The Concealers (22 page)

She walked into the offices of the
Twin Forks Press
at 7:30 a.m. Tuesday, passed the empty receptionist desk, and proceeded down the hall. Seeing a light under the door to Sol's office, she knocked gently and opened the door.

“Hello, kiddo,” Sol said. “Welcome. Let's sit at the round table.” Sol pulled up a chair to join her. “Are you ready to go?”

“I am,” Katherine said, taking out a pad and her Cross pen, which, given the way things had been going, she now viewed not only necessary but a good luck charm.

“Let's go over expectations, Katherine. And then you can meet the rest of the staff when they come in later in the day.” Her new boss ran down the routine. “You should be producing at least seven to ten stories of local interest every week—some short, two to three hundred words, others five times that. Historically, filing time is 5:00 p.m. and our paper goes to bed on Wednesday, so the work week starts Thursday morning. Theoretically, that's when Chuck, our editor, starts planning the next edition, makes assignments. This week's good timing for you—gives you three extra days to get settled and develop leads. But the Web has altered a lot of that. It's a hungry elephant—constantly demanding content. Sometimes there are more little stories, videos, and pictures to keep up; sometimes there are big stories that require work over days and weeks. And, unfortunately, it's as much about advanced media digital technology as reporting, editing, and writing now.” Sol stopped there and gave Katherine a chance to finish her notes.

“How many reporters do you have on staff?” Katherine asked.

“Four at the moment, with two part-time freelancers.”

“How long have your reporters been with you?”

“Three for more than five years, one for a year and a half. Long enough to develop relationships . . . ”

“ . . . which produce leads, particularly necessary for local stories,” Katherine supplied, catching on fast.

“You're right. They have a leg up. And, they've earned Chuck's trust.”

“But it's still a team sport. Or should be, it seems to me,” Katherine said.

“That's one of the reasons I hired you, Katherine,” Sol said. “Speaking of which, I'm looking forward to your picking up the pieces on a story I broke last week while you were gone, taking it to the next level.”

“I'm listening.”

Sol filled her in on what he'd turned up in a fraud case involving a local financial institution, Hamptons Bank. And while the piece had certainly stirred awareness, apparently he felt that initial story only scratched the surface.

“Interesting,” said Katherine. “You know fraud's a special subject for me?”

“Why do you think I'm putting you on it? Don't let me down.”

“May I review your file, and how do I access it?”

“Esther's our IT wiz. When she sets up your computer and goes over all the programs and interface, mention that I'd like you to have full access to my work on the Hamptons Bank.”

“Understood,” she said. “Thank you.”

“One other thing, get your requests in sooner rather than later—Freedom of Information, government agencies—these can take five business days, sometimes only to get the agency's reply confirming it has received your request—with weeks or months to get the actual material.”

Katherine nodded and added that to her notes.

“Let's go meet people,” Sol said, standing up. “Follow me.”

Sol led Katherine to the office next door, where the door was open. He waved at a large man in his fifties with thick glasses and thicker hair who returned the wave and beckoned them in.

“This is Charles T. Bumgardner, our editor. Chuck, this is Katherine, the newest member of the team.”

“I'm happy to meet you, Katherine. Sol's told me a lot about you. Welcome aboard, we'll talk later. Could you come back in about fifty minutes?”

Katherine glanced at Sol and, seeing his nod, said, “Yes, of course.”

Sol continued down the hall, introducing Katherine to the assistant editor, the sports editor, calendar editor, and on the other side of the hall the people in sales, circulation, accounting, and finally, Esther.

At the end of the hallway, they came to a large, open room with individual work stations each containing a desk, chair, computer, printer, and credenza, and separated by five-foot gray fabric partitions.

“This is the Den, where our reporters work,” Sol said. “I'll let you meet each of them at a time convenient to them and you.”

They walked back to Sol's office, where he showed Katherine the break room, a surprisingly large comfortable room equipped with a large double-door sub-zero refrigerator, elaborate sinks, microwave, several coffee machines—in effect, a fully equipped kitchen with two round tables and chairs and a large straight table and chairs.

“This is where the work really gets done,” Sol said, and they returned to his office.

“Well, so far, so good?” Sol asked.

“Fine,” Katherine said. “Just fine. You all have made me feel very welcome. Thank you.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“Just one at the moment. I am sure I'll have plenty later.”

“Shoot.”

“I have a well-behaved, quiet, three-year-old golden retriever named Hailey . . .”

“And you want to bring him to the office?”

“Her, and yes, if that's okay? I promise she will not get in the way. I tend to work late, and if she's here, I won't have to drive back to my apartment to let her out.

“Not everyone loves dogs, Katherine. I do. So do my kids. We'll give it a try. See how it goes. Fair enough?”

“Thank you so much, Sol.”

“Make yourself at home, Katherine. We're happy to have you here. Good luck.”

Katherine left Sol's office and found Esther, who showed Katherine her cubicle and reviewed her computer, passwords, codes, and other office systems, including how to access Sol's Hamptons Bank file. They walked together through the Den and met two of the reporters. Esther showed Katherine where the ladies room was and finally introduced her to Evelyn, the bookkeeper and office manager. The woman, who might as well have had “efficiency” written across her forehead, had her sign some employment forms, gave her a card to enter the building after hours, and took care of other first-day details.

Looking at her watch, Katherine saw nearly an hour had passed, proceeded to Chuck's office, and seeing him at his desk took one of the two seats opposite.

Chuck finished a phone call, set the receiver back in its cradle, and studied Katherine as if he were trying to read a detailed architectural design. Katherine waited, pen and pad in hand.

“Nothing more painful for a reporter than having nothing to report.” He assigned her to write an obituary and to cover a local school board member recently arrested for DWI. “Flesh these out, and I'd like you to submit them no later than 5:00 p.m. tomorrow. On the obit, you can call the funeral home. They work with us. Try to speak with one of the deceased's family members. Any questions?”

“Not on the assignments you've given me. Has Sol told you about my work in systemic fraud?”

“I understand you're interested in our Hamptons Bank stories.”

Katherine could feel a coolness in the office, as if the fan from an air conditioner had just slammed on. She quickly decided to drop the subject.

Katherine returned to her desk and sat for a moment, absorbing the new environment she had so long dreamed of, and at the same time, allowing the reality of the challenges she faced to sink in. She fired up her computer and placed a call to the funeral home. The director was friendly and helpful, but was reluctant to give her the name of a family member. “We'll send over everything you'll need,” he said. Katherine set up an obit file, made some notes, and then, through the Internet, quickly accessed the arrest record for the errant board member, including a crazed, Nick Nolte-esque mug shot. The school board website was already buzzing with conflicting opinions about the man's drinking problems in the past and the impact or not on his job. Local politics would judge this guy long before he had his day in court, Katherine guessed.

Katherine wrote a first draft of the drunk driving story—with parenthetical reference to concerns of some board members that he should be removed from the board. By lunchtime she felt she had that story and the obit under control, and she turned her attention to Sol's Hamptons Bank file. She flagged various sections and sent them to her printer. Only then did she pick up the phone and dial Susan.

“Hello?” her friend said.

“This is Katherine Kelly reporting from partition station seven at the
Twin Forks Press.
I'd like to interview you to determine the state of your mental competence and determine whether you are willing and able to spend time listening to the life and times of a hyperactive and overly excited woman.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Susan replied.

“You wouldn't, ordinarily, but when you hear about my trip to Braydon, and perhaps of more interest to you, my stop in Wrightsville Beach on the way home, you will.”

“I'm not sure what all of that means, but I'm convinced. Where would this interview take place?”

“That question has tactical and strategic implications. We could meet at Hennessey's unless that would be uncomfortable for you. I'll meet you anywhere you like. I have to feed and walk Hailey. What's best for you?”

“I'm not drinking, but I don't mind going to Hennessey's. Why don't we wait until the weekend—see what the weather is like? Maybe I'll come out there. Do you have a deadline for the interview?”

“That makes sense. Just got a little excited. Are you doing okay?”

“I'm fine. Really. Can't wait to hear about it.”

“Okay. I'll call you Friday,” Katherine said and hung up.

She picked up the pages she had printed and studied them. The areas she had flagged dealt with what happened when one bank fails and another takes over—precisely what had happened to the Hamptons National Bank and Trust of Long Island, New York, on Friday, April 13.

As Katherine read the material, she tried to imagine the brutal efficiency exercised by the team of Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation agents who had walked into all three branches at once and taken over. The FDIC's motives were pure, if shocking. The overwhelming majority of the employees apparently didn't know that the bank was in trouble and about to close before the FDIC's receiver in charge and the closing team manager walked through the door and took total control. Reading further, Katherine saw that the FDIC's plan was to have Commack Community Bank take over the following Monday.

Katherine tried to imagine the fear, angst, and insecurity the Hamptons Bank employees must have felt, particularly those without knowledge of the bank's impending failure. Presumably, they, at least, were not part of the problem, and while the customers would be protected, their fate would be less certain. She thought of the tellers, the security guards, the janitors.
Would the new bank continue with them? If not, what would they do?

You're holding back, shying away from driving at the heart of the story from your point of view. People who follow reporters follow them from here . . . not from here.

Katherine left the office and walked to CCB, sauntered into the first floor lobby, sat in a chair along the wall as though she were a customer waiting to apply for a loan, and studied everyone and watched everything she could for more than an hour. Then she went to a teller's window, with a plaque bearing the name Theresa Leary.

From behind the wide bars separating the counter, a young woman about Katherine's age asked, “May I help you?”

“My name is Katherine Kelly. You're Theresa?” she asked.

“That's me,” she said with a smile.

“I'm a reporter with the
Twin Forks Press
. I recently learned that this bank took over when the Hamptons Bank and Trust failed. I'm glad your bank did, because, otherwise, the Hamptons Bank's customers would be in a lot of trouble.”

“I'm sorry I can't help you. I don't know anything about that bank, or why it closed.”

“So you weren't a teller before the takeover?”

“No, I've been with CCB since I started, more than two years.”

“I understand,” Katherine said. “I'm not going to ask you anything about the Hamptons Bank. What I'm interested in is what happened to those tellers and others who were not lucky enough to continue on after the takeover.”

“I know. It must have been horrible.”

“Did you know any of those tellers, Theresa?”

“Only one. Constance Shipman. She was a friend of my mother's. Worked here—for Hamptons Bank—twenty-seven years. I don't know where she went after the—transition.”

“I worry about that,” Katherine said. “I hope she was able to find another job.”

“I'm sorry, Katherine, but I see a couple of customers waiting. Do you mind if I take care of them?”

“Of course not. Thank you so much,” Katherine said, handing her a sheet of paper with her contact information. “Please call me, text me, or e-mail me if you can locate Constance . . . I'd like to see if I can help.”

“Sure thing,” Theresa said and motioned to the waiting customer.

After giving her stories one more look and making some final minor revisions, she sent them on to the editor, then sat back and exhaled a sigh of relief. Now it was time to deal with that other file, the one she'd finished as soon as she returned from her trip south but rewritten three times since then.

 

Dear Gerry,

 

I have just completed my first full week of work at the
Twin Forks Press
and am looking forward to seeing my byline in print tomorrow. Thank you sincerely for everything you did to get me to this point.

I have something for you, probably a bit overdue and I fear incomplete, but I hope it fulfills the requirement.

 

Submitted to: Professor Gerald Simpson

From: Katherine Kelly

Date: June 5, 2012

 

This paper, consistent with the ground rules, is written for me. Accordingly, I am foregoing the customary format, and presenting it to myself (with a copy to you) by e-mail.

 

You asked me to write a story about a person, living or dead—not a relative of mine—who had a substantial influence on one of the members of my family. A threshold consideration requires the distinction between power and influence. Power is positional and wielded. Influence is personal and granted. I recently met my father for the first time—a man named Preston Wilson. He told me a story about an attorney named Joe Hart, and how this man helped him save his business empire from financial disaster. Hart, however, required as a condition precedent that Wilson commit to perform an unspecified request in the future. Desperate, my father agreed.

 

Hart performed his magic and saved my father's business. When it came time for Hart to call in the IOU, he required my father to meet, earn the trust of, and care for some friends of Hart's, each of whom was challenged and none of whom my father would have ever chosen on his own to associate with. My father reached out to them. He told me that Mr. Hart exceeded his expectations, and had a major influence on him.

 

I've interviewed Hart's secretary and actually met two of these friends (one, a mentally challenged dishwasher working in a South Carolina restaurant and the other, an eighty-year-old former yacht builder suffering from Alzheimer's).

 

For me, the jury's not in as to whether Joe Hart had a major influence on my father. In talking with Wilson's wife, who used the curious term “evolving” when referring to her husband's experience with Hart's “Collectibles,” I had the impression that the degree and depth of influence, its endurance, and the amount of respect it has been given by my father, remains in question or has yet to be determined.

 

I'm going to follow this story because—as you will be happy to learn—I am emotionally involved. I'm dealing with the fundamental lie my mother told me many years ago, and all the identity issues it created—one of which is to what extent I can and want to accept Preston Wilson as my father. I'm intrigued by the core principle of the late Joe Hart's requirement and impressed with the depth and wisdom of the man. I believe he granted my father a golden opportunity to reach out to others and, in the process, examine the way he has lived his life. Whether he takes advantage of that opportunity will be at least a factor in how I choose to relate to my father going forward.

 

My best,

Katherine

 

The reply was not long in coming.

 

June 5, 2012 5
:25 p.m.

Katherine,

 

Consider your assignment submitted and accepted. Excellent job. As to its completeness—some stories never end.

 

As always,

Gerry

 

Katherine breathed deeply and let out an extended sigh, glad to have that behind her. She marveled at the reach of her mentor's perception.

Before she could gather up Hailey and treat herself to a celebratory drink, another e-mail popped up. Theresa Leary from the bank. Katherine quickly opened the message, which contained only two lines, Constance Shipman's name and a phone number.

She dialed the number. Constance Shipman answered. Katherine explained who she was and why she was calling and asked if they could meet. Mrs. Shipman said she had to run some errands in Easthampton and suggested they meet at her home—and that Katherine meet her husband as well that evening. Katherine agreed and wrote down Constance's address.

Katherine took Hailey for a quick walk, dropped her off at home, plugged in Constance's address into her GPS, and drove to Easthampton. The Shipman house was a small, two-story wood frame with a single-car garage. Katherine was greeted by a thin, intelligent-looking woman in her late forties wearing a navy blue shirtwaist dress. She introduced herself, and Constance showed her into the modest living room, where coffee was waiting.

“My husband is upstairs on the phone. He'll join us when he is finished, if that's all right.”

“Of course. The coffee smells good.”

Constance poured a cup for Katherine and one for herself. “For a reporter, I didn't expect you to be so young.”

“Actually, I've been on the job all of a week. But I have a great interest in what's happened in the bank situation. I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me.”

“Theresa called me. She's such a nice young lady. She said you thought you might be able to help.”

“I've read about the takeover of the Hamptons Bank. I was moved by what it must have been like for you and others, having worked there so long. I know what it's like to need a job. I hope you were able to find one.”

“No, I haven't. I've certainly tried. It's a terrible time to be looking for a job. My husband's an attorney whose firm went bankrupt. He's been looking for more than a year. We've been careful over the years, but it's not easy. Our savings are just about used up.”

Katherine could see the tightness in Constance's shoulders and the worry in her eyes.

“I'm so sorry to hear that. I'm interested in the impact a bank failure has on employees caught in a situation like yours—through no fault of their own. I'm assuming you had no idea your bank was failing.”

“It was a total shock to me. That bank job—apart from my family—was my life. Twenty-seven years. I hope this story helps.”

“I must tell you, I'm going to write the story, but I don't know yet whether it will be published. That's entirely up to my editor. So this could all be for nothing. But I'd like to try.”

“So would I. Ask away.”

Katherine questioned Constance, methodically developing her history with Hamptons Bank, her training, the depth of her duties and responsibilities as a teller. Then she delved layer by layer into the reporting structure at the bank, the oversight, evaluations of her job performance, promotions, raises, setbacks. According to Constance it was a steady, incremental history, free of any disciplinary action and a professional match between the bank's expectation and her performance. Finally, Katherine explored Hamptons' financial condition, which Constance said she knew nothing about. Katherine continued to probe what Constance did know and when she knew it.

Just as Katherine was finished, Constance's husband joined them, introducing himself, and looking exactly as Katherine expected—a pleasant enough man, average height, round in the middle, an earnest but intense face. Another lawyer in trouble.

It took no prompting for him to reveal his own story with far more detail than Katherine needed—but not more than she wanted. It was a sad story, unfortunately not unique. She silently counted her blessings.

“Thank you both for talking to me—and for your candor,” said Katherine when she'd concluded the interview. “What you're going through must be terrible, and I'm sure you're not alone.”

“CCB let our whole department go,” explained Constance. “Not at first, but it wasn't long before they brought in their own people. Not just the tellers, but the janitors, the security guards, everybody.”

“I'd like to include others in the story,” Katherine said. “Can you give me some names of other tellers who were laid off? Names of some of the security people—the janitors—the others you mentioned.”

“I can do better than that,” Constance said getting up and going to her desk in the adjoining den. She came back with a book and handed it to Katherine. “This is the personnel directory for our department—names, addresses, everything. They're all gone.”

Katherine thanked Constance again and went back to the office. Although it was getting late, she called several people from the directory, and connecting with three, she felt she would have enough material to round out the story. She would begin to write it in earnest the next morning.

Katherine fell asleep that night thinking about Constance and her husband, and how fortunate she was to finally have a job—and be working at something she had dreamed about doing all her adult life. As she cuddled with Hailey in bed, she counted her blessings, among them a mother who had encouraged her and supported her along the way.