Page 83 of The Suit

“Hello, Beulah.” She slowly walked over, and I learned where Santa’s peonies had come from, for she was carrying a fresh bunch in a little jar. She bent down and swapped them over, chucking away the old water as she stood back up then ran her eyes over me. “You look well, dear, though it doesn’t sound like you are.”

“I’m…” I was about to tell her I was fine, then decided what was the point? She’d clearly been standing there for a while and could see I definitely wasn’t. I ran my hand under my nose and gave another loud sniff. “No, I’m really not.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. Muscot was always good with a conundrum.” She looked down at his headstone with a warm smile.

I perked up a little, “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

I suddenly panicked. “Margaret, how long were you listening to me?”

“Long enough.” She eased herself onto the ground and glanced up at me. “Well, come on, what are you waiting for?”

I wasn’t sure, so I sat back down next to her.

“Did you know I’d worked for Muscot for thirty years?”

I frowned, shaking my head. I hadn’t known that. “No, I thought you started working for him when he became a judge.”

“No, dear. I’ve been with Muscot longer than you’ve been on this earth.”

I didn’t have any response to that, so I stayed silent because I knew I was about to get a story.

“When Muscot first started out, I was a legal secretary at the firm he joined. We were on Wall Street. There was more money than people could spend, but it was the late eighties and the US was about to enter a financial crisis. Muscot was an idealistic young associate, working on a team whose client was a national bank, and during the long days and late nights, he realized something wasn’t quite right.”

I sat up a little straighter. “What was going on?”

“He noticed discrepancies between the figures reported in the official filings for the regulators, and the investments being made for its own clients.”

“The bank was defrauding its customers?”

Her lips pursed. “Something like that.”

“So what did he do? Did he report it?”

She shook her head. “He was younger than you are now. He asked his superiors and they told him he was mistaken. I found him one night, pouring over all the documents he’d been given to check through, and he was clearly distressed because he knew he wasn’t mistaken. He knew his client was stealing. When I asked him what was wrong, he showed me everything he’d found, then told me he was quitting.”

“What?! He just quit?!” Although I had no right to be so shocked or indignant, seeing as I had fuck-all clue what to do about my situation.

“Yes. Muscot didn’t want to work anywhere that turned a blind eye to such massive corruption, so he quit. A few months later he took a teaching post at a local night school, where he stayed for a year until an assistant position came up at Harvard. We’d always stayed in touch, and he asked if I’d move up to Cambridge to work with him again, so I did.”

My mouth dropped open. “What happened to the firm?”

“It went bankrupt in the early nineties. It was investigated after several of its clients were shut down for illegal banking practices.” She reached over and patted my hand. “Muscot’s one big regret was that he never officially reported what was happening. He was young and scared it would tarnish his career, but he always wished he’d done something sooner.”

“Yeah.” My shoulders slumped, very familiar with the weight he would have carried. “Are you saying I should report FSJ?”

Chills broke out over my body, goosebumps shooting up and down my spine at the sudden influx of adrenaline that thought triggered.

“No dear, I’m merely telling you a story about Muscot,” she replied cryptically, or not so cryptically, because that was exactly what she was doing.

Report FSJ. I guessed it was an option. My only option? Maybe. Though I wasn’t sure I was prepared for the shitstorm that would spark; or that I would ever be.

I looked up as she stood, then followed her. I guessed story time was done.

She kissed my cheek. “It’s good to see you, dear. Don’t leave it so long next time.”

“Do you have to go? Let me take you for lunch.” I glanced at my watch as she frowned. That explained it, it wasn’t yet nine a.m. “Or breakfast? Coffee?”

---