“Brian was one of the wittiest, cleverest students we ever had. You’ll find his name on plaques in the hall. The whole pack of Molonys you remember. Their outstanding characteristic was their ability as wordsmiths. There was no point just saying it — you had to say it elegantly. And I might add that they were all gamblers. I don’t mean the interest in horses — I’d take that as the natural interest of people in a family that’s been handicapping them for generations and knows them inside out. And I don’t necessarily mean putting down money. I mean finding pleasure in the excitement that comes from taking a risk. To me that’s absolutely normal. If you have two ways of coming down a slope, you choose the one that’s more … amusing, perhaps? I always thought of students in terms of automobiles or horses. The ability to move is also the potential to crash. An old horse that will carry you over every jump deliberately and finish last is never going to throw you. One that has a chance of winning because it moves like blue hell will take you over in glorious danger. Brian was one to choose the horse that had a chance of winning.
“In my own school days I had a couple of classmates who were gamblers, and their notable trait was their total inability to get out while they were ahead. I don’t know what the psychological effect would be of gambling with someone else’s money, but perhaps you could more easily rationalize your motivation — you’re always playing to win the money back. Brian’s gambling must have become an emotional response to the situation in which he found himself, rather than an intellectual one. He had a good intellect, and intellect would tell you to get the hell out.
“When he was here at the school, he was not a particularly pious boy. Hell no. Not many are at that age. They’d rather lie in bed than go to Mass in the morning — a trait, I must say, I haven’t lost myself. To a sixteen-year-old, the things that Holy Mother Church does right, she does very well. But the stupidities in which she’s engaged are very, very evident. None in that group were famous for being theological or philosophical. On the other hand, I don’t think Brian saw himself as the ultimate authority, in the sense of setting his own rules and to hell with everyone else’s.
“If we venture into the moral field, we must ask whether what he did was a sin. Strange as it may seem, I honestly don’t believe the man would sin. Let’s consider it a moment. Was it a serious matter? Certainly. Did he have full knowledge? Again, yes. Did he have full control and free consent? Here is where uncertainty creeps in. I very much doubt that he did. And if I’m right about that, it would let him off the moral hook.
“The other thing is to view him in the larger context. You’re taught from an early age to do your best, to overreach yourself, to keep at it. He was making use of skills and attributes he saw himself as possessing. His nickname at the school was ‘Lucky Lurch,’ which came from his uncanny ability to score goals in hockey in the absence of any apparent knowledge or athletic skill. It was only a house league, but he was playing against boys from northern Ontario and all over, marvellous players. He wasn’t on their level, but you could practically guarantee that Lucky Lurch would score more goals than any of them. I was a gamesman in my time, and I’d say he had the ability we most admire in our athletes — the ability to see it all as a chess game and make the right moves ahead of the moment. I wouldn’t be surprised if, in his gambling, he saw himself as destined to recover his losses. In which case his actions would have been those of a desperate but moral man.
“When this sort of thing happens there’s a tendency to look for cause and effect in the measurables. When all the measurables are toted up, we come back to choice. In this day and age, our judgements about what’s good and what’s bad usually have to do with efficiency, with what works. I’d imagine that he chose to continue doing what he was doing because, within his experience, it worked. The impression is that he was functioning as an outlaw, very much on his own. I wonder, was he? Or did he see himself as a member of the norm? Every day he saw people taking risks, investing other people’s money — the Irish euphemism for ‘gambling’ is ‘investment.’ This financial manipulation made up his day-to-day professional life, and I’m sure it ranged from legitimate, to semi-legitimate, to doubtful. When he was here at the school, Brian was extremely inventive when it came to such things as explaining a midnight raid on the kitchen. Given his facility at structuring models that fit the facts as he saw them, I wonder if he wouldn’t have seen himself as being not much further out on the limb than the people he was among. What’s the difference between a terrorist and a commando? It’s all in the point of view. When we talk about Brian, we’re talking about someone who made a rather spectacular mistake. But perhaps we’re also talking about a child of the age.”
At 52 Division, Molony had to hand over his belt, shoes, and glasses before he was locked in a cell. The bed was a steel frame, no blanket, no pillow. No matter which way he sat or lay, he felt stabbing pain in his kidneys. Time slowed to a standstill, restarted by fragmented sounds and memories. The frenzy of the classroom hamster, accustomed to running full-out on the treadmill, when a pencil was jammed in the wheel. The shatterproof toilet he couldn’t figure out how to flush. Asking for something to read and being told, “What do you think this is, a hotel?” The bone-jarring slam of cell doors. Coffee and a tired hamburger slathered with brown gunk — the guard’s expression when he said, “Thanks, but I don’t drink coffee and I’m a plain hamburger man.” Being handcuffed to a teenager with wild eyes and taken by paddy wagon to headquarters. Posing for mug shots. Trying to relax his hand sufficiently that fingerprints could be taken. The prisoner who yelled for two hours at the top of his lungs, banging on his cell door, “I’ve got my rights under the Charter!” The not knowing. Being hustled out at 5 a.m., the squalor and anxiety of the van full of prisoners from the different stations, arriving at the Don Jail handcuffed to a stranger. All the tattoos. The odd intimacy — everyone seemed to know everyone else. The law student from Greenspan’s office: “We won’t be able to do it today. Crown’s opposing bail.” Molony had understood that in exchange for explaining the frauds he’d be granted bail immediately; he found himself pondering how he could end his life. The prisoners at the Don who cheered and whistled when they found out who he was. Stu Butts, having got himself in by saying he was a lawyer, saying, “Nobody thinks any less of you because of this, Brian. Your mother said to say she loves you. The flesh is weaker than the spirit.” Other prisoners telling him what was going to happen. You’ll be out Thursday, Eddie Greenspan will get you bail. Experts, though they’d failed to make bail themselves. The prisoner who said confidently, “You’ll get six and be out in two.” The long-haired kid who said, “Don’t say nothing to nobody in here.” The rock music that blared for five hours in the afternoon. The skinny addict who, when Molony pushed aside a tin plate of slop, said, “What’s the matter, it isn’t caviar?” The girl from Greenspan’s office asking, “If your family posts bail, will you stay in the country?” The incredible hurt. The certainty that self-destruction was the only honourable way out. Shoes and belt. Back in the van for the bail hearing. The fight in the holding area in the bowels of Old City Hall, the vivid colour of a black man’s blood, the huge pool that formed on the floor. The guards who pretended nothing was happening. Stepping out of dingy darkness into the bright courtroom, like walking onstage. Being stared at by everyone except his mother, in dark glasses, head bowed. Being told he’d made bail, waiting, waiting, then getting a message that an appraisal had to be done on his parents’ house. Reading in The Toronto Sun on Friday morning that he’d been released on $250,000 bail. Waiting. Friday noon and still nothing, good Lord, there’s been a mistake, I’ll be here all weekend, I’ll be here forever.
Finally, in the afternoon, the walk down a long corridor, the overweight guard unlocking each door in turn. The visiting area. Being told to stand in front of a peephole. Suddenly, through the slot, his mother’s eyes. He wished she’d left her dark glasses on.
“Are you all right, Brian?”
; “I’m fine.”
“This the guy you’re putting up bail for? Come this way, lady, you need to sign the forms.”
Molony was taken to a holding area. The exit gave onto the drive leading from the basement level of the jail. The moment of emergence — light, air, trees, sky. It might have been months, years. Brendan and Annemarie had pulled up to the door. As Brian climbed in, reporters and photographers hurried over; Brendan slammed into reverse and sped backwards up the ramp, scattering them.
“I might have been safer inside.”
At a take-out place his mother, Brenda, and Stuart Butts were waiting. They had Kentucky Fried Chicken in case Brian was hungry. He sat in back between Brenda and his mother. The tension and distress in the car. The pungent smell of his clothes, which he’d worn for three days and nights. Brenda squeezed his hand.
“We’re in this together,” she whispered.
Annemarie, in front, turned and said, “Speaking for the whole family, Brian, we want you to know we’re all behind you.”
The call to the post came over the radio. “Turn it up,” said Mrs. Molony, her voice shaky and frail.
The first at Greenwood was an $8,000 claiming race for maiden three- and four-year-olds. One of Dr. Molony’s horses had been entered. “The winner of the first race was Annie Adan, a bay mare by Two Gun Dan out of Snow Feather.” Dr. Molony was down in Louisville. They had all agreed there was nothing he could do while Brian was in jail, so he’d decided not to cancel his trip to Kentucky with his visiting son-in-law. He needed the time away, to collect himself and try to make sense of what had happened. Stu Butts found the attentive silence in the car almost surreal. “Annie Adan paid $22.40, $10.00, and $6.20.”
Leaving behind the dismal constriction, Brian had expected to feel relief. Instead he felt the tremendous weight of the unsaid. Everyone spoke more softly and soberly than usual. They asked if he was all right, as if he’d been in an accident. No one mentioned the fraud. He owed them an explanation but did not know how to explain. In a strange way the whole thing seemed as bewildering to him as it must have to them. In the shower at the house he stood under scalding water for what seemed hours. Annemarie knocked. “Pass me your clothes, Brian. I’ll throw them in the wash.” She pressed fifty dollars in his hand, apologizing it was all she had. He went downstairs and found his four-year-old nephew in front of the TV.
“What are you watching?”
“Cartoons.”
“Can I watch with you?”
“Sure.”
Brian sat beside him; after a while Garrett climbed onto his lap. Together they watched humanoids zoom between fantastic worlds, propelled by rocket packs on their belts.
Brian’s mother told him he was welcome to stay at the house, but Inglewood, weighted with grief, was the last place he wanted to be. On the way to the apartment Brenda told him her parents had taken the news well. For them, too, it had been a double whammy. They hadn’t known she lived with Brian. They’d offered money or whatever might help. Her manager had told her downtown wanted to speak to her but not to return until she was ready. Phil had dropped by; he and Louise wanted to put up their house to raise bail, but Louise had asked her manager and he’d said no. Sue had come over to lend support, Stu had put up part of the bail, Doug had called from Sarnia to say he’d drive up if it would do any good. None of them knew what had happened to the money, only that Brian had admitted stealing it. They were acting on faith and friendship. He had never been in such dire straits and yet felt extraordinarily fortunate.
They were barely in the door when Eddie Greenspan’s office called. Brian was told not to discuss the case with anyone, even Brenda; because they weren’t married, she could be subpoenaed to testify against him. Brian was relieved, and when he and Brenda made love it was unlike anything they’d shared. Now that the whole iceberg was visible, everything was different between them. The intimacy of revelation was almost painful. Afterwards Brian felt hungry for the first time in a week. They didn’t want anyone coming to the door — Brenda was terrified of the press — so they asked her cousin, two highrises away, if she’d pick up some Swiss Chalet chicken. Brian slept more soundly than he had in months, years.
In the morning he told Brenda he needed to do something physical, hit golf balls. She called Phil and Louise, who picked them up. The driving range was twenty miles away and the trip seemed to take forever. The car was unnaturally quiet. Phil and Louise were afraid to say the wrong thing. Brian broke the silence.
“If we reach the border, I can’t go any further.”
Everyone laughed uproariously. Then it was quiet again except for the hiss of the tires.
“I don’t know how you can joke,” said Louise.
“Now it’s from relief.”
“I just don’t know what to say. I thought I knew you.”
“Louise,” said Phil.
“No,” said Louise. “I want to know.”
“I wish I knew myself,” said Brian.
At the driving range they got buckets of balls. Phil horsed around but Brian took it seriously, teeing up the ball, addressing it soberly, concentrating on the mechanics of his swing. The ball jumped off his driver before slicing to the right. He studied its flight, teed up another, adjusted his stance.
He wanted to hit one exactly right. He wanted to hit one so hard it screamed off, farther and farther, and just kept going.
When Brenda returned to work, the Monday after Brian’s arrest, she was told head office wanted to see her. She took the subway to Commerce Court and met with Mel Simmons, the chief of security, and Brian Jilek, an inspector. They wondered if she knew why Brian had taken the money. They wanted to know how often he went away, and whether she knew where he’d been going. They asked what he’d majored in at university. They wanted to know whether she knew what he’d been up to, and why she thought he took the money. And whether she’d ever seen him bet, and where his credit cards were, and whether he’d help with an audit, and how much he gave her to look after the apartment. When she told them, they laughed and told her he was a cheapskate. They wanted to know if he’d been getting strange calls at home and how often he’d gone on trips and whether he’d cooperate with their investigation and whether she’d known all along and how it was possible not to have known and whether she understood the repercussions this would have and whether he would help with an audit and why she thought he took the money, and when they finally let her go she barely made it to the elevators before the tears came. She could feel them behind her back, staring and whispering.
At her own branch she felt a little better. Then they started phoning. They wanted his personal and business Visa cards and his help with an audit. They thought she’d like to know that thirteen people had been suspended, including the manager, the senior assistant manager, the credit officer, a foreign-exchange clerk, the audit inspector, and the assistant general manager. And that Bert Mills, the vice-president, was drawing a lot of heat, and his wife had just had a pacemaker implanted. They wanted Brenda to know that these people just might get their jobs back faster if Brian helped with the investigation and that, frankly, nobody believed she didn’t know what he’d been doing, and after a week of trying to answer their questions and ignore their knowing smirks she found herself sobbing hysterically. One of the girls at her branch took her to the emergency department at Women’s College Hospital, where they gave her sleeping pills and sent her home. She slept from nine at night until five the next afternoon, but when she got up she was even more exhausted. Brian had never seen her this way. He worried about her.
He also worried about his parents. He’d had a long talk with his father; this was simply beyond Dr. Molony’s understanding. “I don’t know what to do,” he told his son as they sat together in the livingroom at Inglewood, not bothering to switch on a lamp as daylight seeped from the room. “I don’t know what I should do. I don’t know what I can do. I simply don’t know. If you need anything, Brian, please ask.”
“Than
k you.”
“Take care of your health. This is no time to start drinking. You’ll need your wits about you.”
“Yes.”
“Sieg called, to say you could stay out at the farm.”
Brian wanted to keep busy, not sit around. He looked for a job in the want ads, made calls, put the word out. Everyone asked why he’d left the bank, of course, and when he told them they nodded: “We appreciate your candour.” His irritability grated against Brenda’s distress; they started getting short with each other. He tried not to resent the ten dollars she left on the kitchen table each morning but hated not being the breadwinner, the humbling lack of control. He started drinking rum-and-Cokes; she was getting dark circles under her eyes. By the terms of his bail he couldn’t leave the city, but when friends offered their cottage up north he urged her to go.
After a week’s rest Brenda seemed better, but then the phone started ringing again. Her mother told her the bank had called asking where Brian’s business Visa card was. Brenda was so upset she fired a pot at the kitchen wall. Brian had a demand loan from the bank for $488, and the bank towed off his car in the middle of the night. He kept looking for work; finally, at a head-hunting firm, he was called back for a second interview. When they asked him in again, he thought they were going to offer him a job. The president said, “Just one question. We do a couple of hundred thousand dollars’ worth of business with the CIBC each year. If we hire you, will that business be affected?” “I’m sure it will,” said Brian, and the offer never came. Finally, stone broke, too proud to ask his parents for money, he applied for unemployment insurance. Why not? Wasn’t this exactly what the program was for? Hadn’t he contributed for years? He began receiving $280 a week in benefits. Word got around at Bay and Richmond; everybody thought it hilarious. The $10-million man was collecting unemployment.
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