Ambiguous Clauses

In Hearst's study.

Roosevelt's speech on the radio had ended, leaving only the noisy crackle of the signal.

Yet Hearst did not even have the strength to get up and turn it off. He sat motionless in his leather chair.

The cigar beside his hand, freshly lit not long ago, had already burned down. Ash lay scattered across the floor, and he had not even noticed.

In Morgan's mansion, in Rockefeller's living room, in DuPont's office...

The same silence, the same ashen defeat.

They had listened to it all.

They had heard how Roosevelt explained the banking crisis, how he announced the bank holiday, how he reassured the panicked public, and how that line about "talking to oneself" had made the entire country laugh.

They had heard the sincerity in that voice.

And they knew that sincerity was something Hearst's newspapers could never convey.

The White House, the Diplomatic Reception Room.

Roosevelt removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

The red recording light went out. The microphone stood quietly in place, like a witness that had just fulfilled its mission.

The room fell silent for a second.

Then applause erupted.

It was not polite applause. It came from the heart.

William Woodin clapped hard, while Ballantine's eyes reddened slightly.

Louis Howe adjusted his glasses, trying to look composed, but the curve of his lips gave him away.

Stephen Early did not bother hiding it at all. He grinned broadly and gave Roosevelt a thumbs-up.

The staffers, the secretaries, everyone standing in the corners who had listened from beginning to end—they all applauded.

Feilan stood in the corner, applauding as well.

He knew the storm over public opinion had passed.

No matter how Hearst manipulated his newspapers, he could not change the fact of tonight.

Tens of millions of people had heard the president's voice with their own ears.

That voice had entered their ears, their hearts, and the conversations around their dinner tables in the days to come.

Louis walked over to Feilan and said quietly, "We still don't know what the exact response will be, but personally, I believe this direct conversation was unquestionably a success."

"Those media tycoons around Hearst are probably smashing things right now. From now on, the public won't believe so much as a punctuation mark in their so-called newspapers."

Stephen also came over and added with a smile.

Roosevelt turned his wheelchair and rolled toward them, smiling. "All my life, from campaigning for state legislator to today, I have delivered countless speeches—in New York's public squares, in Albany's legislative halls, at gatherings in countless small towns. But this one was the best I have ever felt about personally."

"I think so too, Mr. President."

Feilan voiced his agreement as well.

"Kid, you've worked hard these past few days. Now I need you to go back and get some proper sleep. Tomorrow, we'll face the real hard battle."

Feilan nodded.

He knew what that hard battle meant.

It was not a war of public opinion, not a speech, not a distant confrontation with Hearst and those media tycoons.

It meant sitting at the same table as the people who controlled half the wealth of the United States.

Placing that bill before them and telling them: Listen, these are the new rules!

That was the real hard battle.

By the time Feilan left the White House, it was already late at night.

Back at his residence, he looked through the window at the empty, quiet street outside.

He thought about tomorrow.

And about the more distant future.

This was a night destined to leave many people sleepless.

The next morning, the Treasury Department building.

When Feilan pushed open the door to the third-floor drafting room, Ballantine was already there.

He had clearly slept only a few hours again. His eyes were bloodshot and his tie hung crookedly to one side, but the document in his hands was folded neatly.

"Feilan!"

The moment he saw him enter, Ballantine hurried forward and handed him the document. "This is the draft bill we're going to present to those people on Wall Street. Take a look."

Feilan accepted the document, sat down in a chair by the window, and began reading.

Ballantine stood to one side, watching his expression.

Feilan went through it page by page.

Most of the provisions followed the framework they had previously discussed quite well. The wording was rigorous, and the logic was clear.

But when he reached Article Seven of Chapter Four, his fingers stopped.

"The Treasury Department is authorized, under certain circumstances, to consider participating in bank restructuring through the purchase of preferred shares and may, at its discretion, obtain corresponding board seats and supervisory authority..."

Feilan frowned and looked up at Ballantine. "Why is the boundary in this clause so vague?"

Ballantine's expression shifted slightly, but he quickly recovered. "Smith and I thought... this wording would be more flexible and leave room for practical implementation."

"No, Ballantine. Do you know what it means if this clause is written this way?"

Feilan's voice was calm, but Ballantine could hear the weight beneath that calm.

Ballantine opened his mouth but did not answer immediately.

Feilan rose and walked over to him, tapping that passage with his finger. "'May, at its discretion, obtain corresponding supervisory authority'—whose discretion is that?"

"And what standard defines 'corresponding'?"

"If we don't nail the language down now, do you know what those conglomerates' lawyers will do when they see it?"

He paused, and his tone became sharper. "Those people are the finest lawyers in the United States, the most cunning manipulators of the law."

"They can dig out a hundred different interpretations from the words 'at its discretion.' Today, you let them act 'at their discretion'; tomorrow, they can turn your supervisory authority into a worthless piece of paper; the day after that, they can wave a court ruling and say—'See? The government has no right to interfere in our banks' internal affairs.'"

Ballantine's face darkened.

Feilan continued, "Do you think I'm being alarmist? Let me tell you, the classic historical cases of capital's counterattacks all began with this kind of 'flexibility.' If a bill cannot nail down authority at the source, it will be pried open little by little. In the end, all that remains is a pretty empty shell."

Ballantine fell silent.

He knew Feilan was right.

But he also knew why he had softened this clause.

Because if the wording was too hard, too explicit, those conglomerates would lose face. They might turn hostile on the spot and cause the negotiations to collapse...

Feilan looked at him, a complicated emotion rising within him.

This was what people in 1933 were like.

They had not lived through the era after the New Deal. They had not witnessed how capital was fitted with reins, nor had they seen the red lines that would only later be written into law.

To them, Morgan was Morgan, and Rockefeller was Rockefeller.

Behind those names stood symbols of the nation's wealth and capital—countless factories, railroads, banks, and the livelihoods of countless people.

Reverence, in the end, was an instinct carved into their bones.