The Return of Elliott Eastman

by Ryan, Ignatius

  Again the woman started to sob. Finally all that could be seen was the top of her head and the shaking of her shoulders as she broke down completely. The screen went dark.

  “Oh my god,” Kenny said.

  “Shut the hell up,” Rick hurled the words like a dagger at the cowering CEO. The next video popped up on the screen. Together the three men watched two hours of people in distress because of student loans. One young man even slit his wrists on screen. To his credit, Kenny recoiled in horror at the scene. The final video was a group of cheerleaders all wearing Yale sweaters. The camera zoomed in and stopped on a man sitting in the bleachers. The man waved. It was Rick.

  “Is that you in the stands?” Kenny almost shouted and started to stand up.

  Rick shoved him back down, almost upsetting the chair. “Yes, it’s me in the stands. Your daughter Amanda is a cheerleader at Yale, correct?”

  Kenney nodded.

  “I’ll bet she doesn’t have any student loans.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Kenny whispered.

  “I’ll stop at nothing,” Rick replied. “You want to see more? I’ll show you a video of me crossing the street right behind her. One jab with a needle and she’s gone. Not dead mind you, but a vegetable for the next fifty years. A constant reminder of the choice you didn’t make.”

  Kenny slumped in the chair. “What do you want?”

  “You will lower the rates on all student loans to 7% effective tomorrow. You will make the announcement outside Sallie Mae’s offices with local news crews at hand. You will become a spokesperson against the level of personal debt in this country. You’re the one who is going to step up and make a difference.”

  “I’ve got investors to answer to.”

  “You’ve got a nation of students to answer to. How do you justify owning a private golf course on the backs of starving students? What do you want to say to people who are killing themselves because of your lending policies?”

  “I don’t know what to say,” the CEO said in barely audible tones.

  “You say it stops here and it stops now.”

  The room fell into a deep silence and then Rick concluded. “We’re going to leave here now. You’ll never know who we are but know this, we’ll be watching, and if anything happens to us there will be others. You control your daughter’s life, yours, and your wife’s too if it comes to that. Do the right thing.”

  Kenny looked up. Rick swung a right upper cut that came from the floor and lifted the chubby CEO out of the chair. He fell in a crumpled heap on the floor.

  “Sorry about that last bit,” Rick said to Gordon. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

  “Not a problem. Let’s load up our gear, wipe everything down and clear out,” Gordon responded.

  “Do you think we got to him?” Rick asked.

  “Oh yeah, we got to him big time.”

  Chapter Six

  Halfway around the world, about the time that Kenney Borel was being lifted out of the chair by Rick’s mighty blow, another team was at work.

  President and CEO of Bank of America, Wilfred Blankenship, was enjoying a cool drink surrounded by family and friends in the grand ball room of his private yacht moored at a plush resort on the French Riviera. Little did he know, despite extensive security measures including two armed body guards, two divers were at that moment hovering weightless beneath his magnificent yacht. As bedtime arrived he begged off his guests, and he and the wife retired to his private stateroom. The ‘sweet suite’, as his wife called it, was all of nine hundred square feet complete with luxury bath, sitting room, wet bar and private balcony. It was the balcony that proved to be its weak point. With the guards located three floors up, bored and fearing nothing, the divers, using suction cup devices climbed the side of the ship and slipped over the railing to land softly on Mr. Blankenship’s private balcony. It took but a moment to jimmy the French doors and step inside where they froze for a moment and listened to the sound of calm, even breathing. Jim Buckner and Michael Conrad padded softly across the room, their strategy refined step by step over several nights of planning, and placed a hand carefully over the mouths of husband and wife simultaneously. The pen lights clicked on and revealed frightened eyes.

  “We’re not going to hurt you,” each man said in a soft voice designed to quell their fears. “We just want to talk.”

  Blankenship nodded.

  “When I remove my hand from your mouth, if you or your wife shout or scream, I’ll be forced to silence you which will not be pleasant. Do you understand?”

  Husband and wife nodded.

  As soon as he was free to speak, the CEO started in with a tirade. “Now see here. What is the meaning of this? Do you know who I am?”

  Jim slapped him squarely across the mouth and spoke in a harsh whisper, “Shut up. We know exactly who you are.”

  Michael pulled a laptop computer from the Dry Pak on his back and set it on the bed. He fired it up and whispered, “Watch the video.”

  The short movies, provided by a private firm employed by Elliott Eastman, were similar to those that Kenny Borel had witnessed. Testimonials by people who’d lost their homes, lost their livelihoods and been driven into poverty by Bank of America. People questioning the right of Bank of America and the interest rates on their credit cards of 24% plus. The clincher was a manager at a Bank of America branch in Los Angeles who testified regarding mortgage origination practices. “The orders from on high were to push our home buyers into adjustable loans, even though mortgage rates were the lowest they’d been in almost forty years, because we would make more money on adjustable loans than on a fixed rate. Then if we could slip in a high margin between the starting rate and the index, say maybe three or four percent over the index, we could be paid a bonus of upwards of ten thousand dollars per loan. We were paid to cheat our clients.”

  “You know this to be true, don’t you?” Jim asked.

  Blankenship nodded.

  “Do you believe this is right?”

  Blankenship shook his head no.

  “What should you do to make this right? I’ll tell you. You’re going to go before the American people and tell them that temporarily, just for the next three years, you’re going to reduce interest rates on your credit cards to 7% across the board. This will stimulate spending and reduce the amount of pain you’ve inflicted on your fellow citizens. Now understand that we found you, entered your inner sanctum, and could have killed you. Do you agree to go before the American people and make this proposal? And don’t, lie because we will find you again.”

  Michael hit another button and the screen filled with a scene from a party showing Blankenship dancing with his wife. Another showed husband and wife walking on the beach hand in hand. The last one depicted shadows moving against a thin set of sheers. It was the Blankenship’s bedroom window.

  Blankenship’s eyes widened in recognition of the locations.

  “I can’t, our stock price will fall like a rock. Our stock holders will scream.”

  “My friend here is an expert marksman and obviously, based on the video, we can find you almost anywhere. But think about it for a moment. With all the extra spending power produced by reducing the rates the economy will sky rocket and most people will run their balances up.”

  This statement gave the CEO reason to pause for a moment as he contemplated this possibility.

  “I’ll need to think about this,” Blankenship replied.

  “No time. And part of our agreement is that you convince your cronies at JP Morgan, Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, Wells Fargo and all the other credit companies to drop their rates as well.”

  “I can’t guarantee their agreement!” Blankenship almost shouted.

  Jim back handed him across the mouth knocking out a tooth. He seethed between gritted teeth, “Keep your voice down scum and give me a straight ‘yes’ or ‘no’!”

  “The other banks might follow our lead. I’ll do the best I can,” Blankenship mumbled throu
gh bleeding lips.

  “I said ‘yes’ or ‘no’,” Jim hissed, his face just inches from the cowering CEO.

  Blankenship whispered, “Yes.”

  Chapter Seven

  Samuel Goldman, the Chairman of the Securities and Exchange Commission, gazed uneasily at the three attorneys who seated themselves across the vast expansive desk top from him. This was a highly unusual meeting, he thought, but when Elliott Eastman requested something one was better off complying, as it would probably come to pass anyway.

  “I’m Robert Dale, and these are Paul Cranston and Bryan Banks, attorneys representing the interests of Mr. Elliott Eastman. He extends his personal thanks for taking the time out of your busy day to meet with us. He wished to be here, but unfortunately he had pressing business to attend to in Washington.”

  “My pleasure,” Samuel Goldman replied, extending a hand shake to each man while still eyeing them with a degree of suspicion.

  “Mr. Eastman respects your opinion greatly and wished you might render an opinion once you have read this one page document,” Attorney Dale explained, opening his brief case and sliding a single sheet of paper across the desk. “He has also asked that any reference to this meeting and his name not leave this room.”

  Attorney Dale gazed sharp eyed at Goldman and the other members of the commission which were seated there.

  “Agreed,” Goldman replied brusquely and bent to the document at hand.

  Goldman read it carefully. When he was finished he looked up and smiled. “It’s bold and shows imagination, but why would Mr. Eastman be interested in forwarding such a proposal?”

  “He feels this country has been very good to him and is concerned with the direction it has taken in the last few years. He believes such a proposal, a small transaction fee on stock trades, commodities, futures and derivatives, is painless and eliminates our growing deficit, which he feels is the single greatest threat to our nation. He also believes that with the explosion of various financial instruments in the last few years, the income stream will be quite substantial.”

  “I might agree with him, but it is pointless to discuss this any further. You’ll never get Congress to agree. The banks have enormous sway over them. They’ll not even get the bills written.”

  “Could you kindly identify the members of Congress who would most strenuously oppose such a bill?” Attorney Dale asked softly.

  Goldman scratched his chin. “You’d have everyone on the Senate Banking Committee, Coryn, Graham, and Lanting against it. You’d probably have trouble with Bainer and Whitback over at the House Ways and Means Committee, and of course the House Speaker Cobbings will side with them. And that’s just to name a few.”

  Attorney Dale swiftly wrote the names down on a note pad.

  “If this bill were to be written, Mr. Eastman has argued it must be done with great care so as not to allow Congress to merely spend the monies. He also wants to be clear that this is not to apply to the savings and checking account transactions of the general public. He expressed a desire that the bill be very specific. It would require a division of the SEC to manage the monies and secure a lock box style of accounting, so not a single penny is misplaced. He’d like you to manage that division, under the SEC, and imagines there will be a sizable pay raise for this new staff, something in the six figure range for you as well as a spot on the national stage. The SEC would be the natural governmental body to oversea such a fee arrangement, as they would be on the front line of collections anyway. You have three years left in your term. You would be the inaugural General in the ‘War on the Deficit.’”

  Dale could see the lights glimmering in Goldman’s eyes as he imagined himself on the cover of TIME magazine.

  Attorney Dale continued. “If Senator, I mean the former Senator Mr. Eastman, can get the bill to the floor he would respectfully hope you would endorse it, and he means strongly endorse it. He believes your endorsement would go a long way toward getting the bill passed.”

  “Of course. I’d have no problem with that,” Goldman swiftly replied. “But with the powerful lobbyists that every major corporation has at their command, there is not the proverbial snowballs chance in hell of such a thing happening.”

  “But if it was to take place, do we have your word that you would strongly endorse such a bill?” Dale pressed the chairman.

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Thank you for your time Mr. Chairman.”

  Chapter Eight

  Elliott Eastman paced softly across the thick carpeting of the Oval Office with his hands folded behind his back. The sun was just rising to the east of the White House, slowly spreading thin fingers of sunlight across the Rose Garden. Elliott was humming softly. The door swung open and in walked President White with a big smile on his face. He greeted the former senator warmly, grasping the proffered hand saying, “It’s been awhile, Elliott. It’s so good to see you again. Can I offer you some coffee or tea?”

  “No thank you. You’re looking well, Samuel. The presidency must agree with you.”

  “Agree? Other than a constant headache and a couple dozen bleeding ulcers, I’m just peachy,” the President laughed heartily.

  “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  “Yes, it is a marathon everyday, but we’re doing okay. The poll numbers are still lower than they were, but they seemed to have stabilized and the team has high hopes I’ll win a second term.”

  “Is it too early for congratulations?”

  “Well the election is still a year away Elliott, so I’d say it’s a tad early.”

  “Let’s sit and talk. I’ve got two ideas that, when linked together, I think might just win you a second, and possibly a third term,” Elliott suggested.

  Paul smiled. “A third term? You’re a better salesman than I gave you credit for. I got your message … something about ‘problem solved.’ Intriguing to say the least. Talk to me.”

  “I know you’re pressed for time. Here are the ideas in a nutshell. We cannot grow, cut or tax our way out of our debt issues. We are facing the same fate that Greece, Spain, Italy, Portugal and Ireland suffered a few years ago. We need a new income stream. It’s the only answer. I’ve had some of my people do the math. There are approximately 985 million trades each day on various US stock exchanges and two sides, buyer and seller, to each trade. By the way, that 985 million is tapes A, B, and C. The Nasdaq, the New York and the Euronext exchanges. It doesn’t include commodities, futures or derivatives contracts. In any event, tapes A, B, and C reflect approximately 1.8 billion trades. We should place a nominal fee; a flat fee so easy to understand even a child could grasp it, on each trade. Say ten dollars on trades over one thousand, one hundred dollars on trades over one hundred thousand and one thousand dollars on trades over one million. We calculate that this will generate in the range of forty million dollars a day, or two hundred billion a year on the stock trades alone. If we throw in a similar fee structure on the commodities, futures and derivative contracts, you know, the more exotic financial instruments this could generate another trillion a year in fees. I’ll give you a little background. The derivatives market back in 1997 was $17 trillion a year. In 2005 it was $125 trillion, whereas today it is estimated to be $703 trillion a year. To put that into perspective, it’s about forty times the Gross National Product of the entire country. Also, the gentlemen that run some of these hedge funds earn quite a bit.” Elliott paused flipping through his notes. “Jean Simmons of Renaissance Technologies earned 2.5 billion dollars last year and David Tepperson of Appaloosa Management made over 4 billion, so it would seem this is a very lucrative business. I would suggest even a modest fee on these transactions would generate something in the neighborhood of $1.5 trillion dollars a year. We’ve tried to take a conservative approach. In previous experiments with these fee arrangements business has gone to other countries, but they want our dollars and they want our business. If they threaten to leave, we counter by denying them access to our market. Problem solved. The expe
rts I hired believe we could pay off our national debt in seven and a half years.”

  President White started to speak, but Elliot held up his hand.

  “And that’s only part of it Paul. We must cut defense spending as well, and overseas bases are the low hanging fruit. We calculate we could save a minimum of $350 billion a year by closing just six hundred bases.”

  The President was about to beg off, but Elliott pressed on.

  “Look at it Paul. It’s beautiful. We can generate something in the neighborhood of two trillion dollars a year and not have to cut social programs or any other important safety nets. Once the debt is extinguished we could fund education, infrastructure and social security; all the things we’ve been trying to address for years. Polls show the deficit as the fourth item on the fear factor list in the minds of the American public. What they don’t show you is that it was eighth on the list just five years ago. People are rapidly becoming aware of the risks posed by the deficit. Secondly, it’s really their future they are expressing concern for in these polls. What better way to address their fears than addressing social security. It appeals to the aging baby boomers and the younger generations who are expressing growing resentment at their obligation to pay for their parents’ retirements. And look where the tax comes from; trades. Only thirty percent of the American population own stock, and none own derivatives, so the tax is avoided by most of our population. The funding of this program sits squarely on the financial speculation industry. We tax gamblers, don’t we? That’s all these outfits are, gamblers. And most importantly, it’s just a temporary tax, only for a few years. You’re going to appeal to the young new voters in this country and draw generations of voters into the democratic fold. At the same time you’re solving the biggest headache for our retirees wondering if their money will last the remainder of their lives. You’ll win all their votes. Your legacy could be the president who tamed the deficit.”