“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “I’d like to introduce myself. I’m a loan officer from the city, which doesn’t mean a lot except that I have authority to approve loans for larger amounts than are normally dealt with at this branch. So if any of you have been thinking of applying for a loan and would like a fast answer, now’s the time. I’m a sympathetic listener and I try to help people who have problems. Mr. Gatwick, who is busy doing other things right now, has kindly said I can use his desk, so that’s where I’ll be. I hope you’ll come and talk to me.”
A man with a cast on his leg called out, “I’ll be right over, soon’s I get my other money. Guess if this bank’s going bust I should grab a loan. I’d never have to pay it back.”
“Nothing’s going bust here,” Cliff Castleman said. He inquired, “What did you do to the leg?”
“Fell over in the dark.”
“From the sound of you, you’re still in the dark. This bank is in better shape than either of us. What’s more, if you borrow money you’ll pay it back or we’ll break the other leg.”
There was some laughter as Castleman climbed down from his chair, and later a few people drifted over to the manager’s desk to discuss loans. But withdrawals continued. The panic eased, but nothing, it seemed—neither a show of strength, assurances or applied psychology—would stop the bank run at Tylersville.
By early afternoon it appeared, to despondent FMA officials, that only one question still remained: How long would it take for the virus to spread?
Alex Vandervoort, who had talked several times by telephone with Edwina, left for Tylersville himself in midafternoon. He was now even more alarmed than this morning when he had hoped the run could be terminated quickly. Its continuance meant that, over the weekend, panic among depositors would spread, with other FMA branches certain to be inundated Monday.
So far today, while withdrawals at some other branches had been heavy, nothing comparable to the Tylersville situation had occurred elsewhere. But clearly that same luck could not hold for long.
Alex went by chauffeured limousine to Tylersville and Margot Bracken rode with him. Margot had concluded a court case earlier than she expected that morning and joined Alex at the bank for lunch. Afterward at his suggestion she stayed on, sharing some of the tensions by then pervading the tower’s 36th floor.
In the car Alex leaned back, savoring the relaxed interval which he knew would be brief.
“This year has been hard for you,” Margot said.
“Am I showing the strain?”
She reached over, running a forefinger across his forehead gently. “You’ve more lines there. You’re grayer at the temples.”
He grimaced. “I’m also older.”
“Not that much.”
“Then it’s a price we pay for living with pressures. You pay it too, Bracken.”
“Yes, I do,” Margot agreed. “What matters, of course, is which pressures are important and if they’re worth the part of ourselves we give to them.”
“Saving a bank is worth some personal strain,” Alex said sharply. “Right now if we don’t save ours, a lot of people will be hurt who shouldn’t be.”
“And some who should?”
“In a rescue operation you try to save everybody. Any retribution can come later.”
They had covered ten of the twenty miles to Tylersville.
“Alex, are things really that bad?”
“If we have an unstoppable run on Monday,” he said, “we’ll have to close. A consortium of other banks may then get together to bail us out—at a price—after which they’ll pick over what’s left, and in time, I think, all depositors would get their money. But FMA as an entity would be finished.”
“The most incredible part is how it can happen so suddenly.”
“It points up,” Alex said, “what a lot of people, who ought to, don’t fully understand. Banks and the money system, which includes big debts and big loans, are like delicate machinery. Monkey with them clumsily, let one component get seriously out of balance because of greed or politics or plain stupidity, and you imperil all the others. And once you’ve endangered the system—or a single bank—and if word leaks out as usually happens, diminished public confidence does the rest. That’s what we’re seeing now.”
“From what you’ve told me,” Margot said, “and from other things I’ve heard, greed is the reason for what’s happening to your bank.”
Alex said bitterly, “That and a high percentage of idiots on our board.” He was being franker than usual but found it a relief.
There was a silence between them until Alex exclaimed, “God! How I miss him.”
“Who?”
“Ben Rosselli.”
Margot reached out for his hand. “Isn’t this rescue operation of yours exactly what Ben would have done himself?”
“Maybe.” He sighed. “Except it isn’t working. That’s why I wish Ben were here.”
The chauffeur let down the dividing window between the front seat and his passengers. He spoke over his shoulder. “We’re coming into Tylersville, sir.”
“Good luck, Alex,” Margot said.
From several blocks away, they could see a lineup of people outside the branch. New arrivals were joining it. As their limousine pulled up outside the bank, a panel truck screeched to a halt across the street and several men and a girl jumped out. On the side of the truck in large letters was WTLC-TV. “Christ!” Alex said. “That’s all we need.”
Inside the bank, while Margot looked around her curiously, Alex talked briefly with Edwina and Fergus W. Gatwick, learning from both that there was little if anything more that anyone could do. Alex supposed it had been a wasted journey but had felt the need to come. He decided it would do no harm, and might even help, if he chatted with some of those waiting. He began to walk down the several lines of people, quietly introducing himself.
There were at least two hundred, a sizable cross-section of Tylersville—old, young, middle-aged, some well-to-do, others obviously poorer, women with babies, men in work clothes, some carefully dressed as if for an occasion. The majority were friendly, a few not, one or two antagonistic. Almost everyone showed some degree of nervousness. There was relief on the faces of those who received their money and left. An elderly woman spoke to Alex on the way out. She had no idea he was a bank official. “Thank heaven that’s over! It’s been the most anxious day I ever spent. This is my savings—all I have.” She held up a dozen or so fifty dollar bills. Others left with much larger or smaller sums.
The impression Alex got from everyone he talked to was the same: Maybe First Mercantile American Bank was sound; maybe it wasn’t. But no one wanted to take a chance and leave their money in an institution which might collapse. The publicity linking FMA with Supranational had done its work. Everyone knew that First Mercantile American was likely to lose a huge amount of money, because the bank admitted it. Details didn’t matter. Nor did the few people to whom Alex mentioned Federal Deposit Insurance trust that system either. The amount of federal insurance was limited, a few pointed out, and FDIC funds were believed to be inadequate in any major crunch.
And there was something else, Alex realized, perhaps even more profound: People didn’t believe any more what they were told; they had become too accustomed to being deceived and lied to. In the recent past they had been lied to by their President, other government officials, politicians, business, industry. Lied to by employers, by unions. Lied to in advertising. Lied to in financial transactions, including the status of stocks and bonds, stockholder reports and “audited” corporate statements. Lied to at times—through bias or omission—by communications media. The list was endless. Deception had been piled on deception until lying—or, at best, distortion and failure to make full disclosure—had become a way of life.
So why should anyone believe Alex when he assured them that FMA was not a sinking ship and their money—if they left it there—was safe? As the hours slipped by and afternoon waned, it was
clear that no one did.
By late afternoon Alex had become resigned. What would happen would happen; for individuals and institutions, he supposed, there came a point where the inevitable must be accepted. It was about that time—near 5:30, with dusk of the, October evening closing in—that Nolan Wainwright came to him reporting a new anxiety in the waiting crowd.
“They’re worried,” Wainwright said, “because our closing time is six o’clock. They figure in the half hour that’s left we can’t deal with everybody.”
Alex wavered. It would be simple to close the Tylersville branch bank on schedule; it would also be legal, and no one could seriously object. He savored an impulse born of anger and frustration; a spiteful urge to say, in effect, to those still waiting: You’ve refused to trust me, so sweat till Monday, and the hell with you! But he hesitated, swayed by his own nature and a remark of Margot’s about Ben Rosselli. What Alex was doing now, she had said, was “exactly what Ben would have done himself.” What would Ben’s decision have been about closing? Alex knew.
“I’ll make an announcement,” he told Wainwright. First he sought out Edwina and gave her some instructions.
Moving to the doorway of the bank, Alex spoke from where he could be heard by those inside and others still waiting on the street He was conscious of TV cameras directed at him. The first TV crew had been joined by a second from another station, and an hour ago Alex made a statement for them both. The TV crews stayed on, one of their people confiding they were getting extra material for a weekend news feature since “a bank run doesn’t happen every day.”
“Ladies and gentlemen”—Alex’s voice was strong and clear; it carried easily. “I am informed that some of you are concerned about the time of our closing tonight. You need not be. On behalf of the management of this bank I give you my word that we will remain open here in Tylersville until we have attended to you all.” There was a murmur of satisfaction and some spontaneous handclapping.
“However, there is one thing I urge on all of you.” Once more, voices quietened as attention returned to Alex. He went on, “I strongly advise that over the weekend you do not keep large sums of money on your person or in your homes. It would be unsafe in many ways. Therefore I urge you to select another bank and deposit there whatever you withdraw from this one. To help you in this, my colleague Mrs. D’Orsey is at present telephoning other banks in this area, asking them to remain open later than usual in order to accommodate you.”
Again there was an appreciative hum.
Nolan Wainwright came to Alex, whispered briefly and Alex announced, “I am informed that two banks have already agreed to our request. Others are still being contacted.”
From among those waiting in the street a male voice called, “Can you recommend a good bank?”
“Yes,” Alex said. “My own choice would be First Mercantile American. It’s the one I know best, the one I’m surest of, and its record has been long and honorable. I only wish that all of you felt that way too.” For the first time there was a hint of emotion in his voice. A few people smiled or laughed half-heartedly, but most faces watching him were serious.
“Used to feel that way myself,” a voice behind Alex volunteered. He turned. The speaker was an elderly man, probably nearer eighty than seventy, wizened, white-haired, stooped, and leaning on a cane. But the old man’s eyes were clear and sharp, his voice firm. Beside him was a woman of about the same age. Both were tidily dressed, though their clothing was old-fashioned and well worn. The woman held a shopping bag which, it could be seen, contained packages of currency. They had just come from the bank counter.
“The wife and me, we’ve had an account at FMA for more’n thirty years,” the old man said. “Feel kinda bad taking it away now.”
“Then why do it?”
“Can’t ignore all them rumors. Too much smoke for there not to be some truth somewhere.”
“There is some truth and we’ve admitted it,” Alex said. “Because of a loan to Supranational Corporation, our bank is likely to suffer a loss. But the bank can withstand it, and it will.”
The old man shook his head. “If I was younger and working, maybe I’d take a chance on what you say. But I ain’t. What’s in there”—he pointed to the shopping bag—”is pretty well all we got left until we die. Even that ain’t much. Them dollars don’t go half as far as when we worked and earned ’em.”
“That’s for sure,” Alex said. “Inflation hits good people like you hardest. But, unfortunately, changing banks won’t help you there.”
“Let me ask you a question, young fellow. If you was me and this here was your money, wouldn’t you be doing the same as I am now?”
Alex was aware of others closing in and listening. He saw Margot a head or two away. Just behind her, TV camera lights were on. Someone was leaning forward with a microphone.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I suppose I would.”
The old man seemed surprised. “You’re honest, anyways. Just now I heard that advice you gave about getting to another bank and I appreciate it. I guess we’ll go to one and put our money in.”
“Wait,” Alex said. “Do you have a car?”
“Nope. Live just a piece from here. We’ll walk.”
“Not with that money. You might be robbed. I’ll have someone drive you to another bank.” Alex beckoned Nolan Wainwright and explained the problem. “This is our chief of security,” he told the elderly couple.
“No sweat,” Wainwright said. “Be glad to drive you myself.”
The old man didn’t move. He stood looking from one face to the other. “You’d do that for us? When we’ve just moved our money out of your bank? When we’ve good as told you we don’t trust you any more?”
“Let’s say it’s all in our service. Besides,” Alex said, “if you’ve been with us thirty years, we ought to part as friends.”
Still the old man paused uncertainly. “Maybe we don’t have to. Let me ask you one more question, man to man.” The clear, sharp, honest eyes regarded Alex steadily.
“Go ahead.”
“You told me the truth once already, young fellow. Now tell me it again, remembering what I said about being old and knowing what them savings mean. Is our money safe in your bank? Absolutely safe?”
For measurable seconds Alex weighed the question and all its implications. He knew that not only the old couple was watching him intently, but many others, too. The omnipresent TV cameras were still turning. He caught a glimpse of Margot; she was equally intent, a quizzical expression on her face. He thought of the people here, and of others elsewhere affected by this moment; of those relying on him—Jerome Patterton, Tom Straughan, the board, Edwina, more; of what might happen if FMA failed, of the wide and damaging effect, not just at Tylersville but far beyond. Despite all this, doubt rose. He thrust it down, then answered crisply and confidently, “I give you my word. This bank is absolutely safe.”
“Aw shucks, Freda!” the old man told his wife. “Looks like we been barkin’ up a tree about nothing. Let’s go put the damn money back.”
In all the post-mortem studies and discussions over the following weeks, one fact stayed undisputed: The bank run at Tylersville effectively ended when the old man and his wife turned back into the FMA branch and redeposited the money from their shopping bag. People who had been waiting to withdraw their own money, and who witnessed the exchange between the old man and the bank executive either avoided each other’s eyes or, if they didn’t, grinned sheepishly and turned away. Word passed speedily among the remainder of those outside and inside; almost at once the waiting Hues began dispersing, as quickly and mysteriously as they had formed. As someone said later: It was the herd instinct in reverse. When the few remaining people in the bank were dealt with, the branch closed only ten minutes later than was normal on a Friday night. A few FMA people, at Tylersville and in Headquarters Tower, had worried about Monday. Would the crowd return, the run begin again? In the event, it never did.
Nor, on Monday,
did a run develop anywhere else. The reason-most analysts agreed—was an explicit, honest, moving scene involving an old couple and a good-looking, open, bank vice-president as it appeared on weekend television news. The film, when cut and edited, was so successful that stations used the item several times. It came through as an example of the intimate, effective cinema verité technique which TV can do so well, but seldom does. Many viewers were moved to tears.
During the weekend, Alex Vandervoort saw the TV film but reserved his comments. A reason was that he alone knew what his thoughts had been at the vital, decisive moment when he was asked the question: Is our money … absolutely safe? Another was that Alex knew the pitfalls and problems which still lay ahead for FMA.
Margot also said little about the incident on Friday night; nor did she mention it Sunday when she stayed at Alex’s apartment. She had an important question she wanted to ask but wisely decided that now was not the time.
Among First Mercantile American executives who watched the telecast was Roscoe Heyward, though he didn’t see it all. Heyward turned on the TV after arriving home on Sunday night from a church vestry meeting but snapped it off in jealous anger part way through. Heyward had serious enough problems of his own without wishing to be reminded of a Vandervoort success. And quite apart from the bank run, several matters were likely to surface during the coming week which made Heyward highly nervous.
One other postscript developed from that Friday evening in Tylersville. It concerned Juanita Núñez.
Juanita had seen Margot Bracken arrive during the afternoon. She had recently debated whether or not to seek out Margot and ask advice. Now she decided to. But for reasons of her own, Juanita preferred not to be observed by Nolan Wainwright.
The opportunity Juanita had been waiting for occurred shortly after the bank run ended, while Wainwright was busy checking branch security arrangements for the weekend, and the day-long pressure on the staff had eased. Juanita left the counter where she had been assisting a regular branch teller and crossed to the railed management area. Margot was seated there alone, waiting until Mr. Vandervoort could leave.