The Account

Prologue

Steven Renner, we have taken your oath and are prepared to begin.

District Attorney Robert Bear coughed to clear his throat of what sounded like the residues of cheap cigars and cheaper cognac enjoyed the night before. I want to reiterate the terms of our agreement. You have waived your right to counsel despite our clear recommendation to the contrary. There has been no gesture of immunity by either the federal government or the State of New York for your testimony. His cough didn’t clear his pipes but rasped against the deposition room walls.

I grimaced as I studied the panel, which was comprised of the district attorney, a slew of FBI agents, and an attorney from the Securities and Exchange Commission, who scowled at me as if I had just banged his daughter. Pain reverberated up my left side; I winced.

Damnation, I thought. The SEC attorney enjoyed that.

One corner of his mouth contorted into a pleased sneer in recognition of my discomfort. Prosecutors were a special breed indeed—part weasel, part shark, and part wolf. They hunted and devoured in packs.

I looked toward the stenographer for a little sympathy. Her unwavering stare had me wondering if her conservative suit covered a circuit board hidden in her back.

Bear hacked furiously. His overfed belly jiggled like a pinstriped panda’s. Clearly the DA was not counting his carbs. "You have chosen to decline pain medication for this deposition, but if you need attention, let me know, and I’ll grant a recess.

Taking into account the mitigating factors of this case and your willingness to cooperate, we have agreed to let you speak in your own words without interruption. Although there is some sympathy with your plight, we’re here to determine if you’re innocent, as it would appear. He paused, unbuttoned his jacket, put his palms down on the table before me, and stared. Or … if, in fact, you’re an insidious con man.

He paused and postured, maximizing his command of the room. Are you prepared to deliver your testimony?

Panda Bear flicked on two tape recorders. He placed the larger one on the desk in front of me and couched the other in his meaty hand.

Would these panelists indict me as a con man and perhaps a murderer? A huge amount of manufactured evidence suggested just that. I stared at the panel members. Would they believe my alibis? Unlike Damocles, I did not fear the sword above my head.

Despite the company and my predicament, I wasn’t nervous. I had a story to tell.

PART I

THE PAST IS PRESENT

High over the heads of men

Destiny sits enthroned,

The tirelessly ripening harvest

Of their own sowing.

—Homer

Chapter One

I had been a grunt. Steve Renner: low-level Wall Street serf and regulatory minion. Age: thirty-three, and neither here nor there. I was somebody, but not someone; I seemed to be destined for a life of middle management.

That all changed when I received an offer from a new start-up firm. I did not know, however, that the firm had been started with the intention that it would notoriously fail.

My office was on the forty-eighth floor of one of the newer buildings on Park Avenue. There were only two floors above us. A law firm specializing in heavyweight class-action torts occupied one. The exclusive Club Heaven, on the top floor, was the place where rich swinging dicks schmoozed potential clients. Our office afforded great Manhattan views, albeit not as spectacular and panoramic as those from Club Heaven’s floor-to-ceiling windows.

In terms of size, our firm was a small fish in a predatory ocean. Shank, Ernie & Busher Investments had begun like a lot of other start-up securities firms. Usually, a couple of wealthy, successful brokers struck out on their own. Some of their motivations varied, but money was always the constant. Investment executives detested giving more than 60 percent of their commissions to the bureaucracy of a major financial firm. The potential for stock options and eventual cash-outs to help feather the retirement nest egg were an extra carrot that pulled them to start-ups.

It would be hypocritical of me not to admit that I was lured by the possibility of riches when I accepted an offer from Shank, Ernie & Busher. Although I had made several career advances, my earnings were quite modest for Wall Street—approximately $115,000 a year, including bonus. I had started in an entry-level position, and I felt no shame at taking their lucrative offer after having spent several years in the corporate trenches.

I began my professional career in the mid 1990s. I remember being happy, not just because I landed a decent job straight out of college without stellar grades, but because the building was actually on Wall Street. I was fortunate to have a friend whose father worked in the heart of the financial district. He was perpetually disappointed that my friend pursued interests in hemi motors and life as a mechanic rather than a professional. I sometimes wonder if my friend’s father got me that interview to spite his son.

As soon as I was hired, my daily dress transformed from the blue jeans and T-shirts of adolescence to adulthood’s suits and ties. Gone was the long, stylishly unkempt mop of brown hair, and I got into the habit of shaving every morning. Trimmed, I suddenly felt older, as if I’d finally succumbed to adulthood. I thought about getting some drugstore reading glasses to complete the stiff, studious Clark Kent look, but I could only go so far. Although I outwardly frowned upon the attire, I liked the way I looked. So did the girls, and there were plenty of them.

Summer dresses, open-toed shoes, skirts, and an array of feminine business suits had me spinning and horny. After a few too many sproutings, I learned to traverse the office with something in hand, usually a file strategically positioned as a screen. I was meeting too many pretty faces to remember all the names.

To say the least, I was in awe of the aura and power that permeated my new surroundings. I enjoyed my lunch breaks. Street vendors hawked books, sports cards, and any merchandise that just happened to have slipped out from the back of a truck, creating a midday marketplace that sprang out of nowhere and disappeared just as quickly, with no benefits for the IRS. Adding to the frenzy were advertisers handing out flyers for everything from food menus to free passes to the local tittie joints.

During my first week, as I walked by Trinity Church with one of the younger guys in the office, we saw this scantily dressed eye candy passing out pamphlets. She made an effort to hand me one but ignored my friend.

That sucks, he protested. That smoking hot girl couldn’t just have handed each of us one? That has always been my luck. Can’t wait to start going to happy hour with you, he said sarcastically.

Naturally, she knew who to give it to, I boasted. The new kid on the block!

I opened the folded paper. Along the top were large bold letters:

PENILE ENLARGEMENT

. Apparently some surgeon was providing length and girth to those seeking greater dimensions.

We looked at each other and burst out laughing. "Naturally, she knew who to give it to," he imitated. We chuckled all the way back to our desks.

However, my enthusiasm and laughter hastily subsided. When I started in the business, I didn’t know the stock market from the supermarket. I quickly realized that my department, Compliance, was as unpopular on the street as Internal Affairs was in the Police Department. Mentioning you were employed in Compliance in a downtown bar had an effect akin to declaring you had AIDS in a room of homophobes—people scattered.

The Compliance Department’s primary function was to ensure that the firm’s business conducted itself within the guidelines of the firm’s policies and procedures as well as those of the Federal Reserve, the Securities and Exchange Commission, and various self-regulatory agencies such as the New York Stock Exchange.

After a few years, I had an epiphany: Compliance might be my lot in life. While the income potential was not lofty by Wall Street standards, one could do well in certain management positions. I decided to be proactive and improve my resume. Over three years, I passed nine tests and earned nearly every meaningful securities license available.

My boss suggested law school: a law degree, in tandem with my securities licenses and industry experience, broadened my chances for a high-caliber position within my department. After a day in the trenches, however, I wanted to relax, grab a beer, and watch sports. Law school was a certain social-life killer. I envisioned weekends studying books instead of babes.

My only sibling was my older sister, Dianne, who went to Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons. She fell in love while working with another aspiring surgeon during her residency at Beth Israel. After they married, they both received incredible offers from a hospital in San Antonio, Texas, and moved there.

By the time I was contemplating law school, Dianne was performing bypass surgery as head of the hospital’s cardiology department. I always felt that I never measured up to her in my parents’ eyes, especially at report card time. I was also aware that she sent money to help my parents get by a little easier in their retirement.

When I mentioned the prospect of law school, I knew from the way my parents’ eyes sparkled that I’d attend the next semester. It was as if all the trouble I’d caused them through the years would be instantly erased. I remembered when I’d been suspended from high school for a prank I pulled with a few friends. We baked brownies and cookies for the school bake sale with heavy laxatives guaranteed for immediate bowel evacuation and then removed the toilet paper from all the bathrooms. Not much compared to what some teenagers do. Next to my perfect sister, though, I felt like an outlaw.

Besides wanting to atone for my sins, I also looked at the decision altruistically. I, too, wanted to help provide for my parents. My parents, Joseph and Paola, had never gone to college, and they lived as frugally as possible to make sure my sister and I graduated with degrees.

Naturally, Dianne had helped by winning a scholarship for academics. There was no such scholarship for beer bong proficiency.

Chapter Two

My father had been a captain in the NYPD for over thirty years. On the job, he had not suffered any injury that required more than a standard adhesive bandage despite several dangerous encounters, a fact that he proudly recounted on every possible occasion.

On a bitter cold, rainy morning in 2005, my father spotted an elderly woman who had dropped a grocery bag. On impact, it had split open, and the contents scattered over the wet sidewalk. Dad, ever the gentleman, walked over to assist in the recovery. He secured his gloves around his fingers and picked up squashed fruit, leaking cartons, and a broken bottle. The woman didn’t look at him directly, but he heard a muffled, Thanks.

The sound of locked brakes snapped his attention to the street.

Holy— he began. A cab exploded without warning. Something flew out of the smoke and flames and landed at his feet. He looked at a human hand that had been severed at the wrist.

Two different sounds in rapid succession made him look up. First was the crunch of two colliding cars. Next was the sound of an engine drawing closer. His alarmed eyes met the frantic eyes of the driver bearing down on him.

Those eyes were the last thing he saw before the SUV struck him in the chest and carried him into a building wall.

* * *

I’ll never forget the day my mother called, hysterically crying. I was in my dorm room with a few buddies. We were drinking beer and talking women.

Hey, man, why’d you turn the stereo down? coughed Jamie as he exhaled cigarette smoke.

Shhh, demanded my roommate Doug, who was juggling a beer along with the phone receiver. It’s your mom, Steve. Sounds like she’s upset. I think she’s crying.

Like Superman handling Kryptonite, I accepted the phone.

Mom? I tried to be strong, but when I gazed at my friends’ peering eyes, my voice quavered. My alcohol-laden gut wrenched as she sobbed. Mom, what’s the matter?

I could hear her struggle to get her breath. Steven … your father was hit by a car, she stammered. She inhaled deeply. He’s in bad shape, son.

Everyone ponders his or her parents’ mortality. Despite its certainty, there is no preparation for coping with this fact.

I felt the air vacate my lungs and my heart pump furiously. Flashbacks of my father zipped by as if in a flip-book: playing catch in our backyard with my first baseball mitt, catching my first fish as my father snapped a picture (then throwing the undersized flounder back), sitting with him in the front car of the roller coaster at Coney Island, getting scolded after the laxative brownie trick. While lecturing me after that prank, he had looked sorrowful; then he’d laughed and said he thought my joke was pretty funny.

My mother gave me the name of the hospital and told me our neighbor was driving her there.

I vowed to leave immediately and almost hung up before I remembered to get the hospital address. Then we did hang up, and I asked God to let him live.

The six-hour drive at night through the Adirondacks, Catskills, and New York City to Long Island was tormenting. Alone, I battled a plethora of painful emotions.

Fear.

Desperation.

Anguish.

Bitterness.

On this occasion, each advance of the odometer brought flashbacks from the past. I managed a smile as I recalled when he first tried to explain sex to me. I saw myself driving his car through an empty mall parking lot with Dad anxiously coaching me. Then I thought about the time I was at a restaurant and heard a cry and a heavy crash. A patron had fallen to the floor, choking. Without thought, I performed the Heimlich maneuver and possibly saved the man’s life. While the man’s wife thanked me profusely, I thanked my father for insisting that everyone in my family get first-aid training to deal with such events. Tears welled in my eyes as I pulled off the parkway.

When I arrived at the hospital and was told where to go, I found my mother sitting in a waiting room. She was hunched over, her face buried in her hands. Mary, our neighbor and family friend, had her arm around my mother, comforting her in a tender embrace. I didn’t know what to do, so I did what came naturally. I walked over and put my arms around both of them. I no longer felt lost and alone. Fortified by love, I was determined to stay strong for my mother’s sake.

My sister arrived twenty minutes later. At the time she was an intern at Beth Israel Hospital on Manhattan’s lower East Side. There was no way to contact her at that juncture in her career, and she didn’t hear the news until she arrived back at her apartment.

For once I was thankful Dianne was such a brain. Although only an intern, her score in the top percentile on the MCAT and magna cum laude status at medical school had showed that she was prepared well. While I played my role as the brave soldier, Dianne’s knowledge and poise provided understanding.

When we were advised of the prognosis, only Dianne interacted with the neurosurgeon, Dr. Krupp. The terms they used were beyond my mother and me, but I got a fairly clear idea of what had happened to my father.

Dr. Krupp told us that Joseph Renner had suffered a mass effect acute subdural hematoma, and they had already performed a craniotomy to help evacuate the blood that had collected between the dura—the leathery covering that surrounds the brain—and the brain. .

My father’s head had smacked the wall with such force that he was rendered unconscious instantly. The head trauma, the brain bouncing within the cavity, had caused the blood vessels around the brain to shear and tear. That accumulation of blood was a subdural hematoma. It sounded like a blood clot in the brain.

According to Dr. Krupp, the craniotomy, in which surgeons drill the skull to release the blood, had gone well. However, it was still too early to know if there would be negative aftereffects, and Dad had other battles on the horizon.

Testing also revealed that he had a splenic hemorrhage, and he was undergoing a laparoscopic splenectomy. I listened to the doctor interact with Dianne.

Considering that he has lacerations covering his body, I am inclined to ask whether he’ll recover, considering the spleen’s function in maintaining a healthy immune system—that is, if he makes it, Dianne said softly.

Dr. Krupp addressed her speculation by maintaining a clinical, optimistic tone.

Your father’s receiving simultaneous treatment and monitoring, and he’ll continue to receive it. There is always a concern about infection, and the tendencies are higher in splenectomized patients. But in the short term, I don’t forecast that being an issue while under our supervision and with the administration of antibiotics. He paused and became more serious. I don’t want to underestimate the recovery he faces, but after the things I have seen … I’ve come to learn how powerful the will to live is. And something tells me your father is a fighter.

My mother, who’d coached my sister’s softball teams with the dedication of a professional major league manager, stomped. You’re damn right he is. Let me tell you, Joseph is one tough son of a bitch, she spat, saluting defiantly.

Good for Mom, I thought. As grim as Dad’s situation was, I was pleased that she had not lost hope. I felt pretty grim and powerless, though I tried to pretend otherwise.

Despite the head trauma, the loss of his spleen, his cracked pelvis, his broken ribs, and an assortment of other damage, my father had willed himself to live. I longed for the opportunity to tell him how much I loved him when he was conscious.

I was excused from college for the remainder of the semester, and Dianne was afforded a respite from her duties at the hospital. The crisis pulled my family together. The first couple of weeks were the most difficult. I found the intensive care unit forbidding. Life and death hung in the balance there, and having never dwelled on human mortality, I found my time there disturbing.

As a teenager, I never gave my father’s career proper respect, perhaps because of the natural rebellion of youth against authority. Even the music we listened to depicted the police as bad guys.

The strong support from the police force, however, gave me a better impression of them and of people in general. The officers forged a true sense of brotherhood that made my college fraternity appear superficial.

My father’s chief, Chris Stanton, and his partner, Trevor Mansbridge, and closest officer friends were every bit as afflicted as my family. Their unpaid overtime was spent at the hospital. The camaraderie was not restricted to his friends at the precinct. Other cops whom my father had never met showed up to offer support. His many heroics were well chronicled, and his loyalty to the union made him known among New York’s Finest.

Chapter Three

Uh … I’m Walter Rivers, a man outside the door said, his voice quavering. I’m so sorry.

His eyelids fluttered, and his dark, weathered face tightened in grief.

His voice changed octaves like that of an adolescent going through puberty. I’m so sorry, he repeated. It was an accident. I wish it’d been me. Oh my God, I feel so horrible.

I really was not sure what to do or say, and I noticed that Dianne looked unsure too.

My mother stepped forward, taking control. Mr. Rivers, I’m Paola Renner. As the wife of a fallen officer, she’d received a more detailed report than the one in the news, and she knew Rivers was a lesser victim in what appeared to be a hired hit. In that cab there had been a CEO named Jonathan Purcell and one of his mistresses.

The police had talked to the wife; it seemed that Purcell had stepped on a few toes while getting to the top and made plenty of enemies along the way. My mother smiled. And an accident was the last thing you wanted on your birthday.

Walter’s eyes grew, and his mouth slacked open. How—

Yes, they also told us it was your birthday and that you missed your surprise party. We heard that, from your own hospital bed, you were asking about the condition of my husband. The fact that you’re here speaks volumes to me, Mr. Rivers. You have no sins to absolve by coming here. My mother reassured him with a warm smile before continuing. If I may quote Proverbs 3:29, Do not plan evil against your neighbor who dwells trustingly beside you. Do not contend with a man for no reason, when he has done you no harm."

Walter and my mother embraced. I saw Walter’s back heave and shudder, and I turned away, allowing them some privacy.

Walter pursed his lips and sniffled, but when he spoke, his voice resonated without a tremor. Proverbs 3:31 and 32: ‘Do not envy a man of violence and do not choose any of his ways; for the perverse man is an abomination to the Lord, but the upright are in his confidence.’ You are the upright, you are righteous, and I bless you.

Walter stayed for about an hour. My initial uneasiness was quelled in his presence, and I could tell by the looks of the female half of the Renner clan that his visit was welcome. After becoming more comfortable, he spoke more freely. We learned he was married, had three children, and owned a marina; he sold elite yachts, speedboats, fishing boats, and other seafaring recreational vehicles. He professed a love of the sea from his youth on the southern coast of Barbados.

He blamed the good life for the extra pounds as he patted his stomach, which bulged only slightly.

Walter gathered his blue wool blazer and Greek fisherman’s cap. Before departing, he declared, Thank you for turning what could have been an unpleasant experience into a day of hope. I am certain he is a good man and pray for his health. I know it was an accident, but that doesn’t change the fact that I was behind the wheel.

No, that’s not— my mother started, but she paused when Walter raised his right hand to stop her. His voice was vibrant and poised, and he seemed a far cry from the stammering man who had entered the intensive care unit an hour ago.

Yes, he said raising his voice. It is the way it is, but I have always believed that everything that happens in our lives is somehow orchestrated. I have been very fortunate in life, and I want you to know that if there is anything that your family requires, please do not hesitate to ask. He sighed and looked at each of us. Now I’ve blabbered long enough, but I’ll come back, he promised.

My mother gave him a warm hug, and my sister followed suit, only her hug was shorter. I shook his hand. I was not much into hugging guys, except maybe my father. I longed for that opportunity again.

* * *

There you are, my father croaked. Did you bring a six-pack, a cigar, and some chicken wings, by any chance?

We were speechless. He was not.

There he was, propped up in his bed. He still had all the plastic tubes in him except the one in his mouth, which had been removed. His face was pale, but his brown eyes were open and alert.

Come in already. There are two chairs. Steven can stand. For the first time, he’s the man of the house, he said to me with an effortful smile. Although you would never know it with that mop of hair.

I thought right then, for the very first time, that my father might be right. Perhaps life dictated a more serious approach than my own.

Joseph, my mother managed before a waterfall of tears cascaded down her face. I put my arms around her.

My father strained toward her, even though he knew he couldn’t get that far. I’m going to be fine. Don’t cry. He paused the way he did when he was up to something. Although I doubt we’ll engage in any rough sex for a bit.

Joseph! my mother said, shocked.

Dad! Dianne blurted in mock disgust.

I was relieved. My father was back. I knew what he was doing. He wasn’t looking for pity or sorrow. He was deflecting reality, applying the old adage that humor is the best medicine.

He tried smiling. You must forgive me. These drugs they’re pumping into me have me a little off kilter. Maybe our children can relate. We never experimented with drugs in our youth.

My sister and I started to protest, but he waved us silent.

Listen. I love you all so very much. Seeing my family before me is the best medicine yet.

My mother sniffed, and my father immediately reverted to humor.

Did anyone get the license plate of that truck that ran me over?

Before we could respond, he asked, So, what really happened?

He listened carefully, with no emotion on his face. I suppose all those years on the force had taught him to hear about the most tragic events without reacting. He was silent for a long moment after we finished.

His visage grew serious. I know it’s a horrible thing to say, but I almost wish it hadn’t been an accident. I wish it had been some drunk or a getaway car, or … He paused reflectively and never completed the thought. A fire burned in his eyes. All these years on the force, I always said that if I go down on the job, I hope the bastard goes down with me. In this case, the guy who hit me was not the villain. It was like getting wounded on the battlefield by friendly fire, he equated acerbically. It’s not the way a man who serves wants to go down. Despite his condition, he still commanded the room.

I completely understood his sentiment, which was probably the root cause of my initial reluctance in accepting Walter; there was no one to hate, no one to blame.

Hearing Dad sound bitter, my mother now changed the subject. Even Merry misses you dearly. She knows something’s up. She has these sad eyes and does not give us her usual happy greeting when we come home.

I love that dog, my father declared. They say you can’t buy love, but if you get the right dog, you purchase a mountain of love.

Leave it to Merry; maybe the name was symbolic for good reason. If there had been apprehension in the air, it disappeared.

When my father was released from the hospital, he and Walter bonded quickly. Both men agreed to stay in contact and sealed the promise with a fishing vacation planned for the end of summer, when the striped bass were trophy size.

Walter Rivers iced the promise when we received photos of a brand-new twenty-seven-foot Grady White fishing boat docked at a nearby marina under the name of its new owner, Joseph Renner.

Dad tried to refuse, but refusal was as fruitless as coaxing an erection from the impotent.

* * *

Initially, my father progressed well. He survived the ordeal and was allowed to retire from the police force with full disability. I graduated college and bartended while contemplating a career path. When my friend’s father offered possible employment with his brokerage firm, I quickly said yes without worrying that I sounded too desperate. I took the job, advanced, and attended law school, with the firm offering tuition reimbursement. Dianne went from intern to resident and was now making a name for herself in San Antonio.

My parents invested the money from the police fundraiser in the stock market. I was just starting in the business and witnessed the 1990s’ bull market, an exciting time—wherever you threw your money, you were bound to profit. Internet stocks were routinely up over 100 percent on the day of issuance for those fortunate enough to participate in initial public offerings.

When the bubble burst, the party was over for millions of investors. Most of the money my parents had in their account eventually evaporated due to bad advice, corporate scandals, corrupt research analysis, and overall market conditions.

I decided to finally move out of my parents’ house in Massapequa, and I rented an apartment in Long Beach overlooking the ocean. The town also offered a pretty active nightlife.

Living away, working, and attending law school made seeing my parents next to impossible. We stayed in contact over the phone and through a revolution at the time: e-mail.

Then one day my father called and asked to get together. Over a few beers, he confided that my mother’s skin had begun to swell, especially in her arms and legs. At first we suspected it was an allergy or a food reaction, but after consulting with Dianne, Mom visited her doctor.

Based on the symptoms, our family doctor suspected Lyme disease, caused by a tick bite containing the corkscrew bacteria Borrelia burgdorferi. The tests, however, proved negative.

The doctor had hoped the first test would come out positive; if caught early enough, Lyme disease can be treated with antibiotics. His second hunch proved correct. She was afflicted with rheumatoid arthritis, a debilitating autoimmune disease that results in chronic systematic inflammation.

The doctors prescribed various medicines, but nothing relieved the symptoms. There was no cure, but medications could suppress the swelling and thus decrease the pain. Medical insurance covered only a fraction of the cost, and the bills mounted.

Then my sister called with information on a breakthrough, an experimental drug undergoing clinical trials.

The downside was not hair loss, nausea, or loss of libido, but a not-covered-by-insurance price tag of over $20,000 a year. With my father out on disability and my mother too afflicted to take a meaningful job, my parents faced two choices: sell their home and declare bankruptcy, or ask my mother to endure the afflictions of her disease. My mother chose the latter, but my parents made an effort to pay for the drugs.

My parents sold a few collectibles and budgeted their expenses to a Siddhartha-like frugality. My sister generously pitched in $5000 to cover an initial trial. I was still flubbing with law school and, as usual, was unable to make any meaningful contribution.

I felt terrible about that, but I reasoned that soon I’d have money to contribute, and that assuaged my guilt. I didn’t like the feeling of being the child who didn’t help.

The first shot injected a miracle. Mother’s swelling subsided almost to a predisease state, and she was once again capable of dressing herself, opening a can of food, driving a car, and revisiting the tennis courts and links. Life was great again, momentarily.

By the time my mother was due for the next shot, my parents had to refinance the house to cover the expense. Where was the money going to come from, I wondered. I vowed I’d do everything I could to help them.

Six months later, after graduating and passing the bar exam, I felt that I had truly accomplished something. My parents were proud, too.

I had paid my dues in the form