Final Option

counsel for Couriers International. This was, I decided while I waited for the other attorney to review the release, just the kind of time-wasting problem that I didn’t need if I was going to come up with some sort of reasonable plan for dealing with the CFTC.
    Finally, almost two hours later, the forms were signed, and the documents changed hands. There was one large manila envelope with no return address. By that time, I was hopelessly late for the meeting I’d scheduled with two senior security partners, so I slipped it into my briefcase to pass along to Barton Jr.
     
    When I got back to the office Cheryl was holding the phone up for me to grab. It’s Barton Jr., she whispered.
    “Well?” I demanded, taking the phone. “Is it a boy?”
    “It is a boy,” he replied. “But it’s also a girl!”
    “What?”
    “It’s twins!” exclaimed the happy father. “No wonder Jane was so huge and miserable. Jane delivered the boy first. We were all admiring him, and Jane kept on having these big contractions. The girl was delivered a minute and a half later.”
    “Four kids,” I marveled. “A boy and a girl. Congratulations. How’s Jane?”
    “She’s amazing. She says hi and... what’s that?” There was a pause. “She says to tell you that miracles happen every day.”
     
    I ran out of my office to the forty-third-floor conference room where I had arranged a meeting with two of Callahan’s senior securities partners, both of whom had a great deal of experience in dealing with the CFTC. I hoped that among us we’d be able to come up with some acceptable strategy for dealing with Hexter Commodities’ regulatory predicament. Once I’d laid the whole thorny mess out for them, we all agreed that the best plan would be for the company to concede to the allegations in the Wells Notice. With luck I’d be able to convince the Commissioners that all the malfeasance occurred on Hexter’s part personally, and then I’d push Herman Geiss to propose a settlement that was not too punitive. The trouble was, I wasn’t feeling particularly lucky.
    By the time we finished, Cheryl had already left for the day—on Mondays and Wednesdays she had her civil procedure course—but the receptionist had sent a clerk to drop off my messages. There, at the top of the pile, was a note from Carl Savage that read: “I have some documents you might be interested in re: Deodar. Meet me four-thirty on the seventh floor of the Merc.”
    I looked at my watch. It was already four-forty-five. I grabbed my briefcase and headed for the door. By the time I hit the reception room I realized I’d left my bag in the closet in my office, and I had to beg Lillian, the receptionist, for cab fare. Outside, a light rain was falling. The streets glistened, traffic snarled, and umbrellas popped up like wildflowers as the first wave of commuters hit the sidewalks heading for the train.
    Together the CBOT and the Merc form the one-two punch that is the power behind the futures industry. While the two exchanges are careful to present a united front, in reality the two organizations are as different as the two buildings that house them. The Board of Trade Building is an art deco masterpiece, a monument to capitalism and the old-boys’ club of the futures industry. The Merc is the brash newcomer and its buildings— twin towers of sleek rose granite—are home to a market that is younger, louder, flashier, and more aggressive.
    I entered the building battling the weary tide of humanity flowing out after the day’s trading. Inside the elevator I pushed seven. When I got off at my floor I was surprised to step out into darkness. I stood, blinking in the faint glow of the exit sign, until I realized where I was.
    The Merc had been built with expansion in mind, and one floor above the bustle of the pits sat another, still vacant, trading floor, awaiting the opening of trade in four additional contracts later in the year. There must be offices on the north side of the building, I reasoned. I’d obviously used the wrong bank of elevators. As if I wasn’t late enough already.
    The new trading floor was as big as two football fields and took up the vertical equivalent of three regular floors in order to be able to eventually accommodate the tiered risers of the pits. It was eerie to find a space that big and that empty in the middle of one of the busiest business districts in the world.
    When he touched my arm, I jumped. Spinning around I expected to