The Moneychangers

  Another thing—once an account was accepted, most of the original five dollars could be withdrawn, with any credit balance sufficient to keep the account open. Seth Orinda and others had clearly realized this and proposed to drown the downtown branch bank with in-and-out transactions. Edwina thought: they might well succeed.

  Yet nothing illegal or provably obstructionist was being done.

  Despite her responsibilities and annoyance of a few moments earlier, Edwina was tempted to laugh, though realized she mustn’t. She glanced again at Nolan Wainwright who shrugged and said quietly. “While there’s no obvious disturbance there’s nothing we can do except regulate the traffic.”

  The bank security chief swung toward Orinda and said firmly, “We’ll expect all of you to help us keep this place orderly, inside and out. Our guards will give directions about how many people can come in at once, and where the waiting line should stay.”

  The other nodded agreement. “Naturally, sir, my friends and I will do everything possible to help. We don’t want any disturbance either. But we shall expect you to be fair.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Those of us in here,” Orinda declared, “and those outside, are customers just like anybody else who comes to this bank. And while we’re willing to wait our turn and be patient, we don’t expect others to get specially favored treatment or to be allowed in here ahead of us who’ve waited. What I mean is, anybody arriving—no matter who—must go to the back of the line.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “So will we, sir. Because if you do it some other way, it’ll be a clear case of discrimination. Then you’ll hear us holler.”

  The reporters, Edwina saw, were still making notes.

  She eased her way through the press of people, to the three new account desks, already supplemented by two more, while a further two were being set up.

  One of the auxiliary desks, Edwina noted, was occupied by Juanita Núñez. She caught Edwina’s eye, and they exchanged smiles. Edwina was suddenly reminded that the Núñez girl lived at Forum East. Had she known in advance of today’s invasion? Then she reasoned: Either way, it made no difference.

  Two of the bank’s junior officers were supervising the new account activity and it was clear that all other work today would fall seriously behind.

  The heavyset black man, who had been among the earliest arrivals, was getting up as Edwina arrived. The girl who had dealt with him, no longer nervous, said, “This is Mr. Euphrates. He just opened an account.”

  “Deacon Euphrates. Least, that’s what most call me.” Edwina was offered an enormous hand which she took.

  “Welcome to First Mercantile American, Mr. Euphrates.”

  “Thank you, that’s real nice. In fact, so nice that I think maybe after all I’ll pop a little more bread in this here account.” He examined a handful of small change, selected a quarter and two dimes, then strolled over to a teller.

  Edwina asked the new accounts clerk, “What was the initial deposit?”

  “Five dollars.”

  “Very well. Just try to keep going as fast as you can.”

  “I’ll do that, Mrs. D’Orsey, but that one took a long time because he asked a lot of questions about withdrawals and interest rates. He had them written out on paper.”

  “Did you get the paper?”

  “No.”

  “Others will probably have the same thing. Try to get one and show it to me.”

  It might provide a clue, Edwina thought, as to who had planned and executed this expert invasion. She did not believe that anyone she had spoken to so far was the key organizing figure.

  Something else emerging: The attempt to inundate the bank would not be limited to merely opening new accounts. Those who had already opened accounts were now forming lines at tellers’ counters, paying in or withdrawing tiny amounts at a glacial pace, asking questions or engaging tellers in conversation.

  So not only would regular customers have difficulty getting into the building but, once inside, they would be further impeded.

  She told Nolan Wainwright about the written lists of questions and her instructions to the girl clerk.

  The security chief approved. “I’d like to see them, too.”

  “Mr. Wainwright,” a secretary called over, “telephone.”

  He took the call and Edwina heard him say, “It is a demonstration, even if not in the legal sense. But it’s peaceful and we could make trouble for ourselves by hasty decisions. The last thing we want is an ugly confrontation.”

  It was comforting, Edwina reasoned, to have Wainwright’s sane solidity available. As he replaced the phone a thought occurred to her. “Someone mentioned calling the city police,” she said.

  “They came when I first got here and I sent them away. They’ll haul back fast if we need them. I hope we won’t.” He motioned to the telephone, then in the direction of FMA Headquarters Tower. “Word has got to the brass. They’re pressing panic buttons over there.”

  “One thing they could try is restoring funds to Forum East.”

  For the first time since his arrival, a brief smile crossed Wainwright’s face. “I’d like to see that, too. But this isn’t the way and, where the bank’s money is on the line, outside pressure won’t alter a thing.”

  Edwina was about to say, “I wonder,” then changed her mind, remaining silent.

  While they watched, the crowd monopolizing the bank’s central floor area remained as great; the uproar, if anything, a little louder than before.

  Outside, the lengthening line stayed fixedly in place.

  It was now 9:45.

  4

  Also at 9:45 A.M., three blocks from First Mercantile American Headquarters Tower, Margot Bracken was operating a command post from an inconspicuously parked Volkswagen.

  Margot had intended to remain remote from the execution of her pressure ploy, but in the end she hadn’t been able to. Like a war horse which paws the ground at the scent of battle, her resolve had weakened then dissolved.

  Margot’s concern about embarrassing Alex or Edwina remained, however, and was the reason for her absence from the front line of action on Rosselli Plaza.

  If she appeared she would be quickly identified by members of the press, whose presence Margot knew about since she had arranged advance tip-offs to newspapers, TV, and radio.

  Therefore, messengers were discreetly bringing news of developments to her car and carrying instructions back.

  Since Thursday night a sizable feat of organization had been carried through.

  On Friday, while Margot worked on the master plan, Seth, Deacon, and several committee members recruited block captains in and around Forum East. They described what was to be done only in general terms, but the response was overwhelming. Almost everyone wanted a piece of the action and knew others who could be counted on.

  By late Sunday when lists were totaled, there were fifteen hundred names. More were coming in fast. According to Margot’s plan it would be possible to maintain action for at least a week, longer if enthusiasm could be sustained.

  Among the men with regular jobs who volunteered help, some like Deacon Euphrates had vacation time due which they declared they would use. Others simply said they would absent themselves as needed. Regrettably, many who volunteered were unemployed, their numbers swelled recently by a seasonal work shortage.

  But women predominated, in part because of their greater availability in daytime, but also because—even more than with the men—Forum East had become a cherished, hopeful beacon in their lives.

  Margot was aware of this, both from her advance staff work and this morning’s reports.

  The reports she was getting so far were highly satisfactory.

  It had been Margot’s insistence that at all times, and particularly during direct contacts with bank representatives, everyone in the Forum East contingent should be friendly, courteous, and ostensibly helpful. This was the reason for the phrase, “Act of Hope,” which
Margot coined, and the projected image that a group of interested individuals—though with limited means—was coming to the “help” of an FMA “in trouble.”

  She suspected, shrewdly, that any suggestion that First Mercantile American Bank was in trouble would touch a sensitive nerve.

  And while there would be no concealment of the Forum East connection, at no point would outright threats be made, as—for example—that paralysis of the big bank would continue unless construction funds were reinstated. As Margot told Seth Orinda and the others, “Let the bank come to that conclusion.”

  At briefing sessions she had underlined the need to avoid any appearance of menace or intimidation. Those who attended the sessions made notes, then passed the instructions on.

  Something else passed on were lists of questions to be asked by individuals while accounts were being opened. Margot had prepared those, too. There were hundreds of legitimate questions which anyone dealing with a bank could reasonably ask, though for the most part people didn’t. Their ancillary effect would be to slow the bank to a near halt.

  Seth Orinda would act as spokesman if an opportunity occurred. Margot’s script needed little rehearsal. Orinda was a quick study.

  Deacon Euphrates had been assigned to be early in line and the first to open an account.

  It was Deacon—no one knew whether Deacon was a given name or a title from one of the offbeat religions in the area—who headed the staff work in advising volunteers where to go and when. He had worked with an army of lieutenants, fanning out like radii of a spider web.

  Initially, for Wednesday morning, it had been essential there should be a large attendance at the bank to create a strong impression. But some of the attendees must be relieved periodically. Others who had not yet appeared were to be held in reserve for later that day, or other days.

  To accomplish all this, a patchwork communications system had been set up with heavy use of local pay phones, monitored by more helpers stationed on the streets. Already, allowing for weaknesses in a short-notice, improvised scheme, communication was functioning well.

  All these and other reports were being funneled to Margot in the back seat of her Volkswagen. Her information included the number of people in line, the length of time it was taking the bank to open each account, and the number of new account desks in operation. She had heard, too, about the jam-packed scene inside the bank; also the exchanges between Seth Orinda and bank officials.

  Margot made a calculation, then instructed the latest messenger, a gangling youth now waiting in the car’s front passenger seat, “Tell Deacon not to call any more volunteers for the time being; it looks as if we’ve enough for the rest of today. Let some of those standing outside be relieved for a while, though not more than fifty at a time, and warn them to be back to collect their lunches. And about the lunches, caution everyone again there’s to be no litter on Rosselli Plaza, and no food or drinks taken into the bank.”

  The talk of lunch reminded Margot of money which, earlier in the week, had been a problem.

  On Monday, reports filtering in through Deacon Euphrates made it clear that many of the willing volunteers lacked a spare five dollars—the minimum required to open an account at FMA. The Forum East Tenants Association had virtually no money. For a while it looked as if their scheme would founder.

  Then Margot made a telephone call. It was to the union—the American Federation of Clerks, Cashiers & Office Workers—which now represented the airport janitors and cleaners whom she had aided a year ago.

  Would the union help by lending money—enough to provide a five-dollar stake for each volunteer who could not afford it? Union leaders summoned a hasty meeting. The union said yes.

  On Tuesday, employees from union headquarters helped Deacon Euphrates and Seth Orinda distribute the cash. All concerned knew that part of it would never be repaid and some of the five-dollar floats would be spent by Tuesday night, their original purpose forgotten or ignored. But most of the money, they believed, would be used as intended. Judging by this morning’s showing, they were right.

  It was the union which had offered to supply and pay for lunches. The offer was accepted. Margot suspected a self-interest angle somewhere on the union’s part but concluded it would not affect the Forum East objective, so was none of her business.

  She continued to instruct the latest messenger. “We must maintain a lineup until the bank closes at three o’clock.”

  It was possible, she thought, that the news media might do some closing time photography so a show of strength for the remainder of today was important.

  Tomorrow’s plans could be co-ordinated late tonight. Mostly, they would be a repetition of today’s.

  Fortunately the weather—a spell of mildness with mainly clear skies—was helping, and forecasts for the next few days seemed good.

  “Keep on emphasizing,” Margot told another messenger a half hour later, “that everyone must stay friendly, friendly, friendly. Even if the bank people get tough or impatient, the thing to do is smile back.”

  At 11:45 A.M. Seth reported personally to Margot. He was grinning broadly and held out an early edition of the city’s afternoon newspaper.

  “Wow!” Margot spread the front page wide.

  The activity at the bank commanded most of the available space. It was more, far more, attention than she had dared to hope for.

  The main headline read:

  BIG BANK IMMOBILIZED

  BY FORUM EASTERS

  And below:

  First Merc American In Trouble?

  Many Come To “Help”

  With Small Deposits

  Pictures and a two-column by-line story followed.

  “Oh brother!” Margot breathed. “How FMA will hate that!”

  They did.

  Shortly after midday a hastily called conference took place on the 36th floor of First Mercantile American Headquarters Tower in the presidential suite.

  Jerome Patterton and Roscoe Heyward were there, grim faced. Alex Vandervoort joined them. He, too, was serious, though as discussion progressed Alex seemed less involved than the others, his expression mostly thoughtful, with once or twice a flicker of amusement. The fourth attendee was Tom Straughan, the bank’s young and studious chief economist; the fifth, Dick French, vice-president of public relations.

  French, burly and scowling, strode in chewing an unlighted cigar and carrying a bundle of afternoon newspapers which he slapped down one by one in front of the others.

  Jerome Patterton, seated behind his desk, spread out a paper. When he read the words, “First Merc American In Trouble?” he spluttered, “That’s a filthy lie! That paper should be sued.”

  “There’s nothing to sue about,” French said with his customary bluntness. “The newspaper hasn’t stated it as fact. It’s put as a question and in any case is quoting someone else. And the original statement was not malicious.” He stood with a take-it-or-leave-it attitude, hands behind his back, cigar projecting like an accusatory torpedo.

  Patterton flushed with anger.

  “Of course it’s malicious,” Roscoe Heyward snapped. He had been standing, aloof, by a window and swung back toward the other four. “The entire exercise is malicious. Any fool can see that.”

  French sighed. “All right, I’ll spell it out. Whoever is behind this is good at law and public relations. The exercise, as you call it, is cleverly set up to be friendly and helpful to this bank. Okay, we know it’s neither. But you’ll never prove that and I suggest we stop wasting time with talk about trying to.”

  He picked up one of the newspapers and spread the front page open. “One reason I earn my princely salary is because I’m an expert about news and media. Right now my expertise tells me that this same story—which is written and presented fairly, like it or not—is spewing out through every news wire service in the country and will be used. Why? Because it’s a David and Goliath piece which reeks of human interest.”

  Tom Straughan, seated beside Vandervoor
t, said quietly, “I can confirm part of that. It has been on the Dow Jones news service and right afterward our stock dropped one more point.”

  “Another thing,” Dick French went on as though he had not been interrupted, “we may as well brace ourselves now for the TV news tonight. There’ll be plenty on local stations for sure, and my educated guess is we’ll be on network, all three majors. Also, if any scripter can resist that ‘bank in trouble’ phrase I’ll swallow my picture tube.”

  Heyward asked coldly, “Have you finished?”

  “Not quite. I’d just like to say that if I’d blown this entire year’s p.r. budget on one thing, just one thing, to try to make this bank look bad, I couldn’t have improved on the damage you guys have done unaided.”

  Dick French had a personal theory. It was that a good public relations man should go to work each day prepared to put his job on the line. If knowledge and experience required him to tell his superiors unpleasant facts they would prefer not to hear, and to be brutally frank while doing so, so be it. The frankness was part of p.r. too—a ploy to gain attention. To do less, or to court favor through silence or pussyfooting, would be to fail in his responsibilities.

  Some days required more bluntness than usual. This was one.

  Scowling, Roscoe Heyward asked, “Do we know yet who the organizers are?”

  “Not specifically,” French said. “I talked with Nolan who says he’s working on that. Not that it makes much difference.”

  “And if you’re interested in the latest from the downtown branch,” Tom Straughan contributed, “I went in through the tunnel just before coming here. The place is still packed with demonstrators. Almost no one can get in to do regular banking business.”

  “They’re not demonstrators,” Dick French corrected him. “Let’s get that clear, too, while we’re about it. There’s not a placard or a slogan among the lot, except maybe ‘Act of Hope.’ They’re customers, and that’s our problem.”

  “All right,” Jerome Patterton said, “since you know so much about it, what do you suggest?”

  The p.r. vice-president shrugged. “You guys pulled the rug from under Forum East. You’re the ones who could put it back.”