. I walk across the massive trading floor with coffee and an egg sandwich, navigating through the long desks like aisles in a grocery store. I have an empty and friendless feeling.

I see my vacant desk chair and Bloomberg terminal and wish I could pass it by as though it were a hallucination that I could medicate away. But it's still there when I get to it, so I put down my coffee and sit.

Before I've reversed my momentum to roll the chair forward to the desk, Jerry has a hand on my shoulder. “Good to have you back, buddy.”

“Hey. You really had your eyes peeled for me.”

“I need to get you up to speed. We have some telecom bonds we need to buy. The i-bankers are structuring a new debt issuance. You know the one.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“We need to buy up the secondary market bonds from the last issuance. Keep buying up to ninety-three.”

“They're not worth ninety-three.”

“They will be. Keep buying and push up the price. They want to see some upward movement in support of the new issuance.”

“Crap.”

“Ninety-three.”

I eat my sandwich and make a few calls. The bonds are well offered at ninety-two, and I lift from a few different shops.

William walks to his desk across from me with a smile on his face suggesting that something must be going his way. Maybe the same smile he has always had, but today it strikes me that he will succeed in this place and without hesitation or compromise.
William's success will be different from the roly-poly and gruff Jerry Cavanaugh's. Jerry is indifferent to all the crap of our industry, but William enjoys it. He revels in it and will be able to manipulate it to work for him. I find myself staring at his face as though I'm alone in a room studying a photograph, and I no longer see a person but the face of a virus. A virus that can fill a suit and wear a tie and is massive in ambition, limitless and insatiable, consuming the physical world and destroying souls because it has no soul of its own to care for, sacrificing everything spiritual for meeting the primal with excess. Everything you can eat, drink, and screw and snort up your nose. But I know the happiness can be only on the primal level too, like a smile on a dog.