Silence

Whoever said “Silence is golden” is wrong. There hasn’t been a phone call yet and it was probably because Mary Louise forgot to connect the call to Sam’s secretary. My house, my car, there’ll be nothing left when I get home. I glanced at my watch, 4:54 a.m.

“Fuck me. ” I said under my breath. “Fuck. Me.”

The phone rings. Finally.

“Sam? Listen I need you to do me a favor.” I said. “That bonus I was talking about? I need you to triple it and get it out tomorrow.”

I waited, then voice crackled through the phone.

“Fuck you. How the fuck am I supposed to push you sixteen and half million dollars?” Sam says. “The firm’s cash balances aren’t enough to cover next month’s payroll. I’d have to cut 150 people.”

“Sam, edit the statements.” I ordered. “Write it off as a loss. I don’t care what you do. Just get it done.”

Sam spoke quietly and carefully.

“Arthur, that’s fraud. I could go to prison for this.”

It was late and I was tired.

“Sam, you and I have been working together for what, 27 years? Where were you when you started? Where were you when I got you off the streets, gave you clothes, money, this job?” I asked. His silence was a reply. Really, he didn’t have much of a choice.   

I placed the phone back into the receiver and reached out to the remote to turn on the TV. On the screen, CNN broadcasted Madoff’s mug shot, a tight lipped photograph of him with piercing, gray eyes that made you wonder if you ever did something wrong in your life . Below his picture, the moving caption detailed news of arrests made by the FBI at Rothword & Main Holdings.

Rothword & Main. I shut my eyes for a moment and let silence wash over me.

James works there.

There was a photo of him on my desk, and I couldn’t help focusing on his heterochromia eyes, a trait we both shared. No, he wouldn’t, he’s smarter than that.

On his graduation day, I took him aside and spoke to him quietly, “Son, sometimes in life, there’s a line you can’t cross. Don’t break the law until your high up enough to get away with it.”

A year ago, the recession wiped out his savings and bruised his pride. “My life is chaos,” he had told me. Did I miss the signs?

When the phone rang, I felt a chill seep down the ridges of my spine. Could it be…?

“Hello?” I asked. My heart stopped.

“Dad, it’s me. I’m in jail right now. I didn’t do it, but they still brought me in. They said I was a co-conspirator” James said. His breath shook, but I knew that was from shock. Why he had chosen Wall Street, I could never guess. He never killed flies nor did he fight. He was nice, but I guess there isn’t much worse to say about a man than that.  

I told him bluntly. “If you’re in jail, I’m going to get you out.”

Before he could speak again, I hung up and then dialed.

“Robert? Listen, I need you to do me a favor.” I told him. “My son needs help. I’ll double the usual if you make it quick.”

“Done.” he said, and the receiver clicked.

I gathered my coat and walked out the office. Outside, the rain began to fall in great swaths as the clouds, invisible in the sky, turned an even deeper shade of ash. Showers in New York City weren’t cold, they were warm, warm enough that I didn’t even notice dark spots on my shirt. When the taxi came, I rushed in, apologizing for the water that had dripped over the seat cushions.

“Lincoln Correctional Facility” I told the driver.

He must’ve known where it was because the car sped off. Along the way, we passed the headquarters of Rothword & Main. Outside the building, crates of folders, some yellowed, were stacked like bricks on top of another. Jesus, they gutted the place out.

At the correctional facility, I arranged his release forms. When they brought him out, he was pale, dressed in Wall Street attire: navy tie, noir slacks, and a nice dress shirt, although that was crumpled now.   

“Thank you for getting me out, Dad. I know it’s been a long day for you” he spoke, almost in a whisper.

“You oughtta thank the judge. He’s the one who got you out” I joked with a smile on my lips. But James didn’t smile back.  

“You bribed my way out?” James asked, his voice testy.

“I did. Why? I thought you’d appreciate it?” I replied.

“Appreciate?” James retorted. “I may work on Wall Street, but money hasn’t made me more appreciative of what it can do.”

James is an idealist. Young idealists always think they know what’s best.

“Have you lost your mind? I’m doing you a favor.” I hissed.

“Dad, I can’t possibly, under a good conscience, walk out of here and still respect the man that came in.” He spoke firmly and by then, I knew it was too late.

This was farewell, so I nodded and left without a word.

“It didn’t go well?” the driver asked.

I shook my head and signaled for him to drive back. No. No it didn’t.

When the cab stopped near the office front, I saw Sam hauling a box. His face was blurred by the water droplets collecting on the surface of the glass door.  

“Hey Sam, what are you doing? Why are you leaving” I shouted through the pouring rain.

“There’s a sickness here Arthur, and I’m tired of it.” Sam shouted back.  “I wish I could say I stopped you, but they give you a man whose greed is insatiable, a man who bends others to get what he wants. I’m leaving this firm. I’ve wanted to tell you for years, and I’m breaking that silence today.”

When Sam was gone, I walked into the office alone and sat into my chair. It was 6:33 a.m. and the city was just beginning to wake. I stared out through the windows as if they were a looking glass. Soon after, the phone rang. I didn’t hear a thing.