Look Both Ways

by Joan Early

  As she sped from his office, she again bumped into Travis. She wondered if he had been eavesdropping on her and Price, or whether he’d been waiting for her.

  “Susan, wait. I need a second of your time.”

  She continued toward her office, the sound of her heels clicking against the floor. Travis was close behind. Rounding her desk, she turned abruptly and asked, “What do you want?”

  “I did something yesterday that I knew was wrong. I was hurt and angry. I’m sorry for your troubles, and sorry that I may have added to them. Please forgive me.”

  “I don’t have the power to grant absolution, Travis, and I try very hard to avoid the need to seek it,” she said, her voice tightly controlled; her face all but devoid of expression.

  “Was your need to hurt me greater than everything else, or did you hope to add a star by your name for helping Price?” She almost felt sorry for Travis, but her heart was in no condition to register pity. “Unless you have business to discuss, leave my office immediately.”

  “Susan…”

  “Go to hell, Travis! Go straight to hell and take your boy Price with you.”

  He very wisely walked away. She was less than thrilled to have him caught in the crossfire, but it was his own doing. He had made two disastrous choices: betraying her and aligning himself with Price. But she had no time to waste thinking about Travis and his self-imposed hell. She had work to do.

  She closed her door, dictated a memo for distribution, and then called Perry. “It’s on for nine on Friday. You’ll get a memo, but I wanted to alert you personally. We’re meeting in the training room.”

  “Are you okay, Susan? You sound distracted.”

  “I’m fine. I spoke with Rev. Cartwright. I told Price what I thought of him. Lastly, I threw Travis out of my office. What you hear is probably the sound my soul winding down.”

  “If you need me for anything or if you just need to talk, please feel free to call.”

  She thanked him and hung up. Her plan was to keep busy for the rest of the week. Wednesday was a quiet day with no interruptions and a moderate amount of work. On Thursday, she was informed that Sealand had been selected as one of the lenders for the low-income housing initiative, but she was still too emotionally shaken to feel elated. She had finished dictating a memo announcing the commitment when Deeds poked his head in her door.

  “Miss Cross, are you all set for tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I am. The files are in the training room, the seating arrangements are complete, and I’ve instructed Laura to have the large coffee urn from the boardroom filled and in place.”

  “How many do you expect?”

  “One newspaper reporter, a TV reporter and his crew, Rev. Cartwright, his assistant, and twelve or so from his group. I suggested they bring a legal representative. I assume it will be the four of us?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “But I’m not following you on this. Why did you suggest a legal representative?”

  “Mr. Deeds, those people are coming in here tomorrow without an ounce of trust in me or my word. I want them to be able to have one of their own at the meeting to verify that what I say is true. When they leave tomorrow, I want this matter to have been put to rest once and for all, whether I’m here or not.” She thought of Angie.

  “I see. Did you advise Perry that you had taken this initiative?”

  “Since finding this pile of manure, I’ve not made a move without Perry’s knowledge and consent.” She calmly waited for his next question.

  “I talked with Perry earlier, and he thinks you have the situation well in hand. It’s obvious that you’re not liable here. I don’t want you to feel this battle is yours alone. Is there anything I can assist you with, or any questions I can answer?”

  “Yes, but if you don’t mind, I’ll reserve them for after the meeting. Right now I am focusing on successfully completing a task that I find most distasteful. I will defend these charges and I will win,” she said, confidently. “And then we can talk.”

  She double-checked everything, including the sugar and cream for the coffee. She locked the door to the training room but remained in her office until she was sure Price had left for the day. Travis joined her as she walked toward the elevator.

  “Susan, no matter what you think of me, I do care what happens to you. I did a selfish and stupid thing, and I’m eternally sorry for having done so. Good luck tomorrow.”

  “I was happy to have you as a friend, Travis. Falling in love with you would have been nice, but that didn’t happen for me. All in all, I never purposely hurt you and I never would have, but you knowingly tried to hurt me, and at a time when the deck was already stacked against me. Right now the only feelings I have for you are ones of contempt, so please don’t wish me well.” She spoke with finality and continued on her way.

  At home, there was a message from Angie inviting her over for a pot roast dinner. Feeling the need for company, she gladly accepted. She stopped at the liquor store for two bottles of Angie’s favorite merlot. She was surprised when Carl opened the door and welcomed her with a protective hug.

  “I traded shifts with a coworker to give you another shoulder if you need to lean,” he explained. “Don’t let them get to you, Susan. A lot of men are afraid of strong women and will try anything to take them down. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Carl is right,” Angie said. “You met a man who appeared to be upstanding and honest. A minister. If he used you to further his agenda, then he’s the one who should feel ashamed. I wish you’d let me come to the meeting. I want to be there for you.”

  “You’ll be there in every one of those files. You’re the reason I can walk into that room tomorrow with confidence. It’s best if no one knows what we’re up to. The element of surprise—a sneak attack—is our best defense.”

  After dinner, she sat on the sofa and talked about what was eating at her. “I’m not nervous about facing them. I have my ammunition, but Angie, I’m going to stand there in front of those black people and justify what that little viper Price Bishop did to them. I feel like such a traitor. I couldn’t face Will now even if I wanted to. Sealand screwed that up.”

  “Susan, if you don’t squash this mess, you’ll lose your job or at least a significant measure of respect from the people you manage. If that happens, Price Bishop will be able to continue doing what he did to them. Some things have to be sacrificed in order for bigger and better things to come about.”

  * * *

  Before going to bed, Susan chose her outfit for the next day: her favorite black suit, gray shirt, and black pearls. As she moved about the apartment, she kept reassuring herself that she would not fail.

  “Those people think I’m made of plastic, Dino, but they’re wrong. I’m Susan Cross, Bobby’s little sister. I’m the daughter that Ralph and Tammy taught to be resilient. I can’t let them break me. I say when. I say where. I say how much.”

  Her self-help pep talk apparently worked because she slept surprisingly well that night. She arrived at work early, and went directly to the training room for one final check, but decided to wait in her office. She wanted to make a grand entrance. She wasn’t sure why, but it seemed important at the time.

  Laura came to her door to fetch her. “Miss Cross, the people from the church just arrived; I had someone watching out for them.”

  “Thanks, Laura.”

  As she headed down the hall, the trim brunette with efficiency stamped on her forehead called after her: “We’re rooting for you, Miss Cross.”

  She smiled, gave Laura a thumbs-up, and headed into battle.

  She heard voices when she stepped off the elevator, and she knew one of them belonged to Will. She paused at the door to the training room and girded herself for what lay ahead. The ball of fear in her throat grew larger. She took a deep breath and warned herself that this was no time to freeze. She had to give the best performance of her professional life. Regardless of the pressure, she could not let them see her quake. She
fixed her face into a faux smile and entered the room. She saw Will immediately. There was no smile on his face and no excitement in his dark brown eyes, just discomfort and anxiety.

  “Good morning, everyone. My name is Susan Cross.”

  There were at least thirty people in attendance. Looking at the sea of black faces, she wanted to take the microphone and go over to their side. They looked to be average, hard-working people, some of whom may have never owned a home. She wanted to tell the whole ugly story and sink Price Bishop’s boat, but that was not possible, since she was on the same vessel. She remembered Angie’s words: The only thing standing between those people and the likes of Price was someone who cared. She had to retain her position and still remain on the side of justice.

  She scanned the room, looking for the reporters and the other members of her team. Sealand’s table was at the front of the room, facing the crowd: Only Perry was seated. He managed a weak smile, which she sort of returned. After waiting a few minutes for late arrivals, Susan asked everyone still standing to take a seat.

  “I’m sure the media would like to wrap this up quickly and so would I, so let’s please get started.” Looking around, she asked, “Where is Price?”

  Just then he slunk into the room, waited for Mr. Deeds to sit, and plopped into the chair next to him.

  Susan tapped the microphone. “Are we ready?” she asked, praying her emotions would not spill over into her voice. “Before we begin, I would like to introduce the Sealand representatives here today. I’m Susan Cross, head of lending for Sealand Prime Financial. Next to me is Perry Trask, head of Sealand’s legal division, and next to him is Waylon Deeds, Sealand’s president and chief financial officer. Next to Mr. Deeds is Price Bishop, our production manager.

  “Now I want to introduce the spokesperson for the Cedargrove residents, Rev. Willard Cartwright. Next to him is his assistant, Mrs. Whitehead. I would like the following individuals to please stand.” She glanced at her notes. “Rev. Frank Otis.” She felt a deep loathing for the short balding man, who stood and took a quick bow.

  “Is there a legal representative in the group?”

  Will stood and said, “Our legal representative is Marcus Paxton.”

  A tall, eminently calm man of about thirty-five stood on Will’s left.

  “Thank you.” She could not look at Will. She needed to be focused and work around her feelings for him. She took a deep breath and began.

  “We’re here this morning because serious allegations have been leveled regarding Sealand’s lending policies. For the record, the term redlining is used when a certain area is targeted for lending discrimination. In such cases, qualified borrowers are turned down for loans simply because of the area in which they have chosen to purchase a home. Financial institutions operate under strict guidelines, and I intend to prove that each decision regarding loans in Cedargrove Heights was made with those guidelines in mind.”

  The tremor in her voice disappeared as she continued. “Having recently relocated to this office, I had no knowledge of this matter until Rev. Cartwright brought it to my attention.”

  She spotted Deacon Jones and felt encouraged. He was smiling.

  “After hearing the concerns of Cedargrove residents, I investigated their allegations.” She pointed to the stack of files at the end of the table. “I’m now prepared to answer any questions you may have, but let me first make you aware of a very important issue. Sealand is the interim lender for this development. We believed in the project enough to finance it for Block Builders. If the homes do not sell, Block cannot pay off the construction loan to Sealand. Therefore, it is clearly in our best interest to approve each loan application that crosses our desk.”

  She stood erect and looked directly at Will. “Rev. Cartwright’s concern for his community is duly noted. Redlining is a serious charge, and since such an allegation was put into the public via the press, I’m especially pleased to have Tony Warring from Channel Two and David Chestnut, the newspaper reporter who wrote the initial story, here today.”

  Everyone looked at the reporters and camera crew, but Susan’s eyes helplessly settled on Will. For a brief moment, his pained expression tore into her heart. She quickly refocused and continued.

  “Now I ask each of you who has a comment to stand, one at a time, state your name, and give your verbal consent for me to discuss your personal file here in this forum.”

  Two men stood at the same time.

  “Okay, we have two gentlemen. May I have your name, sir?” she asked, addressing an overdressed man in a crimson hat.

  “My name is Randy Watson.”

  She remembered his file. He was probably a scam artist, not someone she wished to protect. “Thank you, Mr. Watson. And you, sir?”

  The other man appeared very nervous. “I’m Craig Williams.”

  She turned to Price. “Mr. Bishop, would you kindly pull the files on these two gentlemen, Randy Watson and Craig Williams.”

  She thumbed through the files Price handed her, and then looked at the man in the crimson hat. “Mr. Watson, there was a problem with some of the assets you listed. Are you sure you want to go into this in front of a crowd and the media?”

  “Yes, I wanna go into it. That’s why I’m here,” he growled. “You people kept asking for the same information on my income properties, and then you denied my loan. I guess it’s hard for you to believe that I own five rental houses and had assets to pay cash if I chose. If that’s not discrimination, I don’t know what is.”

  A slow smile crept across her face. As much as she dreaded taking a combative position with the black people in front of her, this one was clearly a jerk.

  “No, sir, it’s not hard to believe that you own five rental houses. The problem is the length of time that you claim to have owned them. If what you say is correct, then there are other issues at stake that could have serious ramifications for you. I’ll ask you again, are you sure you want to—”

  “Listen, lady, I don’t know what you mean about ‘claim to have owned.’ That’s exactly what your people kept asking me before. Two of those houses were paid off in ’99. One was paid off in ’03, one in ’04, and one last year. I gave you copies of the notes, stamped ‘paid in full.’ I should file harassment charges against you for the way I was treated. I’m not a poor man. I applied for a $200,000 loan. I can afford twice, three times that amount.”

  “Let me ask you once again, Mr. Watson, are you positive that you want to proceed with this matter here in front of the media and two attorneys?”

  “Are you deaf? I just said I did, didn’t I?”

  Someone snickered and Susan’s courage grew stronger, as she knew Mr. Watson would pay a stiff price for his heedlessness and his ignorance. Her hands were steady as she held onto the file she had red tagged. “My records show you filed Chapter 7 bankruptcy two years ago. For the benefit of those unfamiliar with this procedure, Chapter 7 is a court-supervised liquidation of assets. The proceeds from the sale of said assets are used to pay outstanding debts. Balances not liquidated and unsecured are forgiven and become losses for the creditors. In other words, the debtor walks away without paying his bills and the creditors, particularly the unsecured ones, have to absorb the loss. Mr. Trask, Mr. Paxton, am I correct on this?”

  Paxton nodded and Perry responded with a very loud, “Yes, you are.”

  “Mr. Watson, you failed to list the houses you owned outright and the equity in the other properties in your bankruptcy proceedings. Your debts of over $87,000 were forgiven. The reason I continued to question your willingness to proceed is that both Mr. Paxton and Mr. Trask are attorneys, officers of the court, and duty-bound to report this oversight. You committed perjury, Mr. Watson,” she said, shaking her head and looking at him with pursed lips.

  “That’s a lie! If Sealand knew all of this, why didn’t you report me before now? Because you’re lying, that’s why!”

  “Sealand employees were not duty-bound to apprise the court of your mis
conduct, sir, but these two gentlemen are. As far as loan approval is concerned, once you have cleared this matter with the court, please feel free to re-apply.”

  “I don’t want your loan! I wouldn’t take it if it were free. I knew you people would do this. Get here in front of the press and try to humiliate us.”

  Susan smiled to herself. He had given her the perfect opening. “Mr. Watson, we people, as you say, did not choose this forum. I would have preferred to speak to each of you in private, but your group brought the press into this. You just called me a liar, sir. For the record, please state which part of my explanation you feel to be false. You just acknowledged, very proudly, that you owned the real estate in question. Do you deny filing for bankruptcy? If you do, I’ve got a copy of your petition and the exhibits right here.”

  “You’re just trying to trick me. Don’t worry about me. There are still a lot of people here that you have to answer to.”

  “I’m prepared to do just that, Mr. Watson. For the sake of clarity I’ll ask your counsel, Mr. Paxton, to address the validity of my comments.”

  Paxton hesitated. “I would feel better speaking to my client in private.”

  “I would have preferred to do that as well. Did you read the article in the newspaper that contained certain allegations made by this group?”

  “I read the article, Miss Cross.”

  “Then surely you recall the line charging that Susan Cross refused to rectify this blatant injustice. The injustice is that such an allegation was printed. Susan Cross allegedly refused to take action to satisfy the people, so now we’re here to do just that. Now please, sir, address the validity of my earlier statement. Was this a legitimate rejection or an act of discrimination?”

  “Presuming your facts are in order, there were sufficient reasons to deny the loan.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Paxton. Before we proceed, which one of you will take this matter to the bankruptcy judge?”