spoke both our names and retreated.
Eugene Barilla had been global sales manager for Fixed Income when I was back at Case. We had crossed paths occasionally. He was direct, sometimes brusque, but very much a team player. A facilitator. I had liked him.
He didn’t like me. I found this out when he told me so.
“Jason Stafford? I don’t like you.” He stood up, looked me in the eye, and ignored my outstretched hand. “I don’t like what you did. I think you got off easy. And right now I really don’t like your getting paid for looking over my shoulder. Sanders was a good kid. I liked him. But if he was up to something ugly, I’ll find it. I don’t need you.”
He had a big, square jaw that he jutted forward for emphasis when he spoke. It made a tempting target. I breathed out slowly and spoke softly.
“Nobody died.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I did real time, Gene. I did it and got through it whole. I’m not proud of what I did, but I paid for it. Slate’s clean.”
“Do you have any idea how many people lost their jobs after that mess? The bank made major cutbacks—across the board—thanks to you. And how about the ones who lost their life savings when the stock took an eighty percent hit that week? Guys like you pretend it’s some victimless crime, but it’s not. You caused a lot of pain. Do you ever spend any time thinking about that?”
I had, but I wasn’t going to share it with him. “And I lost everything and spent two years in federal prison. I try very hard not to look back. It’s not always easy, but I try. Now, can we get down to business?”
“I told you. I don’t have shit to say to you.”
“Great. In the meantime, I’ll be sitting in some conference room, surrounded by stacks of computer printouts of trades that I don’t understand. It’s not prison, but it still sucks. But I will still be collecting five grand a day and I will milk that teat as long as I can. Or, you can give me some help and get me out of here by the end of next week. Your call.”
We glared at each other across the desk. He was a big, broad-shouldered man in his mid-fifties, more salt than pepper on top, but slim-hipped and still in good shape. I pegged him for an after-hours basketball player. He blinked first.
“Sit down.”
I took it as an invitation rather than an order.
His office was almost homey. The furnishings were all a dark cherry, offset by a rich Middle Eastern carpet. On the wall behind his desk hung framed pieces from his collection of bonds that had never paid off: Confederate States of America bonds; Patagonia Economic Development Bonds from the late 1800’s—backed by gold that was presumably still in the ground; and a Chinese Railway zero-coupon bond from the 1920’s that was denominated in guilders. Financial innovation is as much recycling as it is invention.
“What do I need to do to get you out of my life soonest?” he asked.
“I need someone—maybe a junior trader, or a sharp trading assistant—to sit with me and go over the trading records. To tell me what I’m looking at. A translator. Next, I will want to talk with some of this guy’s buddies. Other traders? Salesmen? Sometimes people see things they don’t know they saw.”
“And sometimes there was nothing to see.”
I nodded. “I’ve got no axe on this. If there’s nothing there, I will be happy to say so.”
“All right. No problem. I’ll set it up. What else?”
I had him cooperating. I leaned back in the chair and made myself comfortable.
“Tell me about Sanders.”
Barilla let out a long breath. “I meant it. He was a good kid. I thought he was a straight arrow.”
“Where’d you find him? He have a rabbi?” Wall Street had become much more inclusive over the twenty-some years I had been in the business, but nepotism was still the most common way to get a start.
“No. He came in through the training program. Usually, I don’t have much use for MBAs unless they have some great
Eugene Barilla had been global sales manager for Fixed Income when I was back at Case. We had crossed paths occasionally. He was direct, sometimes brusque, but very much a team player. A facilitator. I had liked him.
He didn’t like me. I found this out when he told me so.
“Jason Stafford? I don’t like you.” He stood up, looked me in the eye, and ignored my outstretched hand. “I don’t like what you did. I think you got off easy. And right now I really don’t like your getting paid for looking over my shoulder. Sanders was a good kid. I liked him. But if he was up to something ugly, I’ll find it. I don’t need you.”
He had a big, square jaw that he jutted forward for emphasis when he spoke. It made a tempting target. I breathed out slowly and spoke softly.
“Nobody died.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I did real time, Gene. I did it and got through it whole. I’m not proud of what I did, but I paid for it. Slate’s clean.”
“Do you have any idea how many people lost their jobs after that mess? The bank made major cutbacks—across the board—thanks to you. And how about the ones who lost their life savings when the stock took an eighty percent hit that week? Guys like you pretend it’s some victimless crime, but it’s not. You caused a lot of pain. Do you ever spend any time thinking about that?”
I had, but I wasn’t going to share it with him. “And I lost everything and spent two years in federal prison. I try very hard not to look back. It’s not always easy, but I try. Now, can we get down to business?”
“I told you. I don’t have shit to say to you.”
“Great. In the meantime, I’ll be sitting in some conference room, surrounded by stacks of computer printouts of trades that I don’t understand. It’s not prison, but it still sucks. But I will still be collecting five grand a day and I will milk that teat as long as I can. Or, you can give me some help and get me out of here by the end of next week. Your call.”
We glared at each other across the desk. He was a big, broad-shouldered man in his mid-fifties, more salt than pepper on top, but slim-hipped and still in good shape. I pegged him for an after-hours basketball player. He blinked first.
“Sit down.”
I took it as an invitation rather than an order.
His office was almost homey. The furnishings were all a dark cherry, offset by a rich Middle Eastern carpet. On the wall behind his desk hung framed pieces from his collection of bonds that had never paid off: Confederate States of America bonds; Patagonia Economic Development Bonds from the late 1800’s—backed by gold that was presumably still in the ground; and a Chinese Railway zero-coupon bond from the 1920’s that was denominated in guilders. Financial innovation is as much recycling as it is invention.
“What do I need to do to get you out of my life soonest?” he asked.
“I need someone—maybe a junior trader, or a sharp trading assistant—to sit with me and go over the trading records. To tell me what I’m looking at. A translator. Next, I will want to talk with some of this guy’s buddies. Other traders? Salesmen? Sometimes people see things they don’t know they saw.”
“And sometimes there was nothing to see.”
I nodded. “I’ve got no axe on this. If there’s nothing there, I will be happy to say so.”
“All right. No problem. I’ll set it up. What else?”
I had him cooperating. I leaned back in the chair and made myself comfortable.
“Tell me about Sanders.”
Barilla let out a long breath. “I meant it. He was a good kid. I thought he was a straight arrow.”
“Where’d you find him? He have a rabbi?” Wall Street had become much more inclusive over the twenty-some years I had been in the business, but nepotism was still the most common way to get a start.
“No. He came in through the training program. Usually, I don’t have much use for MBAs unless they have some great
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