Sins of Our Fathers (9781571319128) (2 page)

He noted the bankers' suits from last season. Their briefcases' pale worn edges. Their creased shoes. How some of the women—late thirties (mojito-drinking karaoke singers, no doubt)—unexpectedly carried needlepoint handbags against their polyester skirts, done in Norwegian or German designs. They were mostly small-town bankers, these clues told him. Rotarians. Lions. Deacons. Community leaders. He saw Charlie Weston from New Ulm, and Bill Heimlich from Redwood Falls, and Ann Wilson from Detroit Lakes, all presidents of small-town community banks. He had once capsized a fishing boat on Rainy Lake with Ken Iverson and his boss, Frank Jorgenson. The three of them were drunk silly on vodka gimlets, and laughed as they found their footing in chest-deep water next to the dock. But those days were long past. He waited until the last of the bankers settled into their seats before he began to speak.

“When I first started in community banking, the only
reason for people to visit an Indian reservation was to buy moccasins and blankets. Now, people flock to their casinos in droves, and they make money hand over fist. The playing field has changed, and we community bankers need to up our game. I know many of you have banks in communities near Indian reservations, so today I will show you some tools to help you up that game, while avoiding some of the most common legal pitfalls. But I'm also going to warn you: things are not always as they seem.”

Over the years, JW had honed the drama of this opening with the air of a magician. When he did it well, it grabbed his audience's attention from the first sentence. He sometimes felt he should have been a teacher, or perhaps a stage actor. He enjoyed playing an audience: reading them and molding the shape and rise of their emotions—these things came to him naturally, as if he were conducting a symphony. He walked along the whiteboard, stepping in and out of the Powerpoint with the confidence of a showman, one hand in his pocket as he changed it to a new slide:

MANAGING RISK ON A RESERVATION

He turned up the front lights enough to bathe himself in a milky wash, highlighting the whiteness of his shirt, his close shave, his shining eyes. The sun was brilliant outside, and it seeped in through the dark vertical blinds. With the audience in shadow, he felt as if he were a thespian under stage lights.

“So who can tell me the biggest risk banks have when lending to Native Americans on a reservation?” As he waited for an answer he took a Styrofoam cup from a stack and poured coffee. Audiences always took their time with this
one, which was an important part of his build. For all their raucous private partying, bankers were terrified of the discussion he was proposing, because it was public. They were happy to talk about race—guardedly, with known entities, and in small groups—but they didn't know how to deal with it in a public forum. He tipped in some creamer and stirred, the black of his coffee going tan. He sipped and watched them adjust to the unnerving idea of discussing it in the open.

One of the bankers in the second row finally shifted and looked around with a sort of cocksure grin. He had reddish tanned skin, gold chains, spiky hair, and a party-ready attitude. He reminded JW of a former high-school football star who had faded to pudge. His demeanor seemed to say “what the hell”: a monkey who found the cage door standing open and decided to plunge through.

“They're deadbeats?” he volunteered. He grinned and bobbed his head as he looked around for supporters. JW imagined him leading a conga line later, Hawaiian shirt open, his drink raised like a baton. A few of the bankers chuckled noncommittally as they glanced at JW to see how far he would let them go. This was code, a way of asking whether this sort of good-old-boy racism would be tolerated. The woman in the front row shot him an angry glare for even letting it get this far, then rolled her eyes and shook her head to signal her displeasure at the inappropriate remark.

He set his coffee down. It always amazed him how this one question touched things off. Race was still a powder keg, and its frank discussion divided audiences with powerful, emotional reactions, which is of course why he used it. He had once read, when researching for a discussion with his daughter, Julie, who loved science, that much like humans, primates ostracize one another and commit violence and murder, particularly
against other tribes. Exploring that impulse was his intent: to stir up these primal feelings and to present people with their own racism (for they all had it), and then to dig deeper and get past it. People didn't know how to talk about race; there was no safe territory. It was buried under political correctness, as untouchable as a dead pharaoh, its brains pulled out and its body wrapped in cloth and then gold and then stone. Buried away. Long gone and desiccated under a pyramid of laws and regulations and social mores, brick by brick, that now generally forbade its discussion. But it lived still, underground, in small-group conversations, and even more openly now in Tea Party politics. Truth be told, many laws and regulations did go too far, and they created resentments, he thought, because they gave unfair advantages that could sometimes be dangerous to businesses, and to banks in particular. That's why they were all here today. To work through all that. To separate race from business. To get their heads straight and to clarify
intent
, a word that contained a universe. He gestured toward the man and began to unwind the mummy.

“That,” he told the audience, “is exactly the kind of thinking they use to outsmart us.”

No one moved. The air conditioning came on, and the window blinds began to shift and clatter, letting in streaks of light that shot over him, then faded like an old movie. “We can no longer afford to underestimate these people,” he said. “They're making way too much money. Let me give you an example.” He walked around to the front of the table. “I had this customer, a builder, who said to the Potawatomi band in Wisconsin, a hundred and fifty miles away, he said, ‘I will build you a bingo hall, for free. You don't have to pay me a red cent. You just pay me out of cash flow when you get it up and running. I will finance it for ten percent annually on the outstanding
balance and give you a ten-year loan. I will take all the risk. All of it.' Well, we lent him the money to do it, and we lent it to him at eight percent. Going rate for commercial loans was six. So everybody's set up to make good money. Right?” He surveyed the room. “Potawatomi win, builder wins, bank wins.”

He studied them, a hand in his pocket, and went on to describe how hard the builder had to fight to get the permit because the local community was up in arms over the idea of Indians and gambling. There were political battles at the planning commission over a variance they needed for a new access road. The builder went through real heartache—expensive delays, his windshield damaged, his tires slashed—but the resort owners came to the rescue after JW visited the town. He simply made the point that the band wasn't building a hotel, just a bingo hall, and people would need places to stay.

JW pushed off the desk and watched his audience's reaction. “So a year later, he finally got it built. Band had a grand opening, and you know how long it took them to pay it off? Three months. Three months to pay off the entire construction loan. Potawatomi won on that one. Now they got a hundred-and-forty room hotel.”

He stood silently, watching them. Sipped his coffee. “Do they sound like deadbeats?” He paused and looked at the pudgy playboy, who shrugged. “Please avoid all the old chestnuts about race. I'm not interested in grinding whatever prejudices or opinions people may have about Native Americans, however valid or invalid they may be. This is about business. I'm strictly looking at banking risk, specific to lending to Native Americans living on a reservation.”

He walked back to his laptop, where he underlined the
words
risk
and
on a reservation
with his forefinger. Two yellow streaks arched across the projected slide behind him. He waited, but no one else seemed ready to engage.

“The risk,” he said, “is the reservation itself. Let me give you another example.” He began walking, and then he looked up at his audience. “About a year ago, a fellow walked into my bank in North Lake, a Native fellow, Ojibwe, named Johnny Eagle. Tall, thin guy, good shape. Clean, well put together. Italian shoes, thousand-dollar suit. Turns out he'd been in there before to see my loan officer, Sam Schmeaker. Sam had turned him down for a loan, so he asked to see me. Ordinarily I don't second-guess my loan officers' decisions, you know how that goes, but he was Native. So it's a riskier situation. Right? You know this.”

Several bankers nodded and some shifted. Many of them managed banks near Indian reservations, and they knew the risks he was describing. EEOC risk. Compliance risk. The story was beginning to work its magic.

“Receptionist showed him in, we shook hands, he sat down, and right off the bat, as I open the file, he says, ‘It's a creditworthy application.' So I knew he had some sort of banking knowledge, right? I found his credit report, high seven hundreds. He had good credit. This was starting to look like a problem for us. Then he told me, ‘I happen to know that my band has several million dollars on deposit with your bank, and yet you barely make any loans to us. Why is that?' He was watching me closely, and suddenly I felt like I was in a chess game. This was getting dangerous from a regulatory point of view, I thought, and this guy could be setting me up, so I had to be careful. He might be accusing me of a crime.”

“I looked him straight in the eye and I told him we love to make loans to his band. Love them. That's how a bank
makes money, I said, is on the spread between loan interest and deposit interest. He held up a hand and sat back in his chair. He told me I didn't need to educate him about banking. He was talking about loans to his
people
, he said, not the band.”

JW walked back along the front of the table. He leaned back against the desk.

“He said to me, ‘Look, Mr. White, I'll give it to you straight. Have you ever heard of an Indian car competition?' And so I'll ask you now. Have you?” JW paused and watched the audience, the sudden silence a sound all its own. No one raised a hand. “Come on, you people bank in Indian country!” He looked at the woman in front. “You?” She shook her head and looked down.

He launched off the soapstone counter and walked back around the desk, clicking the slide advancer. “I hadn't either,” he said. Towering over him was a slide of a jalopy cobbled together from different cars of different sizes, makes, and colors. Its front fender was blue, a door was red, and the hood green. A supercharger emerged through a hole in the hood, its air scoop made out of an old tuba. It had a spoked wheel in front and a truck wheel in back, and a rear spoiler made out of two-by-sixes. An Indian in glasses was grinning from the driver's seat and waving a trophy out the window. The overall effect was comical, and some of the audience laughed. Others sat back in their chairs, two fingers on their cheeks or their arms folded, unsure what was permitted or expected of them. Fifteen minutes in and he had them.

“This is the winner of an Indian car competition.” He said this with a straight face, but his wry tone carried an expectation of mirth, and more people laughed. Even the woman in front was smiling up at the grin on the Native American's
face. “Johnny Eagle told me they have them at powwows and on some of the reservations,” he said. “An Indian car is a car that's been pieced together from the parts of other junked cars, and sometimes other stuff. They have competitions to see who can have the craziest, silliest-looking one that still runs. This guy obviously has a creative flair.” The audience laughed again.

“So Eagle described some of them, smiling the whole time, but as soon as I laughed like you are he slapped his hand on my desk!” JW slapped his hand on the table loudly. Half of the audience jumped. He was scowling, feigning anger.

“‘You don't have the right to laugh,' he told me, even though they're supposed to be funny. Imagine that. Here he had coaxed me into laughing at something even he thought was funny, then he criticized me for laughing at it because I'm white.” He looked at them. “That's racist. Yet science tells us that there's no appreciable difference between the races, that the concept of race is a social construct.” He looked at the woman in front again, pointed to her. “You laughed. Why do you think he wouldn't like that?”

She blanched. “I don't know,” she said.

“Do you think you were being racist?”

“No.”

He nodded. “You weren't. You were the victim of a setup, comedic or otherwise. He said that Indians do it to make light of a bad situation: They can't get loans because they have no credit, and they have no credit because they can't get loans, and that's wrong, wouldn't I agree? ‘A bank that did that,' he said, ‘that took Indian deposits and still refused to lend, should be put out of business,' would I not agree.”

JW pointed an accusing finger at his audience, still in character. Then he calmed. The air conditioning turned off
and the window blinds fell back. It was the halfway point, where the arguments turned and began to get complicated and dangerous. He walked again, and his Nordic bearing returned as their eyes followed him.

“So you can see the danger,” he said. “The man wasn't there to plead his case, he was there to plead his people's case. He was on the verge of accusing me, my colleague Sam Schmeaker, and the whole bank, of racism and redlining—in short, of a crime. All because Schmeaker had rejected his loan app and I had laughed at a situation that he had portrayed as amusing. So now the customer isn't the customer anymore, is he? He's become the enemy. Let's be honest, we've all seen this.” JW continued walking, and he began to gesture with each new example. “There's the woman, no offense to the women in the room, who left the bank claiming sexual harassment that nobody else had seen, and demanded six figures or she would sue. Or the minority employee who, when fired for a documented cause, filed an EEOC complaint, claiming discrimination, and demanded a six-figure settlement. The Muslim who sued because there was no special room set aside to pray five times a day at work. The custodian who faked a back injury and claimed permanent disability, then was seen out golfing. Right? You don't make it in business without spotting the predators who turn laws that are designed to level the playing field into tools of extortion. Because if you're not careful, they're going to get you. And if they do, it's going to drive up prices for your customers, if it doesn't put you out of business.”