The Fire Wasn't Hot Enough

Almost everyone at the scene was stunned.

No one had expected Albert, who had been "a man of few words" just moments ago, to suddenly turn so forceful. The contrast was too great.

"When you go to the market to buy vegetables and get shortchanged, that's immoral. When the vegetables you buy are rotten, that's immoral too, because the most basic thing in any transaction is—fairness."

Albert continued, his tone taking on Wall Street's particular brand of arrogance. "But the stock market is different."

"The rules of the stock market are that some win and some lose. If the stock you bought goes up, someone must have sold too early and lost money. If the stock you shorted goes down, someone must still be holding on inside, waiting for it to rise again."

"What is that called? That's called the market. That's called the rules. And that's also called... reality."

"Bullshit!"

"What bullshit reality!"

"Fuck you, you damned capitalist! How dare you say something like that?!"

The instant his words fell, the gallery erupted like a pot boiling over.

Curses surged in like a tide, fiercer and angrier than at the start.

Someone stood up and waved a fist. "You borrowed money from the bank to short your own bank, nearly making us unable to withdraw our deposits, and you call that rules?!"

Another person shouted, "When you made those four million through insider trading, did you ever think about the money us investors lost?"

Others were crying. "My father jumped off a building in 1929 because he trusted scum like you!"

Albert not only failed to shrink back in the face of the abuse; his bearing grew even more arrogant.

That expression seemed to be telling them: You had it coming.

Samuel leaned over and whispered something. Albert shook his head slightly.

Only after the uproar gradually died down did Pecora speak again. "Mr. Albert, you just said that in the stock market, there is only profit and no profit—no morality."

"That's right. I believe Henry Ford had a very correct view: this world is a Social Darwinist society. Survival of the fittest is perfectly normal. No one should be blamed for it."

"Then let me ask you—"

Pecora picked up another document from the table, opened it, and showed it to Albert. "October 24, 1929. Black Thursday. That morning, Chase Bank's stock price fell from eighty-five dollars to thirty-one dollars. Do you know how many people jumped off buildings that day?"

"That has nothing to do with me."

"I don't know the exact number, but I do know that New York's morgues received nineteen bodies that day. Three of them jumped from the same building."

He set down the document and looked at Albert. "Could even one cent of those four million in profit have belonged to them? If you hadn't made those four million, might many of them not have had to die?"

Albert did not answer this time.

Pecora continued, "You borrowed money from the bank and shorted your own bank's stock. You were betting the bank would fall. If it fell, you made money. If it fell, those who had deposited their life savings in Chase Bank lost money."

"You say this is the rules, the market, reality, Social Darwinism—but swear before God, does this truly sit right with your conscience?"

The arrogant expression on Albert's face finally vanished.

The gallery was so quiet that breathing could be heard.

Everyone was waiting for his answer.

Albert was silent for a long time before saying, "I did nothing wrong. I obeyed the law. I obeyed the rules. I wronged no one. That is the fact."

The gallery erupted in curses once more.

Pecora did not press him further. He turned and walked back to his seat.

At the dais, Stigler lightly tapped his gavel. "That will be all for today. The Committee will continue its in-depth investigation. Mr. Albert, you must be ready to answer a summons at any time."

The hearing room broke into clamor again.

Albert stood up and gave a slight bow. If one looked carefully, one would have noticed that the moment he turned around, a relieved smile appeared on his face.

Yes, he could now be certain that the Committee had no substantive evidence of any illegal conduct on his part.

That was why they could only use conscience and morality to stir the public into condemning him.

But Wall Street capitalists had been cursed for more than a day or two. Did they really care about a little more abuse?

Besides, the Emergency Banking Act had already passed. No matter how angry the public became, they surely would not storm Wall Street directly to burn, kill, and loot.

As long as they could not convict him, then for people like them, wouldn't it still be music on and dancing on?

Feilan watched Albert leave, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly.

Albert thought he was safe.

He had used the word "legal" to block every accusation.

He had used the phrase "market rules" to brush aside every moral question.

But he had forgotten one thing—

The people in the gallery—those angry citizens, those weeping citizens, those citizens with clenched fists—could not understand "legal" or "rules."

They knew only one thing:

In 1929, this man had used their money to bet that they would lose.

And he had won.

When the firewood was not burning fiercely enough, the kettle would only boil. But when the firewood burned fiercely, the lid would be blown off.

Now, they only needed to keep adding firewood.

Once the flames burned hot enough, Wall Street's kettle lid would be blown off as well!

Feilan stood and said softly to Louis, "Come on. Let's go have a talk with the Committee."

Louis nodded and followed him through the crowded gallery, exiting the hearing room through a side door.

They turned right down the corridor, passed through a fire door, and arrived before an oak door.

A brass plaque hung on it: Banking and Currency Committee Work Area.

Just then, a uniformed staff member stepped out from the side and raised a hand to stop them. "Sorry, gentlemen, this is the Committee's work area. No unauthorized entry."

Louis Howe stepped forward. "Go tell Senator Stigler that Louis Howe would like to speak with him."

The staff member froze for a moment, then looked the middle-aged man before him over again.

One of Roosevelt's most trusted advisers, a man who could walk into the Oval Office whenever he wished.

Anyone who operated in Washington could not possibly be unfamiliar with that name.

"Please wait a moment, sir."

He turned and pushed the door open. A few minutes later, he came back out. "Mr. Louis, please follow me."

The two followed him into the office area and arrived before a half-open door.

The staff member knocked, then pushed open the door and stepped aside.

The two walked inside.

Everyone's eyes turned toward them.

Stigler's gaze first fell on Louis Howe. They were old acquaintances; there was no need to look twice.

Then his gaze shifted to the young man beside Louis. "Mr. Feilan, do you have any thoughts on the hearing?"