James Grippando - Found money

“Mom, breakfast!”

Taylor was shouting loud enough to invite the neighbors. But she was allowed. Gram didn’t often turn her kitchen over to a four-year-old, and Taylor was always so proud of the special menu she came up with. Amy put her makeup bag aside and headed for the kitchen table. Her business face was not required for Cap’n Crunch and Kool-Aid.

Gram was seated at the table, eating her cereal and watching the morning news on television. Another place setting was arranged neatly beside her. Taylor was pouring the milk. “Skim milk for you, right Mommy?”

“That’s right,” she said with a smile. She pulled up a chair, then froze. A handsome young reporter on television was standing in front of the Mayflower Hotel in Washington D.C.

Gram said, “Hey, listen to this. They’re talking about Marilyn.”

Amy’s pulse quickened. She reached forward and turned up the volume.

The reporter was saying something about Washington’s worst-kept secret. “According to White House sources,” he said, “Ms. Gaslow met yesterday with several of the President’s high-ranking advisors. She will be meeting this morning with the President. If all goes well, we could possibly hear an announcement by the end of the day. Assuming she meets Senate approval, that would make Marilyn Gaslow the first woman ever to serve as chairman — make that chairwoman — of the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve System.”

The Denver anchor broke in, fumbling with his earpiece. “Todd, most of us hear about the Federal Reserve every day, but few of us understand it. Put Ms. Gaslow’s appointment in perspective for us. How significant is this?”

“Very significant. The Fed is often referred to as the fourth branch of government, and that is no understatement. Through its seven-member Board of Governors, it sets the nation’s monetary policy. It controls the money supply, it sets interest rates, it regulates the federal banking system, it engages in a host of activities that affect market conditions. Historically, it has received blame for the severity of the Great Depression in the thirties, and it has received credit for the relatively stable economic conditions of the sixties. In short, it determines the overall economic well-being of the most powerful nation on earth. If Marilyn Gaslow is approved as chairman, she would arguably become the most powerful woman in America.”

“Are there any signs of Senate opposition to Ms. Gaslow’s appointment?”

“None yet,” said the reporter, “but in Washington, things can change in a hurry.”

“Thank you very much,” said the anchor, closing out the live report. The local coverage shifted to a traffic report.

Amy didn’t move.

“Mommy, are they talking about the same Marilyn you work for?”

Amy nodded, but she was deep in thought.

“The most powerful woman in America,” said Gram. “Boy, isn’t that something?”

Amy blinked nervously. She had honored Marilyn’s request to tell no one about their conversation — not even Gram.

“Yes,” she said in quiet disbelief. “That is really something.”

At 10:00 A.M. Joseph Kozelka reached the K &G Building, a modern highrise that towered above downtown Denver. The ground-floor lobby was buzzing with men and women in business suits, the clicking of their heels echoing off the polished granite floors. Four banks of elevators stretched from one end of the spacious atrium-style lobby to the other. The first three were for tenants who leased the lower thirty floors from K &G. The last was for K &G visitors and employees only, floors thirty-one through fifty.

Kozelka stopped at the security checkpoint before the special employee elevators. The guard smiled politely, almost embarrassed by the routine.

“Good morning, sir. Step up to the scanner, please.”

Kozelka stepped forward and looked into the retinal scanner. The device was part of K &G’s high-tech corporate security. It could confirm an employee’s identity based on the unique pattern of blood vessels behind the retina, like a fingerprint.

A green light flashed, signaling approval. The guard hit the button that allowed passage to the elevators.

“Have a good day, sir,” he said.

Kozelka nodded and continued on his way. It was the same silly charade every morning, part of Kozelka’s self-cultivated image as a regular guy who tolerated no special treatment for anyone, including himself. Indeed, he never missed a chance to recount the story of the former security guard who had greeted him one morning with a respectful “Good morning, Mr. Kozelka,” allowing him to sidestep the scanner. Kozelka fired him on the spot. To his cigar-smoking friends over at the Bankers Club, it was a perfect illustration of how, in Kozelka’s eyes, the CEO was no better than anyone else. Never mind that a fifty-year-old faithful employee with a wife and three kids was suddenly on the dole. Kozelka didn’t much care about the real-life sufferings of the peons he used to promote his image.

And it was all image. Equality and accountability simply weren’t part of the K &G corporate lexicon. K &G had just two shareholders. Joseph held fifty-one percent. A trust for his children held the other forty-nine. The occasional talk on Wall Street of taking the company public never failed to make his lawyers giddy, but Kozelka wasn’t interested. Share holders would mean the loss of control. Kozelka didn’t need the money he’d get from the sale of his stock. It was the control that drove him — control over a corporate empire that in one way or another was connected to one out of three meals served in North America daily, be it pesticides, produce, fertilizers, feed, grain, livestock, fish farms, or any other link in the food chain. The real money, however, came from commodities trading. Some would even say manipulation. Minute-by-minute activity on the market flashed beneath the crown moldings in Kozelka’s penthouse office.

The elevator stopped on the thirty-first floor. Kozelka stepped off and transferred to a private executive elevator that took him to the penthouse office suite.

Half the top floor was his. The other half was divided among the remaining senior corporate officers — nonfamily members who served at the whim of Kozelka. No decorating expense was spared on either side of the hall. The doors were polished brass. The walls were cherry paneling. Sarouk silk rugs adorned floors of inlaid wood. The mountain views were nothing short of breathtaking, though Kozelka was thoroughly immune to them. For twenty years he’d commanded the same magnificent view, ever since his father had died and turned the desk, the office, and the thirty-billion-dollar family-owned company over to his son.

“Good morning, Mr. Kozelka,” his secretary said.

“Morning.”

She followed him into his office, taking his coat and briefcase. She had his morning schedule laid out on the desk for him, beside his coffee. Fridays were typically light, ever since his doctor had warned him about his blood pressure. He reviewed the schedule as he reclined in his leather chair.

His secretary stopped in the doorway on her way out. “One other thing, sir.”

“Yes?”

“I wasn’t sure I should even mention this, but there’s a man in the visitor’s lobby who says it is very important that he see you this morning. When I told him he would need an appointment, he said you would be expecting him. He’s been waiting two hours. I was going to call Security, but I wanted to check with you before making a scene.”

“Who is it?”

“He’s a doctor. Dr. Ryan Duffy.”

Kozelka said nothing, showed no emotion.

“Sir, what would you like me to tell him?”

“Nothing,” he said, reaching for his phone. “Just close the door on your way out, please. I’ll take care of this myself.”