line.”
“Why?”
“The appetites and hubris of some clients became excessive over time. That’s usually when they started crossing the line. Of course, Fielder amp; Company had already shown them how to skirt the system by managing market regulators, preempting lawsuits or getting cases dismissed, and a few other tricks of the securities and exchange trade,” Daniel said, dryly.
“How do you manipulate market regulators or preempt lawsuits?”
“You hire the best white-collar criminal defense attorneys in the country-most of whom are former directors or branch chiefs from the Enforcement Division of the Securities and Exchange Commission. They know how to get an investigation sidetracked and killed. Preempting lawsuits can be accomplished in a number of ways, but the simplest way is to pay a plaintiff’s lawyer to file early, become lead counsel, and then drop the case. Problems arise when clients begin using such measures as a rule, not an exception.”
“Let’s go back to Garvey,” Wilson said, opening one of the files. “What was his excuse for crossing the line?”
“Expensive art, lavish estates, a four-hundred-foot yacht, and beautiful women depleted his wealth. After Fielder amp; Company terminated its relationship with him, he began implementing a combination of bribes, price- fixing, and a new version of stock pooling to keep a ninety-day cycle of volatility going. He was successful for more than eighteen months. Like clockwork, AikoChem’s stock climbed to over twenty dollars and then slowly dropped to below ten dollars every ninety days or so. Trading volume stayed at over two million shares per day for more than a year. But rumors began to circulate that AikoChem’s pattern of volatility was being illegally induced. The institutional investors and professional traders who’d been playing the cycle pulled out. AikoChem’s stock plummeted to four dollars a share and trading volume dropped below 25,000 shares a day. By that time, Garvey had already cashed out and was humbly acknowledging to the business press that it was time for him to step down as CEO.”
“So he got away with it?”
“That’s right. Great lawyering, savvy lobbying, and lots of institutional investors capitalizing on AikoChem’s cycle convinced the SEC to drop its investigation. Garvey pulled off the perfect charade. And of course, all of your father’s clients were watching.”
“Any one of these clients could have shot my father, just to keep him quiet,” Wilson said.
“The White Horse retreat was planned for them. Your father wanted to halt all illegal practices among current and former clients. He threatened to expose anyone who would not conform. I warned him against having the retreat, but he insisted. He believed the abuses were his fault and he was determined to stop the escalation. ‘Never be afraid to correct a mistake, no matter how big,’ was all he said. It was a favorite quote from his grandfather,” Daniel said. In an uncharacteristic show of emotion, he muttered, “I should have done more to dissuade him from holding the retreat.”
Wilson leaned forward frowning at Daniel. “What do you expect to accomplish by feeding me bit by bit?”
“Your father gave me strict instructions to share this information only if you requested or needed it. That’s what I’m doing, Wilson.”
Wilson closed his eyes, taking a moment to evaluate what he was about to say. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was choosing to trust Daniel and his firm-maybe it was his father’s trust, or Daniel’s adeptness in handling the Sun Valley police, or the sincerity Wilson sensed in him. Daniel’s loyalty was now a life preserver in a sea of doubt. He hoped he wouldn’t regret his decision.
“I want to distance myself and the family from my father’s business affairs as quickly as possible, starting with signing off on the merger with KaneWeller,” Wilson said.
“Good,” Daniel exhaled a sigh of relief. Guiding Wilson to make the right moves was what he’d promised Charles and he always delivered on his promises. It was the least he could do for Charles Fielder-the best client he’d ever known. “I’m meeting with KaneWeller’s attorneys in the morning. Can you come to a closing tomorrow afternoon?”
“Yes,” Wilson said. “I want you to liquidate my father’s holdings as quickly and discreetly as you can. And I want you to continue using his wealth concealment practices.”
“Trust me, I will.”
“I
Daniel leaned over to remove his briefcase from under the seat in front of him. He took out a manila folder marked Fielder Estate. “I need you to sign these power-of-attorney documents,” he said as he handed the papers to Wilson and pointed to the removable green arrows indicating where to sign.
Wilson pulled down his tray table and began signing the documents.
“Your father told me you were a rare combination of wisdom and will.”
“Save your bets, Daniel.”
“You should probably spend some time with Carter Emerson when we get back. He knew your father better than anyone,” Daniel said.
“I’ve known Carter Emerson all my life, and not only as my father’s closest friend. He was a mentor to me at Princeton when he taught there as a visiting professor from Harvard. He’s definitely on my list,” Wilson said, wistfully. When he finished signing the papers, they both switched off their reading lights and reclined their seats. As Wilson closed his eyes, he recalled how often his father and Carter Emerson had spent hours in private conversation at the family home in Cambridge.
5
Quinn — O’Hare Airport, Chicago, IL
Comfortably ensconced in the executive lounge at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, Quinn read the latest issue of
“Mr. Quinn?” Vargas said, approaching him gracefully on long, shapely legs.
“That’s me,” Quinn said, pushing himself up from his chair.
“I’m Andrea Vargas,” she introduced herself, her large brown eyes glistening with charm. She extended her hand. “I’ll be your personal assistant during the retreat.”
Quinn shook her hand while considering the possible implications of her greeting. In what ways has she been asked to assist me? He chided himself for abandoning his latest attempt to lose thirty pounds, his usual response when faced with beautiful people.
“Someone will be here to get your luggage in just a moment,” she said, looking out the door toward the tarmac. “Is this your first visit to St. Moritz, Mr. Quinn?”
“No, but it’s been a few years. And please, call me David,” he said.
In heels, she was only slightly taller than Quinn’s six feet, but everything else clashed like Waterford crystal goblets and Melmac dinnerware-his roundness, her sleekness; his balding head of mousy brown hair, her tumble of loose, shoulder-length, auburn blonde waves; his bunchy gray rain coat over a stressed navy wool suit, her stylish black trench atop a short, powder blue jersey wrap dress.
After arranging for Quinn’s luggage to be loaded, Vargas escorted him across the tarmac toward the Boeing 767. Two other executives and their personal assistants were boarding ahead of them. The airplane looked like any other Boeing 767, except for the small gold letters on the fuselage near the tail wing. Executive Class was in the business of leasing aircraft and selling fractional ownership on larger jets to corporations. They were also one of Wayland Tate’s clients. Quinn followed Vargas up the stairs at the rear of the aircraft to a lavishly designed interior, reminiscent of an exclusive European hotel. She showed him to a cozy private cabin where his luggage had already been secured at the foot of a queen size bed. A seating area across from the bed comprised a round mahogany table flanked by matching leather lounge chairs. Beyond the lounge chairs was a short hallway lined with shelves holding magazines and books that led to a private bathroom with steam and shower.
