Chapter 4 - The Eviction Policy
By 8:00 AM on Monday morning, the financial district smelled of exhaust fumes and wet asphalt from a sudden dawn downpour. Inside the trading rooms of Wallace & Sons on Wall Street, the atmosphere was closer to a terminal ward. The opening bell of the New York Stock Exchange hadn't even rung, but the pre-market indicators were displaying a massive, crimson downward spike next to the ticker symbol WLLC.
Julian Wallace sat in his private office, surrounded by three separate landline phones that were all blinking with furious intensity. His daughter stood by the window, her coat draped over her arm, watching the digital ticker crawl across the building opposite theirs.
"They're refusing to clear the margins, Julian," Arthur Jenkins said, stepping into the office without knocking, his tie slightly askew for the first time in his professional history. "The compliance committee at the bank just issued a formal notice. Because Vance Global called in the short-term capital notes on the North River project, the bank has triggered the cross-default clause across all your personal real estate holdings. They’ve frozen your credit lines. Every credit card issued to your daughter, your wife, and your corporate executives was deactivated forty-five minutes ago."
Greta turned around, her face twisted in disbelief. "What do you mean, deactivated? I have the bridal fitting at Vera Wang at eleven! The final payment for the floral design is due today! Fifty thousand dollars!"
"You don't have fifty dollars right now, Greta," Jenkins said, his voice completely devoid of the deferential politeness he had used for twenty years. "Your father’s personal checking accounts are tied to the Wallace Holdings liquidity reserve. Until the bank determines if the company can survive the short-selling raid, you have zero purchasing power in the State of New York. Your assets are effectively frozen under a corporate receivership review."
"Call Tristan," Greta ordered her father, her voice rising into an unstable shriek. "Daddy, call him! Tell him we'll apologize! Tell him we'll invite his mother to sit at the head table! We can do a press release with People magazine showing them shopping together in Queens! Whatever it takes to turn the cards back on!"
"He won't answer, Greta," Julian Wallace said, his voice sounding hollow, like a wind blowing through an empty pipe. He looked down at his hands—hands that had never carried a toolbox, hands that had never changed a tire. "I tried his cell line four times. It goes straight to a secondary administrative assistant at Vance Global whose only job is to tell me that Mr. Vance is currently in a production meeting regarding a warehouse terminal in New Jersey. He isn't punishing us, Greta. He’s deleting us."
The heavy mahogany door of Julian's office didn't open with a knock; it was pushed open by two men wearing dark suits and silver badges pinned to their lapels. Behind them stood Frank Vance, holding a certified legal writ stamped with the seal of the New York State Supreme Court.
"Mr. Wallace," the lead officer said, his voice flat and official. "We are here from the Sheriff’s Office’s Civil Division. Under the emergency asset protection order filed by Vance Global Infrastructure as the primary secured creditor of Wallace Holdings, this structure and all corporate property within it are being placed under immediate administrative lockdown. You have exactly fifteen minutes to clear your personal effects from the desk. The security codes are being cycled as we speak."
"This is my office!" Julian shouted, standing up, his chair rolling back against the wood paneling. "My grandfather laid the cornerstone of this building!"
"And my boss bought the mortgage from the city pension fund two hours ago," Frank Vance said, stepping forward, his eyes flat and completely unimpressed by the historic oil portraits on the wall. "Your grandfather's cornerstone belongs to the scrap yard now, Mr. Wallace. Take your coat and your daughter, and let’s move toward the street before the cameras from CNBC get their tripods set up on the sidewalk."
Greta watched her father slowly pick up a silver-framed photograph of their yacht from the desk, his fingers trembling so violently he nearly dropped the glass. She looked at Frank Vance, the man who had driven her in the limo just two days ago, the man she had treated like a piece of the automotive machinery.
May you like
"Tell Tristan he won't get away with this," she whispered, her teeth clenching until her jaw regular ached. "The city won't let him do this to us. Our friends... the board at the Metropolitan Museum... the governor..."
"Your friends are currently on the phone with Tristan’s secretaries, Miss Wallace," Frank said, stepping aside to clear the path to the exit. "They’re trying to find out if he’s going to short their stocks next. In this neighborhood, nobody wants to be seen standing near a burning building. Move along."
