The Frankenstein Candidate (49 page)

Some economists called Ganon’s plan the perfect stimulus; they lauded the creation of “unoutsourceable” jobs. The Republicans had always been wary of a wedding with yesterday’s technology. They had been pushing for a national high-speed Internet network, laying expensive high-speed fiber optic cable over thousands of miles, connecting all the major American cities and towns. These construction and maintenance jobs too would be
unoutsourceable
and would reduce emissions, making life easier for business and reducing congestion.

Logan basked in the glory reserved for politicians announcing their first major project. Congress passed it swiftly—after all, it was going to benefit every constituency; the high-speed cable was even going to reach Alaska somehow. The bigger the bill, the happier they were. The bill was assessed at $1.5 trillion for the combined projects; the cost of importing equipment and high-speed cable had shot up, and every little town and hamlet wanted to be in the network. Even so, the party faithful slapped each other on the back for
saving
$500 billion in construction, labor, and administration since each party otherwise wanted a trillion dollar project of its own as a stimulus.

Frank Stein called it financial insanity. Ralph Prescott wrote a scathing article on the Net Web, pointing out the bleeding obvious. “High-speed Internet has made business travel unnecessary by allowing perfect video conferences and super-speed downloads–hardly a great foundation for a high-speed physical travel network. But bipartisanship is the rage in Washington, and with the election having gone this close between the two major parties, compromise was mandatory.”

On a sultry, windy day a week after her appointment, the new vice-president Claire Derouge came to seek Olivia Allen’s advice in an off-the-record visit. Claire was the only one in her party who did not consider Olivia a traitor, but she kept her opinions quiet on that issue. Olivia had been a mentor to Claire for most of her career.

“I’m afraid the idea of a president and vice-president belonging to two different political parties is so unprecedented that no one really knows how this will work,” Olivia said.

“I think the Senate has just forced John Logan to go to great lengths to keep the vice president completely in the dark about everything.”

“True. But as they say, you are only a heartbeat away.”

An impressive curvilinear glass-paneled building housed the SEC’s headquarters near Union Station in Washington DC. Olivia Allen was not listed on the visitor register, but she managed to push her way in, a step behind Frank Stein and Blake Heynman.

The clerk at the Enforcement Division was polite and offered them coffee and chocolate biscuits as they were led into an unusually large conference room that could comfortably sit at least thirty. Conrad Drummer came into the conference room accompanied by Janet, Jean and three other men.

A minute into the proceedings Conrad cut to the chase. “A fifty million dollar fine, quite modest for a man of your means, Mr. Stein, and disbarment for five years from public office, ten from corporate boards—”

“No,” Blake said.

Conrad Drummer squinted—he was not used to being interrupted so often. “Perhaps you may wish to confer with your client, Mr. Heynman, after you give us a full hearing.”

“You heard him. I don’t do deals with extortionists. Good day, Mr. Drummer.” Frank stood up and walked out of the room so quickly that Blake was still collecting his things by the time Frank was out the door. Olivia watched the two women, mouths agape but a glint of grudging admiration in their eyes. A meeting she had penciled in two hours for, was over in two minutes. She heard Drummer trail off as she walked out with Blake.

“You are looking at a possible fifteen years for this felony.”

“Eli. Eli Mayer. He is the bulldog litigator you want,” a breathless Blake caught up with Frank near the elevators.

“Hire him,” Frank said as the elevator doors opened, “and we want a jury trial no matter what.”

Olivia arrived early at the District Court of DC. In semi-formal purple slacks, a fashionable woolen scarf and a matching purple jacket, she looked like a regular civilian, even though she was still a senator. She felt like a free soul, unperturbed by the cameras that had flashed at her before she walked in, but the steady drip of nervous energy accumulated as Frank’s trial wore on. Kayla sat next to her for much of the trial.

When Roscoe Maynard took the stand, Olivia squeezed Kayla’s hand and noted the time.

“Was this the evening of November 18, 2017?” the prosecutor asked.

“Yes. It was a Saturday. More late afternoon than evening though,” Roscoe said.

“How is it that you are so sure of the date?”

“We had a conference of investment managers in Houston that year. It’s an annual event over the weekend before Thanksgiving. I don’t always go. But Frank called. He wanted to talk about banks, bank shares in particular.”

Roscoe’s face displayed no emotion. Olivia’s gaze shifted to Frank, who was leaning into his attorney, Eli Mayer. Frank appeared distraught.
Roscoe must be lying
. She felt her hands—they were clammy.
They have a done a deal with Roscoe, the bastards—it’s a trap.

When Olivia looked at the wall clock again, Roscoe was about to finish. His testimony had been over an hour long, but time had stood still for Olivia. Frank’s words were ringing in her ears—“
We are taking on a colossal monstrosity, a Frankenstein that has long since escaped its creators’ design
.”

By the time it was Frank’s turn, seven witnesses had laid the foundation for the most likely theory that could fit the evidence—Frank had orchestrated a concerted attack on big banks, with the express purpose of bringing them down into the abyss of insolvency.

Seven against one, the one being a billionaire in times where people were struggling to eat.
Eli Mayer, she knew, would talk about Frank’s philanthropic practice—it was an unusual one. Sometimes he would roam the streets himself; there were times his hired help would bring him candidates. He would interview them. Twelve to eighteen year-olds who had dropped out of a regimented school system, some of them orphans, wandering the streets. He would house them in groups in the better part of town, pay for school and college, and take them under his wing for a month at a time. Without exception, these boys and girls were gifted in some way—high intelligence, or musical ability, or a creative bent. He had instilled in them a relentless pursuit of excellence. There had been twenty-seven kids in all. If the investigative sleuth in Ralph Prescott had not uncovered this little secret, the world would have never known—even Kayla didn’t know. Olivia’s admiration for this didactic, uncompromising, emotionally reserved billionaire had continued to grow—now she knew why Kayla fell in love with him.

Still, it didn’t look good. Olivia had noticed the worried look on Eli Mayer’s face when Frank wouldn’t let the kids testify for him—“
We have to win on the merits of our case, not by apologetic appeasement,
” he had said to Kayla and Olivia, as if the judgment day was not for Frank Stein, but for America.
Who was on trial here?

Olivia couldn’t bear to sit there any more. She left, vaguely aware that Kayla had already left the warmth of the court, if you could call it that, for the wet weather outside. Her hands involuntarily sunk into the pockets of her jackets as the harsh DC wind bit into her face, Frank’s words still in her head “
You could get unjustly defamed, go to prison, or lose a loved one.
”

Frank Stein did not know who Jenny Gibbs was, but she was about to determine his future.

Jenny Gibbs was a good Catholic girl from a lower middle class family that stayed out of trouble. She went to public school and married her school sweetheart. All she ever wanted was to lead a simple life.

Jenny was surprised to get a jury service notice. It was the first time in her life that she got one.

“Mostly they relate to cases of rape and domestic battery. Mostly they get settled, so you shouldn’t have to waste time. If you say you are unavailable, they will send you another notice in a few months time,” her husband said; he had twice served as a juror in Minnesota.

But Jenny was rather excited. She didn’t try to get out of it. She didn’t want to. On Wednesday February 3, 2021, she too, had arrived early at the District Court for the District of Columbia, at a few minutes before eight-thirty, and she wasn’t even needed till nine. Only after she went in did it dawn on her that the case involved charges against Frank Stein. She sat there with ninety-seven other people, most of whom were rejected. She became one of the chosen twelve.