Is It Moral for You to Do This?

Pecora picked up a document from the table, opened it, and showed it to Albert. "Mr. Albert, this is the loan application you submitted at the time. It states that the purpose of this loan was—'personal investment.'"

Albert's gaze sharpened, but he said nothing.

Pecora continued, "You used this money through three private investment companies under your name—Sherman Company, Wiggins Company, and that shell company registered in Delaware—to short Chase Bank's stock." "This so-called investment of yours was in the bank where you served as president, and you shorted your own stock. You were betting—or rather, you had already anticipated—that the stock of the company you controlled... would fall."

Albert's expression changed slightly.

Samuel immediately rose to his feet. "Mr. Pecora, allow me to remind you that no law prohibits shorting one's own company's stock, so this is not illegal."

"Mr. Samuel, I never said it was necessarily illegal. I am merely stating the facts. You need not be so nervous."

Pecora looked back at Albert. "Mr. Albert, let me ask you a simple question."

"What?"

"Did you, at the time, inform Chase Bank's board of directors that you were shorting your own bank's stock?"

Albert's lips moved, but he did not speak.

"Did you tell the investors who bought your bank's stock that their president was betting their money would be lost?"

"Did you tell the depositors who put their life savings into Chase Bank that your actions showed you had no confidence in your own bank?"

Albert pressed his lips into a thin line. His gaze left Pecora's face and settled on the surface of the glass of water on the table, as though some answer lay hidden there.

Pecora did not press him.

He merely stood there, holding that loan application, as though waiting for an answer Albert could not evade no matter how he tried.

"Speak up. Cat got your tongue?"

Someone muttered quietly from the gallery.

The person beside him shushed him, signaling for silence.

At last, Samuel took over. "Mr. Pecora, I believe my client has no obligation to answer these questions, nor any obligation to disclose his personal investments to the board, much less his private trades to investors. That is how the current law stands. What exists is reasonable."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the legislators on the dais. "As for depositors... Chase Bank's depositors put their money in the bank because they trust its ability to repay them, not because of the president's personal investments or stock accounts. Those are two entirely different matters."

Pecora watched him, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "Mr. Samuel, I did not ask about legal obligations. I asked whether Mr. Albert had told anyone. Even once? Even in private?"

Albert's fingers twitched lightly against the tabletop, but he remained silent.

"Fine. Then let me ask a different question."

Pecora set the document back on the table, braced both hands against it, and leaned forward slightly as he stared at Albert. "Do you admit that this transaction—borrowing Chase Bank's money to short Chase Bank's stock—was legal?"

Albert glanced at Samuel.

Samuel gave a slight nod.

Albert finally spoke. "The loan procedures were complete, its purpose was clearly stated, those investment companies were legally registered, and the trades were all conducted through legitimate stockbrokers. Therefore, I admit that this was entirely legal."

Albert continued, his voice growing steadier and steadier. "I have been in banking for thirty years. Over those thirty years, I have seen countless transactions, countless maneuvers, countless rules. I can tell you that in this industry, no one tells others every move they make. That is a trade secret. It is part of competition."

"So, Mr. Pecora, I did not need to disclose it to the board, the investors, or the depositors, because it was my personal matter and had nothing to do with the bank's operations."

He was finished.

A low buzz rose from the gallery.

Some people whispered among themselves, some frowned, and some shook their heads.

But even more were waiting for Pecora's next question.

"Mr. Albert, thank you for your explanation. Very well, let me ask you one final question." "Since all of this was legal, and since you believe you had no obligation to tell anyone, then do you personally believe this transaction that earned you four million dollars was moral?"

Pecora looked at him, his gaze calm yet carrying an indescribable pressure.

Albert froze for a moment, as though he had not expected the other man to ask such a question.

Samuel immediately spoke up. "Mr. Pecora, morality is not a legal matter..."

"I know."

Pecora cut him off, his gaze still fixed on Albert's face. "That is why I am asking Mr. Albert, not you."

Samuel's lips moved, but in the end, he could not say anything.

Albert looked at Pecora and remained silent for a long time.

In the gallery, everyone held their breath.

Feilan sat in the third row, watching the scene with a faintly amused expression.

Pecora's move was nothing short of brilliant.

On a legal question, Albert could block him with the two words "entirely legal."

But on a moral question, he could not.

Because morality had no statutes to cite, no precedents to rely on.

Morality had only one thing—

His own conscience.

Or rather, whether the public could see if he still possessed a conscience.

If he admitted that what he had done was immoral, then his earlier claims of legality would prove to be nothing more than legal sophistry.

If he admitted that what he had done was moral, then he would win on the legal level.

But in the eyes of the public, this man—and even those capitalists on Wall Street—would become heartless "beasts" without a shred of conscience.

Just then, Albert, who had remained silent for so long, laughed.

That smile was strange.

It was neither self-mockery nor guilt, but a lofty, almost mocking curve.

"Morality?"

Albert repeated the word, as though savoring something unfamiliar. "Mr. Pecora, have you ever traded in the stock market?"

Pecora did not answer.

"What kind of place is the stock market? It is a place where money begets money, where clever people make money off fools. A place where if someone wins, someone else must lose."

"In a place like that, only two things matter—making money or not making money. Those who make money are winners. Those who do not are losers."

Albert's voice became smooth and fluent, as though he were delivering an impromptu speech.

His gaze swept across the gallery, across those angry faces. "As for this so-called morality, I believe that is something for the vegetable market!"