The Buy Side

by Turney Duff

  At precisely 6:30 a.m., the doorbell to Raj’s apartment rings. No doubt, he’s surprised by the sound. If you live in a Sutton Place co-op, the doorbell almost never rings unannounced. But he’s far more surprised when he opens the door. Standing there in the hall are a half dozen or so federal agents, some wearing FBI windbreakers.

  “No,” I tell Jeff. “I’m not okay.” I don’t know how much Jeff knows about my drug use, but I suspect more than I realize. He seems concerned but not shocked. He tells me he’ll call me back. “Jeff, I can’t come in today,” I say again. “Or ever,” I mumble. I hang up the phone and do some more cocaine. I know it’s going to make it worse, but I don’t have a choice. I grab the empty bottle of scotch and suck out the last drops. I make my way back out to the porch and light up another cigarette. The morning sun now bathes the front yard. The lawn hasn’t been mowed since early summer, and the gardens are overrun with weeds. I notice a car parked near the end of my driveway. I saw it drive by the house earlier. I go back into the living room, turn off the television, and shut all the shades.

  Under the watchful eyes of the agents, Raj puts on a white dress shirt, open at the collar, a green cardigan, and a blue blazer. When he finishes dressing, an agent tells him to put his hands behind his back. He feels the cold steel on his wrists and then hears the click of handcuffs locking. The agents ask Raj if he has a gun, if he has any drugs in the house. He thinks they might plant something. His wife and kids are there. It’s a sight they’ll never forget. The agents tell him he’s under arrest for insider trading. They lead him from the apartment and then out of the building.

  I’m almost out of cocaine. When my phone pings with a text, I nearly jump off the couch. I can’t look at it. Instead, I clutch the pillow again in fear of my heart exploding. I creep to the living room window and stand, hidden by the curtain, looking out to the driveway and street beyond. A dark sedan, the same one that was parked in front earlier, I think, slows as it passes by. The driver looks right at me. I stand there frozen, both afraid he can see me and afraid to look away.

  Raj sits in an FBI interrogation room. His lawyer is not yet there. He doesn’t need a lawyer. Ethnically, Raj is a Tamil from Sri Lanka. Soldiers in the Tamil Tigers wear chains with cyanide capsules around their necks. They’ll kill themselves before they’re captured. Raj won’t admit a thing. He won’t cooperate. The interrogation goes on for hours. The agents play back wiretaps of Raj’s phone conversations that implicate him. But Raj says nothing.

  My cell phone dings again. Then again and again. Texts. A few seconds go by and then the phone dings a few more times. What the fuck is going on? Jesus Christ. I pick up the phone to look at the first message—Raj has been arrested, it says. The next one is the same thing and then another says the FBI has raided Galleon’s office. My phone continues to ding as the messages come flying in.

  I’m numb. Oh my god. It all makes sense. The FBI is coming to get me. I run to find the plate with evidence of cocaine on it, furiously scrub the plate in the kitchen, then run to the bathroom and flush the remaining cocaine. It can’t be about Galleon. I did nothing wrong. A catalog of trades flips through my thoughts. Nortel, I think. No, it can’t be that. I didn’t know anything. It was so long ago. Am I guilty of insider trading? They’ve been watching me. They know I give out commissions for drugs. The White House! Fuck, that’s it. The rat Randy told me about. They have photos of me getting the handoffs from James on street corners. I’m so fucked. They’re coming for me.

  I look out the window again. I see two dark sedans driving slowly up the street. There are a few guys in the car. I see the turn signal come on. They’re pulling into my driveway. Holy shit, run! I think. Where? I have nowhere to go. Maybe if I pretend I’m not home. The cars are halfway up the driveway. I know it’s the FBI. I’m going to jail. This is it. Don’t admit anything. You didn’t do anything wrong. But I did everything wrong. I look in the mirror in the entrance area near the front door. I’m rail thin. I’m still in my underwear and T-shirt. My eyes bulge above the black rings below them. This is who I am; this is what I’ve become. I hear car doors slam.

  I can see three men in suits get out of the car. I have to face them. I open the door and walk outside. The angle of the morning sun now almost blinds me. I can barely make out the three figures walking up my driveway. I’m too high to cry. I no longer have any fight, and in this surrender I feel the slightest of comforts, like a drowning man who gives in to the inevitability of his watery death. I’ve long since lost control of my life. I’ve lost everything during my time on the buy side: my relationships, my money, and, most important, my self-respect. Now my freedom. I thought I was good at my job but I was wrong. Real success on Wall Street is measured not in bonus or salary but in photographs on desks of children wearing soccer uniforms and caps and gowns. Success on Wall Street is measured the same way it’s measured by a factory worker, a math teacher, or an engineer with four children in Maine.

  When the three figures walk into the shade cast by the house, I can finally make out their familiar faces. Relief quickly collapses into dread. A fractured memory of texting Kevin last night spills from my thoughts. When he looks me over, in my bare feet and underwear, a small smile of concern and empathy comes to his face. He’s here with Chris, and another guy named Jim whom I’d met at meetings. “You need to go away,” Kevin says, his crystal-clear blue eyes holding me like some type of force field. I can’t stand the truth of them, but can’t look away.

  My mind immediately starts searching for an excuse: I can’t go for thirty days, I think. What about my job, the mortgage? How will I explain it to Lola? Yet “Okay” is all I manage to say, and with that one word I feel an overwhelming sense of relief.

  “A guy goes to rehab once and everyone’s rooting for him. A guy goes to rehab a second time and people start to drop off,” he says. His words are honest and genuine. I believe what he’s saying. “We’ll always be here for you, man. But I promise you, if this keeps going on, people are gonna drop and drop fast.” I feel like they already have.

  Somewhere, deep inside, I know it’s over, all of it: my drug use, my drinking, and the Turney I created for the buy side. I think of my daughter and all the moments I’ve already missed in her life. “Everything’s going to be okay,” Kevin says as he puts his arm around my slumped shoulders. I want to believe him, more than anything.

  THIRTY DAYS CLEAN

  AS THE taxi from LaGuardia Airport nears the house, I’m excited when I see Jenn’s car parked in the driveway. My muscles tense. I’d spoken to her just yesterday from the Recovery Place, a rehab in Fort Lauderdale, and asked if I could see Lola when I got home. They’ve been staying at her mother’s house. But as I pay the cabbie and then pull my large bag from the trunk and throw it on the porch, my stomach knots. I don’t know how my daughter will react when she sees me. The thirty days I’ve been gone seem like an eternity.

  Through the screen window, I can see Lola and Jenn playing in the kitchen. As I open the front door, Lola looks up and recognition brightens her face. She rushes toward me. “Daddy!” she screams, a sound as beautiful as any I’ve ever heard. I hold her tight. She radiates a warmth so pure, it instantly dissolves my anxiety. How could I have ever jeopardized something so precious? Jenn once asked me if I loved cocaine more than Lola. I answered with righteous indignation: “How can you ask that?” I never thought it was one or the other. I thought I could control it; I’d just do a little. It’d be different the next time. It never was. And each high dragged me further from my daughter. I believe the things they told me in rehab and meetings, that I’m powerless over drugs and alcohol and once I start with either, I give up control of my life. But there’s also right and wrong. As I hold Lola, I never want to make the wrong choice again. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jenn starting to cry.

  The next day, the day before Thanksgiving, I call Jeff to tell him I’m ready to come back to work. I’d spoken to him a few times when I was in Florida, a
nd he was very supportive—he paid me the whole time I was away. I tell him I’ll be in on Friday. I remember when I moved to the city in 1994, Larry, the guy in the Raccoon Lodge, said, “Always work the day after Thanksgiving: it makes you look like a hero.” I’m ready to be the hero. But Jeff tells me to take the rest of the week off and he’ll see me on Monday. I can tell by his tone something is up.

  On Monday morning, I’m at the office early, scrubbed clean and pressed. Everything looks a little sharper, a little brighter to me, as if the building has changed the lighting to a slightly higher wattage. And I’m nervous. Over the last ten years or so, my life has been a kind of bipolar existence, with wild swings from false bravado to the lowest self-esteem. Rehab and recovery from drug addiction stuck a pin in the bravado, leaving me vulnerable and in self-doubt. I’m worried about how people will treat me, especially Jeff.

  I’m there less than fifteen minutes when my boss calls me into his office. Jeff begins by asking how I’m doing. He’s very kind, saying how much courage it must take to face my problem, how proud he is of me. But then he begins to talk about business and the state of the firm, which isn’t great. Our assets under management are back to what they were when I was first hired. Investors used us as a source of funds and withdrew money despite our performance in 2008. It’s then I know the purpose of this meeting.

  Being fired doesn’t make me want to use. Negative circumstances usually didn’t send me directly to a drink or a drug. In a way, being let go is a relief. I’m not ready to be back on the buy side. And as I walk out of Berkowitz’s office for good, I wonder if I’ll ever be.

  Although the house is going into foreclosure, Jenn and I are not getting back together, and no firm wants me as their trader, the next few months have a graceful simplicity to them. I attend an outpatient program at a place called the Realization Center and go to a few meetings a week. A colleague on Wall Street offers me a job selling his geopolitical research—I used the product at Berkowitz. All it entails is picking up the phone and leveraging what is left of my contacts. But the best part of the job is, I can work from home. It allows me the opportunity to take Lola to preschool three times a week. It also gives me time to write.

  I’d started writing in rehab. And the words came out of me in a kind of Kerouac flourish—the quantity, that is, not the quality. To be honest, most of what spills onto the page isn’t pretty. And yet there’s something utterly perfect about it. It’s as if I’ve opened a door to a room that’s been sealed shut since college. I’d tried to pry open the door a few times during my Wall Street career—writing those movie scripts and working on that rap song. But even though it was my fantasy to chase profits and inspiration, my job (and, I guess, my addiction) had always pushed my creative urges into a dark corner. I wasn’t alone. Some of the funniest, most creative people I’ve ever met work on Wall Street. But, like their bonuses, their talent is sealed in bank vaults. Here in early sobriety, however, when anything seems possible, I begin to allow myself to dream. In the real world it’s not that easy, though. And the buy side isn’t about to turn its back on me.

  I’m pitching my geopolitical research to a new behemoth hedge fund named Pioneer Path when they ask me to come in and meet them. The office is gorgeous. New everything. The receptionist greets me and offers me coffee or water as she leads me to a conference room. As I’m laying out my research on the table, a light-skinned black guy named Deric walks into the room wearing a huge smile. I knew Deric when he traded for Lehman. Although we weren’t super tight, I do remember several fun dinners we had together. I remember too that he’s a big poker player, and I like him. He comes over and gives me the Wall Street hug. It’s only my third pitch meeting, so even with the friendly face across the table, I’m a little nervous and not as smooth as I’d like to be. But I explain to him, as honestly as I can, how I used to use the product, the value I found in it, and how it helped me trade when I was on the buy side. Though he watches me intently, he seems to be feigning interest in what I say. The smile never leaves his face. When I close the presentation, he just sits there quietly looking at me, nodding slightly. “How much you gonna get paid this year?” he asks. I look around the room, stalling and trying to figure out why he asked the question. Nothing comes to me. I know my earnings this year will be awful. Maybe thirty grand.

  “About three hundred grand,” I say. I just lied. “Actually, probably less.”

  “What if I could double that?” he says. His smile grows even wider. The amount of money dances in front of me, beckoning. “Come back and see me next week,” he says, standing and reaching his hand out to shake mine. “We’re looking for a new healthcare trader.”

  Ten minutes later, I’m on the street with an appointment reminder on my cell phone for a meeting with the HR person at Pioneer Path the following week. My mind spins with scenarios. With that type of guarantee, I could make a stick with my eyes closed. I could even save the house, maybe move back to the city, get an apartment in Tribeca. If I can stay sober, I’ll have more money than I can spend.

  The interview with HR goes flawlessly. I’m emboldened by my sobriety. I answer her questions with honor and integrity and try to convey that I have the work ethic of a Boy Scout. At the end of the interview she asks me to come back the next day to meet with some traders. “Be happy to,” I say.

  The following day, the traders quiz me on Obama and healthcare reform. To help me prepare for my interview, I called an old Healthcare Mafia friend named Chris, who still trades healthcare. Chris filled me in on what I’d missed, and all I already knew comes back. I hit every question the traders throw on the barrel of the bat. It feels almost surreal, the clarity I have and how confident I feel. In my heart, I know I’d be a great hire for them—if I can stay sober. But is this what I’m supposed to be doing? They tell me to come back for a final interview.

  In the car on the ride home I call Jenn, Kevin, Uncle Tucker, and my parents to ask their advice. Although the responses vary—from Jenn’s “It’s your decision” to Uncle Tucker’s enthusiasm—most of their advice boils down to the same thing: I have to do what I think is right for me.

  “You’re ahead of your skis,” Kevin says. “They didn’t offer you the job yet.” He reminds me that all I really have to do is not pick up a drink or a drug. “If you do that, everything will work out the way it’s supposed to,” he says.

  That night I can barely sleep. I know they’re going to offer me the position, and if they do, I don’t know how I can turn it down. I need the money, but it feels like I’ll be signing my own death certificate. I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been a big God person in the traditional sense. I remember going to Sunday school as a kid a couple of times, and as a family we went to church when we lived in Ohio. But once we moved to Maine I don’t remember ever going back. One time—it might have been Thanksgiving or Christmas, when we were all together—my sisters told my mother they didn’t believe in God and they were all going to vote Democratic. “We failed, we failed,” my mother laughingly cried. But from a very early age, I’ve thought there is something greater at play in the universe—something both good and bad. I’ve felt those forces my entire life. I experienced the worst during my active drug addiction and saw the best in Lola’s eyes. An image of my daughter’s eyes is the last thing I remember before I finally fall asleep.

  The next day I’m seated in the same conference room I’ve visited three times before. A man, sharply dressed, very Wall Street, walks in. He’s holding a copy of the résumé I’d brought on my second visit. There are some noticeable pen marks up and down the sides. I shake his hand firmly and look him in the eyes. We chitchat about the markets, my house, his house, my daughter, sports, and New York in general. He smiles across the table. “So I hear you’re a great healthcare trader,” he says. Then it hits me. I can’t believe no one noticed it on my résumé.

  “Actually,” I say, “I haven’t traded healthcare since 2006 when I was at Argus.” His eyebrows arch as he c
onsiders my statement. “Yeah,” I say, “we traded everything but healthcare at Berkowitz.”

  “Oh” is all he can manage to say.

  “Yup,” I say, “I haven’t traded one share of healthcare in four years.”

  For a moment he looks away. Maybe he thinks I’m nervous. I’m not nervous. I’ve never been calmer in my life. He begins to explain the duties of the position. Then he explains how Pioneer is a global firm and the traders alternate holidays and take turns working at night. I interrupt him.

  “Yeah, I’m not sure I can do that,” I say. “I have a four-year-old daughter and I just can’t see missing the holidays or losing a few nights a week.” I see a hint of a smile on his face. It’s like he’s sharing this special moment with me. I think it’s safe to say he’s never had an interview quite like this one. “I just don’t think I can make that commitment,” I say, smiling as I do. In fact, I can’t stop smiling. This is the best interview I’ve ever had. He caps his pen and smiles with me.

  “Do you have any other questions or anything else to say?” he asks, closing this most untraditional interview in the most traditional way.

  “No,” I say. “I don’t. Thank you for your time and consideration.”

  It’s around nine thirty a.m. when I walk out of the building and the last gasp of Midtown’s morning workforce rushes by me. It’s cold and overcast. I look up at the gray sky between the tall, shiny glass buildings. I’m on Fifty-Fourth Street and Lexington Avenue, exactly halfway between the Berkowitz office and the puddle I jumped into to fake a mugging. In this magnificent moment, I know my buy side career is over. I’m not sure how my next chapter will read—but wherever I’m headed, I’m ready.

  EPILOGUE

  I’M SITTING in my kitchen at 8:06 p.m. on April 28, 2012. I’ve got on my pajama bottoms and an old white T-shirt—I know: stylish. Unfortunately, I washed the T-shirt with something red and it now has a pinkish tint to it. This is pretty much what I’ve been wearing in my apartment for the last twelve months, though yes, I regularly do my laundry. The view out my window is thought-provoking. Midtown rises from the rocks of Manhattan like a kingdom of money and power. In some ways, especially at night when the lights come on, it seems like a scene from my book. I gaze across the East River several times a day, especially during writing breaks, thinking about how many stories are taking place there.