Saving Jason (30 page)

“Please step to the microphone and repeat your question,” the lawyer said.

“No!” Nealis yelled. “This man was not invited to this meeting. Security! Where’s security?”

I strode quickly to the microphone and repeated the question. “Do you have the list of all true shareholders who voted in this election?”

Nealis may have suspected where I was going, but he was a step behind. “You don’t have to answer his questions,” he said to the lawyer.

“Let him answer!” someone yelled from behind me.

“Just answer me this,” I said. “Is it the same list that was used for entry to the meeting this evening?”

The lawyer was facing an angry, vocal crowd and thought he had just been lobbed a floating-softball question. “Yes, that is the same list. I have a copy that Mr. Nealis provided me earlier today.”

“Thank you.” I turned away and texted Brady.

All yours.

The doors in back of us opened and the room filled with policemen. Uniformed NYPD, U.S. Marshals in light windbreakers, and FBI
in suits and ties. A uniformed sergeant with a bullhorn was telling everyone to remain calm and to stay in their seats.

The crowd was in shock. No one spoke or moved.

There was a pause, and in walked Wallace Ashton Blackmore, U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, and the man who most wanted to be the next mayor of the city. He was flanked by four AUSAs and followed by a stream of television camera crews. Big lights on dollies followed them. The room was crowded and lit up like Yankee Stadium. And Blackmore stood on the pitcher’s mound.

“James Nealis?” he called out.

Nealis was stunned. “I’m James Nealis,” he said.

“You are under arrest, Mr. Nealis. Please cooperate with these policemen. They will read you your rights.”

“This is ridiculous. What am I being charged with?”

“We’ll start with securities fraud and defrauding the investors in Becker Financial with regard to this vote. Take him away.”

Blackmore turned to the cameras and began answering reporters’ questions.

V
irgil and I spent most of Saturday in the office going through Nealis’s email. We needed to identify any senior staff who, because of their misguided support of Nealis and his campaign, might be happier working somewhere else. It was an ugly job, but necessary.

We found three certifiable rats. Virgil called them individually and asked for their resignations, effective immediately. A senior banker was playing golf with friends out at Shinnecock Hills in Southampton. Virgil caught him as they were setting out for the back nine. The second, also a banker, expected the call—he was one of the golfing foursome and had just watched his buddy get the axe. The head of IT was on his boat, fishing for stripers near Gardiners Island. None of the men squawked.

“I have some spots to fill. Any thoughts?”

“It’s a tough time of year to get anyone worthwhile to jump ship,” I said.

Virgil waved his hand as though erasing the thought. “That depends on price, doesn’t it? I’ll spend what’s needed. I’ll also have two board seats open in the near future. Would you be interested?”

“No, thank you. I’m not a politician. Has Aimee’s position been filled?”

“Her number two is ‘acting chief.’ I don’t really know him.”

“I have a suggestion. Let him stay acting for now and bring in a guy I know to back him up. A year from now, you’ll know which one you want running compliance for you.”

“Who is this?”

“His name is Hal Morris. You can trust him. I do. He risked his life for me and the Kid, so I owe him. He knows nothing about securities or compliance, but he’s smart. He’ll learn.”

“Fine. You handle it.”

I would have someone in compliance I knew I could trust. Someone who would have my back if I ever needed it. And Hal would be intimidating enough to be very good at the job.

“I’m leaving,” Virgil said. “See you tonight?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

R
ather than subject Skeli, seven and a half months pregnant and insistent upon wearing spike heels to Virgil’s victory party, to the vagaries of a New York City cab ride, I paid for a limo for the evening. The car picked us up at the Ansonia and the driver was patient and polite as I detailed exactly how I wanted him to drive—both route and velocity—to Park Avenue. Skeli found my concern on her behalf both annoying and entertaining.

“You are very sweet,” she cooed, “but I’m pregnant, not disabled.”

“I’m treating my anxiety, which does not recognize that you are in far better shape than I am.”

“I’m thirty weeks and counting. I’ll be careful.”

The party was a small one by Becker standards. There couldn’t have been more than a hundred guests in the living room, on the deck, or circulating on the roof garden. We made a polite circuit before Virgil’s wife swept Skeli from me and steered her to a comfortable chair in the living room.

The carpet was white, the leather-covered furniture was white, the walls were white. The only color in the room came from two Roy Lichtensteins on the far wall—both pictures of the same blond woman, one weeping, the other smiling.

Skeli slipped off the shoes and hid her bare feet under the ottoman. Virgil’s wife saw her and smiled.

“You go talk to your cronies,” she said to me. “Wanda and I are going to have a chat about babies, and you men always get so antsy when the subject comes up.”

“Before I go, what can I get you?” I asked Skeli. “A plate of canapés? Caviar? Real food? They’re grilling steaks outside.”

“Just some water,” Skeli said.

“Still or sparkling?”

“Still. If I burp, I’m liable to pop out a baby.”

Trays passed by with little morsels of exquisitely designed food, flutes of champagne, and wineglasses filled with red, white, rose, and sparkling water. I took one of the latter and headed for the kitchen to get Skeli a tumbler of tap water, when I noticed across the room that a handsome, tuxedoed young waiter was already presenting her with one. Sparkling water in hand, I went back outside and made another pass through the rooftop garden, looking for someone who might talk to me. There were more of them than I expected. The story of my part in rescuing Virgil and the firm at the meeting had spread.

Livy was holding court out on the deck, seated in a wicker throne. She lifted a large glass of clear liquid when she saw me. “Mr. Stafford, the hero of the hour!”

“No heroes here, Livy.” Heroes didn’t crash the market—a story that I hoped would always remain secret.

“Nonsense. Tell us of your ordeal in the desert.”

I looked around at the expectant faces surrounding us. Some of those people had snubbed me or whispered behind my back or laughed at bad jokes at my expense. Now I was their hero.

“Maybe another time,” I said.

“You must come and visit with us in Newport again. Wyatt so enjoys your visits.”

I agreed that I would and excused myself.

I found Larry and Brady sitting across from each other on white metal filigreed lawn chairs. Each had a glass of something amber. A bowl of crushed ice and a decanter sat on a small table between them.

“Greetings. You two look like you’re becoming good buddies. What’s in the carafe?”

“It’s a handcrafted, limited-edition Kentucky bourbon that Virgil insisted we try,” Larry said.

“How is it?”

“Ask me again in an hour or so.” He poured himself another shot and dropped a single small ice chip into the glass. “It seems to improve with quantity.”

“We are deliberating,” Brady said. “Care to join us?”

I pulled up another chair. “I’ll sit with you, but I’m not drinking ’til the baby’s born.”

“It’s a night to celebrate,” Brady said.

I raised my glass of expensive seltzer. “I agree. How was your day?”

Brady spread his arms and grinned broadly. “Spectacular. We picked up young Mr. Scott late last night and gave him a few hours to appreciate the intensity of life experience at the MCC.”

The Metropolitan Correctional Center served as the intake jail for the federal justice system in New York. As an introduction to life in the BOP, it was violent and terrifying. Virgil’s father had killed himself there. He wasn’t the only inmate to arrive at that desperate decision. Larry called it The Zoo.

“He knew we had the old man and his friends in custody down in Florida and, of course, he knew about Nealis.”

Blackmore’s stern and noble visage had been on every news station—national and local, business and all-news—nonstop for the past twenty-four hours.

“He lawyered up, but one of the AUSAs gave him a crash course in federal racketeering law and the bargaining began. He sang. Arias. We now have Nealis for ordering the hits on Aimee Devane, Mark Barstow, and you.”

“What about that other punk? The one who washed up in the Great South Bay.”

“It seems Gino did that guy on his own initiative.”

“And the rest of the gang? Gino’s crew.” The men who had tried to kill me twice, and who had hunted me in the desert.

“Scott gave us their names and they are all in jail. There were only four of them left, you know. And their loyalty was to Gino, not Nealis.
Once we started asking questions, they opened up, pointing fingers, and all trying to be first to cut a deal.”

For the first time, I really did feel like celebrating. I had not known how much pressure and fear I had been carrying until the moment when it lifted. My son was safe. I was safe. My family was safe. I wanted to share the news with Skeli.

“That’s great news. Thank you, Marcus.”

They both raised glasses in salute.

“One more request?” I said.

“What’s that?” Brady replied.

“Manny Balestrero.”

Larry and Brady shared a look. They both knew his real name. Neither could admit it to me or to each other.

“We’re working on it,” Brady said.

“There would be no case at all without him,” I said.

Larry nodded. “And we’re making progress. For the moment, he’s safe.”

Which might be all any of us could expect. I walked back toward the living room, but before I got there, I saw Skeli on the deck looking for me.

“Hello, Dr. Tyler. Your boyfriend just got some terrific news.”

“Good.” She was unsmiling and brusque. “It’s time to go.”

I was sure that Brady’s report would bring a smile to her face.

“Fine, but just give me one minute. I’m dying to share this with you.”

She looked me in the eye. “No. It’s time to go.”

And it hit me. It wasn’t just time to leave the party. It was time to go. We were about to have a
baby.

On May 6, 2010, the Dow Jones Industrial Average dropped six hundred points in a matter of minutes, wiping out approximately one trillion dollars of wealth. Dedicated computers, all with similar if not identical algorithms, read certain signals and all generated sell orders at the same time. Five years later, regulators determined that high-frequency, computer-generated trading was not to blame, but only a contributing factor. Who
was
to blame? Authorities arrested a man in the United Kingdom who had been trading via a laptop while sitting in his parents’ home in a London suburb. He was accused of using various sophisticated, and illegal, trading strategies. On the day in question, he was said to have profited by as much as nine million
dollars.

So many friends, fellow authors, and relatives—and all the myriad combinations thereof—are deserving of mention that I fear giving offense to those I might omit. But if I included everyone who has helped me, the list would be as long as the book.

One man deserves special recognition, both for his generosity to me in giving of his time and expertise, but also for who he is and what he does. Bob Rogers heads the New Mexico State Police Search and Rescue Division. He coordinates the search teams when a pair of hunters fails to return home, or a team of spelunkers gets trapped in a cavern, or a child wanders off in the high country. May you never need his help, but if you do, be assured you are in good hands.

Thanks once more to the usual suspects: the Muses—you know who you are; Larry Ruggiero and Richard Fiske; Tim and Melissa O’Rourke; Dr. Cornelia; the Pawley’s crew; Judith Weber and Nat Sobel; and Neil Nyren and all of the great people at
Putnam.

Michael Sears
spent more than twenty years on Wall Street, rising to become managing director in the bond trading and underwriting divisions of Paine Webber and later, Jefferies & Company, before leaving the business in 2005.
Black Fridays
was nominated for the Edgar, Anthony, Barry, Shamus, and ITW Thriller awards, winning the Shamus.
Mortal Bonds
won the Silver Falchion Award for best crime thriller. Sears lives in Sea Cliff, New York, with his wife, the artist Barbara Segal.

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