The Underwriting

by Michelle Miller

  TARA

  THURSDAY, MAY 15; NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  Tara woke up to nothing.

  She rolled onto her back and let the events replay. She recounted the pricing call and the long night calming angry brokers and her confession to Charlie and her call to Nick and her final e-mail announcing her resignation. She waited for her stomach to get queasy about what it all meant, but it didn’t, and she realized she wasn’t scared.

  Her head ached, a dull pain pushing against her temples, which she’d read was a side effect of going off the Celexa. She didn’t mind it. She got up without checking her e-mail and took a shower without going for a run, letting the water fall longer on her body than she needed it to.

  She pulled on jeans, a T-shirt and flats and left the apartment without putting on makeup.

  She walked down Charles Street and turned onto Hudson and went to the bagel shop she’d heard was delicious but had never gone to because bagels were full of empty calories. She walked north, stopping to buy a coffee at one of the street carts to see if it really came in a blue cup and only cost a dollar. It did.

  She climbed the steps from Gansevoort up to the High Line and sat on a bench. The cream cheese had melted on the toasted bagel and she chewed it slowly, watching a man take a picture of his wife, who wore a fanny pack and an “I was on the Today Show!” sticker on her David Letterman T-shirt.

  “Can I get one of you together?” Tara asked the man, who turned at her voice, pulling his camera closer toward him the way tourists do in New York, automatically suspicious when someone offers to help.

  But he looked at her and the melted cream cheese on her fingers and relaxed. “Sure,” he said in a Texan drawl, “that’d be great.”

  She put down the bagel and took several photos, including one of them kissing, which she decided was sweet, not gross or annoying.

  “See,” Tara heard the woman say to her husband as they walked away, “I told you not all New Yorkers are mean.”

  Tara finished her bagel and continued walking north.

  When she got to midtown she watched the suits hurry back and forth, like ants scurrying, each carrying his speck of sand with blind faith in the seriousness of his mission, all working together to build a sand empire, without worrying what would happen if the rains came.

  That’s what people who hated Wall Street didn’t understand. They thought bankers and brokers were malicious—that they were purposefully lying to make a profit for themselves. It wasn’t true: in reality, everyone on Wall Street was just too focused on his piece of sand to see the bigger picture. However much subprime mortgage brokers had deceived the people they sold bad products to in the years leading up to the crash, they’d deceived themselves just as much. Not into thinking what they were doing was good, but into thinking it’s the way things were. Their crime wasn’t that they’d been evil, it was that they’d settled for a shitty system.

  Her mind drifted to Charlie and she thought she’d like to talk to him about it—talk to him about anything, really, if she ever saw him again. She’d searched her in-box for his e-mail after her meeting with Catherine on Sunday, and replied asking to meet, then, noticing he was with the Associated Press, looked up his reports. She’d blushed two hours later when she realized how engrossed she’d become in his writing.

  They had nothing in common, save Kelly—she understood why he didn’t like her, but she still wanted him to. He was different from the men she knew: all his reporting was infused with a passionate need for justice that had nothing to do with money. She respected that kind of courage, even though it made her feel foolish for ever thinking that quitting a cushy banking job was a risk.

  She took out her iPhone to listen to music and saw fifty-eight missed calls. She scrolled the list to see if there were any that were important, but they were all from Todd or Nick or Catherine or the 212.464 extension she knew meant L.Cecil. There was, though, a text message from Callum, which she opened.

  Callum: Was I right or what??? Jesus Christ. You turned out to be an expensive date. Are you surviving all this? When am I seeing you again? Xxx

  Her throat burned as she reread the message. How could he be so casual when he was in love with someone else? Because he was in love with someone else, that’s how. She cringed, knowing he’d never had real feelings for her—from the very first meeting he’d treated her as a project: a grown man giving advice to a young woman who needed perspective.

  But in the process she’d become putty in his hands. He’d made her feel supported and appreciated and secure—to the point where she’d cried like a child in his arms, letting all her emotions spill out at his feet.

  And as much as she wanted to hate him now—now that she knew he’d been cheating the whole time, letting her be vulnerable while he kept his own secrets separate—she couldn’t. Because he’d been right: she had needed perspective, and he had given it to her. He may not be everything that she wanted him to be or hoped he was, but he’d been the only one in the world, including herself, who had ever made her feel . . . not judged.

  She felt the tears well up but forced them away. She’d learned a lot, she’d gained a lot, she was a better person for it. And that was enough. It had to be enough.

  She read the message one more time, then deleted it, along with Callum’s contact information, and put in her headphones, letting James Blake’s velvety voice fill her ears and make a soundtrack to the city’s movements and her new start.

  The text alert beeped in her headphones and she felt her heart clench as she looked back down at the phone, but smiled when she saw it was from Terrence:

  Heard the news. So happy for you, so sad for me. Drinks soon? Xo

  Her friendships: that was another thing she was resolved to start giving the attention they deserved, along with her family and her dating life and her happiness.

  She wandered to Columbus Circle and through Central Park to the Frick, where she decided to see the art she’d missed at the L.Cecil event.

  George E’s portraits were all photographs that he’d painted over to mimic Instagram filters. She read the commentary about social media, obfuscation of truth and the new world of self-invention, wondering where the real reason for the exhibit—that the Frick needed to attract a younger audience if it had any hope of surviving—was recorded.

  She wandered to the West Gallery and her breath caught when she stood before the Turner canvas, mesmerized by the blues and yellows.

  “This one’s dusk.”

  “What?” Tara turned, startled, at the voice of an old woman beside her.

  “This one’s dusk,” the woman repeated, “and that one is dawn.” She pointed across the room to the other Turner. “Isn’t it funny how hard it is to tell the difference?” the woman mused.

  Tara turned to look at the painting of dawn, just as a tour group cleared, leaving behind a single man standing before it.

  Tara blinked her eyes to see if it was true. “Charlie?” she whispered.

  He turned and laughed, surprised, when he saw her. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I’m not really sure. I just decided I wanted to come,” she said, forgetting what had propelled her uptown, but suddenly grateful that it had.

  There was a pause, but neither of them moved.

  “I haven’t watched the news today,” she said, breaking the silence before he could leave. “Is it bad?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “They let Robby Goodman go home, on bail, and are reopening the case.”

  “What about Hook?”

  “They’re saying it’ll be up to the Supreme Court to decide whether information from the app should be admissible in court,” he said. “It’ll take years, I imagine.”

  “How about the IPO?” she asked.

  “NASDAQ shut it down twenty minutes after it opened. The system crashed because too many people
were trying to sell.”

  “Yikes,” she said.

  There was another pause.

  “So did they give you the day off?” he asked cautiously.

  “I didn’t get fired,” she said, knowing what he was asking. “I quit.”

  His eyes smiled. “Good for you.”

  “Yeah, it is good for me.”

  There was another pause, but neither of them moved.

  “This is my favorite painting,” he said, gesturing to the one of dawn. “I like mornings, too,” he added.

  “And here I thought we didn’t have anything in common.” She smiled.

  “Oh, I bet we could find some. I mean, I’d give us at least . . . four.”

  She laughed and bit her lip.

  “Where are you headed next?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’ve got to—” she said automatically, then stopped. “Do nothing.” She laughed. “So I have no idea where I’m headed.”

  “Do you like Central Park?” he asked. “That would bring us up to two.”

  “That doesn’t count: everyone likes Central Park.”

  “Yeah, but I bet you’re a Sheep Meadow person,” he said, making a face.

  “No,” she corrected. “My favorite spot is by the Alice in Wonderland statue.”

  “Not as good as Balto.”

  “You’re such a boy.”

  “Balto definitely transcends gender.”

  He winked as he pushed open the door for her and her heart skipped a beat, realizing it was an invitation.

  They stopped at an ice cream truck as they walked into the park and debated the merits of chocolate (his favorite) over vanilla (hers) and by the time they stopped to decide which statue to visit first, the sun was settling in and they’d already passed them both.

  JUAN

  THURSDAY, MAY 15; EAST PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA

  A car pulled up and Jorge Menendez kissed Isabel’s cheek before saying hello to Juan. He was shorter and rounder than Juan expected from his mug shot, with jovial cheeks and curly hair, dressed neatly in jeans and a flannel shirt.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, trusting Juan because Isabel did.

  It was dusk on Thursday, back in the Shell station parking lot. Juan knew Hook’s IPO had happened today but he hadn’t looked online to see the results. It didn’t matter: he had other things to focus on. Namely, this meeting Isabel had set up with Jorge Menendez.

  “Do you remember where you were the night of March fifth?”

  “That’s pretty specific,” he said. “What are you getting at?”

  “Why were you with Kelly Jacobson?” Juan said.

  “That girl that died?” he asked. “I wasn’t. Never seen her in my life.”

  Juan felt his heart sink. How could Jorge lie to his face like this?

  “Are you sure?” he pushed.

  Jorge took a breath in, puffing his chest. “What have you got to say?”

  “I’m an engineer at Hook—or I used to be—and we can see where users have been, and our database shows that you were in Kelly’s room the night she died.”

  “Your database doesn’t know shit,” Jorge said.

  Jorge’s macho voice made Juan feel ridiculous saying he was an engineer at some app company, but he pressed on. “She never matched with you, so I also know that you hacked into our system and—”

  “Bro, you seriously think I know how to hack into some computer app? You outta your mind?”

  Juan felt his cheeks blush. “But there’s no other—”

  “What day did you say she died?” Jorge cut him off, pulling a notepad out of his back pocket.

  “March fifth,” Juan said, “or technically the sixth, between two and four a.m.”

  Jorge flipped through the notepad, where, evidently, he kept his deliveries. He laughed. “Nah, I was definitely not at Stanford that night. We went down to the Gold Club. I got six brothers and three strippers who can all vouch for me.”

  “What were you doing at a strip club?” Isabel said scornfully.

  “Celebrating”—he grinned, lifting his notebook so she could see—“I made two grand that day.”

  “Selling what?” Isabel’s eyes got wide.

  “Some rich kid from out of town bought my whole supply of Molly. Paid me double to deliver it to his fancy-pants hotel, then tipped me an extra hundred to use my phone.”

  Isabel punched his arm. “What is wrong with you? He could have been a cop.”

  “It was two grand.” Jorge shrugged. “What are you gonna do?”

  “You said he was from out of town?” Juan asked.

  “Yeah. New York, I think. Said he got my number from some frat boy at Stanford.”

  “Do you know his name?” Juan asked carefully.

  “Got it right here.” Jorge lifted the notepad so Juan could see. “Beau Buckley,” he read. “What a fucking name, eh?”

  Juan’s mouth went dry. “What?” he finally croaked.

  “Beau Buckley,” Jorge repeated, looking down at the paper again. “I guess that’s how you pronounce it.”

  “Have you seen him since?” Juan finally got it out.

  “Nope,” he said. “Hope I never do, either. That wasn’t the finest batch, if I’m being honest.”

  “I’ve gotta go,” Juan said.

  Isabel stood up. “Is everything okay? When will I see you again?”

  “I’ll call you,” Juan said, rushing back to his car. His brain was spinning.

  Juan’s phone rang, interrupting the thought, and he looked down at the unknown caller. He sat in the driver’s seat and locked the door before answering.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Juan Ramirez?”

  “Yes, this is Juan.”

  “Juan, my name is Dennis Cameron. I’m an attorney in New York who has been engaged to make you an offer.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I’ve got all the paperwork ready to create a charitable foundation in which you’ll be sole operator, in charge of all donations and financial decisions subject to the legal requirements of a private foundation structure. The foundation will be established in East Palo Alto and funded with a twenty-five-million-dollar check from an anonymous benefactor,” the man said. His voice was kind, but professional.

  “I don’t think I—” Juan started. “What anonymous benefactor?”

  “I just wanted to check, though, that I’ve got the spelling right on the form—it’s the Eduardo Ramirez Community Foundation, correct? That’s E-D-U-A-R-D-O?”

  “Yes,” Juan said softly, “my father. That was my father’s name.” How did this man know that? Did someone really want to fund his foundation?

  “Great,” the man said. “So all I need is your signature and then we’ll be good to set up a bank account for you and transfer the money.”

  Juan’s brain raced through the list of people who knew about the community center—would someone really back him? Maybe someone had taken pity on what had happened—wanted to throw him a bone after making millions in today’s IPO. It must have been Josh Hart, or Phil Dalton, or—

  “In addition,” the man interrupted Juan’s thought, “we’ll need you to sign a confidentiality agreement and contract for your silence in matters related to information you might have encountered while working at Hook.”

  Juan’s bubble popped. “What?”

  “I’ve been informed that you may have seen information that might lead you to certain conclusions about individuals and their activity on the app,” he said. “We need you to agree that you won’t ever speak about anything you saw.”

  “You’re bribing me?”

  “We’re asking for your cooperation.”

  “You’re using the foundation as a bribe so I won’t go public with what I know about—”<
br />
  “The use of information that was gathered in violation of privacy laws for the purposes of a criminal investigation is a question for the Supreme Court,” the man said, “and one that will, I assure you, be in court for a long, long time. We’re asking you to not interfere with that process by making public statements about information you obtained in what might be deemed an illegal manner.”

  “I’m sorry,” Juan said, “but I’m done cooperating. I know what happened.”

  “I would urge you to consider your options, Mr. Ramirez. I’ll give you forty-eight hours to make up your mind.”

  Juan heard the phone click off and let it drop with his hand into his lap. He looked through the car window at Isabel, back in her booth, making change for a man, as if she might possess the answer, but once again she felt a million miles away.

  NICK

  THURSDAY, MAY 15; NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  Nick Winthrop took the elevator up to his hotel room and locked all the locks on the door. He carefully removed the comforter on the king-size bed—even at nice hotels, he knew, they were covered in all sorts of human filth—and went to the bathroom to wash his hands. He straightened all the toiletries on the counter where the maid hadn’t gotten them exactly right and did the same for the minibar.

  He undressed and hung up the favorite fleece vest he’d worn today and lay down on the sheets, taking deep breaths, repeating his self-worth mantras until things felt okay again. He’d raised over two billion dollars yesterday. And as bad as today had been, he had survived. And given it really couldn’t get any worse, he would continue to survive until he once again thrived. He liked how that sounded and repeated it again to himself, closing his eyes and letting it carry him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  It was pitch-dark when he awoke to a sound he didn’t recognize, and it took him a moment to remember where he was, giving him a brief hiatus before the flood of his current reality hit him.

  The sound went off again and he realized it was coming from his iPhone on the nightstand. He rolled over and looked at the device. There was an alert from SnapChat, the temporary photo app he’d downloaded but never used after he found out it was mostly for seventeen-year-olds.