by Scott, D. D.
“Yes. Of course. How could I have forgotten?” Clito said then gasped, which lead to a rough, painful-sounding cough.
His smoke-filled lungs were unable to take any quick intake of air.
“You have been a bit pre-occupied lately,” Bunny offered.
Her smile warmed some of the tension I felt closing in around me for having to bring up our dark past.
“I think I may have finally figured out what was in that note,” I said, watching the color drain from both Bunny’s suntanned skin and my brother’s well-bronzed face.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Of course,” I said, although the shock I still felt made my response to my older brother little more than a whisper. “Giotto Bernini ruled in a pre-transparent world as opposed to the efforts now being made because of Dodd-Frank and Volcker.”
“Okay...wait a minute here. Help me out. You know I’ve always left the Harvard level stuff to you two geniuses,” Clito said, his frown failing to hide his frustration at not being able to follow our reasoning.
“No worries, little brother,” I said ready to give him a quick overview in layman’s terms. “Dodd-Frank was a bill signed by President Ruvama in July 2010 to rein in highly fraudulent lending practices and high-risk trades on very complex derivatives and other securities.”
“These are the infamous trades like those that should have nailed the balls of big-time banks like JP Morgan Chase and ruined empires like Goldman Sachs and many others we haven’t uncovered yet. Basically, these bad trades are the reasons why Wall Street and our banking system were just about driven over a cliff in 2008,” Raulf added.
“But I still don’t get what that has to do with your father and his for-hire street urchin.”
“Part of the Dodd-Frank bill is the Volcker rule, named after the former Federal Reserve Chairman who proposed it. This rule sought to prevent banks, whose deposits are federally insured, from conducting trades using those funds for their own benefit,” I said, filling in more of Raulf’s story, having figured out where he was going with this.
“So, you mean the money that I put into my bank isn’t really mine anymore after I deposit it?” Clito asked, his red eyes damn near bulging out of their sockets.
“Something like that,” Raulf confirmed.
“Again, where does Giotto figure into this?”
“Have you heard of the London Whale?” Raulf asked.
“He’s some big trader based in London, right? He took huge positions in the derivative markets for JPMorgan Chase. He’s the reason they have bad trades worth around something like six billion dollars plus?” Clito asked, taking a deep breath and looking very proud of himself for his quick answer.
“Exactly. Well done, little brother,” I said, and then looked around again as if to make sure no one could hear what I was about to say next. “Uncle Bernini makes the London Whale look like a tadpole.”
“If legislation like President Ruvama’s Vocker Rule becomes reality, he stands to lose not just future deals with the banks he trades for, but faces huge claw-backs.”
“What do you mean by a claw-back?” Clito asked, his eyes ready to glaze over as we took him deeper into the financial circus with Uncle Bernini as ringmaster.
“Well...not only will he lose future deals, but he’ll also have to payback what he’s already made from these trades,” Raulf said, smiling for the first time during our conversation.
“Oh my God! That’s it!” Clito exclaimed, again with such force that he ended up coughing until enough air could make it down to his lungs.
“That’s what?” Raulf and I asked in unison.
“That’s why he chose Star Fish as his drag persona!”
“I’m not sure I’m following you,” Raulf said, and for the first time, he looked like the confused member of what was left of our family.
“If he’s bigger than the London Whale, then he’s the “Star” Fish!”
“Very good! But, in that case, he’s about to be harpooned or washed ashore. Take your pick,” I said.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Our next stop to foil Crumley’s presidential campaign was to meet with the various agencies and international regulators who, in the wake of the JPMorgan Chase London Whale discovery, were now probing trading practices worldwide.
To unravel obscure activities that will continue to have devastating effects on the pensions and bank accounts of all Americans, we had to show these agencies and regulators the truth. ‘Cause they certainly weren’t getting it from the balance sheets handed to them by the financial industry itself.
With Ross’s help, we were about to meet with an emergency taskforce made up of representatives from the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission, the UK’s Financial Services Authority, the FBI, the Federal Deposit Insurance Corp., the U.S. Commodity Futures Trading Commission, the U.S. Treasury’s Office for the Comptroller of the Currency, and the Federal Reserve Board and Federal Reserve Bank of New York.
We’d reveal purses my father and his kind play with that are valued at over $350 billion in cash, and that’s just the value of the trades they regularly conduct with London Whale-sized chief investment offices.
With investment banking big wigs like Chase’s CEO admitting that rules like the Volcker Rule could have banned the trades that led to our financial crisis, I finally understood just how much my father had to lose.
And thanks to the countries he’d listed on the note he’d sent by street urchin all those years ago just to brag to my mother that he would be able to control her from anywhere, I had an idea where to help the regulators focus their searches even after they’d followed up on every lead Box 438 had given us.
Before she destroyed the note that fateful night, my mother had been smart enough to memorize the list of countries. Then, she brilliantly made sure Bunny had a doll from each of the countries on that note. My mom had been a huge collector. But not until Bunny, Clito and I had met the other day did we come up with the one collection she had left for Bunny that seemingly had no meaning till we thought it through together and realized how it related to everything we’d found in Box 438.
“The problem is, fellas, we might reach that fiscal cliff we’re climbing towards like that damn Price Is Right game before this election is decided. We’ve got anxious markets, banks, fund managers and traders that may take action sooner rather than later,” I said to anyone in the room who would listen.
“Is that a threat?” A gentleman asked who was wearing a lanyard identifying him as property of the US Treasury Office.
“Could be a promise, right?” The Chairman of the Federal Reserve asked next.
“We know that your father has been taking meetings with all of the agencies and regulators involved through his associates,” said one of the FBI Analysts leading this emergency coalition.
“How do you know that?” I asked, surprised that my father would be so careless.
“One result of Dodd-Frank is that, in the interest of transparency, all such meetings are listed on each agency’s website.”
My father had never been good about keeping up with technology unless it had to do with money transfers.
“And thanks to the documentation you discovered in Box 438, we’ve been able to match up those associations and partnerships who called for those meetings with your father’s people.”
So, apparently, the FBI was finally finding more than a bunch of dead ends. Good for them. Bad for my father and The Governor.
“Okay then. This is where we can actually use the fact that this year’s DNC Convention is going to be so open,” my sister popped in.
“I don’t understand,” several of the talking heads in the room simultaneously said.
Many leaned sideways in their chairs, starting private conversations with other members of the emergency taskforce.
“If I may continue,” my sister said, waiting for the intensifying roar to dim, “Most everyone attending the functions associated with the convention will have sma
rtphones. Many will also have tablets, right?”
The room was once again silent. She had their undivided attention and several members were nodding their heads.
“That provides a lot of fantastic and very unique opportunities for issue-advocacy groups who will be attending and putting on demonstrations at the convention,” Bunny used her iPad to bring up the convention’s website.
The site’s homepage alone showcased exactly what she meant by a social media blitz of available information and platforms tuned-in to monopolize on it.
“Ah, I think I see where you’re headed with this. We can use our very own super PAC, Mission Green Freedom!” I said.
Bunny was brilliant! I may be able to design killer gadgets, but Bunny knew how to work masses of people with one little tablet.
“Exactly, Big Brother,” she said, a wicked twinkle lighting up her pretty face.
“We can have a very informative two-way conversation with all Americans. Actually, with the world,” Ross added. “It’s time the truth was revealed.”
I was so glad to have Ross at the meeting. He was well-respected in these circles. People trusted him, and we needed all the trust we could muster.
“Ask yourself, where do people turn in today’s world for breaking news?” Bunny continued, while pulling up Facebook, Twitter, and several other social media platforms with just a tap here, a pinch there, and a cache of quick swipes across her screen.
“Twitter, Facebook, You Tube...” Someone in the room said.
“Bingo.”
“The blogosphere.” Another nameless person volunteered.
“Yes. Now you’ve all got it. Nothing works better than social media to take something off-script,” Bunny said.
She cued up the Daily Show’s homepage, which got her a room full of nervous laughter.
“In an instant, we’ll have a global audience of millions. Now that’s the kind of buzz we’ve got to generate. If we want to get the truth out and bring The Governor’s campaign to a screeching halt, this is the venue,” I added to Bunny’s stellar presentation.
I didn’t need to add anything to increase the effectiveness of what she was saying. She had the room totally with her. But I just wanted her to know again how proud of her I was.
“It only takes one unfiltered Tweet or Twitpic or Instagram to go viral,” Bunny said, looking to her right and signaling the woman next to her that she could take it from here.
“And I can guarantee the unfiltered part,” Grams said, holding her head high and imitating her tiny, bony fingers working their magic over an imaginary airborne keyboard.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I sat in the small, sparsely furnished room that served as the conference room for our super PAC, Mission Green Freedom.
Normally, I liked to keep up with all of the groups my family and friends’ money supported. But with my full-time, although, temporary job protecting The President and the upcoming election, I didn’t know a lot about Mission Green Freedom, outside of their basic brochures and everything I could Google about it.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Bellesconi.”
After turning toward the velvety smooth voice behind me, I made a mental note to adjust my schedule. Evidently, I should make it a priority to learn everything I could about our super PAC.
Standing before me, with her hand held out to shake mine, was our stunning director, Giavani Rancic.
She was a beautiful woman. Thin, almost too thin for my personal taste, but striking nonetheless, and waiting for me to acknowledge her, which didn’t happen very quickly. I was tongue-tied.
She had gorgeous olive skin and large brown eyes that brought to mind a doe stepping from a forest, intent on gauging her security before she stuck out her neck too far. With a head of copper and blond hair I’d love to run my hands through falling in loose waves to her tiny waistline, and a style that made it seem she should be on the cover of fashion magazines instead of running a super PAC, I was head over my Italian loafers.
“No problem. No problem at all,” I said, having to clear my voice between the first and second response while also trying to remember what she’d even said to me, hoping what I was saying back made some sort of sense to her, because it sure as hell wasn’t registering with me.
I was in the Secret Service for cripe’s sake and second in line to a Mob Boss throne. Why the hell was this enigmatic beauty flustering me to no end?
“Beautiful name, by the way. What’s the story behind it?” I asked.
“My mother was very much into saving the earth, so she named me for the Greek Goddess of The Earth, Gaia. But she liked the sound of Gee-a better than Gay-a or Guy-a.”
Well, Giavani’s mom was definitely right on that account. There was no question her daughter was a goddess.
“I can see the Greek Goddess resemblance,” I said, knowing it was a corny line, but unable to help myself.
“My friends call me, Gia,” she said, choosing to ignore my stupid comment.
I couldn’t blame her for that. She’d turned me into a babbling idiot. For a big, tough guy, when it came to women, I was totally clueless.
“So, then, if we could get this meeting started. I’m afraid I’m due at the convention center to rehearse my speech right after lunch.”
“Very well. I’m sure, as our super PAC director, you’re well aware of the formidable opponent we’re facing in Governor Crumley,” I began, not sure I could even do what I came here to do, as she still had me fumbling for words.
“I know voters have a huge choice this time around. A choice that really is, without a better way to say it, a choice between life and death.”
Little did she know how right she was, I thought, but I wasn’t going to burden her or risk her safety with more information than was necessary.
“How is it a life or death decision from Mission Green Freedom’s perspective?” I asked, not sure what she meant by that.
“Because the air we breathe, the food we consume, the containers we use, the vehicles we drive, they’re all killing us. And Governor Crumley only understands green when it comes to the American dollar and how many he has control of in his foreign accounts.”
I couldn’t have said it better. Wow. The girl was damn smart. She was going to fit very nicely into my family’s plan.
“Let’s say, hypothetically speaking, that there’s a life-altering message at this year’s DNC Convention that would advance the causes of Mission Green Freedom, as well as make it very clear who’s the best choice for President.”
“Okay. I’ll bite. And of course we’re just hypothetically speaking,” she said, sweeping a piece of hair out of her eyes and tucking it behind her ear.
Everything about this woman made my stomach turn tight flips. I was used to living on the edge, but this was a whole new sensation.
“How many people could you reach with this message through Mission Green Freedom’s social media circles?” I asked, unsure of the PACs established reach.
“Millions. And that would be internationally speaking. Our online magazine alone has over nine million subscribers. And with the addition of our super PAC donor list to that audience base, we’ve grown to over twenty million followers across all platforms in less than a year.”
“Okay. Very good. Now then...how are your acting skills?”
“Excuse me?”
“Have you ever been a Thespian or whatever they call it?” I stammered.
I was way out of my league on this one, but I knew Bunny needed this information to finalize her convention plans.
“Actually, I was,” she said, laughing. “At one time, I dreamed of acting on Broadway.”
Her olive skin took on a rosy glow that was the cutest thing I’d ever seen.
“Well, until I see your performance, I can’t promise you Broadway. But, in the meantime, I can give you an even larger stage.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you.”
“We’d like you to perform in a Missi
on Green Freedom skit at the convention along with a friend of mine, who’s quite a performer.”
“This sounds interesting...”
“Oh, it will be. Trust me.”
“I’m not sure why, but I do trust you,” she said without a moment of hesitation.
I hoped she still did when all of this was over, I thought. There’s a lot more I’d love to get to know about her and Mission Green Freedom.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
As the lights dimmed, so did the roar and chants of the convention delegates. They returned their colorful signs to their laps or to the stadium floor as they took their seats for what I’m sure they thought would be just another convention-style video about President Ruvama and the ideals he stood for.
“I guess were about to give The Royal Digs a whole new meaning, right y’all?” Grams asked, taking a huge swig of her Southern sweet tea.
She took her seat as well and enlarged the picture on her monitor to full screen mode. She then made that image fill the entire bank of oversized monitors in our secret control room underneath the stage.
“What do you mean?” I asked, at a loss as to what she was referring to as The Royal Digs.
“Well...this ain’t no show-us-your-posh-crib reality gig from one of those entertainment and music TV shows. You’re the royal family and, in this skit, we’re diggin’ on pretend organic, earth-friendly farms. But not for produce, right?”
Even after working with Grams on a couple of cases now, I still couldn’t get used to the way her brain worked.
I watched the monitors, noting all of our actors were in place, including Clito and Star Fish, who I was sure would turn out to be the world’s first organic farmers in drag. Old MacDonald had never looked so RuPaul fabulous.
In a huge stage set-up made of a large compost heap, a barn, real barnyard animals – hell, they even had a cow and a couple of chickens too - the convention audience, and soon the world, thanks to Grams’ and Bunny’s skills, would be treated to a skit about much more than supporting farmers and eating local food.