1 Jennifer Spencer

       What is now proved was once only imagined.

      William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

      ‘All rise.’

      Jennifer Anne Spencer watched as Judge Marian Levitt entered the courtroom, her black robes swinging loosely from her shoulders, not concealing her dumpiness, her white hair cut in a simple bob. She climbed the three steps to the bench holding Jennifer’s future in her hands.

      Jennifer stood beside her lawyer and the rest of the legal team and faced Judge Levitt with what she hoped was a calm and honest gaze. She knew that the photographers would pay a great deal to have a picture of her at the time the verdict was given. But they were barred from the courtroom and for that, if nothing else, she was grateful.

      Although she had been assured and reassured that the judge would see things ‘their way’, it was not an easy thing to stand before the woman as she leafed through her papers. In fact, although she doubted that she would be judged guilty, she was certain that even if she was, she would be given a suspended sentence or public service or a fine.

      Jennifer had to admit that she felt sick to her stomach just standing there. That she had virtually volunteered to be there didn’t make it any easier. She felt a fluttering beside her and realized that Tom, her attorney, was reaching for her hand. She entwined her fingers in his and knew that he could feel her trembling. She hoped that the judge could see neither that nor the fact that they were holding hands. But she supposed it wouldn’t make any difference to the outcome of the trial.

      For what seemed like an interminable time, Judge Levitt paged through the notes in front of her. She had on a pair of half-glasses that were perched at the very end of her long nose. Both Donald and Tom had strongly urged Jennifer to forgo a jury trial. ‘This is complicated law,’ Tom had said. ‘A judge would be more likely to understand the distinctions.’ Donald had laughed. ‘Let’s face it,’ he’d said. ‘Civilians hate us and would be only too happy to throw the book at you.’ Jennifer had nodded. ‘We’re the fat cats,’ Donald had continued. ‘We’re the Wall Street smart-asses. When they make money during a bull market they resent us for making more. When they lose money they blame us. You can’t win when you’re on the Street. You’d never get a jury of your peers unless they could get a dozen guys from the Street, and none of them have the time to sit on a jury.’ They had all laughed.

      But now, looking up at Judge Levitt, Jennifer didn’t feel like laughing. She told herself it was all going to be all right. Donald and Tom would see to it. This was the worst of it, and after this she’d be so well rewarded that …

      ‘Jennifer Spencer. You have been accused of fraud. I find you guilty. On insider trading I find you guilty on all counts. On …’

      A loud buzzing began in Jennifer’s ears. The word ‘guilty’ coming from Judge Levitt’s lips seemed to move from the bench to her and hit her like a blow. This wasn’t what was planned. She felt dizzy and she had to close her eyes for a moment to stop the room from spinning. Tom’s hand on her now clammy one did not feel comforting. She wanted to shake him off and wipe the sweat off herself. How could this be happening?

      When she could hear again, the judge was intoning something about her sentence. A sentence? If she was found guilty, there wasn’t supposed to be a sentence. ‘… three to five years at Jennings Correctional Facility for Women.’ The judge paused, took off her glasses, and looked across the bench at Jennifer. ‘You are very young,’ she said. ‘It’s better that you learn now that this type of manipulation and illegal profiteering is unacceptable and that it could destroy your entire life.’

      Jennifer couldn’t respond. Even on that horrible day when the Feds came into her posh office at the prestigious Wall Street firm of Hudson, Van Schaank & Michaels to take her away in cuffs, Jennifer didn’t believe that she would spend even one moment in a jail cell. The arrest made her a little nervous, of course, but that was only because she’d never been in trouble before with the law.

      ‘This is just a publicity stunt,’ her boss told her. ‘They’re firing shots over our heads to cool down this overheated market.’ That boss was the legendary Donald J. Michaels himself, and Jennifer never questioned his judgment or authority. ‘Believe me,’ Donald assured her, ‘these charges are going to be dropped. And even if you do go to trial, you aren’t going to be found guilty of anything. Trust me,’ he added with his reassuring smile.

      Jennifer did trust him. After all, she wasn’t guilty of anything. She was just taking the heat for Donald in order to deflect any further investigations into his firm’s rather dubious business dealings. If the SEC – the Securities and Exchange Commission – had gone after Donald they would have thrown the book at him. ‘And they’ve got a damn big book,’ Donald had joked. ‘You know how jealous, how envious, people have been over our success in the last few years.’ Jennifer did know. During his Wall Street career Donald Michaels had made not only his own fortune, but had also made dozens, maybe scores – or even hundreds – of other millionaires. Jennifer herself was a millionaire at twenty-eight – but now she was a millionaire who was leaving for prison in less than an hour.

      Standing in the courtroom, Jennifer cradled her right elbow in her left hand and her left in her right hand and shivered as she felt both her gooseflesh and nausea rise. How, she wondered, did it come to this? How had Tom, her lawyer, let it happen?

      Thomas Philip Branston IV was the sharpest (and most handsome) young counsel on the Street. ‘Nothing is really at risk,’ he had told Jennifer, echoing Donald’s assurances. ‘It never is in cases like this. Even if you are convicted – which is virtually impossible – we’ll have an appeal before the judge can pound his gavel. Donald has good friends and deep pockets,’ Tom said with a knowing smile. Jennifer had no reason to doubt what he said. After all, Tom was not only a Harvard undergrad and Law Review at Yale, he was also much more than her brilliant attorney. He was her beloved fiancé.

      ‘Think of it, Jen,’ he had said days ago, ‘everyone here will be in your debt. You’ll not only have Donald’s gratitude, but also the gratitude of the partners and all of the employees, right down to the secretaries and the mail-room staff. They’ll all owe their fortunes and their jobs to you.’

      ‘I only regret that I have but one life to give for my firm,’ Jennifer had joked on that day when she, Tom, and Donald got together with Bob, the financial officer and Lenny, his assistant, to hatch their plan. There was plenty to drink and lots of laughter at that meeting as they discussed how Tom would prepare her statements, how they’d all sign them, and how Tom would ‘turn her in’ to the SEC. The Feds would be ripsnorting mad to miss their shot at Donald, but if she confessed they were scotched in their witchhunt, and Jennifer would be back at work within a week.

      At the time their plan sounded solid; after all, Jennifer loved the heart-stopping thrill of high-risk deal-making. She loved the power of outleveraging any competitor in a buyout, and she loved the rush of watching one of their IPOs – Initial Public Offerings – burst onto the market to take the lucky or the gullible investor