Wall Street Trembles

In the end, they settled on a name:

Ferdinand Pecora.

This lawyer had once worked nights as a clerk at a Wall Street law firm while attending law school during the day. He obtained his legal qualification in 1911, worked at the New York District Attorney's Office from 1918 to 1930, and was renowned for a conviction rate exceeding 80 percent. He became legal counsel for this hearing.

That same night, at Hearst's residence.

A black sedan stopped at the entrance.

Osato stepped out and handed a sealed envelope to the gatekeeper.

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A few minutes later, the envelope was delivered to Hearst's study.

Hearst opened it and found a document inside.

He lowered his head for a look, then his entire body seemed to freeze.

It was detailed information on Chase Bank president Albert Wiggin borrowing $8 million from his own bank in 1929, using private entities to short 42,000 shares of his own bank's stock, and netting a profit of $4 million.

He knew exactly what Feilan meant by sending him this document.

It was giving him a choice.

Tomorrow, his newspapers could continue covering some celebrity's entertainment news, gang shootouts in some district, or some politician's salacious affair.

They could pretend nothing had happened.

But if he did that, what would happen once another media outlet—such as the New York World of the Pulitzer Group—got the scoop first?

The public would say, "Look, Hearst really is Wall Street's lapdog. Such a massive scandal, and he didn't report a single word!"

His media empire would officially crumble into dust at that very moment.

Hearst stared at the document, his face twisted as he forced out a sentence through clenched teeth. "Feilan... you damned bastard!"

He slammed the document onto the desk, lit a cigar, and took a hard drag.

Smoke spread through the study.

That night, he did not sleep a wink.

The darkness outside the window gradually faded.

One cigar after another burned down to ash.

His face flickered in and out of the smoke.

Until the eastern sky turned the pale white of a fish's belly.

At last, he rose to his feet, picked up the document again, and gave it one final look.

Then he pressed the bell on his desk.

Carvalho soon appeared at the doorway.

"Tell the people downstairs to pull every front-page headline for today."

Hearst handed him the document. "Replace them with this."

Early morning, San Francisco, Market Street.

The cries of newsboys rang out through the morning fog. "Extra! Extra!"

Workers hurrying to work passed by, and no one stopped.

Hearst's newspapers?

Who would believe them?

That fellow who only knew how to twist the news—his papers were fit for nothing but propping up table legs.

But the newsboy's next shout made everyone freeze:

"Extra! Chase Bank's president on Wall Street suspected of illegal trading! Borrowed the bank's money to short his own stock! Made a staggering $4 million!"

Someone stopped walking.

Someone turned around.

The ordinary people of this era hated those Wall Street capitalists with a hatred carved into their bones.

They believed it was those damned bankers who had corrupted the nation, leaving them without work, without food, without hope.

Yet whether it had been the Hoover Administration or the newspapers, they all seemed deaf to the voices from the bottom.

They treated those capitalists as honored guests, regarding them as the saviors of the national economy.

And now—

Someone had finally exposed their scandals?

And it was someone as influential as the president of Chase Bank?

Someone hurried back, stopped the newsboy, and asked, "What did you say? Who? Chase Bank's president?"

"Albert Wiggin! It's all written in the paper!"

"Give me one."

"I want one too!"

"..."

The crowd surged forward.

Coins clinked, and the newspapers were snapped up in an instant.

Some opened them on the spot and lowered their heads to read.

Some cursed as they read. "Those damned bloodsuckers—how can their methods be this monstrous?"

After finishing it, someone looked up at the sky and muttered, "Finally... finally someone dared to write this. I hope every one of these bastards ends up in prison next!"

The same scenes were playing out across the country.

New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, Boston, Los Angeles...

The Hearst newspapers that the public had once scorned had suddenly become hot commodities.

Who knew what Hearst was thinking at that moment.

Meanwhile, New York, Chase Bank headquarters.

Albert Wiggin's office was on the top floor.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows lay Manhattan's skyline. Sunlight streamed through the glass and fell across the expensive Persian carpet.

He was in a good mood today.

Yesterday, he had just closed a deal with a major client. His secretary brought him a cup of Blue Mountain Coffee from Jamaica. He lifted it, took a light sip, and savored this rare peaceful morning.

Just then, the door was violently pushed open.

Wiggin frowned, his tone displeased. "Why are you in such a panic? What is it?"

The secretary handed him a newspaper, his hands trembling. "Mr. Albert... take a look at this."

Wiggin took the newspaper and looked down.

The front-page headline was printed in thick black letters:

[Chase Bank president Albert Wiggin suspected of insider trading! Borrowed $8 million from the bank to short his own stock, making a staggering $4 million!]

His hand froze.

The coffee cup slipped from his grasp and smashed onto the carpet, dark brown liquid splashing across his trouser leg.

He stared at those words. Especially when he saw that the newspaper came from the New York Journal, his pupils constricted and his face went from red to white, then from white to green.

"Hearst, does that damned bastard know what he's doing?!"

Several seconds later, he abruptly raised his head, his voice hoarse. "Get me Mr. Rockefeller on the phone. Immediately!"

Morgan Bank headquarters.

Jack Morgan sat in his office with the same newspaper laid out before him.

His expression was as grave as a stone.

Rockefeller's residence.

John Rockefeller Jr. tossed the newspaper onto the table, clasped his hands together, and said nothing.

The DuPont family's conference room.

Several core members sat around a long table, looking at the newspaper, every one of them frowning tightly.

The Mellon family offices.

Andrew Mellon's son looked at the newspaper, his fingers trembling slightly.

They had originally thought that with the Emergency Banking Act passed, banks reopened, and the stock market recovering, their conflict with the president should have come to an end.

After all, the country still needed them.

The financial system still needed them.

Those factories, those railroads, those businesses still needed their capital.

But now—

How many days had it been?

The spearhead was aimed at Wall Street again.

And at the first strike, it was someone on the level of Chase Bank's president.

If Albert could be exposed, who would be next?

Could it be themselves?

Could it be Morgan?

Could it be Rockefeller?

Could it be Mellon?

No one knew the answer.

But they all knew one thing.

The man in the wheelchair and the young man standing beside him did not seem inclined to let them go.