Downfall

Chapter 1

Carol Hart lived alone. She had not had guests in weeks. But she’d had a visitor. She looked again at the rack containing her kitchen knives. It had been moved. In the other rooms, nothing major was out of place. But there were several small things. She could have sworn she had hung her bathroom towel differently. And the coats hanging in her closet were swept slightly to one side. The wrong side.

Was she losing her mind?

She looked up suddenly, scanning the small apartment. Who on earth would want to invade her living space? There wasn’t much here for her; what would there be for anyone else? At least she had the view. Stuck in a strange city with a crappy apartment and a load of pain, all Carol had left to ease the turmoil was a spectacular vista from the twenty-third floor, overlooking downtown Atlanta and points north. Family problems, unemployment and, above all, the unrelenting anger never took a holiday. Even the revenge she’d helped to take on her tormentors, so long and careful in the making, had proved to be nothing more than a cheap, dirty high, like a whiff of glue in a dingy basement. All of it had left her precisely nowhere.

It had left her here.

Carol walked out and sat on the cheap plastic lawn chair on her balcony, the place she had spent so many hours, planning to take flight, to make good the escape that had so long eluded her. As the late-night traffic below her meandered by, she stood up and stretched, feeling slightly light-headed. She knew she should return to her job postings and nightly glass of Chablis. She sat down at her dinette table and looked at the employment ads on her laptop but had trouble focusing on the screen. She drained the rest of her wine, then let out a little yelp when a knock sounded on her door.

She got up and approached the door cautiously. Who is it?

It’s me, said a familiar voice.

She looked through the peephole and exhaled.

Carol admitted her visitor, feeling relieved but puzzled.

Stu, she said. I’m glad to see you.

The man she knew as Stuart Merrick smiled. I happened to be in town and thought I’d stop in to say hello.

Well, have a seat. You want some wine?

No, thanks, said Merrick, a nondescript man in his forties.

Carol sat down across from him, now beginning to feel dizzy and sick.

How’s life, Carol?

She looked around. What can I say? It sucks. In pretty much every way. Oh, and—I want to ask you because you know about security-type things, right? To top it all off, somebody has been through this place.

Without your knowledge or permission?

She nodded.

Anything missing?

She gave a short laugh. What do I have that’s worth taking?

Who would want to break in?

I don’t know. Some crank or sicko, I suppose. Somebody with a key—a maintenance guy or something.

Or somebody skilled at security-type things. He smiled.

Carol’s relief at seeing Merrick was turning to unease. Right. She forced a smile, then turned serious. You don’t suppose this would have something to do with our…project, do you? We messed with those people pretty bad.

We did, it’s true. Merrick thought about it. It’s hard to say. Do you feel violated?

Damn right I do.

Just like those executives in Chicago did when we broke into their offices.

She shifted in her chair. Why are you here, Stu?

He didn’t respond. He watched her calmly.

On impulse she asked, Is Merrick your real name?

As a matter of fact, no. It's actually Swatt. You’re not looking well, Carol.

I don’t feel well. Who are you?

He continued to watch her as her unease changed to horror.

He stood up. I think you know who I am.

What—what do you mean? I mean, what business do you—

He waved off her objections. Carol, it’s time.

Time for what?

Everything has a price. When you got your revenge, did it feel good?

Exasperated, she began to get up, but once again felt too dizzy to stand. What do you want, Stu? she asked quietly."

Merrick shook his head sadly. He had never taken his eyes off her. The Chicago project was a good one, a worthy endeavor. You did well, Carol. Dick and Terry, too.

She took deep breaths, her mind racing.

Merrick said, You’d think people would know it when their time comes. But they never seem to.

What on earth do you mean?

Denial is natural. Understandable. But it never changes reality. Never.

Panic gripped her. Look, whatever problem you’ve got, let’s talk about it. Her head swam. She forced herself to her feet, staggered, braced herself against the table. Then she understood.

The wine, she said.

Merrick nodded. You’re a creature of habit—same wine every night. I added a little something to it—that was the main reason for my visit yesterday. It’s nothing that will show up in the tox report, though.

The tox—God, no, she said. We can work this out, Stu. Just tell me what I can do. We can talk about it.

I’ve given you a gift, Carol. You see, when I’ve made my decision about someone, I give them a choice. Those who cooperate are allowed a peaceful and painless end. Those who resist…suffer the consequences. In your case, the wine has reduced your power to resist.

Carol thought about trying to bolt for the door. She knew that theoretically, she could still make the choice to resist, to the best of her ability. But she was long past that point, long beyond hope. And then it hit her.

Oh God, Terry. And Dick. You’re going to…

He nodded. Then he walked over, reached out, caressed her face.

Please! My God! She tried to stagger toward the door, but her knees buckled. Now that she had found the desire to resist, she no longer had the ability.

He caught her and swept her up into his arms, carrying her out to the balcony. What was Chicago all about? she asked. Why did we do it? Who was behind it?

Not much point in explaining the plan now, he said. But I can tell you its name. And it’s an appropriate one for this moment. Merrick smiled. It’s called Downfall. With that, he lifted her over the railing and deposited her into space.

Chapter 2

My alarm went off. I clapped my hands twice, lighting up the room, just like the old lady in the late-night cable commercials. Then I propped myself up on my elbows, clearing my head before launching into The Pep Talk. In an ideal world, this daily motivational talk would feature positive motivations to launch my day: all the years I had left to live; all the things I’d yet to do; the beauty of life. But in an ideal world, I wouldn’t need The Pep Talk at all, and so in my world, the talk was called Don’t Let The Bastards Get You Down.

While it depressed me that The Bastards included just about everybody these days, this version of The Pep Talk always worked. I couldn’t really form a clear mental image of all those positive things I was so sure my life had to offer, but the thought of the Bastards laughing at my plight came instantly and vividly to mind. I got up.

For me, getting up involves pulling myself to the edge of the bed and into my wheelchair. The inconvenience of my morning routine didn’t bother me much anymore; my tolerance for frustration and delay had gradually increased out of necessity. Maybe some day, my patience level with people would improve, too. Sure, it sucked—a hand-held shower in a tub; making up in a jury-rigged mirror down at my level; struggling into my clothes; eating cold cereal to avoid the hassle of cooking anything—but it was all pretty much second nature to me now. Even so, outside this clumsily-modified townhouse, beyond my little zone of control—the world never seemed to get much better, with The Bastards in firm control everywhere. And then there was always the damned snow.

An unfamiliar sound startled me. My doorbell. I felt momentarily disoriented. My doorbell hardly ever rang, and never at seven in the morning. I wheeled over to the front entry. When I answered the door, I remembered the old joke: You know it’s going to be a bad day when you leave your house and a 60 Minutes camera crew is waiting outside. This visitor was a lot more attractive than Mike Wallace, but just as deadly.

Who is it?

Good morning, said a perky female voice. I’m Tricia Engler from Channel Seven.

What?

Are you D.P. Wilkinson?

I—what is this about?

Just a couple of quick questions about the North Central Foundation.

I managed to avoid an audible groan. As part of my job as an attorney for North Central Bank, I was responsible for the legal work for the bank’s foundation. It was an unexpected assignment for which I was totally unequipped; I always held my breath, hoping I hadn’t screwed something up.

I wheeled closer and opened the door on the chain. Instantly, a bright TV light blinded me. I held up my hand to shield my eyes and saw a stunningly beautiful woman, flanked by a television camera, pointing a microphone through the door crack at me.

Are you the attorney for the North Central Foundation? she asked.

I’m—I guess so.

Why did the foundation secretly funnel money to the Western Liberty Alliance?

Panic time. No comment, I managed to say and pushed the door shut.

Do you know that the Western Liberty Alliance is a racist organization that does not have tax-exempt status? Tricia Engler shouted through the door.

I retreated to the interior of the townhouse. What the hell was all this about?

Do you know that more than fifteen thousand dollars was transferred? she demanded.

I sat in the kitchen, trying to catch my breath. After a minute the questions stopped. I wheeled over to my bedroom and looked out the window. A Channel Seven news van blocked my garage.

I returned to the kitchen and turned the radio on, scrolling through the stations until I found a news broadcast. It started out as the same old stuff. The Shiite militias were at it again, somewhere. Unemployment was up a little, and the financial markets loved it. And then the headline, delivered in the D.J.’s phony-sounding voice, which confirmed that this day wasn’t going to be a good one: Minneapolis-based North Central Banksystems is in the news again.

My breathing grew shallow.

In a copyrighted story, the Denver Times reported that North Central’s foundation funneled $15,000 last year to a white supremacist group.

I blinked in disbelief.

The bank made the grant to the Western Liberty Alliance, based in Denver, which the paper said serves as a financial conduit for white supremacist leader Harlan Belke’s Idaho-based movement. Company officials couldn’t be reached for comment. The report is unwelcome news to North Central, which is in the process of settling a large class action lawsuit brought by minority employees, alleging discriminatory employment practices. The bank cut more than two thousand jobs last year. In other news. . .

I fumbled with the radio, finally managing to shut it off.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves, and called my boss, Deanna Nolan. Voicemail. I called her assistant. More voicemail. I peeked out my bedroom window again. The news van still blocked my garage. Just not my day.

After another five minutes of fretting and fidgeting, I heard the sound of an engine outside. I checked again; the van had left.

I struggled into my heavy coat, opened the door leading to the garage, and wheeled through. After locking the door behind me, I eased down the makeshift ramp into the garage, then began the ritual of unlocking my van, extending the ramp that led up into the vehicle, rolling myself up and in, retracting the ramp, closing the door, and locking my chair into place in front of the steering wheel. I’d gotten used to this process, but some days its slowness gave me time to think, about being thirty-five years old and the decades of this tedium that lay ahead.

Using the hand controls, I backed the van out of the garage and then threaded my way through the townhouse complex to Mitchell Road. I shivered in the bitter January cold, waiting for the heater to kick in while driving gingerly on the slippery street. It was still dark at 7:30 a.m. Rows of taillights formed lines ahead of and beside me, funneling onto Highway 212, then up Interstate 35W toward downtown Minneapolis. Drones off to the hive, with no apparent connection to this dark, windblown moonscape called Eden Prairie, Minnesota.

For me, the dissociation was pretty much total. But in fact, people lived in this suburb because they did have connections—families, schools, houses. I lived in Eden Prairie because I’d found an accessible one-level townhouse with an over-sized garage here. And I lived in Minnesota because. . .

My thoughts skittered from one unpleasant topic to another.

That damned foundation. I had been assigned its legal work when I started at North Central, a scant seven months ago, and I’d been uneasy about it from the beginning. The actual work had been minimal, assigned almost as an afterthought. But for me, a litigation attorney, it involved potential tax issues I knew nothing about. And now, what the hell had happened? Somehow, North Central had given money to some white supremacist group?

I tried to keep my mind on the road, but that was a futile cause. I couldn’t remember a thing about any Western Liberty Alliance. The list of grant recipients had come across my desk about two months ago. I couldn’t remember every name on the list—there had been dozens. I’d have to check my copy of that list as soon as I got in.

I threaded my way through downtown traffic to the North Central Tower on 9th Street. The bank had given me the right to rent a special parking spot in the heated underground garage, a privilege that always provoked comments from envious co-workers.

Aren’t you lucky. . .

How do you rate. . .

Must be nice. . .

So far, I’d always managed to force a smile. But I knew one of these days I’d lose it. I’d respond that if using a wheelchair and a ramp was so much fun, maybe they’d like to give it a try for, oh, say—the rest of their lives.

I wheeled over to the elevator, crowding in next to two fiftyish executive vice presidents who gave me their usual condescending smiles. I could read their thoughts: Nice looking; natural blonde; probably tall. If only she wasn’t. . .

If only. If only I hadn’t had to handle that foundation crap. I’d been hired to supervise outside litigation attorneys and had found out about the extra duties on my first day of work. Sorry about that, Deanna Nolan, the general counsel, had told me. Since the downsizing, we’ve all had to take on extra chores.

That had been the first of several unpleasant surprises. I’d also learned that I wouldn’t be reporting to the likable Nolan, but to Nick Herron, an assistant general counsel two years my junior, who had Asshole written all over him. Next, I’d learned that Herron kept all the interesting cases for himself, relegating me to the role of gofer and glorified claims adjuster. At least I hadn’t had to learn the tedious, arcane ins-and-outs of banking law, as did most of the twenty other attorneys in the legal department. No matter—despite the apparent futility, I dug into my work every day with all the effort and professionalism I could muster. I couldn’t seem to do otherwise.

I imagined eyes on me as I wheeled off the elevator onto the thirty-fourth floor. Paranoia, I thought. How many people even knew who handled the foundation’s legal work?

Deanna Nolan did. The general counsel was hovering near my desk as I rolled over to my windowless cubicle.

Good morning, Pen, Nolan chirped, forcing a smile. At least she was calling me Pen, I thought. For the first couple of months she’d used my given name, Doris, which I’d gotten from my maternal grandmother, Doris Penny. When I was a girl people had started calling me Penny, then Pen. Nolan was in her early fifties, with short, streaked blond hair. Looking beyond her, I could see my immediate boss, Nick Herron, doing his own hovering at a safe distance.

I assume you’ve heard, Nolan began without preamble. Read this and then come on in. She dropped a sheet of paper on my desk and disappeared.

No coffee this morning, I thought.

The paper was a fax from the bank’s Denver branch, containing the Denver Times article. I could sense Herron watching me as I began reading. Quoting anonymous sources, the paper reported that the Internal Revenue Service was investigating the grant to the Western Liberty Alliance, which didn’t have proper tax exempt status under the federal tax code. The story then began a lengthy explanation of how the Alliance was simply a shell, a front for white supremacist leader Harlan Belke. The article concluded by noting that North Central had a history of racial problems, including the class action lawsuit by minority employees, and allegations of redlining, or refusing to make loans in minority areas. What the article didn’t say was that all the foundation’s grants had been approved by bank president James Carter, who was African-American. That he would knowingly contribute to a racist organization defied all logic. But this story didn’t appear to be about logic.

I finished reading, grabbed the article and my notepad, then started out for Nolan’s office. Nick Herron blocked my path.

See me when you’re done, he said.

I damn near ran him down. I did not like having someone block my path. I did not like being ordered around by a weasel like Herron. I actually didn’t like Herron at all. I said nothing, waiting with exaggerated patience for him to clear the aisle.

I knocked and rolled into the doorway of Nolan’s office. Deanna stood up, again squeezing a smile out of her tight features. Come on in. Hell of a way to start the day, isn’t it? Coffee?

I gratefully accepted. Nolan picked up the phone and ordered two coffees, then stood up and moved to the side one of the armchairs that sat in front of her desk, making room for my wheelchair. I wondered how Deanna managed to stay so thin since, aside from the occasional round of golf, she was allergic to exercise—indeed, to work in general. Ignoring the culture of workaholism that had set in after last year’s downsizing, she was rarely seen in the department, and her schedule included hefty dosages of travel and golf.

Deanna, a former schoolteacher who had gone to law school in her thirties, would never be known as a legal scholar, or as an administrative wizard, but her political skills inspired nothing but awe. She was genial and mostly seemed to like her employees, if in a superficial way. That was rare enough at North Central.

When, in desperation, I had put my resume out on the Internet nationwide, Nolan had been the first and only respondent. She had sounded cheerful on the phone, trying to sell me on the company and the city. I hadn’t been much interested in the job, which involved managing claims, supervising outside counsel, and doing a few other miscellaneous chores, which had turned out to include the foundation. I had blurted out that I was a paraplegic in a wheelchair, and that North Central didn’t have to worry about a lawsuit if Nolan wanted to end the discussions right then and there.

Deanna had laughed and asked me to come up to Minneapolis for an interview. And I had hit it off with her right away; she had a sister in a wheelchair, and she seemed to like my background and attitude. She had offered me the job on the spot. I hadn’t thought about it long; Minnesota was about eighty-seventh on my list of preferred placed to relocate to, and the job wasn’t what I wanted. But I had faced facts: I was broke and unemployed, with no other prospects. I’d really needed to leave Tampa anyway, with its glut of bad memories.

Nolan’s secretary brought the coffee, and I immediately sipped from my cup before telling her about my confrontation with Tricia Engler.

Oh, boy, she said. She made me repeat the details twice, then said, All right. Doesn’t sound like anything they can use. How did they know you handle the foundation’s legal work?

I don’t know.

Deanna spread a file out on her desk, put on her fashionable reading glasses, and looked down. The memo is dated two months ago, she said without preamble. You wrote it to James Carter, and it says the attached list was submitted for his approval. She looked up. You remember doing that?

Yes, I said, although I haven’t had a chance to look at it this morning.

I have it, anyway, Deanna said. Do you have your research notes for each of the grantees?

I didn’t do any research, I said, my voice level.

Deanna did her best to look surprised, but said nothing.

I was told the foundation staff does its own tax research when necessary, I continued, and that they do their own checking to make sure the applicants have proper tax-exempt status. The applicants are supposed to submit documentation of their status. I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to do tax research, anyway. And, of course, the foundation’s board passes on the grant applications.

So what did you understand your role to be? she asked carefully.

To answer questions if I could, refer them to outside counsel if I couldn’t, and provide the Legal Department’s sign-off on the list of recipients every year and send it on to Carter. So I just looked over the list. Nothing except the list of grantees was different from last year. I just copied last year’s transmittal memo using my name, and sent the list on to Carter.

There. I had said it. Better to lay out the truth than to hedge and act defensive. I would have liked to have seen the memo again, though.

The memo, Deanna said, represents to Carter that all grantees have been found to be legitimate, tax-exempt organizations.

As far as I knew, that was true.

But you did no research to back that up.

I was doing a slow burn. As I said, that’s correct. As far as I’m concerned, it was the foundation’s representation, not mine.

Nolan sat back, removing her glasses. I got the call from Lou Caldwell on the way in this morning. Caldwell was head of the foundation. He told me about the story. He denies that this Western Liberty Alliance was on the list they submitted to you.

My hands clenched the side of my chair. For the first time, I began to sense something more than an innocent screw-up at work. I see.

And, looking in the file here, that appears to be true.

I thought of reaching for my coffee but was afraid I wouldn’t be able to do it with a steady hand. I couldn’t fidget much any more, but sometimes I could feel phantom fidgeting in my right foot. It was going like crazy now.

And, Nolan continued, "I see that the list you sent Carter does have it."

That’s impossible, I said. I just copied the same list and sent it on. It was all I could do to keep from snatching the list from her.

Deanna sucked in a breath. Do you have any explanation at all?

Only one, assuming the list is different. Somebody must have altered the list after I sent it to Carter, or even after he signed off, and put the altered copy back in the files.

Why would somebody do that?

I don’t know, I said. But why would I alter the list, sticking in the name of some outfit I’ve never even heard of?

Deanna nodded uneasily, but failed to hide her skepticism. So then the list went directly from Carter to Accounting, which cut the checks.

I see.

Just so we’re clear, Nolan said, you have no research or notes to show me about Western Liberty Alliance.

I nearly blew up. It was the third time she’d asked the question. That’s right, I responded through clenched teeth.

And you deny it was on the list you sent James Carter.

I deny it.

Whatever happened, we’ve got a problem. I haven’t gotten a call from James yet, but it will be coming any time. The PR Department has called a damage control meeting for 9:30, and it doesn’t look like I’ll have any answers. We’ve got to have something to reassure the people at Texas Columbia.

North Central had agreed to merge with Dallas-based Texas Columbia Bankshares in a transaction set to close the following month. The deal was critical to North Central, designed to bolster the bank’s lagging performance and to give it the size and geographic scope to compete with rivals U.S. Bank and Wells Fargo. The combined new company, to be called Columbia Central, would be based in Minneapolis and run by James Carter.

Nolan stood up. The meeting was over. Just sit tight for now, and don’t talk about it to anybody except me. Of course, if you come up with any ideas about what happened, that would be helpful.

I rolled myself out of the office. Thank you for your support, I thought. And now I had to face Nick.

If I was physically handicapped, Nick Herron was burdened with a social disability. He came from some small town up in northern Minnesota and spoke with the flat, Scandinavian-sounding twang of the Iron Range. People smarter than himself made Nick uncomfortable, and thus he was uncomfortable most of the time.

But good old Nick was blessed with an asset Corporate America valued a lot more highly than mere competence: He was a guy who looked good in a suit. In fact, he was a hunk, tall and angular with an impressive head of reddish-brown hair. His job was to supervise employment claims, property and real-estate claims, and general litigation. His largest current case was Devlin, et al v. North Central Banksystems, Inc., the class action lawsuit brought by minority employees. The case had been settled for $20 million, and all that remained was approval by the court.

Herron blocked the entrance to my cubicle when I got back. So what’s going on, Pen? he demanded.

I simply stared up at him.

Well?

You’re in my way, Nick.

I asked you a question.

I sighed. If you don’t move out of my way, this conversation is over. And, if my leg worked, I would have kicked his cojones up into his throat.

Herron, his face flushed, stood aside, then followed me in. So what’s happening with this foundation deal?

I wheeled behind my desk. I’m under a gag order. If you want to know something, you’ll have to ask Deanna.

Bullshit. I’m asking you.

Sorry.

"Look, if this is going to affect Devlin, I’ve got to know. We’ve got final execution of the settlement on Saturday in Philadelphia. The hearing is the week after that."

"Well, Nick, I’m just bursting with juicy details that have an immediate impact on Devlin. And as soon as Deanna gives me the go-ahead, I’ll sit down with you and spill it all."

Frustrated, Herron stomped off.

I booted up my computer, prioritized my to-do list, and tried to resume a normal work day. I talked to outside claims adjusters and attorneys I had hired to defend the company. My job was basically to decide what a claim against the bank was worth, if anything. Given my experience as a personal injury litigation attorney, that usually wasn’t too tough. No one asked me whether these outside attorneys, hired from an approved list of insurance-defense factories that handled cases in assembly-line fashion, were doing their