“You’re Charles Merrick.”
“Good for you. But I know full well that Finance does not hand twenty-six-year-olds cover interviews.”
She looked at him with surprise. “I’m sorry if there’s been some miscommunication. This isn’t for the cover.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This is a little profile piece. ‘Where is he now?’ That sort of thing. Since you’re getting out soon.”
“A profile piece? Is Peter still the editor?”
“Peter Moynihan is the editor,” she said in a weary tone that irritated Merrick.
“And he thought it would be a good idea to do a . . . how did you put it? A ‘little profile piece’ on me?”
“Actually Peter wasn’t all that big on the idea. Initially.”
“Initially.”
“I convinced him.”
“Well, thank you so very much,” Merrick said. “For being my champion.”
“Perhaps I should go.”
He watched her gather up the materials that she’d laid out on the table. In the old days, he would have laughed a reporter out of his office for trying such a transparent tactic. He wanted badly to let her leave Niobe Prison disappointed and empty-handed, but he stopped her because it would have hurt him far worse.
“Why weren’t they interested?”
She paused and looked him over, held his gaze steadily, assessing him confidently. He didn’t care for it but forced a smile. Much as he disliked to admit it, he needed Lydia Malkin more than she needed him.
“Honestly? No one cares,” she said. “Many resent the plea deal you cut with the Justice Department. Eight years for the devastation Merrick Capital caused its investors strikes some as ludicrous. And the net value of the assets seized didn’t come close to compensating your victims. Lives were ruined.”
Merrick dismissed the notion that his deal had been overly generous. If little Miss Lydia Malkin only knew the half of it. The gift that he’d granted this great country in exchange for so-called leniency. The CIA should have thrown him a parade instead of locking him away in here.
“Not to mention the fact that you were sent to a place like this rather than a real prison.”
“A real prison? Oh, instead of this ‘country club’?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know we don’t actually have a tennis court? We did, but they bulldozed it. Know why? Because of the idea that this was a ‘country club.’ That’s discrimination.”
“Discrimination?”
“Absolutely. I’m denied a valid form of exercise, because why? Because it’s a sport people such as myself enjoy. That’s discrimination. They let them play basketball. A game they enjoy so much. How is that just?”
“Them?” she asked, attempting to bait him.
He wouldn’t play her game.
“So . . . if no one cares, why are you here?”
“To find out if prison changed the man known as Madoff Junior.”
“Madoff Junior?”
“That’s what they call you. You haven’t heard that?”
“Of course I’ve heard it. I just can’t believe it stuck.”
“Why not?”
“Because Merrick Capital wasn’t a Ponzi scheme, that’s why. It’s insulting. Madoff’s operation was amateur hour. Everyone knew what he was doing. It was blatant. Note that not one of the major Wall Street firms invested a single cent with Madoff. A little peculiar given that Madoff only reported four down months in twenty years, no? That’s like a baseball player hitting .900 for a season and still not getting signed by a major league team. The only reason Madoff wasn’t caught sooner was that the SEC had its head up its incompetent, underfunded ass. They investigated him six times. Six! They should have had him in ’99 when Harry Markopolos blew the whistle on him, but the SEC never bothered to confirm his accusations with the Depository Trust. So, yes, I’m offended to be lumped in with that hack.”
She started the digital voice recorder in the center of the table. “Merrick Capital was so different?”
“Merrick Capital was a work of art. Our investment strategies were entirely legitimate, and our returns to investors unprecedented.”
“Merrick Capital began falsifying returns as far back as 1998.”
He could feel the blood pounding in his ears. “My clients still got rich.”
“Not in 2008, they didn’t. You lost a fortune betting on nickel in Western Australia.”
“Ah, yes, the crash,” said Merrick. “If only the American people knew how to pay their mortgages on time.”
“It’s the American people’s fault you got caught?”
“You’re damned right it is. If the crash hadn’t caused the price of nickel to tank, then my bet, as you call it, would have paid off.”
“Well, that’s certainly a unique perspective,” she said, leaning in. “But it was still an all-or-nothing bet. You must admit at least that much. Economists have called it one of the most irresponsible gambles in modern finance . . . with or without the crash. Yet here you sit, confident of a different outcome. How can you justify such certainty?”
Some part of Merrick knew, even then, that he should have checked himself.
Instead, he answered her question.
CHAPTER TWO
A one-hit shutout was no way to hook your kid on baseball. A lesson Gibson Vaughn was learning the hard way, pitch by masterful pitch. The Nationals starter had superb control today, mowing down batters like milk bottles at a fairground. Meanwhile, the Braves rookie was a two-pitch flamethrower—mid-nineties fastball and a breaking ball that dropped so far off the table that if you wanted a taste, you’d be eating off the ground.
Ordinarily, Gibson would have been a happy man, basking in the April sunshine along the first base line, watching what was evolving into a great early-season matchup. This was why Sundays existed. But not this Sunday. This particular Sunday, he was rooting for the game to turn into a sloppy home-run derby. Anything to get his daughter excited about the game, because so far Ellie Vaughn was not exactly riveted by the American pastime, and conveying the intricacies of a brilliant pitchers’ duel to a seven-year-old hadn’t been covered in any parenting book he’d ever read.