Capitalists Gather

But Feilan was different.

He had seen how they dismantled the guardrails of the New Deal step by step after Roosevelt's death.

He had seen how, ninety years later, they were still feeding on this country.

He had seen how the Kill Line had been packaged by algorithms as an iron law of modern society.

Feilan took a deep breath and softened his tone. "Ballantine, I know what you're worried about, but look at the state of the United States right now."

"Banks are closed, factories have shut down, tens of thousands are unemployed, people are lining up for relief, and farmers are burning corn they can't sell."

"Those people on Wall Street need the government more than ever. They need the government to stabilize the situation, restore confidence, and keep those furious people from storming their mansions."

"If we don't make things clear now, if we don't put those powers into writing, then once the situation stabilizes, once the banks reopen, once people have jobs again..."

"By then, they'll say, 'Thank you for the government's help. Now please leave our boardrooms.' And we won't be able to say a word."

The silence lasted several seconds.

Then Ballantine slowly nodded. "I understand. I'll revise it."

Holding the draft, he turned and entered the drafting room. "Gentlemen, we need to revise the clause regarding government entry into bank boards. We need to make it more explicit."

Feilan stood outside the door and let out a quiet breath.

A burst of footsteps came from outside the hall.

Feilan turned and saw Roosevelt being wheeled in.

William Woodin followed at his side, along with several aides and White House officials.

Roosevelt looked energized today. There was even a faint, barely perceptible joy hidden between his brows. When he saw Feilan, he said smugly, "Kid, take a look at this."

The aide beside him immediately handed over a document.

Feilan accepted it and lowered his head to read.

It was a preliminary polling report on last night's Fireside Chat.

New York: 200 people surveyed; 167 said they trusted the president, 21 said they needed more time to observe, and 12 had no clear opinion.

Ohio: 150 people surveyed; 138 said they trusted the president, while 12 said they needed to observe further.

Illinois: 180 people surveyed; 152 said they trusted the president...

California: 120 people surveyed; 96 said they trusted the president...

There was even more feedback, page after page, densely packed with figures.

But without exception, after yesterday's Fireside Chat, people across the states had regained confidence in the president. His approval ratings had even risen higher.

The corners of Feilan's mouth slowly curled upward.

To him, this poll was more than just feedback on last night's speech.

It was one of their strongest bargaining chips in today's negotiations with the Wall Street financial syndicates.

The drafting room door opened again, and Ballantine emerged with the revised draft in hand. "Mr. Feilan, it's been revised."

Feilan took it and gave it a quick scan.

Chapter Four, Article Seven had become:

[The Treasury Department is hereby authorized, when injecting capital into banks, to obtain a corresponding proportion of board seats and exercise oversight over executive compensation, dividend policies, and major operational decisions of assisted institutions. Specific implementation rules shall be separately formulated by the Treasury Department. Assisted institutions may not refuse or evade this for any reason.]

There was no "at its discretion," no "as appropriate," no ambiguity.

Only necessity.

Feilan handed the bill to Roosevelt. "Mr. President, what do you think of this draft legislation?"

Roosevelt accepted the draft, examined it carefully for a few moments, then looked up with a satisfied smile. "Very good. In a moment, let those gentlemen see the new rules the new government has for them!"

Soon, the Wall Street syndicates led by Morgan all received a notice from the White House.

They were required to arrive at the Treasury Building at three o'clock that afternoon for talks.

The syndicates were not surprised by the notice.

They knew the government needed Wall Street's credit endorsement and someone to provide joint credit support in order to ensure those banks could reopen.

Without their credit endorsement and without their funding, Roosevelt's promise to "reopen the banks" would be nothing but a scrap of paper.

Yet despite the government needing them, they could not feel happy in the slightest.

Because after observing events over the past few days, everyone could smell something in the air.

It was the smell of a price that had to be paid.

As for what that price would be, no one knew yet.

At two forty-five in the afternoon, several black sedans approached the Treasury Building.

But they were quickly stopped.

They were told they could enter only through the rear entrance.

This instantly enraged the Wall Street syndicates led by Morgan.

Over the past several decades,

they had passed through countless doors: the White House's front entrance, the United States Capitol's front entrance, 10 Downing Street's front entrance, and the Élysée Palace's front entrance.

But never, never had anyone dared demand that they use the back door.

Angry as they were, they ultimately had no choice but to accept the instruction.

Because they knew they had not come here today to save face.

Of course, Roosevelt had arranged it this way for two reasons.

First, he wanted these people to remember who was calling the shots now.

Second, it created political distance, and that was the more important reason.

Since 1929, Wall Street bankers had widely been regarded as "the sinners who plunged the nation into the abyss."

Farmers hated them, workers hated them, the unemployed hated them, and depositors who had put their money in banks but could not withdraw it hated them even more.

Roosevelt had only just established the image of a "president of the people" through the Fireside Chat.

But if Morgan and the other syndicates were photographed coming here, that picture would become the next day's newspaper headline: <New Deal President Arm in Arm with Wall Street Pirates>.

That would damage his image.

Roosevelt needed the keys in these capitalists' hands to reopen the banks.

But he could not let the public see whose hands those keys came from.

The Treasury Building's rear entrance was on 15th Street.

Strictly speaking, however, it was not really a street at all, merely a narrow gap squeezed between the east side of the Treasury Building and another structure.

It was barely wide enough for a sedan to pass through.

After getting out of their cars, Jack Morgan and the others were led by staff into a conference room on the third floor.

Others had already arrived.

Charles Mitchell, president of National City Bank,

Albert Wiggin, president of Chase National Bank,

and more than a dozen other Wall Street giants, including Guaranty Trust.

Of course, before syndicates such as Morgan, Rockefeller, DuPont, and Mellon, these giants could only be considered second-rate, perhaps even third-rate.

"Mr. Morgan."

"Mr. Rockefeller."

"Mr. Mellon."

"Mr. DuPont."

Faced with the greetings of the assembled magnates, the four men merely nodded slightly before taking their seats.