Special Smashwords Edition
The Return of Elliott Eastman
A.K.A The Occupy Wall Street Manifesto
by
Ignatius Ryan
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Return of Elliott Eastman: A.K.A. The Occupy Wall Street Manifesto
Special Smashwords Edition
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Version 2012.03.26
To Elliott.
I hope you’re out there.
We need you.
Chapter One
Dr. Paul Yates’ cell phone rang. Lifting it from the end table and setting down the medical journal he’d been reading, he studied the number for a moment.
“Hmm,” he murmured, recognizing the number as that of his radiologist, Ellen Hartmann.
“Why would she be calling so late?” he muttered to himself as he pressed the miniscule green button on his phone and said, “Hello, Ellen.”
“I’m sorry to bother you at this late hour, but I thought you would want to know. Is your computer on? I can e-mail the x-rays to you.”
“I can turn it on, but why the urgency? What’s going on?”
Ellen hesitated, then spoke in a leaden tone, knowing the impact her words would have on the esteemed surgeon. “It’s Elliott Eastman. I thought you would want to see them for yourself.”
“Oh, yes, please send them over right away.”
Dr. Paul Yates rushed to his computer. Five minutes later he was struggling to stifle a sob, staring horrified at the images on the screen.
Immediately he picked up his phone. He hesitated for a moment to be sure he could phrase this properly, then pressed the speed dial button.
A moment later a voice said, “Master Eastman’s residence, how may I help you?”
Dr. Yates recognized the deep bass tones of Maurice, Elliott’s butler and said, “Maurice, its Paul Yates. Is Elliott home?”
“Why yes he is Dr. Yates. Would you like me to inform him you are on the line?”
“No, no Maurice. Just tell him I’m on my way over.”
“Yes, Dr. Yates.”
As the Doctor drove, struggling to stay under the speed limit, he brushed the occasional tear from his eyes, recalling the first time he’d seen Elliott Eastman. The tough Master Sergeant had been hit by a road side bomb, fought for an hour and a half against the Afghani insurgents who had ambushed his command, then been rushed by medivac helicopter to the field hospital. When the soldiers brought him in on a stretcher and laid him on the table, the good doctor had carefully removed the bloody bandages, taken one glance at the wound and said, “That leg has to come off, right above the ankle.”
Elliott looked up and said calmly, “I thought so. I’ll flip a coin. Heads, you take it off, tails I do.”
“Relax soldier. That’s my job. You just enjoy the pain pills.”
“No pills,” Elliott growled. “We’re still too close to the kill zone. They reduce my awareness of our surroundings.”
For a moment the doctor studied the camouflage painted face with the piercing green eyes, the stubble of beard and the close cropped black hair. A trickle of blood, probably from a flying rock, dribbled from his right temple. “Whatever you say Sergeant,” the doctor quipped.
“No pills.”
At the time the young Dr. Yates thought the comment strange. He assumed the moment the saw touched his leg the soldier would cry out in pain demanding relief, but he’d not made a sound as the leg was removed just above the ankle. During the ensuing months of recuperation, the doctor had gotten to know Elliott Eastman and realized there were few people in the world like him. That was over 35 years ago. Since then, Elliott’s parents had died leaving him quite well off, but he’d taken that money, invested it in a software company and tripled it. He’d then started his own global investment firm and over the years become one of the one hundred richest men in the world. He’d never married. In spite of his wealth he’d stayed in touch with the men of his platoon, helping them with financial or family issues when needed. They were his family, and they adored him.
As Dr. Yates drove through the enormous gates, over the quarter mile long gravel drive and up to the sprawling French provincial style mansion, he steeled himself to the news he must deliver. He promised himself he wouldn’t break down while performing this hideous task.
Maurice, the butler answered the door and with a sweeping bow allowed Dr. Yates to pass through.
“Please follow me, sir. He’s in the study.”
Dr. Yates followed the servant past an enormous dining hall with twenty foot ceilings and a fireplace as big as a rail car. The winding hallway led alongside a cavernous living room towards the study, which was yet another huge room with floor to ceiling book shelves, a river rock fire place with a roaring fire and a twelve foot long desk stacked high with papers and manuscripts.
“Paul,” Elliott greeted his old friend warmly, extending a hand and then gripping the doctors out stretched hand in both of his.
“Have a seat. Can I get you a drink? This is later than I generally receive guests, but as I have often said, my door is always open to you.”
“I’ll take a brandy if you have some,” Dr. Yates replied softly, wondering how he was going to break the news.
“How about a 30 year old Napoleon brandy?”
“Sounds perfect.”
“I believe I’ll join you.”
“How’s the leg?” the doctor asked.
“Still missing,” Elliott replied over his shoulder.
Dr. Yates smiled.
As Elliott moved over towards the glass shelving of the bar, the doctor studied him. Despite his prostheses he held himself perfectly straight and moved with a certain grace. The shock of white hair atop his head framed the rugged and deeply tanned face. It was hard to imagine this towering powerful figure of a man, a master sergeant, two-time United States Senator from Colorado and champion for the poor and for peace, did not know the future he faced.
With a brandy snifter in each hand Elliott turned from the bar and crossed the several paces of plush carpeting to where the doctor was seated. As he handed him the glass he said, “So, to what do I owe the pleasure? It can’t be chess. The last time we played you vowed never to play me again.”
Paul allowed himself a brief smile and decided to get right to the point. That was what Elliott would do if their roles were reversed.
“No Elliott, I’m afraid it’s not chess. As you know, you were in for a check up a week or so ago. I received a phone call from my radiologist earlier this evening and, well I’m afraid the news is not good.”
“How so?” Elliott replied, thoughtfully sipping his drink and sitting down on a rust colored over-stuffed leather chair.
“It’s primarily pancreatic, but it’s metastasized. It’s wide spread and probably moving quickly throughout your body.”
Elliott did not respond. Not even a shadow crossed his face, so the doctor continued.
“I probably didn’t say that as properly as I might have. We can do dye tests, remove the tumors in the pancreas, and they have the radiation injection that can stop the damn stuff right in its tracks.”
“You’ve never been a good liar, Paul. I can tell by the look in your eyes you don’t believe a word you just said.”
Paul studied the floor and whispered, “You’ve got six to eight months, maybe a year at the most. I’m sorry Elliott. I wish I had better news.”
“Oh hell, let’s look on the bright side of things. Not too many men get the chance to know the date of their death,” Elliott said gruffly, standing and turning towards the fireplace. Paul stood as well. “Look, we can fight this thing. There are experimental drugs …”
Paul fell silent once he noted Elliott’s upraised hand.
“Do you believe I’m the type to be bedridden for a few months, watching myself slowly waste away and then die in delirium from a morphine drip?”
The two men fell silent for a moment.
“What will you do?” Paul asked. “You have no heirs. You never married. You have no children and your parents are gone.”
“Do? Oh, there’s a lot I can do. More than you know. There is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. And as for heirs, maybe I’ve got a few hundred million heirs right here in the good old USA.”
Dr. Yates was puzzled by the statement, but decided not to press the issue.
“I’m going to consult with some specialists over the next few days and we’ll come up with a treatment plan,” he said as he stood and shook Elliott’s hand.
“Good, thanks Paul. I’ll wait to hear from you.”
Once the good doctor left, Elliott turned back to the fire and sipped his drink. He sat staring into the fire for a long time. There was so much he still wished to do with his life, but now he must pare down the list. Near midnight Maurice entered the room. “Sir is there anything else I can do for you before I retire?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact there is Maurice,” Elliott replied moving over to the mahogany desk. “Please come and sit down.”
Maurice complied with this strange request and took a seat on the edge of the chair.
“Maurice, you will not be in my employ much longer. As my way of saying thanks I’m going to provide you with some money, but before I let you go I would like you to do a couple of things for me.”
“Is there something wrong?” Maurice asked, his voice tightening. “My service has always been prompt and discrete, hasn’t it? We’ve been together for more than twenty years. I don’t know what I’ll do.”
Elliott looked up to see the fear in his faithful servant’s eyes.
“Maurice, you have been my friend for more than twenty five years. Did you think this is the way it would end, with a summary judgment and swift boot out the door in the middle of the night?”
Maurice smiled. “I don’t know. I’ve seen you hand out some pretty swift justice to some pretty tough customers.”
Elliott laughed, “True, but we won’t let that story leave this room.”
As Master Elliott spoke he was writing in his check ledger. When he was done writing, he tore out a check and presented it to his trusted friend. “I want you to take this one million dollar check. Take it down and open an account in your name at Dallas National Bank. If there are any questions, talk to Jim Arnold and tell him he’s welcome to call me. In return I want you to accept stewardship of this estate until the time of your death when you will see that it is deeded to St. Jude’s Hospital. Thirdly, I want you to mail these twenty envelopes first thing in the morning.”
Elliott handed the butler a packet of faded letters held together by ancient rubber bands.
“What’s wrong sir? Are you feeling alright? I can’t accept this.”
“I feel fine. I’m thinking very clearly.”
“What are you going to do?”
“As far as you’re to know I’m going to live out the last of my days at the ranch in Colorado, my friend. Now stand up and give your old boss a hug.”
Both men stood and embraced for more than a minute. Then without a word, Maurice strode from the room.
Chapter Two
Once he completed his daily three-mile run, Eddie Kelley checked his mail around three in the afternoon. As he walked up the driveway to his ranch house flipping through the bills he noted a postmark from Dallas, Texas with the return address to one ‘Elliott Eastman.’
Sitting on the front stoop he swiftly tore open the letter. The writing was clean and crisp.
Dear Eddie,
Your presence is requested at 1958 Eastman Road, Fairplay, Colorado on May 5th, 2018. Your travel expenses are covered. It’s time for Operation Anvil.
Sincerely, Your Friend,
Elliott Eastman
‘That’s three days from now,’ Eddie thought. Marching into the family room where his wife sat reading a book he announced. “The Master Sergeant has called a meeting in Colorado in three days. I’ll be packing and leaving in the morning.”
She knew when the Master Sergeant sent word there was no discussing the matter. He had helped Eddie on many an occasion, both financially and otherwise.
“Are you driving?” his wife asked.
“Yes, it’s a little over a days drive from here.”
“When will you be back?”
“A few days, no more.”
“Let me wash up some clothes to take and I’ll pack some snacks for the drive,” she said, setting down the book.
The following morning she kissed him on the cheek and said, “Have a safe trip.”
Nineteen other men received the same letter.
The meeting was held in the great hall of the main house at the sprawling Eastman ranch on the slopes of the Rocky Mountains. Wagon wheel chandeliers hung suspended from thick hand hewn pine trusses thirty feet above the floor. An enormous Kodiak bear head snarled down from where it was mounted on a floor to ceiling river rock fireplace. Along the rear wall, a series of French doors with clerestory windows above them gave the guests a panoramic view of the snow-covered Rockies. There was laughter and friendly ribbing between the men who had all served together under the Master Sergeant in Afghanistan and Iraq, but hadn’t seen each other in many years.
The double doors from the hallway opened and the long-term ranch hand, Greer Jackson, dressed in white tuxedo, stood aside as Elliott Eastman strode into the room. The river rock walls and the heavy hand hewn beams twenty-four feet above shook to the thunderous ovation he received from his former men-in-arms. After a series of heartfelt hugs and firm hand shakes the men were seated and Elliott spoke.
“I’m sure all of you remember the raucous debates we had around the campfires back in Afghanistan when we were going to change the world. When we vowed more young men would not fight and die to fill the coffers of the Malliburtons and the Blackwaters of the world. When we vowed to make the world a better place by the sacrifices we made in the service of our country.”
Elliott paused for a moment and studied the somber faces. “As you know, I was a Senator for a number of years representing the great state of Colorado. I saw the workings of our government at every level. I think it is safe to say our nation is in dire straights. It is not better off than it was when we left Afghanistan those many years ago. The economy is on the ropes, we’re hemorrhaging jobs, the number of families falling below the poverty level has been increasing for years, and urban slums are cropping up everywhere. Money has a death grip on the government. It’s obvious our beloved nation is headed in the wrong direction and has been for a long time; yet our corporate leaders grow ever wealthier with each passing day.”
Again Elliott paused. “James,” he said turning to a heavy set man with deep brown eyes and a neatly trimmed beard, “I know you had some issues with your son being unable to find work and resorting to petty theft. I helped you get him released after one year of incarceration when he was facing fifteen years in prison for stealing a bicycle under the three strikes law.
“Nine years ago I helped you Rick, when your daughter graduated from college with $60,000 in student loans at 19% interest. She was unable to find work, falling behind in payments and the interest rates and penalties were eating her alive. She was contemplating suicide as I recall, and you were very scared.”
“Sallie Mae, the bastards had her trapped in debt before she even had a chance to start her life,” Rick Wheeler replied through gritted teeth. “They had no qualms about ruining her life.”
The other men in the room could feel the rage seething within Rick, the former sharp shooter.
“I could go on, but I think it’s plain to all of us that the system is broken.”
Elliott knew he might lose some of the men with what he was about to say, but he would test their mettle and go with the plan he was about to outline regardless.
“Look around you gentlemen. Life has been good, more than I’ve deserved really, but it is time for me to give back. So I ask you, how do we make a change in the direction our once great nation has taken? Do we write letters to our representatives? Do you believe that will change anything? The answer is, ‘No.’ I’m sure many of you will remember sitting around the campfires in Iraq lamenting our lack of Kevlar vests, flak jackets, or at least heavier armor for our Humvees. We all saw friends die over there for want of a few inexpensive items the government simply couldn’t procure. We didn’t understand it at the time. There were times when our anger was immense, and we hoped one of our beloved representatives would ride along with us just once.”
“Here, here,” Eddie growled, and a murmur of agreement rolled through the room. Many of the men were recalling those memories of bewilderment and anger at the lack of concern for their well being by those in power.
“We spoke those many years ago about an Operation Anvil; A way to bring about change in a swift and meaningful way. As I recall it was Eddie who said, ‘we need a way to awaken the powers that be that simply could not be ignored, like dropping an anvil on their toes.’
“I can tell you from first hand experience that we are never going to change the way Congress works by going through the usual channels. They are awash in corporate money up there, both Democrats and Republicans. They are not going to reform themselves, and the public has no chance of reforming them. They aren’t removable en mass as that would require a revolution, and you know me better than to think I would even remotely consider such a course of action. So how do we go about making change in this country, change of the magnitude we need, playing by the rules? The answer is we can’t. I think it might be time to use a little friendly persuasion on our esteemed legislators.”
The men all laughed and some huzzahs rang through the assembly. They all knew when the Master Sergeant suggested a little ‘friendly persuasion’ he usually was about to start kicking butt.
“I’m going to lay some ideas on the table, some goals if you will, and we can kick them around and share some thoughts on how we might achieve them. And remember, we need not worry about the money required to execute any plan we come up with because I can secure funding.”
“One goal near and dear to my heart is to have credit card rates set at 7%. Where did the banks gain the right to charge 18, 24, even 29%? They got that right by funneling millions of dollars into the right lobbyists’ hands. What better way to free up capital and spur the economy than relieving our fellow citizens from usurious debt? And Sallie Mae charges exorbitant rates on student loans, plunging our children into years and years of debt before their lives have even begun and leaves them facing a virtual debtors’ prison if they were to miss a payment.”
“I back you all the way on that one, Sarge,” Rick said.
“And why should we pay trillions of dollars a year to support over 1,100 military bases across the world? Many of those bases are in countries where the local populace despises us. We could cut that number in half and bring that money home to hire teachers, build schools and repair bridges.”
“I’m on board for that,” one of the former army rangers in the back of the room said.
“Now the center piece comes from a very strong belief that the hole we have dug in terms of our national debt is far too huge to be dealt with by cutting a little here and increasing some taxes there. We can adopt a Financial Transaction Fee that will be charged on all stock, commodities, futures and derivatives contracts. These types of contracts have grown enormously in recent years and are now over $703 trillion annually. We can bring this plan to fruition, and once our national debt is eliminated we can apply the almost 600 billion a year we will save in interest payments on the debt to other worthy goals. There have been proposals of this nature on many an occasion, but they have always been shot down by the government. When Europe was in dire straights back in 2011 the Europeans were pushing hard for a Financial Transaction Fee, but Treasury Secretary Tim Guttner …”
“Don’t you mean Tim Gutless,” one of the men shouted from the back of the room.
Elliott smiled. “Gutless would have none of it. I believe if he had stepped up, Europe might not have suffered the way it has since then.”
James stood and said, “And for profit prisons must go. We imprison more people per capita than any other country in the world. Huge numbers of men and women enter our prison system for the smallest of crimes, turn into hardened criminals and become the huge profit engine that is our prison system.”
“Hang on James. Let’s not get carried away,” Elliott said. “I don’t want to try for too much. Just like in Iraq, the more complicated a plan is the more room for error. We can talk about the prison system when we break up into groups in a few minutes. If you gather enough support for a sound plan, I might consider it.”
“Fair enough,” James said and sat down.
Elliott continued. “To achieve these worthy goals we’ll place a small transaction fee on stock trades, futures, commodities, derivatives and foreign exchange trades. Ten dollars on trades over one thousand, one hundred dollars on trades over one hundred thousand and one thousand dollars on trades over one million. I’m going to approach the people I know in Congress and the President with a proposal for a bill called the “War on the Deficit”. I’ve done the calculations. We can pay off the eighteen trillion in debt in less than seven years. But in conjunction with this approach we must achieve deficit reduction. This will be initiated by the base closures, which by conservative estimates will generate 400 to 500 billion a year in savings. And lastly, the reduction in credit card rates will generate a consumer-spending boom. Remember when President Rush, back in 2006, gave every family six hundred dollars? It didn’t do much. People paid their credit cards down. Now imagine if they, along with the reduction in Sallie Mae rates for our kids, were given six hundred or a thousand dollars a month more to spend for the next thirty six months rather than paying it to the banks. This is what the reduction in credit card rates will do. We’ll have this economy back on its feet in no time, and it doesn’t cost the government a dime.”
“You’ll never get the banks to reduce their rates,” someone said.
“We’ll see about that,” Elliott replied, and held up his glass of wine. “Here is to Operation Anvil.”
“To Operation Anvil,” the men cried out as one and raised their glasses.
Following the conclusion of Elliott’s speech the men broke up into small groups and discussed various ways of executing the ideas Elliott had put forth. The meeting went on well into the night. Brandy and cigars were consumed in great quantities. Morning light was beginning to filter through the huge arched windows of the hall when the meeting finally broke up.
Over the course of the next three days a plan of action was hammered out. Two man teams would contact the CEO’s of Sallie Mae, Bank of America and Capital One. Richard ‘Rick’ Wheeler would head up the team to open discussions with Kenny Borel, the head of Sallie Mae. Another group led by James Lally would deal with the prison system in daring fashion. Elliott wasn’t wild about the prison aspect of the plan and actually excluded it, but James felt so strongly about it that Elliott relented. James maneuvered himself to a quiet table with Elliott and pressed his case.
“I never told you none of this, but my boy was going to be locked up for a long time. He wrote letters to his mother begging her to smuggle rope into the prison so he could hang himself. It was killing her. He was going to be another one of the revolving door prisoners that never got out of the system. It wasn’t right what they we’re doing to him. It’s not what this country is about.”
James grew quiet and reached across the table and clutched Elliott’s hand saying, “I can’t thank you enough for all you did Sarge.”
Elliott looked across the table at James Lally. James was older now but still broad across the shoulders and his red hair had grayed some, but he was still a handsome giant. He knew this man to be a fearless fighter. He’d gone into firefights to save his buddies when even Elliott might have hesitated, but Elliott had also seen James sobbing over the broken body of a little Afghani girl killed by mistake in a night raid. His was a heart of gold. “How is Martin now?” Elliott asked.
“He’s doing great. He’s married, got a baby on the way and a good job,” James replied with pride.
“Good,” Elliott said, “Listen James. I’ll move forward with funding for your prison scheme, but it is not part of Operation Anvil. You’re your own man on this one, and I’ll only fund it under the caveat that not one solitary soul is to be injured. That means none of ours and none of the opposition. If anyone is hurt, I’ll pull the funding instantly.”
“Thanks Sarge. Thank you so much,” James replied. “You won’t regret it.”
Meanwhile Elliott himself would enlist the help of retired General Robert Gates, one of the most esteemed Generals to ever wear the uniform, to open discussions with the Secretary of Defense Bruce Holland regarding base closures.
Also Elliott would have his team of lawyers, along with some legislative specialists, draft wording for a bill creating the Financial Transaction Fee and set up a meeting with the Securities and Exchange Commissioner to discuss it. Elliott felt if he could get the backing of the SEC, then he’d have an easier time getting a member of the House of Representatives to sponsor the bill in Congress.
Chapter Four
The jet-black eighteen-wheeler raced through the night like an orca whale surging toward its victim. Two army drones armed with three stinger missiles each, rested comfortably in the cargo hold awaiting their mission. Eddie Kelley softly whistled an old Beatles tune under his breath as they neared Huntsville, Alabama. Six other two-man teams, similarly armed, neared their destinations as well.
At dawn the following day the big rig pulled off a lonely byway into the shadows beneath a towering stand of cottonwoods. They were about fifteen miles from Huntsville and its sprawling prison yard. At exactly nine a.m., during the prisoners’ morning break, the drones were wheeled from the rear of the rig. Moments later they were whirling on their way. Each of the drones took out a guard tower with rubber bullets. Elliott’s explicit instructions were that there was to be no loss of life. Eddie couldn’t let the guards open fire on the prisoners once the attack was under way so he had to take them out, but do it in bloodless fashion. He smiled in satisfaction as the mini-cameras mounted on the wings of the drones showed the guards falling to the wooden floors of their towers unharmed, but out of the fight. Next, Eddie’s laptop screen showed the drones’ missiles striking the base of the compound walls in several locations. Once the dust settled the cameras revealed gaping eight-foot wide holes in the walls and prisoners streaming through the openings. As the sirens began to wail the drones returned to the big rig and were quickly wheeled inside and the rear doors closed. Eddie drove a mile and a half to an overpass near the freeway, pulled underneath, and with the help of James pulled the thin film of black plastic from the sides of the rig. This exposed the slightly sun-faded lettering which read, ‘Safeway’ with the grocery company logo just below it.
As the two men pulled onto the highway they listened to the local police chatter on a short wave radio. Complete chaos was the only way to describe it. Guesstimates of more than one thousand prisoners escaping were commonplace. When he and his team were thirty miles away they switched the laptop on and turned to CNN. They took in the surreal sight of more than a half dozen of the biggest prisons nationwide, all minimum security with enormous craters where walls had stood and prisoners pouring through them.
“Even though this little trick went off even better than planned, I still have my doubts,” Eddie said.
“How so?” asked James.
“Not all those men are mister Goody Two-Shoes locked up by some miscarriage of justice.”
“Elliott ran the numbers. Almost 78 percent of them are not a threat to society, and the really bad guys are not allowed in the yard with the rest of the convicts,” James explained.
“Still, some of these guys are going to hurt people. We’ll just have to watch it play out.”
Chapter Five
Rick Wheeler tried to suppress a smile as he and his companion, Gordon Harrison, climbed out of the golf cart and dutifully watched Kenny Borel miss his four foot putt and curse soundly. The president and CEO of Sallie Mae walked towards the golf carts with his three golfing buddies following not far behind.
When the golfers neared the carts Rick stepped forward. He was dressed in a black three piece suit and wearing dark glasses. He held one hand in his coat pocket where he gripped a stun gun.
“Mr. Borel?”
“Yes,” replied the short heavy-set man with the shock of graying black hair.
“I’m special agent Rick Wheeler with the Internal Revenue Service. We’d like you to come with us,” Rick said discreetly, so only the CEO could hear.
“I’ll do no such thing,” Kenny replied, his voice laced with alarm.
“Is something wrong,” one of the other golfers asked and stepped forward.
Gordon Harrison, Rick’s partner on this mission, moved three paces forward and slipped his hand towards the inside pocket of his coat. “Stay right there, sir. This is none of your affair.”
The man stopped in his tracks while Rick leaned closer to Sallie Mae’s head man and said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”
“What is this all about?” Kenny asked, his alarm growing.
“Do we really want to discuss this here?” Rick asked nodding in the direction of a growing number of gawkers. “Please just come with us.”
“Show me your license.”
Rick flashed his badge and Kenny said to his friends, “You guys finish the round. A bit of an emergency has developed. I’ll be in touch.”
A few minutes later Kenny climbed into the back seat of the limousine with Gordon right beside him while Rick took the wheel. They drove three miles to a secluded single story ranch house where Kenny was led inside to the darkened living room.
“Take a seat,” Rick said, indicating a single wooden chair in the center of the room.
“Now see here. This is enough. I demand to know what this is about or I’ll be forced to call my attorney,” Kenny said indignantly.
Rick spun around and savagely backhanded the CEO across the mouth, sending him to the floor. “Now sit in the damn chair and shut your face.”
Kenny didn’t say a word. Dabbing at his bleeding lips he sat down heavily in the chair.
“Upload ready?”
“Yep, pull down the Hi Def screen.”
Gordon ran a cable from his computer to the four-foot by five-foot high definition television screen attached to the wall.
A moment later the first You Tube video sprang onto the screen. “My name is Rachel Ramirez. If you’re seeing this it means I’m dead already.”
The young face on the screen began to crumble into tears. “I don’t want to die, but I feel like I’m dead already. I’ve got $90,000 in student loans and I’ve worked to pay them off. I’ve worked two jobs for almost three years. I’ve worked really hard, but I missed some payments and there are fines and late fees and the loans have gotten bigger. I’ve talked to the lender, but they won’t listen to me. I can’t go on. I’m living for these loans.”
Again the woman started to sob. Finally all that could be seen was the top of her head and the shaking of her shoulders as she broke down completely. The screen went dark.
“Oh my god,” Kenny said.
“Shut the hell up,” Rick hurled the words like a dagger at the cowering CEO. The next video popped up on the screen. Together the three men watched two hours of people in distress because of student loans. One young man even slit his wrists on screen. To his credit, Kenny recoiled in horror at the scene. The final video was a group of cheerleaders all wearing Yale sweaters. The camera zoomed in and stopped on a man sitting in the bleachers. The man waved. It was Rick.
“Is that you in the stands?” Kenny almost shouted and started to stand up.
Rick shoved him back down, almost upsetting the chair. “Yes, it’s me in the stands. Your daughter Amanda is a cheerleader at Yale, correct?”
Kenney nodded.
“I’ll bet she doesn’t have any student loans.”
“You wouldn’t,” Kenny whispered.
“I’ll stop at nothing,” Rick replied. “You want to see more? I’ll show you a video of me crossing the street right behind her. One jab with a needle and she’s gone. Not dead mind you, but a vegetable for the next fifty years. A constant reminder of the choice you didn’t make.”
Kenny slumped in the chair. “What do you want?”
“You will lower the rates on all student loans to 7% effective tomorrow. You will make the announcement outside Sallie Mae’s offices with local news crews at hand. You will become a spokesperson against the level of personal debt in this country. You’re the one who is going to step up and make a difference.”
“I’ve got investors to answer to.”
“You’ve got a nation of students to answer to. How do you justify owning a private golf course on the backs of starving students? What do you want to say to people who are killing themselves because of your lending policies?”
“I don’t know what to say,” the CEO said in barely audible tones.
“You say it stops here and it stops now.”
The room fell into a deep silence and then Rick concluded. “We’re going to leave here now. You’ll never know who we are but know this, we’ll be watching, and if anything happens to us there will be others. You control your daughter’s life, yours, and your wife’s too if it comes to that. Do the right thing.”
Kenny looked up. Rick swung a right upper cut that came from the floor and lifted the chubby CEO out of the chair. He fell in a crumpled heap on the floor.
“Sorry about that last bit,” Rick said to Gordon. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”
“Not a problem. Let’s load up our gear, wipe everything down and clear out,” Gordon responded.
“Do you think we got to him?” Rick asked.
“Oh yeah, we got to him big time.”
Chapter Six
Halfway around the world, about the time that Kenney Borel was being lifted out of the chair by Rick’s mighty blow, another team was at work.
President and CEO of Bank of America, Wilfred Blankenship, was enjoying a cool drink surrounded by family and friends in the grand ball room of his private yacht moored at a plush resort on the French Riviera. Little did he know, despite extensive security measures including two armed body guards, two divers were at that moment hovering weightless beneath his magnificent yacht. As bedtime arrived he begged off his guests, and he and the wife retired to his private stateroom. The ‘sweet suite’, as his wife called it, was all of nine hundred square feet complete with luxury bath, sitting room, wet bar and private balcony. It was the balcony that proved to be its weak point. With the guards located three floors up, bored and fearing nothing, the divers, using suction cup devices climbed the side of the ship and slipped over the railing to land softly on Mr. Blankenship’s private balcony. It took but a moment to jimmy the French doors and step inside where they froze for a moment and listened to the sound of calm, even breathing. Jim Buckner and Michael Conrad padded softly across the room, their strategy refined step by step over several nights of planning, and placed a hand carefully over the mouths of husband and wife simultaneously. The pen lights clicked on and revealed frightened eyes.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” each man said in a soft voice designed to quell their fears. “We just want to talk.”
Blankenship nodded.
“When I remove my hand from your mouth, if you or your wife shout or scream, I’ll be forced to silence you which will not be pleasant. Do you understand?”
Husband and wife nodded.
As soon as he was free to speak, the CEO started in with a tirade. “Now see here. What is the meaning of this? Do you know who I am?”
Jim slapped him squarely across the mouth and spoke in a harsh whisper, “Shut up. We know exactly who you are.”
Michael pulled a laptop computer from the Dry Pak on his back and set it on the bed. He fired it up and whispered, “Watch the video.”
The short movies, provided by a private firm employed by Elliott Eastman, were similar to those that Kenny Borel had witnessed. Testimonials by people who’d lost their homes, lost their livelihoods and been driven into poverty by Bank of America. People questioning the right of Bank of America and the interest rates on their credit cards of 24% plus. The clincher was a manager at a Bank of America branch in Los Angeles who testified regarding mortgage origination practices. “The orders from on high were to push our home buyers into adjustable loans, even though mortgage rates were the lowest they’d been in almost forty years, because we would make more money on adjustable loans than on a fixed rate. Then if we could slip in a high margin between the starting rate and the index, say maybe three or four percent over the index, we could be paid a bonus of upwards of ten thousand dollars per loan. We were paid to cheat our clients.”
“You know this to be true, don’t you?” Jim asked.
Blankenship nodded.
“Do you believe this is right?”
Blankenship shook his head no.
“What should you do to make this right? I’ll tell you. You’re going to go before the American people and tell them that temporarily, just for the next three years, you’re going to reduce interest rates on your credit cards to 7% across the board. This will stimulate spending and reduce the amount of pain you’ve inflicted on your fellow citizens. Now understand that we found you, entered your inner sanctum, and could have killed you. Do you agree to go before the American people and make this proposal? And don’t, lie because we will find you again.”
Michael hit another button and the screen filled with a scene from a party showing Blankenship dancing with his wife. Another showed husband and wife walking on the beach hand in hand. The last one depicted shadows moving against a thin set of sheers. It was the Blankenship’s bedroom window.
Blankenship’s eyes widened in recognition of the locations.
“I can’t, our stock price will fall like a rock. Our stock holders will scream.”
“My friend here is an expert marksman and obviously, based on the video, we can find you almost anywhere. But think about it for a moment. With all the extra spending power produced by reducing the rates the economy will sky rocket and most people will run their balances up.”
This statement gave the CEO reason to pause for a moment as he contemplated this possibility.
“I’ll need to think about this,” Blankenship replied.
“No time. And part of our agreement is that you convince your cronies at JP Morgan, Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, Wells Fargo and all the other credit companies to drop their rates as well.”
“I can’t guarantee their agreement!” Blankenship almost shouted.
Jim back handed him across the mouth knocking out a tooth. He seethed between gritted teeth, “Keep your voice down scum and give me a straight ‘yes’ or ‘no’!”
“The other banks might follow our lead. I’ll do the best I can,” Blankenship mumbled through bleeding lips.
“I said ‘yes’ or ‘no’,” Jim hissed, his face just inches from the cowering CEO.
Blankenship whispered, “Yes.”
Chapter Seven
Samuel Goldman, the Chairman of the Securities and Exchange Commission, gazed uneasily at the three attorneys who seated themselves across the vast expansive desk top from him. This was a highly unusual meeting, he thought, but when Elliott Eastman requested something one was better off complying, as it would probably come to pass anyway.
“I’m Robert Dale, and these are Paul Cranston and Bryan Banks, attorneys representing the interests of Mr. Elliott Eastman. He extends his personal thanks for taking the time out of your busy day to meet with us. He wished to be here, but unfortunately he had pressing business to attend to in Washington.”
“My pleasure,” Samuel Goldman replied, extending a hand shake to each man while still eyeing them with a degree of suspicion.
“Mr. Eastman respects your opinion greatly and wished you might render an opinion once you have read this one page document,” Attorney Dale explained, opening his brief case and sliding a single sheet of paper across the desk. “He has also asked that any reference to this meeting and his name not leave this room.”
Attorney Dale gazed sharp eyed at Goldman and the other members of the commission which were seated there.
“Agreed,” Goldman replied brusquely and bent to the document at hand.
Goldman read it carefully. When he was finished he looked up and smiled. “It’s bold and shows imagination, but why would Mr. Eastman be interested in forwarding such a proposal?”
“He feels this country has been very good to him and is concerned with the direction it has taken in the last few years. He believes such a proposal, a small transaction fee on stock trades, commodities, futures and derivatives, is painless and eliminates our growing deficit, which he feels is the single greatest threat to our nation. He also believes that with the explosion of various financial instruments in the last few years, the income stream will be quite substantial.”
“I might agree with him, but it is pointless to discuss this any further. You’ll never get Congress to agree. The banks have enormous sway over them. They’ll not even get the bills written.”
“Could you kindly identify the members of Congress who would most strenuously oppose such a bill?” Attorney Dale asked softly.
Goldman scratched his chin. “You’d have everyone on the Senate Banking Committee, Coryn, Graham, and Lanting against it. You’d probably have trouble with Bainer and Whitback over at the House Ways and Means Committee, and of course the House Speaker Cobbings will side with them. And that’s just to name a few.”
Attorney Dale swiftly wrote the names down on a note pad.
“If this bill were to be written, Mr. Eastman has argued it must be done with great care so as not to allow Congress to merely spend the monies. He also wants to be clear that this is not to apply to the savings and checking account transactions of the general public. He expressed a desire that the bill be very specific. It would require a division of the SEC to manage the monies and secure a lock box style of accounting, so not a single penny is misplaced. He’d like you to manage that division, under the SEC, and imagines there will be a sizable pay raise for this new staff, something in the six figure range for you as well as a spot on the national stage. The SEC would be the natural governmental body to oversea such a fee arrangement, as they would be on the front line of collections anyway. You have three years left in your term. You would be the inaugural General in the ‘War on the Deficit.’”
Dale could see the lights glimmering in Goldman’s eyes as he imagined himself on the cover of TIME magazine.
Attorney Dale continued. “If Senator, I mean the former Senator Mr. Eastman, can get the bill to the floor he would respectfully hope you would endorse it, and he means strongly endorse it. He believes your endorsement would go a long way toward getting the bill passed.”
“Of course. I’d have no problem with that,” Goldman swiftly replied. “But with the powerful lobbyists that every major corporation has at their command, there is not the proverbial snowballs chance in hell of such a thing happening.”
“But if it was to take place, do we have your word that you would strongly endorse such a bill?” Dale pressed the chairman.
“Yes, you do.”
“Thank you for your time Mr. Chairman.”
Chapter Eight
Elliott Eastman paced softly across the thick carpeting of the Oval Office with his hands folded behind his back. The sun was just rising to the east of the White House, slowly spreading thin fingers of sunlight across the Rose Garden. Elliott was humming softly. The door swung open and in walked President White with a big smile on his face. He greeted the former senator warmly, grasping the proffered hand saying, “It’s been awhile, Elliott. It’s so good to see you again. Can I offer you some coffee or tea?”
“No thank you. You’re looking well, Samuel. The presidency must agree with you.”
“Agree? Other than a constant headache and a couple dozen bleeding ulcers, I’m just peachy,” the President laughed heartily.
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“Yes, it is a marathon everyday, but we’re doing okay. The poll numbers are still lower than they were, but they seemed to have stabilized and the team has high hopes I’ll win a second term.”
“Is it too early for congratulations?”
“Well the election is still a year away Elliott, so I’d say it’s a tad early.”
“Let’s sit and talk. I’ve got two ideas that, when linked together, I think might just win you a second, and possibly a third term,” Elliott suggested.
Paul smiled. “A third term? You’re a better salesman than I gave you credit for. I got your message … something about ‘problem solved.’ Intriguing to say the least. Talk to me.”
“I know you’re pressed for time. Here are the ideas in a nutshell. We cannot grow, cut or tax our way out of our debt issues. We are facing the same fate that Greece, Spain, Italy, Portugal and Ireland suffered a few years ago. We need a new income stream. It’s the only answer. I’ve had some of my people do the math. There are approximately 985 million trades each day on various US stock exchanges and two sides, buyer and seller, to each trade. By the way, that 985 million is tapes A, B, and C. The Nasdaq, the New York and the Euronext exchanges. It doesn’t include commodities, futures or derivatives contracts. In any event, tapes A, B, and C reflect approximately 1.8 billion trades. We should place a nominal fee; a flat fee so easy to understand even a child could grasp it, on each trade. Say ten dollars on trades over one thousand, one hundred dollars on trades over one hundred thousand and one thousand dollars on trades over one million. We calculate that this will generate in the range of forty million dollars a day, or two hundred billion a year on the stock trades alone. If we throw in a similar fee structure on the commodities, futures and derivative contracts, you know, the more exotic financial instruments this could generate another trillion a year in fees. I’ll give you a little background. The derivatives market back in 1997 was $17 trillion a year. In 2005 it was $125 trillion, whereas today it is estimated to be $703 trillion a year. To put that into perspective, it’s about forty times the Gross National Product of the entire country. Also, the gentlemen that run some of these hedge funds earn quite a bit.” Elliott paused flipping through his notes. “Jean Simmons of Renaissance Technologies earned 2.5 billion dollars last year and David Tepperson of Appaloosa Management made over 4 billion, so it would seem this is a very lucrative business. I would suggest even a modest fee on these transactions would generate something in the neighborhood of $1.5 trillion dollars a year. We’ve tried to take a conservative approach. In previous experiments with these fee arrangements business has gone to other countries, but they want our dollars and they want our business. If they threaten to leave, we counter by denying them access to our market. Problem solved. The experts I hired believe we could pay off our national debt in seven and a half years.”
President White started to speak, but Elliot held up his hand.
“And that’s only part of it Paul. We must cut defense spending as well, and overseas bases are the low hanging fruit. We calculate we could save a minimum of $350 billion a year by closing just six hundred bases.”
The President was about to beg off, but Elliott pressed on.
“Look at it Paul. It’s beautiful. We can generate something in the neighborhood of two trillion dollars a year and not have to cut social programs or any other important safety nets. Once the debt is extinguished we could fund education, infrastructure and social security; all the things we’ve been trying to address for years. Polls show the deficit as the fourth item on the fear factor list in the minds of the American public. What they don’t show you is that it was eighth on the list just five years ago. People are rapidly becoming aware of the risks posed by the deficit. Secondly, it’s really their future they are expressing concern for in these polls. What better way to address their fears than addressing social security. It appeals to the aging baby boomers and the younger generations who are expressing growing resentment at their obligation to pay for their parents’ retirements. And look where the tax comes from; trades. Only thirty percent of the American population own stock, and none own derivatives, so the tax is avoided by most of our population. The funding of this program sits squarely on the financial speculation industry. We tax gamblers, don’t we? That’s all these outfits are, gamblers. And most importantly, it’s just a temporary tax, only for a few years. You’re going to appeal to the young new voters in this country and draw generations of voters into the democratic fold. At the same time you’re solving the biggest headache for our retirees wondering if their money will last the remainder of their lives. You’ll win all their votes. Your legacy could be the president who tamed the deficit.”
President White took a moment to comment. “Initially I must confess I like it, but as you know I’m going to have to run it by my re-election team. I can see one possible pitfall. The corporations that trade most of the stock and hedge funds and their lobbyists will fund any candidate who opposes it. The results could be disastrous for my campaign, but I’ll let you know what my team recommends.”
“Paul, we’ve known each other for a long time and I know your aim to get re-elected is paramount to you, but I must ask you something. It was the question I found myself asking quite often in my last years in office. What about the American people? What happens to their interests when we leaders of the nation must bow to the wishes of Big Money? I kept coming to the conclusion that they deserved better. At some point we politicians need to do what’s right by the American people.”
“I understand the sentiment Elliott, but I can’t let those types of thoughts get in the way of my re-election.”
“Paul,” Elliott said softly, a measure of sadness evident in his voice. “These problems are real. A trillion dollar a year deficit is unsustainable. At some point we will bankrupt the nation, if we haven’t done so already. We’ll go to the media with the names of the corporations that oppose this bill. Any corporation that doesn’t support the new ‘War on the Deficit’ will be blacklisted and their products avoided. We can win this battle. Does your team have any proposals on the table to deal with it?”
“Nothing concrete yet, but it is something we’re keeping an eye on,” the President replied while glancing at his watch. “I’ve got another meeting to go to in about ten minutes regarding the Israelis, and I need to be briefed on the latest events.”
“In complete honesty, allow me to digress for a moment. I would also like to see a Value Added Tax. We’re the only advanced democratic nation in the world that doesn’t have one. And perhaps a National Sales Tax enacted for two or three years to further destroy our common enemy, the deficit, but that is for another day and time. I didn’t want to reach too far and those two proposals affect the average American worker, so I much prefer this approach. So I’ll close by making this promise to you, Mr. President.”
The President noted Elliott’s change in tone and looked over at the former congressman, but at that moment Elliott chose to gaze at the table in front of him collecting his thoughts. He was losing the President. The leader of the free world wasn’t listening.
The President looked away again until Elliott spoke more forcefully.
“Listen to me Paul. The time is now. If we can get this into bill form and on the floor of Congress, I will personally write a ten million dollar check to your re-election campaign.”
The President was in the process of glancing down at his watch for a second time when his head shot back up. He stared intently into Elliott’s face for a moment to be sure the former senator was not joking.
“I’ll even have my team of lawyers help with drawing up the bill, but we need your backing,” Elliott added.
“That is very generous, Elliott. Are you sure about that?”
“I’ll put it in writing if you wish.”
“That’s not necessary. Your word is good enough for me.”
Elliott stood and said in a very direct and formal manner, “Thank you for taking the time to chat with me Mr. President. I’ll await word on your decision.”
Chapter Nine
Eddie Kelley climbed from the shower, quickly dried off, and studied his sturdy figure in the mirror. The angry pink scars from the hail of shrapnel he’d endured dotted his physique. For a moment he thought back to his years chasing the Taliban around Afghanistan.