Stung

by Gary Stephen Ross

  The realization that she was terminally ill stunned the family. Brian’s problems shrank to insignificance. He had found work with a computer software company. The office was a good forty minutes from the hospital but he visited each day, sometimes more than once. He organized a schedule to ensure at least one family member was with Mrs. Molony at all times. She missed her music, so he brought her a tapedeck and the Irish folk songs and Roger Whittaker ballads she enjoyed. He had never spent so many hours with her; it was a time of great intimacy. They talked about his work, the stock market, the weather, the wonderful nurses at Princess Margaret. They talked about everything except her illness and his crime. She didn’t want to burden him with her problems, and he felt it would have been inappropriate to raise his troubles when she was gravely ill. Besides, he hadn’t forgotten the sight of her eyes through the peephole. He knew the depth of her shame.

  Meanwhile, the cancer was spreading. One day, when the nurses turned her over, her arm fractured near the shoulder. She told her children she’d slipped in the bathroom. They had enough to worry about without worrying about her. When she felt well she liked to read the paper, but had trouble managing with only one arm. Brian hit on the solution. He sliced the newspaper in half so she could read a page, turn it over, and discard it.

  Brian had had no experience of death. No one in the immediate family had died or been grievously ill. It was ghastly, a roller coaster of pain and relief. One day he’d find his mother sitting up and laughing at the antics of visitors, something of the beauty and fullness restored to her face; next morning she’d be in such intense pain she could barely utter a greeting, her face a mask. The doctors said she was terminal, but they’d said that about plenty of other patients who had recovered. Brian’s brother Brendan was planning to marry and she had every intention of celebrating the occasion. There were bank accounts that required her signature, though, and the house was in her name, so Brian asked Stu Butts to draw up a power of attorney. Not that he’d given up hope — on the contrary. She was included in the prayers of a great many people; Brian himself had resumed going to Mass; there was always the chance of a miracle. Who believed in miracles more keenly than a loving son who still half believed, a year after his arrest, that if he hadn’t been caught he would have won back the $10-million and repaid the bank?

  At the time of the arrest, and with each court appearance, much was made in the pulp press of Molony’s Jekyll-and-Hyde nature. An English tabloid referred in its headline to his “double life.” A story in the National Enquirer bore the headline “Brown-Bagger by Day, Wild High-Roller by Night.” Mention was made elsewhere of his “split personality” and “schizophrenic” character. This psychological speculation was buttressed by references to the symbols of his two lives. The staid probity of the bank worked nicely against the glamorous excitement of the casino.

  The two institutions are not so unalike as image might suggest. Both are powerful lobbyists in their constituencies, conducting their affairs with sanctimonious arrogance. Both represent corporate enterprise refined to its sublime limit. There is no product to intrude in the making of money: the product is money. Both are highly structured bureaucracies that require employees to act along prescribed lines. Both emphasize security and reflect the assumption of employee dishonesty. Both are dominated by men and deeply sexist. Both demand loyalty and adherence to the corporate line. Neither can tolerate the exercise of individual conscience. The casino executive will welcome a heroin dealer, provided he has cash, as the banker welcomes a businessman who has plundered his company, in hopes of landing his account.

  Like the employees at Bay and Richmond, the employees at Caesars in Atlantic City were never informed what had happened, only that they were not to discuss Molony with anyone. People in the craps pit were called in, one at a time, and told violation of this edict would lead to automatic termination. In each case the company seemed less interested in correcting the flaws that had permitted abuse than in getting the corporate story straight and isolating scapegoats. Though the CIBC is traded on the Toronto Stock Exchange and Caesars New Jersey on the American Exchange — though both are public companies — neither has ever explained the affair to shareholders.

  The CIBC found it hard to believe Molony had acted alone; anyone who’d had anything to do with him was suspect. At Richardson Securities, Jim Surgey found himself having to answer the same questions again and again; he had the feeling the bank would have loved to have discovered collusion. When a New York lawyer for Lloyd’s of London, the CIBC’s bonding company, raised the possibility of filing suit against Richardson’s, however, he was discouraged. Apparently he was unaware that Richardson Securities was a prominent CIBC customer, and that George T. Richardson sat on the bank’s board of directors.

  On the morning of the arrest, a phone message was found on Molony’s desk from a Mr. Greenspan. The bank assumed Molony had contacted Eddie Greenspan before being caught and treated Greenspan with contempt. He was told that if he accepted money from Molony he’d be accepting stolen funds. He happened to be a customer and found his affairs carefully scrutinized. Normal courtesies were no longer extended. The bank wouldn’t allow his bookkeeper to cash his endorsed paycheque; he himself had to stand in line. The treatment was so irritating he almost pulled his account from the branch.

  When the bank investigators examined the frauds, they found that the Sherry Brydson loan account had been extensively manipulated. Had she been in on the scam? There was reason to think so. Elm Street Holdings, the final fraudulent account, was a clear reference to the Elmwood Club. And Brydson’s lawyer, Stu Butts, was a personal friend of Molony’s. The morning he heard the news he had gone down to the branch to raise bail money, an act of friendship that raised more than a few eyebrows. And when the inspectors looked at Brydson’s flow charts, they discovered a corporate organization — a welter of companies, many inactive — that seemed contrived for purposes of fraud. Brydson was brusquely questioned, and for many weeks her controller was harassed virtually every day. The new assistant manager at Bay and Richmond, Bill Gray, dragged her out of meetings to say the Westerkirk account was a few hundred dollars overdrawn. If the money weren’t deposited by day’s end, the bank would be forced to take drastic action. Brydson’s signature on cheques was questioned. She had no doubt that she was under suspicion, and that her loan would have been called had she not been a member of the Thomson family.

  In the bank itself, responsibility had to be laid at someone’s feet. The inspector who had been in charge of the audit was demoted. A regional vice-president was sent to Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, banking purgatory. Three of the Bay and Richmond employees who had been temporarily suspended — Johanne Prescott, Karen McCaffrey, and Jackie Ho — were demoted a grade or two and forced to take salary cuts of up to $3,000. At other branches of the CIBC, word went around that salary increases were being reduced or withheld because of the fraud. Never mind the billions in bad loans the CIBC had made to bankrupt countries and companies. Never mind that it would recover all but the $250,000 deductible portion of its policy with Lloyd’s of London. The CIBC was happy to have employees believe they were suffering because of what Molony had done.

  Alex Osborne had been at Bay and Richmond during the first six months of Molony’s fraud. The bank’s internal report recommended his dismissal, but the recommendation was overruled and he took a salary cut instead. Before long he was promoted to assistant general manager for the Ontario region, then transferred to Vancouver to manage the main branch there. That, too, was a promotion, but Osborne didn’t necessarily see it as such. Commerce Court is where he had hoped to end up; Vancouver was about as far from Commerce Court as you could get.

  Harry Buckle had been at Bay and Richmond more than a year when the fraud was revealed. As manager, he was responsible for all aspects of branch operation. The bank was contemplating further legal action against the casino; if the action ever came to trial, Buckle would undoubtedly be subpoenaed. It was in t
he bank’s interest not to antagonize him. He was given a choice between demotion or early retirement. The CIBC pension was based on an employee’s last five years rather than his best five; a demotion, with pay cut, would have meant a lower pension. Early retirement was the sensible choice. By not penalizing Buckle financially, by providing a graceful exit, and by keeping his name out of the newspapers, the bank treated him as well as he could have hoped.

  Molony’s credit officer, Steve Richardson, was treated rather differently. His job was to fetch files, ensure documents bore initials, make the phone calls Molony didn’t wish to make. He was expected to act with little independence and had never been encouraged to think his responsibilities included making judgements about what his superior was doing. He’d held a training position; he was a minion, and a good one. Customers thought highly of him and fellow employees liked him. Richardson expected he’d be promoted to replace Molony. When told instead that he was being fired, he couldn’t believe his ears.

  “No, I’m not,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Gord Ormston, the vice-president doling out the medicine. “You are.”

  Having confessed to the fraud, Molony gave no thought to a plea of not guilty. Even if he did recant, Lindquist Holmes, the forensic accountancy firm hired by the attorney general to assist the police investigation, would have no trouble producing reams of damning documentation. Greenspan advised Molony not to help with that investigation until it was complete. If he cooperated and overlooked a fraudulent transaction, he might appear to have been concealing the full extent of his crime.

  Because of the complexity of the embezzlement, the report took eighteen months to prepare; the legal proceedings had to be set back again and again. It was the low point of Molony’s life. His mother’s agony was beginning to seem as interminable as the wait for his own legal reckoning. He was seeing a Toronto psychiatrist, Dr. Kilian Walsh, and attending weekly meetings of a support group. Like alcoholics and drug users, compulsive gamblers tend to fall off the wagon when they’re under great pressure, and Molony’s life was unending anxiety. Oh, for a day at the races!

  Brenda, by now, had been transferred; she worked as an efficiency expert, assessing CIBC branches that had requested additional staff to see if they were fully utilizing their personnel. She lived in constant fear. She was afraid of publicity. She was afraid of the reporters who phoned and knocked at the door. After Brian made bail a photographer had jumped out of a stairwell, and a photo of Brian and Louise turned up in the paper. The caption described her as an “unidentified female companion,” but the bank had little trouble identifying her. Louise’s manager promptly had her transferred, apparently feeling that corporate loyalty ought to have negated friendship.

  Brenda was also afraid she’d be called to testify. After such exposure, how would she be able to stay on at the bank? She’d have no choice but to resign. If she resigned, how would she earn a living? Each bank had its own way of doing things; skills acquired at the CIBC weren’t really transferable. Brian was making decent money with the software company, but his legal bills would eat far more than he could earn. Once he went to prison she’d have to manage on her own. One night in bed he admitted that he too was frightened of what lay ahead. It was evidence of the wonderful changes in him — in the past he would never have expressed his feelings so directly — but his fear redoubled hers. As in the months before the arrest, the strain he was under blossomed in her.

  They both tried to put the future out of mind. Brian more or less succeeded by thinking his way around it. Nothing he could do would change what would happen, therefore it wasn’t worth dwelling on. The way to avoid dwelling on it was to keep absorbed in work. Working harder also meant making more money; down the line, the extra income would make things easier. The software company had developed a program that allowed mainframe computers to talk to laser printers. The people were technically brilliant but lacked business expertise. Molony helped establish reporting and marketing systems. By reducing expenses, negotiating with suppliers, and urging changes in pricing methods, he helped solve the cash-flow problem. In a few months a company that had been running a $100,000 deficit was in the black. The turnaround owed a great deal to Molony’s grunt work. Most of the time he could be found at the office; he was doing sales projections the morning his father called.

  “Your mother’s gone to the Lord.”

  “I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Brian, if you’d pick up Katie on your way. She’s at the house.”

  Katie had taken off school because of her mother’s illness. She was still asleep when Brian got to Inglewood. No one else was home. It hadn’t occurred to Brian he’d have to break the news. Katie was the second youngest. He had a special feeling for her and wondered what to say. He woke her by touching her shoulder.

  “Katie. Let’s go to the hospital.”

  She stretched and yawned. “Why?”

  “Mommy passed away.”

  After a while she calmed down enough to say she wanted to make her own way to the hospital. Brian said no, he’d take her. She vented her grief in the car, and when they got off the elevator she ran sobbing down the hall. Brian was numb but clear-headed. The sight of the body didn’t disturb him; he had seen his mother in a coma. All the family had gathered.

  “I believe in God,” Dr. Molony began, “the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord, Who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried. He descended into hell; the third day He rose again from the dead; He ascended into heaven; sits at the right hand of God, the Father Almighty; from thence he shall come to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting. Amen.”

  “Our Father,” returned his children, “Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name,” and they all said a rosary together, taking turns announcing the mysteries, joining together for the Our Father, the Hail Mary, and the Glory Be.

  Brian accompanied his father to the funeral home, relishing the short walk. Perhaps it was relief at leaving behind the hushed air and medicinal smells. Perhaps thanks that his mother’s suffering had ended. Perhaps simple pleasure in his father’s company. Not often did he get a chance to be alone with his father. At the farm, sometimes, and on the golf course, years earlier, when he’d caddied; in the car, driving down to Regina Mundi, the turn signal ticking because his father couldn’t hear to shut it off; at the School for the Deaf in Milton, where the swimming pool was eerily overrun, the kids splashing and playing in silence; at the races one day, when Brian was twelve or thirteen. One of Dr. Molony’s horses must have been running. Brian knew something about horses and tried to tell his father which one he thought would win. Between his father’s impaired hearing, though, and the din of the crowd, it was hard to make himself heard.

  The mortician’s dark suit and deep, concerned voice went perfectly with the ornate furniture and sombre Muzak. “Very sorry to hear about your loss,” he said gravely, a young man no older than Brian. The ritual phoniness was dispiriting. “We’ve arranged to go to the hospital.” He clicked a pen. “Now, if we could confirm some details.” Dr. Molony had already selected the coffin, an unadorned model. He and Brian had only to finalize arrangements and decide on the wording of the death notice.

  People were gathering at Inglewood. The house around him swelled with grief, but Brian was controlled and pragmatic. He phoned the farm to tell Sieg, then suggested they draw up a list of people to call, friends and acquaintances whom they didn’t want hearing the news from someone else. He drove to the liquor store and bought supplies. Not wanting to go home, he went to Swiss Chalet and tried to eat chicken. When he did return, in late afternoon, he found everyone asleep. He too was drained but didn’t want to rest; he phoned people, he kept moving. What might happen if he stopped?

>   The long hours at the funeral home were arduous. Hundreds of people came, patients of Dr. Molony, colleagues, church friends of Mrs. Molony, neighbours. They all knew about Brian, of course, but no one let on. He was told again and again what a fine woman his mother had been. Strange that he had adored her and admired his father and thought of them as wonderful parents without realizing how many people they had touched. How deeply one life — every life — affects others.

  The Molony men held fast until the day of the funeral. Just before the casket was transported to Our Lady of Perpetual Help the family had a few minutes alone with the body. Dr. Molony couldn’t keep it inside any longer; he broke down, then one son did, then another, and another. The hugged each other and said a rosary, Dr. Molony drawing strength from his faith, his children from one another. As he had after the arrest, Brian found himself at the mercy of forces beyond his understanding and his power to monitor. To feel yourself a part of something so majestic and inexorable was painful, yet complete.

  Our Lady of Perpetual Help was crowded to overflowing. There seemed an extraordinary number of young people. Bishop Leonard Wall had returned from a retreat to conduct the funeral, and his words were rich and consoling. Brian was in a daze, looking right through people he knew. The bank had made known to at least one employee that it would not be responsible for any “negative consequences” that might grow out of association with Molony. Some friends from work, worried a CIBC spy would be at the church, didn’t attend the service.

  Brian found himself thinking of his mother. To feed such a large family, she’d shopped at a “food warehouse” where the carts were oversized. At dinner one night this gracious woman who never uttered a profanity, recalling an incident at the grocery store, exclaimed, “Those stupid baskets!” Everyone stopped eating, stunned, and then broke into laughter. “What’s so funny?” she wanted to know. Tears of mirth ran down their cheeks, they laughed as hard as they’d laughed the time their mother ran out of bus tickets. Her friend Maura Grant gave her a senior citizen’s ticket, saying, “Here, use this. What’s the difference?” Seniors paid a reduced fare; Mrs. Molony was petrified she’d be caught in this transgression. As soon as she passed through the turnstile, though, she was offended the ticket-taker hadn’t challenged her. How could he have possibly let her pass her for sixty when she was only fifty-eight?