The List (8 page)

Renny turned on the TV. He had been so consumed with his own news he hadn't thought about the rest of the world. Watching the images flash across the screen, he decided a story about the List would make a great human interest/history piece. It would begin with scenes from Charleston and a commentary on the lost lifestyle of the antebellum South. Then the reporter would tell how a group of plantation owners banded together to save their families by smuggling gold and silver out of the dying Confederacy. Now, 140 years later, the money set aside by the original participants has multiplied to an unknown but possibly astronomical sum. At that point Renny's face filled the screen, and he answered questions about his family's history, expressing his gratitude for their foresight. “No, I'm not at liberty to reveal the value of my share of the List,” he would tell the interviewer. “As J. D. Rockefeller once said, ‘If you know what you're worth, you're not rich.'” Renny chuckled. Better stay on this side of the screen. He turned off the TV and went to bed.

Renny was up by 6:15 because Brandy was up at 6:14. She gently woke him with a nuzzle to the arm. He let her out, and by the time she scratched at the door five minutes later, Renny had the coffeepot percolating and the shower running. After a cup of coffee, he opened the trunk and carefully examined the loose papers. An envelope addressed to his father from a Swiss bank caught his eye. Opening it, he unfolded a single sheet of paper with the name Banc Suisse engraved in small letters at the top and Office de Geneva typed in the upper right corner. In the center it read, “This letter authorizes the holder thereof to funds deposited in account number 23-98730-2, Access Code 8760945-2. Signed, F. Grossman, Clerk.” The bank seal was affixed under the bank official's signature.

“Listen, I have a letter from your bank giving me ownership of this account. I want you to straighten this out, and if you can't do it, get someone who can!”

“I'll let you speak to Mr. Diegal.” The clerk put Renny on hold before he could fire another salvo.

Renny fumed. He was getting the runaround from the Swiss bank— no one would tell him what the balance of his account was. This was what they did to the Jews. Now it was his turn to be robbed of his inheritance. He would find the Swiss equivalent of F. Lee Bailey and make the bank officials quake in their feathered hats.

“This is Mr. Diegal, I have pulled up the information on the account.”

“I want some answers,” Renny demanded.

“Mr. Broffman told me you have the bank account letter and that your father is deceased.”

“That's correct. I'm the beneficiary of this account under his will,” Renny added.

“The individual who set up this account specified that it be subject to dual-number access, much like a joint account in an American bank for Mr. A
and
Mr. B.”

“Of course.” Renny knew about joint accounts. “But with joint accounts either party has unrestricted access to the monies deposited.”

“Unfortunately, that is not the case with this type of account. However, though we cannot waive the joint access requirement, there is a procedure that will allow us to give you the name of the other individual or entity designated on the account. You could then contact them.”

Knowing something would be better than nothing, Renny responded, “What would be necessary to do that?”

“I will fax you the forms. We need to verify the genuineness of your bank letter. Once this is established, our confidentiality guidelines allow us to reveal the name of the joint account holder to you. What is your fax number?”

“I'm in the U.S.A., Charlotte, North Carolina.” Renny gave him the fax number for his office.

“Just a minute—” The line was silent for a few seconds. “Fortunately, we have a representative who can assist you at a Bank of America office in Charlotte.” Renny grabbed a pen and wrote down the name and address. The main Bank of America building was only a block south of his office in uptown Charlotte. “I will fax you the information you need before the end of the day.”

“Thank you. I want this straightened out as soon as possible.”

“Certainly.”

Renny tried to immerse himself in his work. After a couple of hours, his supervising partner, Barnette Heywood, called him into his office for a midmorning meeting. Mr. Heywood had achieved partner status the last year of his eligibility primarily because another associate in his class at the firm was killed in an automobile accident. Heywood's responsibilities never increased beyond overseeing a couple of young associates, and his professional frustration made him a difficult taskmaster.

“Renny,” the short, balding lawyer barked as soon as Renny sat down, “I need you to give me a memo on current congressional initiatives that may affect our bank clients. We may need to mobilize some lobbying pressure.”

Renny saw a vast haystack of federal government records looming before him, and he had no idea where the needle might be hidden. “Anything particular you want me to focus on?”

“That's your job—to give me focus. I have to prepare a quarterly newsletter for our retainer clients, and I want to give them up-to-date information.”

“Yes sir.”

“I need the memo by five o'clock Thursday.”

Renny had logged on to the legal research network and was trying to unravel the labyrinth of House and Senate subcommittees that might be talking about banking when his secretary interrupted him. “Morris Hogan on line two.”

Renny leaned back in his chair and picked up the phone. “Hey, Morris, how are you?”

“Fine for Monday. How is the life of the rich and famous?”

“Since I'm neither, I can't comment.”

“Can you meet me at Yogi's?”

Renny looked at his watch. “Sure, I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Morris Hogan, a big, blond-haired Duke graduate, worked as an investment adviser in the trust department of First Union, one of the larger banks in Charlotte. He and Renny became friends before Renny went to law school, and they maintained contact during the next three years. When Renny landed the job in Charlotte, Morris was the first person he called with the news. The two young men spent a lot of time together, eating, playing tennis, and arguing the respective merits of the Duke and U.N.C. Chapel Hill basketball teams.

It seemed to Renny and Morris that every fourth person in Charlotte worked for a bank, and they often wondered who within a twenty-five-mile radius of Charlotte engaged in productive labor. Morris's theory was that most of the money in the United States was counterfeit, printed at shopping center print shops and laundered through grocery stores. His proof was the redesigned hundred. He once held a crisp new bill up to Renny's nose and presented his case: “Now tell me, does this look like legal tender for all debts, public and private, or mediocre play money? Would Ben Franklin consent to such a ludicrous likeness? Why, he would rather be struck by lightning!”

Renny pulled into the restaurant parking lot and found an open space next to Morris's Ford Explorer. Yogi's served a major-league meal for lunch. No quiche of the day or asparagus salad feminized the menu. Hungry businessmen and construction workers could order a half-pound burger with enough fries and onion rings to lay down a serious oil slick in the largest stomach.

Morris was waiting in one of the “cells,” a restaurant booth designed to look like a jail cell. Peanut shells littered the floor, a practice encouraged by the management to give credence to its antiestablishment mystique.

“I just ordered you a spinach salad with avocado dressing,” Morris quipped. “How was the trip to Charleston?”

“It was OK, but there's more hassle to my father's estate than I expected.” Renny decided not to mention the terms of the will.

Morris inspected his friend's face. “Yeah, you do look like you've been negotiating with a group of terrorists. What's up?”

“Nothing much. Heywood assigned me an impossible project, but that's to be expected.” Renny paused then asked tentatively, “Do you know much about Swiss bank accounts?”

“Some. Secret havens for money made by selling drugs, weapons, and contraband. You're not planning on selling arms to Iraq, are you?” Morris said, raising his eyebrows in mock suspense.

“Not even a firecracker.”

Morris scratched his chin. “I get it. Did your father have an overseas account?”

“Good deduction. He did, and I can't find out what is in it.”

“What's the problem?”

“It was a joint account, and I have to get permission from the other party to do anything.”

“Who is it?”

“I don't know.”

“You do have a problem. What are you going to do?”

“The bank is going to send me some paperwork that may let me find out who else is on the account.”

“I wouldn't know anything else to do.”

“Actually, I was hoping you could do a little research for me—find out how Swiss bank accounts work . . . ?”

Morris grinned. “What are friends for? Sure, I'll look into it. But you owe me.”

The waiter brought their order, and they ate in silence for a few minutes. Morris spoke first, “Have you decided what you are going to do once your father's estate is finalized?”

Renny swallowed a big bite of burger and answered, “I really don't know. My father's death was so unexpected; I'm not sure what to do.”

“Will you keep working at the firm?”

Renny shrugged. “At least till I do this project for Heywood.”

“It's not such an awful dilemma. Most people would happily trade problems with you.”

“My landlady says money sometimes causes problems.”

Morris rolled his eyes. “Name one.”

Renny thought. “High taxes?”

“Right. Give me the money, and I'll be happy to pay the taxes on it.”

“OK, OK.” Renny wiped up a spot of ketchup with his last onion ring.

“In case you ever have too much money, my phone number is in the yellow pages under ‘Friends Who Need Money.' Since you're feeling so depressed about your money today, I'll buy your lunch.”

Renny grinned. “Thanks. Why don't you use one of those fake hundreds?”

Renny took the Banc Suisse forms home and filled them out that evening at his kitchen table. A copy of the original letter needed to be certified before a Banc Suisse representative. The next day he set up an appointment and met with with a Bank of America employee, a middle-aged gentleman who asked no questions and accurately reflected the detached approach of his Swiss counterparts. After checking the forms, he inspected the Banc Suisse letter, ran his thumb over the gold seal, and certified the copy as true and correct. He suggested that Renny send the information to the bank via overnight courier so that it would arrive in Geneva before the close of business Thursday evening. Renny was going to work until noon Friday, and he hoped this would enable him to hear a response before leaving for Georgetown.

At 11:30
A.M
. Friday, Renny got a call. “Mr. Jacobson, this is Hermann Diegal at Banc Suisse. We received the paperwork and certified letter on the account. Everything appears to be in order.”