The Girl From Home

by Adam Mitzner

  When their mother passed, Jonathan was at his trading desk. Amy had called earlier in the day and reported that the doctors believed the end was near, but Jonathan thought there would be more time.

  Sometimes Jonathan thinks that’s what they’re going to inscribe on his own tombstone: He always thought there’d be more time.

  “Okay,” he tells his sister. “I’ll stay.”

  13

  September

  The rain is hard enough that Jonathan decides to forgo his morning run, which allows him an extra hour of sleep. The downpour hasn’t abated when he leaves for work, which means that getting a cab is going to be difficult, even at six thirty in the morning.

  “Taxi, Mr. Caine?” Ruben, the doorman, asks.

  “Yes, thank you,” Jonathan replies.

  Ruben heads out into the storm. He uses a silver whistle as well as his hand to flag down oncoming cabs. After five or so minutes of standing in the rain, Ruben blows the three rapid-fire whistles indicating he’s finally landed one.

  Jonathan jogs out into the storm and wordlessly slaps ten dollars into Ruben’s hand before grabbing for the cab’s door. As he opens it, Jonathan hears a voice beside him.

  “Going uptown?” asks a well-dressed man. Despite the fact he’s holding a large umbrella, the stranger is still getting wet.

  Jonathan hates sharing cabs. “I’m only going to Fifty-Ninth and Park,” he says.

  “Then this must be my lucky day, because I’m heading there, too. Fifty-Seventh and Park, actually, so I won’t even take you out of your way.”

  “Okay . . . sure,” Jonathan says through a thin smile.

  Jonathan scoots over to the far window, and the man slides into the back of the cab beside him. After he carefully shakes the excess water from his umbrella onto the cab floor, the man extends his hand to Jonathan.

  “I’m Jeremy Woodrow,” he says.

  Getting a better look, Jonathan realizes that his cab-mate is none other than the son of the real estate scion Archibald Woodrow, who owns more than half a dozen office buildings in Manhattan. Jonathan recalls recently reading a magazine article about how the family was now diversifying the family portfolio into other investments.

  Jonathan can’t believe his luck. It’s as if God himself has sent an angel from heaven. The Woodrows could drop a few hundred million into the fund without batting an eye.

  “Jonathan Caine,” he replies with a grin, pumping his new best friend’s hand.

  Jonathan bides his time waiting for Jeremy to ask what he does for a living, but that question doesn’t come. Instead the taxi rolls along, making nearly every light until the red signal stops them at Forty-Second Street.

  Jonathan figures that it’s now or never. “What line of work are you in, Jeremy?”

  “Real estate.”

  “Interesting. I work with a lot of people in that space. I head up the currency derivative desk at Harper Sawyer.”

  Jeremy Woodrow nods. Jonathan is hoping that he’ll express greater interest than that, but he remains silent as the cab begins to move forward again.

  At Fifty-Sixth Street, the light goes against them. Jeremy Woodrow calls to the driver. “I’ll get out here. That way you don’t even have to stop just for me.”

  The building directly across the intersection is one Jonathan’s passed a million times. Above the doors is the Woodrow name in large gold letters.

  Jeremy Woodrow pulls out a twenty-dollar bill, even though the meter only says seven dollars. Jonathan waves away the gesture.

  “No, no. My pleasure, Jeremy.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well . . . thank you so much for the ride, Jonathan. Call my office and maybe we can get lunch sometime.”

  * * *

  Jonathan enters the Harper Sawyer trading floor with an extra spring in his step. In Jonathan’s world, the only reason men have lunch is to discuss terms of a business transaction. That means that Jonathan’s first and only order of business this morning is to learn everything he can about the Woodrow empire, with an eye toward how large an investment he might be able to pry out of Jeremy Woodrow.

  He types his password into the computer. Instead of his normal screen displaying the current trading prices of various world currencies, he sees the message See Tech Desk.

  Jonathan’s stomach clenches. It’s not that he’s never seen this message before. Once or twice a year, there’s some snafu when passwords have to be changed and this type of thing happens.

  You’re just being paranoid, he tells himself. He’s in the midst of a hot streak—Ross has been fully redeemed, the crisis in Russia was short-lived, and the ruble is now rising steadily, winning back most of the losses previously suffered. The chance meeting with Jeremy Woodrow only confirms that Jonathan is once again in control of his own destiny. It can’t be over now. It just can’t.

  He picks up the phone, but it isn’t the tech desk he calls.

  “Were you able to log in?” he asks Haresh.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I got a message that I should contact the tech desk.”

  Haresh sighs. In that breath, Jonathan’s worst fears are confirmed. It’s over for him. Harper Sawyer knows.

  “I’m sure it’s just a password thing,” Haresh finally says.

  Jonathan has always known Haresh to be a lousy liar. For the first time, he sees that as bad news. Haresh won’t be able to convincingly tell Harper Sawyer anything but the truth. In fact, he probably has already told them everything.

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured, too,” Jonathan says, knowing his own lie sounded more convincing. “I’ll call them right now.”

  He doesn’t have an opportunity to call anyone, though. His other line is ringing before he puts down the phone.

  “Jonathan Caine,” he says.

  “Mr. Caine, this is Joy Brown, in Vincent Komaroff’s office. Mr. Komaroff would like you to come immediately to the forty-seventh floor to meet with him.”

  “What’s this about?” Jonathan asks, knowing he won’t get an answer.

  “I honestly don’t know, Mr. Caine. Mr. Komaroff just asked me to call you. They’re waiting for you.”

  They? Komaroff has called in others for this. That’s got to mean lawyers. Or worse, cops.

  Jonathan’s trying to think of something to say, but there’s only one response that’s acceptable when the CEO summons you. After a few seconds, he provides the expected answer.

  “I’ll be right up.”

  Before leaving the trading floor for what he knows will be the last time, Jonathan takes a moment to survey his soon-to-be former kingdom. It’s no different than any other Monday morning. The traders are screaming into their phones, the runners are scurrying about, the lights on the big board are flashing.

  Jonathan had dedicated his life to the numbers on that board. When they went in his favor, he felt invincible. A god. And when they moved against him, he became a gladiator, ready to take up the fight to regain his standing.

  What will he be now without any of it? Will he even be himself anymore? He thinks not. He’ll be nothing. A nobody.

  He briefly considers making some type of valedictory statement, or even just saying good-bye to Haresh. He knows better, however. Anything he’d say now would later be used to incriminate him.

  As he walks off the trading floor, Jonathan considers the fact that the next time he’ll see any of these people will likely be from across a courtroom.

  * * *

  Even though he was expecting it, Jonathan is still taken aback when he steps off the elevator to see Harper Sawyer security. Four of them, to be exact. Big men wearing rent-a-cop uniforms. At least Jonathan doesn’t see any firearms.

  But then he realizes that their presence is actually a good thing. Building security, at least, can’t arrest him.

  Vincent Komaroff’s assistant, the woefully misnamed Joy, is a woman in her fifties whom Jonathan has never seen smile. She stands in front of the wall of security men; her job is to escort Jonath
an back to Komaroff’s office. Joy doesn’t say anything aside from “Follow me, please,” and they walk silently in what Jonathan feels is a death march.

  Inside the chairman’s office, it’s a full house. Attending the party is Komaroff and Fran Lawrence, as well as Harper Sawyer’s general counsel, Calvin Caldwell, and three other men, none of whom Jonathan recognizes. The oldest of the three might as well have a tattoo on his forehead that says outside counsel—gray hair, horn-rimmed glasses, three-piece suit, high-shine, cap-toe shoes, the works.

  They are all seated—the lawyers grouped together on the sofa, and Komaroff and Lawrence in chairs on either side. An empty chair is opposite them. There’s little doubt from the configuration of the furniture that Jonathan is the enemy here.

  “Have a seat, Jonathan,” Komaroff says. “You know Calvin, the firm’s general counsel. And I’ve asked Benjamin Ethan to join us today. He’s with Taylor Beckett, and represents us in various regulatory matters. As you might have surmised, we have something of a problem here.”

  So that’s the older one’s name, Benjamin Ethan. Jonathan’s heard of him. A big gun. This is CYA time for Harper Sawyer.

  Jonathan doesn’t say a word. Not even hello. No handshakes are offered. Just the empty chair, which Jonathan reluctantly places himself in. Then he waits for the guillotine to drop.

  Benjamin Ethan has apparently been charged with running the meeting. “Mr. Caine, we know that back in June, Michael Ross at Maeve Grant sent in a redemption notice seeking the immediate withdrawal of over seven hundred million dollars,” he says.

  Ethan comes to a full stop. He and Jonathan stare at each other. Jonathan is determined not to be the one who blinks first.

  “That’s . . . correct, isn’t it?” Ethan asks.

  Jonathan knows that saying nothing is the smartest move. On the cop shows, only idiots try to talk their way out when they’re guilty. Then again, he figures that there can’t be much harm in admitting to what they already know.

  “Yes. Mr. Ross redeemed in June. The redemption was not immediate, however. It was pursuant to the terms in the docs. There’s paperwork on that.”

  “How’d you cash him out?” Ethan asks.

  “There’s paperwork on that, too,” Jonathan answers flatly, this time looking at Vincent Komaroff.

  Fran Lawrence takes up the mantle. He normally plays the heavy in these situations.

  “You need to adjust your attitude, Jonathan. You’d do yourself a lot of good if you understood the seriousness of your predicament and cooperated with us.”

  Cooperating is the farthest thought from Jonathan’s mind. He knows it won’t do any good. He’s already fired; they just haven’t told him yet.

  “Compliance never said a word to me that anything was off,” Jonathan says. “What’s the problem?”

  “Compliance,” Lawrence snorts. “Compliance will be dealt with, too, I promise you that. But this is about you. I’ll give credit where credit is due. You almost pulled it off. Bad luck about Alexeyev, though. Even someone as deceptive as you couldn’t cover up a loss of that magnitude.”

  “I’m sorry, I still don’t understand,” Jonathan says, managing to maintain his poker face. “The fund is down a bit, but not materially so. And like you said, Alexeyev’s death was a real market mover.”

  “Fuck you, Caine!” Lawrence barks. “You could have single-handedly bankrupted a company that’s been in existence for five generations!”

  “But I didn’t. The fund is doing fine and I’ve made you millions!” Jonathan shouts back.

  Komaroff puts up his hands. “I don’t see any reason to prolong this,” he says to no one in particular. Then he turns his focus on Jonathan. “You are hereby suspended from Harper Sawyer, without pay, effective immediately. We will be conducting a thorough investigation. During the pendency of this matter, you are not to come to the office or attempt to contact anyone at the firm, or to access any corporate data remotely. We have revoked all of your passwords and frozen all of your accounts.”

  They froze all his accounts. Komaroff might just as well have shot him in the head. That would have ended his life more efficiently than denying him every penny he has in the world.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, I’ve got over twenty million dollars in that account,” Jonathan says as if in a daze. Then more forcefully, “That’s my fucking money!”

  “That’s a matter for the courts to decide, Mr. Caine,” Benjamin Ethan says calmly. “And until they do, every penny is staying right here.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see if my lawyers agree with that,” Jonathan snaps, even though he doesn’t have lawyers. And now that he doesn’t have any money, the chance of his getting lawyers—or even a single lawyer—is not very high.

  In fact, he has nothing now. No job. No money. Zero. Nada. Zilch.

  “Security will escort you out of the building,” Lawrence says. He’s obviously not the least bit intimidated by Jonathan’s threat of a battalion of attorneys descending on Harper Sawyer to unfreeze his accounts.

  Lawrence rises and makes his way to the door. He pushes it open to reveal the four men who had greeted Jonathan at the elevator upon his arrival. Security must have been standing guard just outside Komaroff’s office the whole time, ready to come in if Jonathan needed to be subdued.

  If Jonathan had still been employed, he would have earned more in two weeks than all four of them combined make in a year. Now these lunkheads are showing him the door.

  “This isn’t the end of this,” Jonathan snarls. “Not by a long shot.”

  “For your sake, I hope it is,” Komaroff says, more in sadness than in anger. “Because I have the feeling it’s only going to get worse for you.”

  * * *

  “You’re home early. Did something happen at work?” Natasha says when Jonathan enters the apartment at six o’clock.

  He’s stayed out as long as he could—sitting in a near-empty movie theater watching two showings of some film he now can’t even remember. Apparently, he should have stayed for a third show if he wanted to sidestep the comment Natasha just made.

  Even though Natasha has presented him with another opportunity to come clean, he rejects it out of hand. Admitting failure is not something Jonathan’s prepared to do. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  “Everything’s fine at work,” he says. “I think I ate something at lunch that didn’t agree with me. I’m going to lie down for a little bit.”

  He enters his bedroom and takes a step toward the window, staring out into the Hudson River. One thought swirls in his brain: How will he survive?

  The co-op would likely sell for close to ten million, but it’s worthless to him, at least in the short term. It would take six months at least to close on the sale. In the meantime, he can’t even access the equity, because the co-op board rules prohibit home equity loans.

  The Bentley is a prepaid lease, and although he might be able to sell it, Natasha would want to know why and he isn’t ready to cross that particularly treacherous Rubicon. The artwork might fetch some cash, and Natasha’s jewelry is probably worth in the neighborhood of $250,000, but, once again, he can’t sell it without alerting her to the mess he’s made. Besides, art and jewelry of that quality has to be sold at auction. A pawnshop would give him, at most, twenty cents on the dollar. He looks down at the Lange & Söhne chronograph on his wrist, remembering that he paid fifty thousand for it. The good folks at Tourneau might give him half that now.

  Natasha wouldn’t know if they stopped paying the mortgage or maintenance, so between his Amex card, the twenty thousand he’d moved to his checking account last month, and pawning the watch, there might be enough to get them through year’s end. But then what?

  Outside his window, Jonathan sees whitecaps on the Hudson, a ferry circling the Statue of Liberty. A second option occurs to him. He could just throw himself out the window. Better yet, hightail it out of here and start his life over.

  “Not yet,” he says aloud, albeit in a whisp
er. Even though all he can see right now is defeat, as long as he stays in the game, there’s still a chance he can win it.

  14

  Three Months Later/December

  Jonathan spends the evening in the ICU, sitting beside his father in an uncomfortable chair. At around midnight one of the ICU nurses shows him that there’s a family lounge on the floor, complete with a television and sofa. Thereafter he divides his time between watching his father sleep and a Rocky marathon on Spike.

  Jackie texts that she’s thinking about him and wishes she could be there. He imagines she sent it while holed up in her bathroom, with the door locked, and then erased the message immediately after hitting send so Rick wouldn’t find it.

  Still, he appreciates the gesture. For a moment, it makes him feel slightly less alone.

  * * *

  Jonathan falls asleep in the lounge midway through Rocky V, and then awakes at seven in the morning in a panic, consumed by the same sense of dread that his father was dead that fell upon him when he entered Lakeview for the first time.

  He races to the ICU, failing to abide by the protocol of washing and putting on the paper clothing. Nothing has changed, however. His father continues to snore quietly into his breathing tube.

  “You can’t be in here like that,” a nurse scolds.

  She’s the youngest one he’s yet encountered, early twenties, he figures. Something like a frat-boy fantasy of a nurse. Long, curly reddish hair, pale, freckled skin, and a uniform that fits snugly.

  “I’m sorry,” Jonathan says. “I . . . I just got scared for a second.”

  He allows her to lead him back to the nurses’ station. Once he’s there, relief slowly begins to settle in. As his other senses return, he realizes that he’s in serious need of coffee.

  “Where’s the cafeteria here?” he asks.