1. How does Bill Clinton’s tv address correspond with John Steinbeck’s description of Americans’ attitude towards their Presidents?

2. Is there a balance between the public’s right to know and the individual’s right to privacy? If not, how do you think this balance could be achieved: by legislation or by a voluntary code?

   THE MONEYCHANGERS

(excerpt)

By Arthur Hailey

NOTES:

Roscoe Heyward – an executive Vice-president and controller of the bank.

Alex Vandervoort – an executive Vice-president of the bank.

Both men represented the second management echelon immediately below the presidency and they were in many ways, rivals.

Edwina D’Orsey – FMA’s ranking woman executive.

Nolan Wainwright – the Vice-president for Security.

Forum East is a low-income residential area.

The FMA plans to cut financing future Forum East projects in half.

Margot Bracken – a lawyer and a left-wing activist.

* * *

Like a bubble surfacing from underwater, the first hint of trouble appeared in mid-January. It was an item in a gossip column, “Ear to the Ground”, published in a city newspaper’s Sunday edition.

The columnist wrote:

…Whispers around downtown predict major cutbacks soon at Forum East. 'Tis said the big-big rehab project has bankroll problems. Nowadays who hasn’t? …

Alex Vandervoort was unaware of the item until Monday morning when his secretary placed it, ringed in red, on his desk with other papers.

During Monday afternoon Edwina D’Orsey telephoned to inquire if Alex had read the rumor and if he knew of anything behind it. Edwina’s concern was not surprising. Since the beginning of Forum East, her downtown branch bank had handled construction loans, many of the mortgages involved, and accompanying paperwork. By now the project represented an important segment of branch business.

“If there’s something in the wind,” Edwina insisted, “I want to be told.”

“So far as I know,” Alex reassured her, “nothing’s changed.”

Moments later he returned his hand to the telephone intending to check with Jerome Patterton, then changed his mind. Misinformation about Forum East was nothing new.

The project had generated much publicity; inevitably some was inaccurate.

It was pointless, Alex decided, to bother the bank’s new resident with needless trivia, particularly when he wanted Patterton’s support on a major issue – a large-scale expansion of FMA savings activity, now being planned for consideration by the board.

However, Alex was more concerned a few days later when a longer item appeared, this time in the regular news column of the daily Times-Register.

The report read:

Anxiety about the future of Forum East persists amid growing rumors that financial backing may shortly be reduced severely or withdrawn.

The Forum East project, which has as its long-term goal a total rehabilitation of the city’s downtown core both business and residential, has been underwritten by a consortium of financial interests spearheaded by First Mercantile American Bank.

A spokesman for First Mercantile American today acknowledged the rumors but would make no comment except to say, “An announcement will be forthcoming in due course.”

Under the Forum East plan, some inner city residential areas have already been modernized or rebuilt. A high-rise, low-rental community development has been completed. Another is in progress.

A ten-year master plan includes programs to improve schools, assist minority businesses, provide job training and employment as well as cultural opportunities and recreation. Major construction, begun two and a half years ago, has so far remained on schedule.

Alex read the morning news story at his apartment over breakfast: He was alone; Margot had been out of town on legal business for the past week.

On arrival at FMA Headquarters Tower he summoned Dick French. As Vice-president of public relations, French, a burly, blunt-speaking ex-financial editor, ran his department knowledgeably.

“In the first place,” Alex demanded, “who was the bank spokesman?”

“That was me,” French said. “And I’ll tell you right now I wasn’t happy about that ‘statement in due course’ crap. But Mr. Patterton told me to use those words. He also insisted I shouldn’t say more.”

“What more is there?”

“You tell me, Alex. Obviously something’s going on and, good or bad, the sooner we put it on the line, the better.”

Alex curbed a rising anger. “Is there a reason I wasn’t consulted about any of this?”

The p.r. head appeared surprised. “I thought you were. When I talked on the phone to Mr. Patterton yesterday I know Roscoe was with him because I could hear them talking. I assumed you were in there, too.”

“Next time,” Alex said, “don’t assume anything.”

At eleven Alex walked the few yards to the presidential suite – two corner rooms, each with a view of the city.

Today, bright sunshine from a cloudless winter sky shone through the wall-wide windows onto Jerome Patterton’s pink, near-hairless head. Seated behind a desk, he wore a light patterned suit, a switch from his usual tweeds. A newspaper in front of him was folded open to the news story which had brought Alex here.

On a sofa, in shadow, was Roscoe Heyward.

The three exchanged good mornings.

Patterton said, “I asked Roscoe to stay because I’d a notion what the subject might be.” He touched the paper. “You’ve seen, this, of course.”

“I’ve seen it,” Alex said. “I’ve also had Dick French in. He tells me that you and Roscoe discussed the press queries yesterday. So my first question is, why wasn’t I informed? I am as involved as anyone with Forum East.”

“You should have been informed, Alex.” Jerome Patterton seemed embarrassed. “The truth is, I guess, we got a little rattled when the press calls showed there had been a leak.”

“A leak of what?”

It was Heyward who answered. “Of a proposal I’ll be bringing before the money policy committee next Monday. I am suggesting a reduction of the bank’s present commitment to Forum East by approximately fifty percent.”

In view of the rumors which had surfaced, the confirmation was not surprising. What astounded Alex was the extent of the proposed incision.

He addressed Patterton. “Jerome, do I understand that you are in favor of this incredible piece of folly?”

A flush suffused the president’s face and egg-like head. “It’s neither true nor untrue. I’ve reserved judgment until Monday. What Roscoe has been doing here – yesterday and today – is some advance lobbying.”

“Right.” Heyward added blandly, “An entirely legitimate tactic, Alex. And in case you object, let me remind you that on plenty of occasions you took your own ideas to Ben in advance of money policy meetings.”

“If I did,” Alex said, “they made a damn sight better sense than this one.”

“That, of course, is solely your opinion.”

“Not solely. Others share it.”

Heyward was unruffled. “My own opinion is that we can put the bank’s money to substantially better use.” He turned toward Patterton. “Incidentally, Jerome, those rumors now circulating could be helpful to us if the proposal for a cutback is agreed to. At least the decision won’t come as a sudden shock.”

“If you see it that way,” Alex said, “maybe it was you who leaked the rumors.”

“I assure you it was not.”

“Then how do you explain them?”

Heyward shrugged. “Coincidence, I suppose.”

Jerome Patterton raised his hands. “Both of you save any more arguments until Monday. We’ll go over all of them then.”

The bank’s money policy committee was in session in an executive conference room. The committee, which had four members, met every other Monday morning with Roscoe Heyward as chairman. The other members were Alex and two senior Vice-presidents – Straughan and Orville Young.

The committee’s purpose was to decide the uses to which bank funds would be put. Major decisions were referred afterward to the board of directors for confirmation, though the board rarely changed what the committee recommended.

The president of the bank sat in, ex-officio, at the committee’s more important meetings, voting only if it became necessary to break a tie. Jerome Patterton was here today, though so far he had not contributed to the discussion.

Being debated now was Roscoe Heyward’s proposal for a drastic cut in Forum East financing.

Within the next few months, if Forum East was to continue as programmed, new construction loans and mortgage funds would be required. First Mercantile American’s expected share of this financing was fifty million dollars. Heyward had proposed a reduction of that amount by half.

He had pointed out already, “We will make clear to all concerned that we are not opting out of Forum East, nor do we intend to. The explanation we will give is simply that in light of other commitments, we have adjusted the flow of funds. The project will not be halted. It will simply proceed more slowly than was planned.”

“If you look at it in terms of need,” Alex had protested, progress is already slower than it should be. Retarding it still further is the worst thing we can do in every way.”

“I am looking at it in terms of need,” Heyward said. “The bank’s need.”

The power struggle between Alex Vandervoort and Roscoe Heyward was already well known. Because of it, some FMA executives had chosen sides, pinning their hopes for advancement on the victory of one adversary or the other. The split was also evident in the lineup of the money policy committee.

Alex argued, “Our profit last year was thirteen percent. That’s damned good for any business, as all of us know. This year the prospect’s even better – a fifteen percent return on investment, maybe sixteen. But should we strain for more?”

The treasurer, Orville Young, asked, “Why not?”

“I already answered that,” Straughan shot back. “It’s shortsighted.”

“Let’s remind ourselves of one thing,” Alex urged. “In banking it’s not hard to make large profits, and any bank that doesn’t is manned by simpletons. In plenty of ways the cards are stacked in our favor. We’ve opportunities, our own experience, and reasonable banking laws. The last is probably the most important. But the laws won’t always be as reasonable – that is, if we go on abusing the situation and abdicating community responsibility.”

“I fail to see how staying in Forum East is abdicating,” Roscoe Heyward said. “Even after the reduction I’m proposing, we’d still be committed substantially.”

“Substantially, my foot! It would be minimal, just as the social contribution of American banks has always been minimal. In financing of low-income housing alone the record of this bank and every other is dismal. Why fool ourselves? For generations banking has ignored public problems. Even now we do the minimum we can get away with.”

The chief economist, Straughan, shuffling papers, consulted some handwritten notes. “I intended to bring up the subject of home mortgages, Roscoe. Now Alex has, I’d like to point out that only twenty-five percent of our savings deposits are currently in mortgage loans. That’s low. We could increase it to fifty percent of deposits without harming our liquidity position. I believe we should.”

“I’ll second that,” Alex said. “Our branch managers are pleading for mortgage money. The return on investment is fair. We know from experience the downside risk on mortgages is negligible.”

Orville Young objected, “It ties up money for long term, money on which we can earn substantially higher rates elsewhere.”

Alex slammed the flat of his hand impatiently on the conference table. “Once in a while we’ve a public obligation to accept lower rates. That’s the point I’m making. It’s why I object to weaseling out of Forum East.”

“There’s one more reason,” Tom Straughan added. “Alex touched on it – legislation. Already there are rumblings in Congress. A good many there would like to see a law similar to Mexico’s – requiring a fixed percentage of bank deposits to be used for financing low-income housing.”

Heyward scoffed, “We’d never let it happen. The banking lobby is the strongest in Washington.”

The chief economist shook his head. “I wouldn’t count on that.”

“Tom,” Roscoe Heyward said, “I’ll make a promise. A year from now we’ll take a fresh look at mortgages; maybe we’ll do what you advocate; maybe we’ll reopen Forum East. But not this year. I want this to be a bumper profit year.” He glanced toward the bank president who had still not joined in the discussion. “And so does Jerome.”

For the first time Alex perceived the shape of Heyward’s strategy. A year of exceptional profit for the bank would make Jerome Patterton, as president, a hero to its shareholders and directors. All Patterton had was a one-year reign at the end of a so-so career, but he would go into retirement with glory and the sound of trumpets. And Patterton was human. Therefore it was understandable the idea would appeal to him.

The scenario afterward was equally easy to guess. Jerome Patterton, grateful to Roscoe Heyward, would promote the idea of Heyward as his successor. And, because of the profitable year, Patterton would be in a strong position to make his wishes work.

It was a neatly ingenious sequence, devised by Heyward, which Alex would find hard to break.

“There’s something else I haven’t mentioned,” Heyward said. “Not even to you, Jerome. It could have a bearing on our decision today.”

The others regarded him with fresh curiosity.

“I’m hopeful, in fact the probability is strong, that we shall shortly enjoy substantial business with Supranational Corporation. It’s another reason I’m reluctant to commit funds elsewhere.”

“That’s fantastic news,” Orville Young said.

Even Tom Straughan reacted with surprised approval.

Supranational – or SuNatCo, as identified by its familiar worldwide logo – was a multinational giant, the General Motors of global communications. As well, SuNatCo owned or controlled dozens of other companies, related and unrelated to its main purpose. Its prodigious influence with governments of all stripes, from democracies through dictatorships, was reportedly greater than that of any other business complex in history. Observers sometimes said that SuNatCo had more real power than most of the sovereign states in which it operated.

Until now SuNatCo had confined its US banking activity to the big three – Bank of America, First National City, and Chase Manhattan. To be added to this exclusive trio would boost immeasurably the status of First Mercantile American.

“That’s an exciting prospect, Roscoe,” Patterton said.

“I expect to have more details for our next money policy meeting,” Heyward added. “It appears likely that Supranational will want us to open a substantial line of credit.”

It was Tom Straughan who reminded them, “We still need a vote on Forum East.”

“So we do,” Heyward acknowledged. He was smiling confidently, pleased at the reaction to his announcement and certain of the way the Forum East decision would go.

Predictably, they divided two by two – Alex Vandervoort and Tom Straughan opposed to the cutback of funds, Roscoe Heyward and Orville Young in favor of it.

Heads swung to Jerome Patterton who had the decisive vote.

The bank president hesitated only briefly, then announced, “Alex, on this one I’II go with Roscoe.”

“Sitting around here feeling sorry won’t do one damn bit of good,” Margot declared. “What we need is to rise off our collective asses and initiate some action.”

“Like dynamiting the goddam bank?” someone asked.

“Nix on that! I’ve friends in there. Besides, blowing up banks isn’t legal.”

“Who says we have to stay legal?”

“I do,” Margot snapped. “And if any smart cats think otherwise, you can find yourselves some other mouthpiece and another pad.”

Margot Bracken’s law office, on a Thursday evening, was the scene of an executive committee meeting of the Forum East Tenants Association. The association was one of many groups in the inner city for which Margot was legal counsel and which utilized her office for meetings, a convenience, for which she was occasionally paid, but mostly wasn’t.

The day before yesterday, in a public announcement, First Mercantile American Bank had changed rumor into act. Financing of future Forum East projects was to be cut in half, effective at once.

The meeting now was to determine what, if anything, could be done.

The word “tenants” in the association’s name was a loose one. A large segment of members were Forum East tenants; many others were not, but hoped to be. As Deacon Euphrates, a towering steelworker who had spoken earlier, put it, “There’s plenty of us, expectin’ to be in, who ain’t gonna make it if the big bread doan’ come through.”

“The way I see the ball game,” Seth Orinda, another committee member, said, “whatever we do, and legal or not, there’s no way, but no way, we can squeeze that money out of those banks. That is, if they’ve their minds set on clamming up.”

Seth Orinda was a black high school teacher, already “in” at Forum East. But he possessed a keen civic sense and cared greatly about the thousands of others still waiting hopefully on the outside. Margot relied a good deal on his stability and help.

“Don’t be so sure, Seth,” she responded. “Banks have soft underbellies. Stick a harpoon in a tender place and surprising things could happen.”

“What kind of harpoon?” Orinda asked. “A parade? A sit-in? A demonstration?”

“No,” Margot said. “Forget all that stuff. It’s old hat. Nobody’s impressed by conventional demonstrations anymore. They’re just a nuisance. They achieve nothing.”

She surveyed the group facing her in the crowded, cluttered, smoky office. They were a dozen or so, mixed blacks and whites, in assorted shapes, sizes, and demeanors. Some were perched precariously on rickety chairs, and boxes, others squatted on the floor. “Listen carefully, all of you. I said we need some action, and there is a kind of action which I believe will work.”

“Miss Bracken.” A small figure near the back of the room stood up. It was Juanita Núñez, whom Margot had greeted when she came in.

“Yes, Mrs. Núñez?”

“I want to help. But you know, I think, that I work for the FMA Bank. Perhaps I should not hear what you will tell the others…”

Margot said appreciatively, “No, and I should have thought of that instead of embarrassing you.”

There was a general murmur of understanding. Amid it, Juanita made her way to the door.

“What you heard already,” Deacon Euphrates said, “that’s a secret, ain’t it?”

As Juanita nodded, Margot said quickly, “We can all trust Mrs. Núñez. I hope her employers are as ethical as she is.”

When the meeting had settled down again, Margot faced the remaining members. Her stance was characteristic: hands on small waist, elbows aggressively out. A moment earlier she had pushed her long chestnut hair back – a gesture of habit before action, like the raising of a curtain. As she talked, interest heightened. A smile or two appeared. At one point Seth Orinda chuckled deeply. Near the end, Deacon Euphrates and others were grinning broadly.

“Man, oh man!” Deacon said.

“That’s goddam clever,” someone else put in.

Margot reminded them, “To make the whole scheme work, we need a lot of people – at least a thousand to begin with, and more as time goes on.”

A fresh voice asked, “How long we need 'em?”

“We’ll plan on a week. A banking week, that is – five days. If that doesn’t work we should consider going longer and extending our scope of operations. Frankly, though, I don’t believe it will be necessary. Another thing: Everyone involved must be carefully briefed.”

“I’ll help with that,” Seth Orinda volunteered.

There was an immediate chorus of, “So will I.”

Deacon Euphrates’s voice rose above others. “I got time comin’ to me. Goddam, I’ll use it; take a week off work, an’ I can pull in others.”

“Good!” Margot said. She went on decisively, “We’ll need a master plan. I’ll have that ready by tomorrow night. The rest of you should begin recruiting right away. And remember, secrecy is important.”

Half an hour later the meeting broke up, the committee members far more cheerful and optimistic than when they had assembled.

At Margot’s request, Seth Orinda stayed behind. She told him, “Seth, in a special way I need your help.”

“You know I’ll give it if I can, Miss Bracken.”

“When any action starts,” Margot said, “I’m usually at the front of it. You know that.”

“I sure do.” The high school teacher beamed.

“This time I want to stay out of sight. Also, I don’t want my name involved when newspapers, TV, and radio start their coverage. If that happened it could embarrass two special friends of mine – the ones I spoke about at the bank. I want to prevent that.”

Orinda nodded sagely. “So far as I can see, no problem.”

“What I’m really asking,” Margot insisted, “is that you and the others front this one for me. I’ll be behind scenes, of course. And if there’s need to, you can call me, though I hope you won’t.”

“That’s silly,” Seth Orinda said. “How could we call you when none of us ever heard your name?”

On Saturday evening, two days after the Forum East Tenants Association meeting, Margot and Alex were guests at a small dinner party given by friends, and afterward went together to Margot’s apartment. It was in a less fashionable part of the city than Alex’s elegant suite, and was smaller, but Margot had furnished it pleasingly with period pieces she had collected at modest prices in the course of years. Alex loved to be there.

It was a week and a half since they had last been together, conflicting schedules having kept them apart.

“We’ll make up for those lost days,” Margot said.

Alex was silent. Then, “You know, I’ve been waiting all evening for you to fry me on a griddle about Forum East. Instead, you haven’t said a word.”

Margot tilted her head farther back, looking at him upside down. She asked innocently, “Why should I fry you, darling? The bank’s money cutback wasn’t your idea.” Her small brow furrowed. “Or was it?”

“You know darn well it wasn’t.”

“Of course I knew. Just as I was equally sure that you’d opposed it.”

“Yes, I opposed it.” He added ruefully, “For all the good it did.”

“You tried your best. That’s all anyone can ask.”

Alex regarded her suspiciously. “None of this is like you.”

“Not like me in what way?”

“You’re a fighter. It’s one of the things I love about you. You don’t give up. You won’t accept defeat calmly.”

“Perhaps some defeats are total. In that case nothing can be done.”

Alex sat up straight. “You’re up to something, Bracken! I know it. Now tell me what it is.”

Margot considered, then said slowly, “I’m not admitting anything. But even if what you just said is true, it could be there are certain things it’s better you don’t know. Something I’d never want to do, Alex, is embarrass you.”

He looked at her intently. “You’re planning something in that convoluted pixie mind of your.”

“I admit nothing.”

“Whatever it is, I hope it doesn’t involve pay toilets.”

“Oh God, no!”

At the year-old memory, both laughed aloud. It had been one of Margot’s combat victories and created wide attention.

Her battle had been with the city’s airport commission which, at the time, was paying its several hundred janitors and cleaners substantially lower wages than were normal in the area. The workers’ union was corrupt, had a “sweetheart contract” with the commission, and had done nothing to help. In desperation a group of airport employees sought help from Margot who was beginning to build a reputation in such matters.

A frontal approach by Margot to the commission produced merely a rebuff. She therefore decided that public attention must be gained and one way to obtain it was by ridiculing the airport and its rulers. In preparation, and working with several other sympathizers who had aided her before, she made an intelligence study of the big, busy airport during a heavy traffic night.

A factor noted by the study was that when evening flights, on which dinner and drinks had been served, disgorged their passengers, the bulk of the arrivals headed promptly for airport toilets, thus creating maximum demand for those facilities over a period of several hours.

The following Friday night, when incoming and departing air traffic was heaviest of all, several hundred volunteers, principally off-duty janitors and cleaners, arrived at the airport under Margot’s direction. From then until they left much later, all were quiet, orderly, and law-abiding.

Their purpose was to occupy, continuously throughout the evening, every public toilet in the airport. And they did. Margot and assistants had prepared a detailed plan and the volunteers went to assigned locations where they paid a dime and settled down, solaced by reading material, portable radios, and even food which many brought. Some of the women had their needlepoint or knitting. It was the ultimate in legal sit-ins.

In the men’s toilets, more volunteers formed long lines in front of urinals, each dilatory line moving with stunning slowness. If a male not in the plot joined any lineup it took him an hour to reach the front. Few, if any, waited that long.

A floating contingent explained quietly to anyone who would listen what was happening, and why.

The airport became a shambles with hundreds of angry, anguished passengers complaining bitterly and heatedly to airlines who, in turn, assailed airport management. The latter found themselves frustrated and helpless to do anything. Other observers, not involved or in need, found the situation hilarious. No one was indifferent.

News media representatives, tipped off by Margot in advance, were present in force. Reporters vied with each other to write stories which were carried nationwide by wire services, then repeated internationally and used by such differing journals as Izvestia, Johannesburg Star, and The Times of London. Next day, as a result, the entire world was laughing.

In most news reports the name Margot Bracken figured prominently. There were intimations that more “sit-ins” would follow.

As Margot had calculated, ridicule is one of the strongest weapons in any arsenal. Over the weekend the airport commission conceded that discussions would be held on janitors’ and cleaners’ wages, which resulted in increases soon after. A further development was that the corrupt union was voted out, a more honest one replacing it.

The sight was so unusual that one of the branch’s loan officers, Cliff Castleman, strolled over to the platform.

“Mrs. D’Orsey, have you looked out of a window yet, by any chance?”

“No,” Edwina said. She had been concentrating on the morning mail. “Why should I?”

It was 8:55 A.M., Wednesday, at First Mercantile American’s main downtown branch.

“Well,” Castleman said, “I thought you might be interested. There’s a lineup outside such as I’ve never seen ahead of opening time before.”

Edwina looked up. Several staff members were craning to look out of windows. There was a buzz of conversation among the employees generally, unusual this early in the day. She sensed an undercurrent of concern.

Leaving her desk, Edwina walked a few paces to one of the large plate-glass windows, part of the street frontage of the building. What she saw amazed her. A long queue of people, four or five abreast, extended from the main front door past the entire length of the building and out of sight beyond. It appeared as if all were waiting for the bank to open.

She stared incredulously. “What on earth…?”

“Someone went outside just now,” Castleman informed her. “They say the line extends halfway across Rosselli Plaza and more people are joining it all the time.”

“Has anyone asked what they all want?”

“One of the security guards did, I understand. The answer was, they’ve come to open accounts.”

“That’s ridiculous! All of those people? There must be three hundred I can see from here. We’ve never had that many new accounts in a single day.”

The loan officer shrugged. “I’m simply passing on what I heard.”

Tottenhoe, the operations officer, joined them at the window, his face transmitting his normal grumpiness. “I’ve notified Central Security,” he informed Edwina. “They say they’ll send more guards and Mr. Wainwright’s coming over. Also, they’re advising the city police.”

Edwina commented, “There’s no outward sign of trouble. Those people all seem peaceful.”

People in the lineup were talking to each other, some animatedly, but no one appeared antagonistic. A few, seeing themselves observed, smiled and nodded to the bank officials.

“Look at that!” Cliff Castleman pointed. A TV crew with camera had appeared. While Edwina and the others watched, it began filming.

“Peaceful or not,” the loan officer said, “there has to be a motive behind all these people coming here at once.”

A flash of insight struck Edwina. “It’s Forum East,” she said. “I’ll bet it’s Forum East.”

Several others whose desks were nearby had approached and were listening.

Tottenhoe said, “We should delay opening until the extra guards get here.”

All eyes swung to a wall clock which showed a minute to nine.

“No,” Edwina instructed. She raised her voice so that others could hear. “We’ll open as usual, on time. Everyone go back to their work, please.”

Tottenhoe hurried away, Edwina returning to the platform and her desk.

From her vantage point she watched the main doors swing open and the first arrivals pour in. Those who had been at the head of the line paused momentarily on entry, looked around curiously, then quickly moved forward as others behind pressed in. Within moments the central public area of the big branch bank was filled with a chattering, noisy crowd. The building, relatively quiet less than a minute earlier, had become a Babel. Edwina saw a tall heavyset black man wave some dollar bills and declare loudly, “Ah want to put ma money in th’ bank.”

A security guard directed him, “Over there for new accounts.”

The guard pointed to a desk where a clerk – a young girl – sat waiting. She appeared nervous. The big man walked toward her, smiled reassuringly, and sat down. Immediately a press of others moved into a ragged line behind him, waiting for their turns.

Edwina could see the big man leaning back expansively, still holding his dollar bills. His voice cut across the noise of other conversations and she heard him proclaim, “Ah’m in no hurry. There’s some things ah’d like yo’ to explain.”

Two other desks were quickly manned by other clerks. With equal speed, long wide lines of people formed in front of them.

Normally, three members of staff were ample to handle new account business, but obviously were inadequate now. Edwina could see Tottenhoe on the far side of the bank and called him on the intercom. She instructed, “Use more desks for new accounts and take all the staff you can spare to man them.”

Even leaning close to the intercom, it was hard to hear above the noise.

Tottenhoe grumbled in reply, “You realize we can’t possibly process all these people today, and however many we do will tie us up completely.”

“I’ve an idea,” Edwina said, “that’s what someone has in mind. Just hurry the processing all you can.”

Yet she knew however much they hurried it would still take ten to fifteen minutes to open any single new account. It always did. The paperwork required that time.

First, an application form called for details of residence, employment, social security, and family matters. A specimen signature was obtained. Then proof of identity was needed. After that, the new accounts clerk would take all documents to an officer of the bank for approval and initialing. Finally, a savings passbook was made out or a temporary checkbook issued.

A further problem was that the growing mass of arrivals in the central public area of the bank was preventing access to tellers’ counters by other customers. Edwina could see a few of them outside, regarding the milling scene with consternation. While she watched, several gave up and walked away.

Two assistant managers had gone to the central floor area and were trying to regulate the flood of people so as to clear some space at counters. They were having small success.

But still no hostility was evident. Everyone in the now jam-packed bank who was spoken to by members of the staff answered politely and with a smile. It seemed, Edwina thought, as if all who were here had been briefed to be on best behavior.

She decided it was time for her own intervention. Signaling two security guards who elbowed their way toward her, she instructed, “That’s enough people in the bank. Hold everyone else outside, letting a few in as the others leave. Except, of course, allow our regular customers to enter as they arrive.”

The older of the two guards put his head close to Edwina’s to make himself heard. “That won’t be so easy, Mrs. D’Orsey. Some customers we’ll recognize but a good many we won’t. We get too many here each day to know 'em all.”

“Another thing,” the other guard put in, “when anybody arrives, those outside are shouting, ‘Back of the line!’ If we play favorites it could start a riot.”

Edwina assured him, “There won’t be any riot. Just do your best.”

Turning back, Edwina spoke to several of those waiting: “I’m the manager. Would some of you please tell me why you’ve all come here today?”

“We’re opening accounts,” a woman with a child beside her said. She giggled. “Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“You could say,” an elderly cadaverous man chimed in, “we’re all from Forum East.”

A younger voice added, “Or want to be.”

“That still doesn’t tell me…” Edwina began.

“Perhaps I can explain, ma’am.” A middle-aged, distinguished-looking black man was being shoved forward through the press of people.

“Please do.”

The man who had been thrust forward said, “Good morning, ma’am. I didn’t know there were lady bank managers.”

“Well, there are,” Edwina told him. “And getting to be more of us all the time. I hope you believe in the equality of women, Mr. …?”

“Orinda. Seth Orinda, ma’am. And I sure do believe in that, and lots of other things besides.”

“Is it one of the other things that brings you here today?”

“In a way, you could say that.”

“Exactly what way?”

“I think you know we’re all from Forum East.”

She acknowledged, “I’ve been told that.”

“What we’re doing might be called an act of hope.” The well-dressed spokesman mouthed his words carefully. They had been scripted and rehearsed. More people drew close, conversation stilling as they listened.

Orinda went on, “This bank, so it says, doesn’t have enough money to go on helping Forum East get built. Anyway, the bank has cut its lending cash in half and some of us think that other half will get chopped too, that’s if someone doesn’t beat a drum or take some action.”

Edwina said sharply, “And taking action, I suppose, means bringing the business of this entire branch bank to a standstill.” As she spoke, she was aware of several new faces in the crowd and of open notebooks with racing pencils. She realized that reporters had arrived.

Obviously someone had alerted the press in advance, which explained the presence of the TV camera crew outside. Edwina wondered who had done it.

Seth Orinda looked pained. “What we’re doing, ma’am, is bringing all the money we poor folks can raise to help this bank through its time of trouble.”

“Yep,” another voice threw in, “ain’t that good neighborin’ for sure?”

Nolan Wainwright snapped, “That’s nonsense! This bank is not in trouble.”

“If it ain’t in trouble,” a woman asked, “why’d it do what it done to Forum East?”

“The bank’s position was made perfectly clear in its announcement,” Edwina answered. “It’s a question of priorities. Furthermore, the bank has said it hopes to resume the full financing later.”

Even to herself the words sounded hollow.

“Whichever way it looks to you folks here,” he asserted to Edwina, “the fact is, we’ve all come to put some money in your bank. That’s what I mean by an act of hope. We figure that when you see us all, and realize the way we feel, you’ll maybe change your minds.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Then I reckon we’ll go on finding more people and more bits of money.”

“Of course,” Orinda said, his expression innocent, “some of the folks who are putting money in the bank today may have to come and take it out tomorrow, or the next day, or next week. Most haven’t got so much that they can leave it in long. But then, soon as we can we’ll be back to put it in again.” His eyes glittered mischievously. “We aim to keep you busy.”

“Yes,” Edwina said, “I understand your aim.”

One of the reporters, a slim blond girl, asked, “Mr. Orinda, how much will all of you be depositing in the bank?”

“Not much,” he told her cheerfully. “Most have come with just five dollars. That’s the smallest amount this bank will take. Isn’t that right?” He looked at Edwina who nodded.

* * *

The heavyset black man, who had been among the earliest arrivals, was getting up as Edwina arrived. The girl who had dealt with him, no longer nervous, said, “This is Mr. Euphrates. He just opened an account.”

“Deacon Euphrates. Least, that’s what most call me.” Edwina was offered an enormous hand which she took.

“Welcome, to First Mercantile American, Mr. Euphrates.”

“Thank you, that’s real nice. In fact, so nice that I think maybe after all I’ll pop a little more bread in this here account.” He examined a handful of small change, selected a quarter and two dimes, then strolled over to a teller.

Edwina asked the new accounts clerk, “What was the initial deposit?”

“Five dollars.”

“Very well. Just try to keep going as fast as you can.”

“I’ll do that, Mrs. D’Orsey, but that one took a long time because he asked a lot of questions about withdrawals and interest rates. He had them written out on paper.”

“Did you get the paper?”

“No.”

“Others will probably have the same thing. Try to get one and show it to me.”

It might provide a clue, Edwina thought, as to who had planned and executed this expert invasion. She did not believe that anyone she had spoken to so far was the key organizing figure.

Outside, the lengthening line stayed fixedly in place.

It was now 9:45.

Also at 9:45 A.M., three blocks from First Mercantile American Headquarters Tower, Margot Bracken was operating a command post from an inconspicuously parked Volkswagen.

Margot had intended to remain remote from the execution of her pressure ploy, but in the end she hadn’t been able to. Like a war horse which paws the ground at the scent of battle, her resolve had weakened then dissolved.

Margot’s concern about embarrassing Alex or Edwina remained, however, and was the reason for her absence from the front line of action on Rosselli Plaza.

If she appeared she would be quickly identified by members of the press, whose presence Margot knew about since she had arranged advance tip-offs to newspapers, TV, and radio.

Therefore, messengers were discreetly bringing news of developments to her car and carrying instructions back.

Since Thursday night a sizable feat of organization had been carried through.

On Friday, while Margot worked on the master plan, Seth, Deacon, and several committee members recruited block captains in and around Forum East. They described what was to be done only in general terms, but the response was overwhelming. Almost everyone wanted a piece of the action and knew others who could be counted on.

By late Sunday when lists were totaled, there were fifteen hundred names. More were coming in fast. According to Margot’s plan it would be possible to maintain action for at least a week longer if enthusiasm could be sustained.

Among the men with regular jobs who volunteered help, some like Deacon Euphrates had vacation time due which they declared they would use. Others simply said they would absent themselves as needed. Regrettably, many who volunteered were unemployed, their numbers swelled recently by a seasonal work shortage.

But women predominated, in part because of their greater availability in daytime, but also because – even more than with the men – Forum East had become a cherished, hopeful beacon in their lives.

Margot was aware of this, both from her advance staff work and this morning’s reports.

The reports she was getting so far were highly satisfactory.

It had been Margot’s insistence that at all times, and particularly during direct contacts with bank representatives, everyone in the Forum East contingent should be friendly, courteous, and ostensibly helpful. This was the reason for the phrase, “Act of Hope,” which Margot coined, and the projected image that a group of interested individuals – though with limited means – was coming to the “help” of an FMA “in trouble.”

She suspected, shrewdly, that any suggestion that First Mercantile American Bank was in trouble would touch a sensitive nerve.

And while there would be no concealment of the Forum East connection, at no point would outright threats be made, as – for example – that paralysis of the big bank would continue unless construction funds were reinstated. As Margot told Seth Orinda and the others, “Let the bank come to that conclusion.”

At briefing sessions she had underlined the need to avoid any appearance of menace or intimidation. Those who attended the sessions made notes, then passed the instructions on.

Something else passed on were lists of questions to be asked by individuals while accounts were being opened. Margot had prepared those, too. There were hundreds of legitimate questions which anyone dealing with a bank could reasonably ask, though for the most part people didn’t. Their ancillary effect would be to slow the bank to a near halt.

Seth Orinda would act as spokesman if an opportunity occurred. Margot’s script needed little rehearsal. Orinda was a quick study.

Deacon Euphrates had been assigned to be early in line and the first to open an account.

* * *

At 11:45 A.M. Seth reported personally to Margot. He was grinning broadly and held out an early edition of the city’s afternoon newspaper.

“Wow!” Margot spread the front page wide.

The activity at the bank commanded most of the available space. It was more, far more, attention than she had dared to hope for.

The main headline read:

BIG BANK IMMOBILIZED