Show Her The Money. Stephanie Feagan
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by the SEC reveals malfeasance or negligence on the part of your firm, you are now under the umbrella of immunity this committee has extended to you in return for your testimony. You will avoid prosecution, civil or criminal. But I remind you, immunity was granted based on your full cooperation.”
“Sir, I’ve told you everything I know, provided all the documents and evidence needed to proceed with the investigation.”
“Ms. Pearl, your immunity can be revoked in the absence of all requested information. You said you had the memos. Now you say you don’t. Without them, it looks as though you blew the whistle to cover yourself in the event Marvel’s house of cards caved in. It comes down to a you-say–they-say situation. From the look of what you have provided, Marvel is very close to defaulting on a large amount of their debt. That may force them into bankruptcy, which would cause a lot of questions to be asked, perhaps putting you in the line of fire.”
I leaned toward Mr. Dryer. “Can they revoke immunity?”
He nodded. “I think they only offered it because they want those memos. Without them, he’s right and it looks like you sang just to cover yourself.”
“Does the fact I knew nothing about any of it have no impact at all?”
Mr. Dryer shot me a look that said he wasn’t buying any of it, either. Even my own attorney didn’t believe me. For eight hundred bucks an hour, the least he could have done was fake it. “Like the man said, it’s your word against theirs. I suggest you do all you can to get your hands on that disk.”
A mental picture of Mrs. Bohannon popped into my head. She was a ditzy old girl when I was in third grade. Dear Lord, please, please let her still have the box, and the disk I’d stuck in the bottom of it.
“Ms. Pearl, do you understand what I’m saying to you?” Santorelli asked in an even voice.
“Yes, sir. I will get the memos.” Or die trying.
As soon as we were dismissed, I wasted no time firing Mr. Dryer. Why give him eight hundred bucks an hour for getting me immunity that wouldn’t hold up? I could get the same service with a back-alley attorney who charged a hundred bucks an hour. Just what I’d do about an attorney, I wasn’t sure, but I’d think of something. I supposed I had to have one. Muddling through the process of hearings and handing over sensitive documents wasn’t in my repertoire. Digging for facts is more my calling. Legal-eagle stuff blows my mind. Without an attorney, I was bound to say and do all the wrong things and wind up in prison, or at the very least, owe a ginormous amount of dough after I was sued by the SEC.
When I got back to my hotel room, I had a surprise waiting for me. Another note, threatening a slice-and-dice job on my private body parts, along with a lovely gift of dog doo.
Somebody had it in for me, and the threats were arriving more frequently. The notion that someone was following me and watching every move I made was creepy enough, but the dog doo took my anxiety to a higher level. I figured, anyone who took the time to find dog poop, scoop it up, preserve it, transport it and artfully arrange it in some strategic spot where I’d be sure to find it, whether with my eyes, my nose or the heel of my foot, was severely twisted. The notes I could almost understand. Someone had a major problem with me ratting out the firm and Marvel Energy. Maybe that someone was in danger of losing their job, or even facing possible indictment.
But the poop took it to a new level. A very scary one.
Still, I wasn’t going to back off. Not that I’m a modern day superhero, or Joan of Arc, or anything. I just don’t like getting shoved around, and I really have a problem with fat cats taking investors for a ride, then swiping their cash. Dog doo or no, I wasn’t backing off.
While me and the housekeeping lady worked at cleaning up the mess, I sent a silent prayer, asking God to forgive me for having murderous thoughts. That’s the great thing about God. He’s so forgiving. Man, I wished I could do that.
But I couldn’t. I despised the Dog Doo Stalker for terrorizing me with poodle bombs and sick notes. I hated Senator Santorelli and Barbara Clemmons for forcing me to humiliate myself in front of the entire nation. And I especially despised my ex-boss, Lowell, for firing me.
The next morning, I caught the early flight out of D.C. and arrived in Dallas before lunch. Not that it mattered. My days of power lunches at places like Beau Nash and The Mansion were over. I could still afford a plate of food that cost more than a new tire, but I had way too much pride to waltz into a fancy-schmancy restaurant and eat lunch alone.
Which is how I felt. Very alone. Being a whistle-blower might earn a girl a place in heaven, but it’s hell on a social life.
I spent an hour wandering around my ransacked loft, half-heartedly picking things up and putting them in their places. Lord, but I loved the loft. It was two-thousand square feet of upscale, modern architecture. I had splurged and bought beautiful Cantoni furniture and the result looked like something out of Architectural Digest. I’d never actually wanted a home that more closely resembled a Starbucks than a cozy place to live, but it grew on me. From the bathroom’s black ceramic bowl and brushed steel faucet that poked out of the granite wall, to the kitchen’s stark wood cabinets and stainless steel appliances, to the narrow balcony that looked out over Central Expressway, the loft screamed success. And I was successful. Very. Was being the operative word.
With the sofa and chair cushions slashed, my books strewn all over the floor, the rugs ripped up and the dishes all broken, the loft was uncannily a mirror of my career, once again. Whoever had broken in to hunt for the disks did a bang-up job. They’d not only destroyed my home, they’d slashed the tires on my car and ripped out the upholstered leather seats, leaving the poor thing’s guts hanging out. I’d had the seats and tires replaced, but it almost seemed to me that the car was wounded. Sad and dejected. It didn’t run quite as well as before.
But then, neither did I. My spirit was so low, I kept asking myself if it was all worth it. Then I’d think of all the people who would suffer because of what Marvel and Lowell had done, and I knew I couldn’t roll over and give up.
As I packed up my portfolio and left for my fourteenth job interview, I wondered why I bothered. No one would hire me. I was a whistle-blower, and despite my honorable intentions, I’d come to realize that most people saw it exactly as Barbara Clemmons and the rest of the finance committee saw it—I’d done it for purely self-serving reasons. Until I had the evidence to prove otherwise, I was as guilty of creating the problems at Marvel as any of the top brass in the company and at my firm. I was a bad guy. It wasn’t fair, but what could I do? Every single interview ended the same. “Your credentials are perfect, Ms. Pearl, but until you’ve settled your affairs with the federal government, we don’t feel it’s in our best interest to offer you a position.” Which was a nice way of saying, “You may be hanging out in the joint soon, so buzz off.”
Nevertheless, I spent the next week looking for a job. By the end of the road, I was down to inquiring about a bookkeeping position with an elderly woman who had a lot of oil and gas interests. I’d office in her laundry room, account for her money and when things got slow, I would need to run a few personal errands. Dry cleaning. Weed the beds. Maybe address invitations to her monthly supper socials.
The real killer? I couldn’t even get that job. The old lady said she’d seen me on C-SPAN, and the only reason she’d agreed to interview me was so she could see me in person. Then she asked if Mr. Bob was anatomically correct.
I came home that night to a message from my mom. “Pink, baby, come home. You’re running through your money so fast, you’ll be on the streets before long. Now I know you think moving back to Midland is the worst thing in the world, and working for me is a last resort, but I have news for you, baby. You’re down to your last resort. Besides, I could really use the help. Call me.”
Most people think I followed in my mother’s footsteps and became a CPA like she did. They’re wrong. I was a sophomore in college when Mom decided she’d had just about enough of my dad and enrolled herself in summer school. She tested out of a gazillion hours, buzzed through in two years and graduated with an MBA about the