Under the Law

//Prologue/// 

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"OPEN NUMBER SIX."

Hey, Nicky, how you gonna do any of dat insider trading stuff . . . if ya ain’t inside no mo, one of the cons yelled. Nick could hear the whole cellblock laughing and snickering.  Nick raised his free hand up and above his head, waved once and continued walking to the other end of the cellblock and out the door to FREEDOM.

It was over a year ago when Nick Bronson walked into his office at Latham and Higgins Investments. He took off his wet $250 London Fog raincoat that he just bought the day before after receiving his annual performance bonus.  He opened the Wall Street Journal and scanned the front page as he booted up his computer and connected to the Internet. He was checking the foreign markets when two FBI agents in black raincoats walked into his office and arrested him for insider trading.

As Nick and the two agents walked through the outer office, John Latham was standing in his office doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, slowly moving his head from side to side with a smug look on his face.  I didn’t think you would do anything like this, Nick, Latham said.

Nick starred at Latham and thought that he seemed remarkably relaxed, with the FBI arresting one of his top executives, almost as if he expected it.

Nick walked through the outside prison gate and across the street to a long black limousine. The rear door opened and a beautiful hand was extended, coaxing him to enter.

///Chapter 1///

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Two Years Later

Molly shifted her shopping bag to her left hand and opened the heavy glass door to the lobby of the Goodman building.  She stepped in out of the wet Chicago weather, pulled off her floppy old hat and shook the rain water on the floor.  She didn’t care if it got on the lobby floor; she only had to clean the offices of Schultz, Limberger and Crowley on the 41st floor.

Hi, George, Molly said to the security guard sitting in a marble cube with a bunch of little TV screens, switches and telephones.  If you’re watching naughty movies on all those little TV’s, you’d better be careful. At your age you might get too excited and hyperventilate or something.  Molly giggled as she turned and walked toward the elevators.

Stuff it Molly, you ain’t no cute young chick anymore, yourself," he replied, smiling.  She stepped into elevator, turned and wrinkled her nose at him before the door closed.

Molly pushed eleven on the control panel.  She had to get her cleaning supplies and cart in the maintenance room before she went to the investment firm’s office on the 41st floor.  She made sure that she took her note pad and the tape recorder out of her shopping bag and hid them in a cardboard box.  The box was labeled Women’s Hygiene Supplies and Molly knew none of the men at the investment firm would rummage through that box.

Molly hadn’t gotten any good information in the last three weeks, but maybe she would get lucky today.  Before entering the building, she had checked the garage to see whose cars were still parked in the Firm’s reserved section.  Fred Clinton’s Lincoln and Paul Seaton’s Jag were still there.  That was good news for Molly, because Seaton was a junior partner and he always knew what was going on in the company.    Molly gathered all her cleaning gear, headed over to the service elevator, and pushed the Up button.  She got in when it arrived and pushed 41 on the control panel, then looked up at the security camera and stuck her tongue out at George; she knew he would be watching.  Maybe she would dress-up some day and take George to a high-class restaurant for a high-priced dinner.  Molly smiled, thinking that she certainly can afford it, thanks to this lovely place that George guarded so fastidiously.  If he only knew what she was up to.

As the elevator started its ascent to the 41st floor, Molly’s mind wandered back to Russia and Yarian, her deceased husband.  Molly, then Litchka Zakharov, thought of her past life when she and Yarian were so much in love and they both had well respected jobs; Yarian a chemist and she an English Professor at the University, and an expert on American Business and Corporate Management.  After Yarian’s death from leukemia, Molly decided to go to the United States and try to blend into a Russian neighborhood in Chicago.  A distant cousin, on her mother’s side, had put her up for a couple months until she received permission from the Immigration and Naturalization Service to work permanently in the U.S.  By that time, Molly had regained her self-confidence and felt secure in her new country.  She had a little money saved and got by until she obtained a Social Security card and a job as a cleaning person at SecureKlean, a janitorial service company.  Molly considered herself a maid, but the way she dressed no one would make the mistake of thinking that she was a domestic servant, chambermaid or any other kind of a maid. In fact, her appearance suggested that she didn’t even have a job. She usually wore her floppy hat or a baseball cap, a long olive drab Army trench coat that hung just above her white second-hand Reeboks.  Sometimes you might see her in a worn wool sweater or a faded chambray work shirt. You would never guess that under that disguise she was a very attractive 40-year-old woman.  She was also well educated, intelligent and thought of herself as a street smart Swing-Trader.  Molly knew that a swing-trader was an investor that held securities for only a short period of time.  She rather liked the term and believed it described her movements in and out of the market very well; she would fantasize that she was on a swing, high over Wall Street and nobody could see her watching them.

Molly thought about her first stock trade a year and a half ago.  She overheard a couple of young brokers in a small firm on the 22nd floor discussing a small company that had developed a new drug for reducing blood pressure and was on a fast tract with the FDA for approval.  They said the stock had closed the day before at only $.93 and they were sure it would go to $5.00 or more.  Molly didn’t know much about the American stock market, but she had learned a little through her studies of the United States and the English language.  She was used to taking chances; maybe she would take another one.  A street level walk-in brokerage house was on her way to work, so she took some of her savings and went into their store.

I am sorry, we don’t allow panhandling in here, you’ll have to leave, the broker at the front desk said.

Molly walked briskly past him and continued on to a desk at the back of the room.  She stood in front of the desk and said, You the manager?

Yes Ma’am, the young woman seated behind the desk said.  The expression on the women’s face indicating that she had more respect for the women standing before her now than she had a few seconds before.

Can you buy me 500 shares of GMA Pharmaceutical?  Molly asked, with her chin slightly raised. She could hear the two young brokers at the front of the office snicker, while the young women moved her head in an affirmative manner.

We have a minimum commission of $50.00, she said while punching some keys on her computer.  The current price is ninety-one and a half.

Molly reached into her shopping bag and took out a peanut-butter jar; unscrewed the lid and counted out $510.00 in 5’s, 10’s and 20’s.

"That’ll be two-fifty change, please.  And I’ll need a

receipt, she said, turning her head and winking at the two young men sitting in their chairs and now facing the manager.  The broker placed the order and Molly sat down and waited until they received the confirmation that she was a part owner of GMA Pharmaceutical.  Molly thanked the broker, picked up her shopping bag, turned and started walking toward the door.  As she approached the no panhandling broker’s desk, she reached into the shopping bag, pulled out an oily dusting rag and dropped it on his desk saying, Here, you don’t look too busy, maybe you can use this."

"Ding!  Molly’s body jerked as she was brought back to the present.  The elevator door opened on the 41st floor and Molly stared at the gold letters, Schultz, Limberger & Crowley", but not really seeing them, as she dreamed of the future and, hopefully, a better life. 

///Chapter 2///

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Christin Brooks fought the revolving door, trying to save her luggage and body from being mangled by the whirling door vanes.  Someone behind her was in hurry and pushing the revolving door too fast.  Jerk, she said to him as he emerged from the door.  Christy walked to the curb in front of the terminal at O’Hare International and, in as ladylike manner as she could, wiggled her voluptuous body and duffel bag into the rear seat of a cab.

Where to, Lady, the Cabby asked while watching the show in the rear-view mirror.

Corner of Madison and Western, and take your time, Christy said.

That’s not a good place for a lady like you to be going, Ma’am.

I’ve spent a lifetime there, I’ll be alright, but thanks anyway, Christy said, staring into space, thinking about what she just told him.

Christin Brooks or, as she was known then, Sheila Kolwaski, spent her youth, as it was, on the West Side, where she got an education, maybe not formal, but an education just the same.  Christy grew up fast while being raised by her mother, who was a detective in the Chicago Police Department’s Vice Control Division.  Christy knew many of the pimps, drug dealers, prostitutes and petty thieves within a 20 square block area of her home, and they knew her because her mother was a cop.  They also knew her mother didn’t take any crap off of any one and never took a bribe of any kind.  Christy’s Mom was a role model for all the young girls in the neighborhood.  Christy was proud of her mother and devastated when she was killed, or maybe executed would be a more accurate word, by a hopped-up junkie who was put up to it by a local drug dealer.

Christy walked into the Red Spider lounge and looked around, squinting for a second, until her eyes adjusted to the dark interior.  The whole bar turned to stared at her, as if wondering why a classy chick like this would be slumming in this neighborhood.  She walked to a stool at the street-end of the bar.

Hi Mark, you fixed this place up since I was here last.

Sheila, oh, I’m sorry, Christy.  Man, how long has it been?  You haven’t changed a bit.  You’re still the best look’n girl in the class, Mark said as he placed a bar napkin in front of Christy.  What’ll ya have, gorgeous?

Nick Bronson told me he comes in here all the time.  You know him?  Christy said as she pulled out her compact and checked out her makeup.  Let me have a glass of red wine, please.

Sure, Nick and I have become good friends, but I didn’t know he knew you, Mark said, surprised.  He was in here until late last night and he said he was going over to the VA today and try to talk them into some kind of disability payments.  But I don’t know, he was pretty drunk, and every time he gets that way he starts rambling on about being innocent and somebody’s gonna pay.

Thanks, she said as Mark set a drink on the napkin.  I need to talk to him. Does he come in every night?

About every night, for the last week or so.  Something seems to be bothering him.

A man at the other end of the bar set his empty glass down hard in the bar gutter.  He was sitting on the corner where the bar turns so he could see Christy.  Mark gave Christy a disgusted look, as he rolled his eyes, turned and walked toward the customer.  He mixed a JB and water, set it on a new napkin and pulled a $10 from the stack of bills on the bar.

Keep the change, the man said.

The drink’s only $3.00, Mark said, turning back toward the man.

You can give me a little info for the rest of it, the man said nodding toward Christy.

Here’s your change, Mark said.  And let’s leave it at that!

I could swear I have seen her before and I know it wasn’t in a dive like this.

"If you’ve seen her, you’re probably right, because she’s too high class to hang out in places like this," Mark said as he walked back to talk to Christy.

Let me call Father Dan’s and see if Nick’s over there, Mark said as he dialed the Mission kitchen’s phone.  Yeah, he’s over there, they’re getting him over to the phone now, Mark said, nodding and handing the phone to Christy.

Yeah, Nick said into the phone.

"Hi, Nick, it’s Christy . . . Yeah, long time . . . No, why don’t you come over here?  . . . That’s okay, I’ve got a few pesos in my purse, hurry up and don’t bother putting on a suit and tie," Christy said smiling.

#

Nick walked into the lounge, squinting, adjusting to the reduced light.  He spotted Christy at a table in the back with two drinks already set up in front of her. 

Hey, you took a hell-of-a-chance, he paused, saw the concerned expression form on to Christy’s face, and continued with a grin, I might have switched my drinks since the last time we were together.

Well, I see you still have that sense of humor, she snapped and then smiled.

You just feel like slumming or what?

Pistol called me and said he was concerned about you.

What the hell’s he talking about?  Nick said, and shook his head.  I’m going to kick his ass when I see him.

Don’t be hard on him, Nick, he’s just concerned like I am.  Now sit down and be nice.

Nick looked at Christy and thought damn, she’s one good looking, classy woman.  He really screwed up when he had a chance with her a long time ago.  She married an Upper Manhattan bastard who was one of the richest and influential investment bankers in New York.  Nick regretted introducing Christy to him, and still had trouble controlling himself when he was with her.  God she’s beautiful, he thought, looking across the table at her.

Look, Nick, you were the best when you were in New York. Chicago has a large securities and financial community, and you could be a part of it if you wanted to.  You need to get back to doing something that you like, even if it’s not exactly what you used to do.  If you keep going in the direction you’re heading, you’re going to ruin the rest of your life and end up a babbling alcoholic living in a cardboard box.  Pistol’s right!  You need to feel good about yourself.  Get your ass in gear and do something constructive, not destructive,

Yeah, yeah, Momma Kolwaski, he said, knowing it would piss her off.

Listen, smart-ass, you’re about the only one of my friends who knows my past, and I would appreciate it if you would not bring it up again, thank you.

Sorry, honey, I just felt I needed to dig you after that sermon, even though I know you’re probably right, Nick said, staring into his drink.  "When I spent those few days in New York, before I left for Chicago, I tried to contact some of my friends for help.  What a joke, nobody wanted to talk or even meet me for a drink in some out of the way place. 

Here in Chicago I had some intrviews, but I couldn’t get a follow-up interview with any company that focused their business on securities, investments or financials.  Honestly, I tried until the money ran out."

You should have called me, Nick.

I thought about it, but I just couldn’t, you know how it is.

Nick, I will do anything to help, just give me a call when you decide what you want to do.  I am sure I can get my husband to contact some people here in Chicago and put in a word or twist some arms, she said, picking up her purse from the seat beside her.  Now I need to get back to New York.  I don’t want Herman to know where I’ve been; he thinks I went to Atlantic City for the day.  My flight will get me into LaGuardia at little past eleven.

Damn, you could hold my hand a little longer than this.

Ride with me to the airport and I’ll let you hold my hand ‘till we get there, Christy said with a grin.

I don’t think so, babe, my heart couldn’t take it, Nick said getting up, pecking her on the cheek.  He turned and headed for the door.

Call me, Nick, she said as her eyes began to tear.

///Chapter 3///

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The morning after Christy went back to New York, Nick got up at daybreak so he could be the first one in the common bathroom.  He dressed, left his room, walked down two flights of stairs and out of Dumpster Towers, as Nick called it.  He reached into his pocket and fingered the change to determined if there was enough for coffee and a doughnut. When Nick had enough money, he would eat at Frenchee’s Café on Western Avenue.  When he didn’t, it was breakfast at Father Dan’s Mission.

His room rent was due tomorrow and even at only $4.00 a night, paying it was a struggle sometimes, but Nick made himself a promise to never get into a position again where he had to sleep at the Mission.  Eating at the Mission was acceptable to Nick, but sleeping there was not.

Nick had been doing day labor work for about two months.  The job didn’t pay much, but it at least gave Nick some feeling of self respect.  His friend, Molly, had told him that they were looking for a maintenance man at the Goodman building where she worked.  Maybe I’ll check that out after work today, he thought to himself, it sure would be nice to have a steady job again and get out of the ranks of the forty-three thousand plus homeless.

#

At the time Nick was released from the federal prison in Pennsylvania, he didn’t know what to do or where to go, but he was sure he never wanted to come back to a place like that again.  They called it the Allenwood Federal Prison Camp.  It was a minimum-security facility, but still a prison to Nick and the worst experience Nick had ever endured in his life.  He had no family except for a half-sister in California, whom he hadn’t seen in twelve years.  Maybe I should try to locate her or maybe even go to California and see her, he said to himself.  Sometimes Nick felt very lonely and he wished he had someone close, like his sister, to confide in, even to argue with once in a while.  Of course, he always could depend on Christy, he thought.

When Christy met Nick at the Allenwood gate, upon his release, she asked him where he wanted her