The first thing JW noticed when he walked into the Hiawatha room was how different it was from what he had expected. Its low-rise tiers of seating resembled an upscale college lecture hall more than a hotel conference room. And it was surprisingly full. The air was rich with the colognes and perfumes of suited bankers. They moved up the floral-swirled tiers like a herd of mountain sheep. Clumps of them murmured in side eddies, and others sat to open laptops or check cell phones. A pretty brown-haired woman in the front row smiled encouragingly at him. He thought he might remember her from the Bemidji branch.
The setting was actually quite good, he decided, as he navigated between the long front table and the whiteboard. He was here to teach, after all, though his subject was a little different than the usual product introductions and regulatory claptrap people dozed through at these conferences: crashing on donut frosting and waiting for the next coffee break, then cordial and chummy at the lunch buffets before finally coming alive with free-flowing alcohol and the grind music of the last decade in the evenings. Unlike their more-buttoned-up CPA brethren, bankers tended to be party animals—not like the crazy excesses of the investment community, of course; no cocaine-tinged threesomes, no strippers—but edgy enough to be shocking to their customers nonetheless, were they to see them in the evenings at one of these conferences.
In many ways, JW’s presentation appealed to this racier side of banking, because it dealt with danger, and not danger in the traditional sense, but existential danger, and its dramatic companion—opportunity. Instead of delivering the usual boring drone on the security features of the new hundred-dollar bill, he was here to talk about crime—specifically, redlining, and how to avoid being accused of it while still maximizing returns.
The room was packed and abuzz with an expectant air. Bankers stole glances at him and then went back to their huddled conversations, their leaned-in, best-new-friends-since-last-night joke-telling, their texts and e-mails about how boring it all was to their honeys back home.
He found a limp dongle of black cords emerging from a hole in the center of the table. He opened his briefcase and pulled out his laptop, unspooled and connected its cables. At forty, he was still in decent shape. He still had his hair, and it was still brown. He wore it swept back and a little to the side, though a few boyish sprigs always seemed to flop over the left edge of his forehead. He had a slight scar above his right eyebrow: a reminder of his teenage years training horses. It gave him a rugged air of adventure that contrasted nicely with his well-tailored banker’s suit and his crisp white shirt. An air of mystery, his wife Carol called it, which was appropriate for talking about crime and its avoidance, something she found sexy. He was quite presentable, all things considered, and to the extent that being a leader creates charisma, he had a special magic about him when he was on the circuit doing presentations. He stuck a USB clicker into the slot on his laptop, touched the room control screen to light the hotel projector, and brought up his presentation:
Presented by John White
North Lake Bank, North Lake, Minnesota
Midwest Community Banking Conference
Dakota Grand Hotel, Minneapolis
He glanced at the clock. It was still a minute early, and more bankers were shuffling in. He had forty minutes. He pulled out his cell phone and checked his e-mail, but his inbox held nothing new apart from the usual junk mail for online gaming sites and reduced-rate mortgages. He set the phone down and cast his blue-gray eyes—Finnish eyes, his mother had called them—out over the audience, waiting patiently and silently as the stragglers found the few remaining seats. It was a full house.
He noted the bankers’ suits from last season. Their briefcases’ pale worn edges. Their creased shoes. How some of the women—late thirties (mojito-drinking karaoke singers, no doubt)—unexpectedly carried needlepoint handbags against their polyester skirts, done in Norwegian or German designs. They were mostly small-town bankers, these clues told him. Rotarians. Lions. Deacons. Community leaders. He saw Charlie Weston from New Ulm, and Bill Heimlich from Redwood Falls, and Ann Wilson from Detroit Lakes, all presidents of small-town community banks. He had once capsized a fishing boat on Rainy Lake with Ken Iverson and his boss, Frank Jorgenson. The three of them were drunk silly on vodka gimlets, and laughed as they found their footing in chest-deep water next to the dock. But those days were long past. He waited until the last of the bankers settled into their seats before he began to speak.
“When I first started in community banking, the only reason for people to visit an Indian reservation was to buy moccasins and blankets. Now, people flock to their casinos in droves, and they make money hand over fist. The playing field has changed, and we community bankers need to up our game. I know many of you have banks in communities near Indian reservations, so today I will show you some tools to help you up that game, while avoiding some of the most common legal pitfalls. But I’m also going to warn you: things are not always as they seem.”
Over the years, JW had honed the drama of this opening with the air of a magician. When he did it well, it grabbed his audience’s attention from the first sentence. He sometimes felt he should have been a teacher, or perhaps a stage actor. He enjoyed playing an audience: reading them and molding the shape and rise of their emotions—these things came to him naturally, as if he were conducting a symphony. He walked along the whiteboard, stepping in and out of the Powerpoint with the confidence of a showman, one hand in his pocket as he changed it to a new slide:
MANAGING RISK ON A RESERVATION
He turned up the front lights enough to bathe himself in a milky wash, highlighting the whiteness of his shirt, his close shave, his shining eyes. The sun was brilliant outside, and it seeped in through the dark vertical blinds. With the audience in shadow, he felt as if he were a thespian under stage lights.
“So who can tell me the biggest risk banks have when lending to Native Americans on a reservation?” As he waited for an answer he took a Styrofoam cup from a stack and poured coffee. Audiences always took their time with this one, which was an important part of his build. For all their raucous private partying, bankers were terrified of the discussion he was proposing, because it was public. They were happy to talk about race—guardedly, with known entities, and in small groups—but they didn’t know how to deal with it in a public forum. He tipped in some creamer and stirred, the black of his coffee going tan. He sipped and watched them adjust to the unnerving idea of discussing it in the open.
One of the bankers in the second row finally shifted and looked around with a sort of cocksure grin. He had reddish tanned skin, gold chains, spiky hair, and a party-ready attitude. He reminded JW of a former high-school football star who had faded to pudge. His demeanor seemed to say “what the hell”: a monkey who found the cage door standing open and decided to plunge through.
“They’re deadbeats?” he volunteered. He grinned and bobbed his head as he looked around for supporters. JW imagined him leading a conga line later, Hawaiian shirt open, his drink raised like a baton. A few of the bankers chuckled noncommittally as they glanced at JW to see how far he would let them go. This was code, a way of asking whether this sort of good-old-boy racism would be tolerated. The woman in the front row shot him an angry glare for even letting it get this far, then rolled her eyes and shook her head to signal her displeasure at the inappropriate remark.
He set his coffee down. It always amazed him how this one question touched things off. Race was still a powder keg, and its frank discussion divided audiences with powerful, emotional reactions, which is of course why he used it. He had once read, when researching for a discussion with his daughter, Julie, who loved science, that much like humans, primates ostracize one another and commit violence and murder, particularly against other tribes. Exploring that impulse was his intent: to stir up these primal feelings and to present people with their own racism (for they all had it), and then to dig deeper and get past it. People didn’t know how to talk about race; there was no safe territory. It was buried under political correctness, as untouchable as a dead pharaoh, its brains pulled out and its body wrapped in cloth and then gold and then stone. Buried away. Long gone and desiccated under a pyramid of laws and regulations and social mores, brick by brick, that now generally forbade its discussion. But it lived still, underground, in small-group conversations, and even more openly now in Tea Party politics. Truth be told, many laws and regulations did go too far, and they created resentments, he thought, because they gave unfair advantages that could sometimes be dangerous to businesses, and to banks in particular. That’s why they were all here today. To work through all that. To separate race from business. To get their heads straight and to clarify intent, a word that contained a universe. He gestured toward the man and began to unwind the mummy.
“That,” he told the audience, “is exactly the kind of thinking they use to outsmart us.”
No one moved. The air conditioning came on, and the window blinds began to shift and clatter, letting in streaks of light that shot over him, then faded like an old movie. “We can no longer afford to underestimate these people,” he said. “They’re making way too much money. Let me give you an example.” He walked around to the front of the table. “I had this customer, a builder, who said to the Potawatomi band in Wisconsin, a hundred and fifty miles away, he said, ‘I will build you a bingo hall, for free. You don’t have to pay me a red cent. You just pay me out of cash flow when you get it up and running. I will finance it for ten percent annually on the outstanding balance and give you a ten-year loan. I will take all the risk. All of it.’ Well, we lent him the money to do it, and we lent it to him at eight percent. Going rate for commercial loans was six. So everybody’s set up to make good money. Right?” He surveyed the room. “Potawatomi win, builder wins, bank wins.”
He studied them, a hand in his pocket, and went on to describe how hard the builder had to fight to get the permit because the local community was up in arms over the idea of Indians and gambling. There were political battles at the planning commission over a variance they needed for a new access road. The builder went through real heartache—expensive delays, his windshield damaged, his tires slashed—but the resort owners came to the rescue after JW visited the town. He simply made the point that the band wasn’t building a hotel, just a bingo hall, and people would need places to stay.
JW pushed off the desk and watched his audience’s reaction. “So a year later, he finally got it built. Band had a grand opening, and you know how long it took them to pay it off? Three months. Three months to pay off the entire construction loan. Potawatomi won on that one. Now they got a hundred-and-forty room hotel.”
He stood silently, watching them. Sipped his coffee. “Do they sound like deadbeats?” He paused and looked at the pudgy playboy, who shrugged. “Please avoid all the old chestnuts about race. I’m not interested in grinding whatever prejudices or opinions people may have about Native Americans, however valid or invalid they may be. This is about business. I’m strictly looking at banking risk, specific to lending to Native Americans living on a reservation.”
He walked back to his laptop, where he underlined the words risk and on a reservation with his forefinger. Two yellow streaks arched across the projected slide behind him. He waited, but no one else seemed ready to engage.
“The risk,” he said, “is the reservation itself. Let me give you another example.” He began walking, and then he looked up at his audience. “About a year ago, a fellow walked into my bank in North Lake, a Native fellow, Ojibwe, named Johnny Eagle. Tall, thin guy, good shape. Clean, well put together. Italian shoes, thousand-dollar suit. Turns out he’d been in there before to see my loan officer, Sam Schmeaker. Sam had turned him down for a loan, so he asked to see me. Ordinarily I don’t second-guess my loan officers’ decisions, you know how that goes, but he was Native. So it’s a riskier situation. Right? You know this.”
Several bankers nodded and some shifted. Many of them managed banks near Indian reservations, and they knew the risks he was describing. EEOC risk. Compliance risk. The story was beginning to work its magic.
“Receptionist showed him in, we shook hands, he sat down, and right off the bat, as I open the file, he says, ‘It’s a creditworthy application.’ So I knew he had some sort of banking knowledge, right? I found his credit report, high seven hundreds. He had good credit. This was starting to look like a problem for us. Then he told me, ‘I happen to know that my band has several million dollars on deposit with your bank, and yet you barely make any loans to us. Why is that?’ He was watching me closely, and suddenly I felt like I was in a chess game. This was getting dangerous from a regulatory point of view, I thought, and this guy could be setting me up, so I had to be careful. He might be accusing me of a crime.”
“I looked him straight in the eye and I told him we love to make loans to his band. Love them. That’s how a bank makes money, I said, is on the spread between loan interest and deposit interest. He held up a hand and sat back in his chair. He told me I didn’t need to educate him about banking. He was talking about loans to his people, he said, not the band.”
JW walked back along the front of the table. He leaned back against the desk.
“He said to me, ‘Look, Mr. White, I’ll give it to you straight. Have you ever heard of an Indian car competition?’ And so I’ll ask you now. Have you?” JW paused and watched the audience, the sudden silence a sound all its own. No one raised a hand. “Come on, you people bank in Indian country!” He looked at the woman in front. “You?” She shook her head and looked down.
He launched off the soapstone counter and walked back around the desk, clicking the slide advancer. “I hadn’t either,” he said. Towering over him was a slide of a jalopy cobbled together from different cars of different sizes, makes, and colors. Its front fender was blue, a door was red, and the hood green. A supercharger emerged through a hole in the hood, its air scoop made out of an old tuba. It had a spoked wheel in front and a truck wheel in back, and a rear spoiler made out of two-by-sixes. An Indian in glasses was grinning from the driver’s seat and waving a trophy out the window. The overall effect was comical, and some of the audience laughed. Others sat back in their chairs, two fingers on their cheeks or their arms folded, unsure what was permitted or expected of them. Fifteen minutes in and he had them.
“This is the winner of an Indian car competition.” He said this with a straight face, but his wry tone carried an expectation of mirth, and more people laughed. Even the woman in front was smiling up at the grin on the Native American’s face. “Johnny Eagle told me they have them at powwows and on some of the reservations,” he said. “An Indian car is a car that’s been pieced together from the parts of other junked cars, and sometimes other stuff. They have competitions to see who can have the craziest, silliest-looking one that still runs. This guy obviously has a creative flair.” The audience laughed again.
“So Eagle described some of them, smiling the whole time, but as soon as I laughed like you are he slapped his hand on my desk!” JW slapped his hand on the table loudly. Half of the audience jumped. He was scowling, feigning anger.
“‘You don’t have the right to laugh,’ he told me, even though they’re supposed to be funny. Imagine that. Here he had coaxed me into laughing at something even he thought was funny, then he criticized me for laughing at it because I’m white.” He looked at them. “That’s racist. Yet science tells us that there’s no appreciable difference between the races, that the concept of race is a social construct.” He looked at the woman in front again, pointed to her. “You laughed. Why do you think he wouldn’t like that?”
She blanched. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Do you think you were being racist?”
“No.”
He nodded. “You weren’t. You were the victim of a setup, comedic or otherwise. He said that Indians do it to make light of a bad situation: They can’t get loans because they have no credit, and they have no credit because they can’t get loans, and that’s wrong, wouldn’t I agree? ‘A bank that did that,’ he said, ‘that took Indian deposits and still refused to lend, should be put out of business,’ would I not agree.”
JW pointed an accusing finger at his audience, still in character. Then he calmed. The air conditioning turned off and the window blinds fell back. It was the halfway point, where the arguments turned and began to get complicated and dangerous. He walked again, and his Nordic bearing returned as their eyes followed him.
“So you can see the danger,” he said. “The man wasn’t there to plead his case, he was there to plead his people’s case. He was on the verge of accusing me, my colleague Sam Schmeaker, and the whole bank, of racism and redlining—in short, of a crime. All because Schmeaker had rejected his loan app and I had laughed at a situation that he had portrayed as amusing. So now the customer isn’t the customer anymore, is he? He’s become the enemy. Let’s be honest, we’ve all seen this.” JW continued walking, and he began to gesture with each new example. “There’s the woman, no offense to the women in the room, who left the bank claiming sexual harassment that nobody else had seen, and demanded six figures or she would sue. Or the minority employee who, when fired for a documented cause, filed an EEOC complaint, claiming discrimination, and demanded a six-figure settlement. The Muslim who sued because there was no special room set aside to pray five times a day at work. The custodian who faked a back injury and claimed permanent disability, then was seen out golfing. Right? You don’t make it in business without spotting the predators who turn laws that are designed to level the playing field into tools of extortion. Because if you’re not careful, they’re going to get you. And if they do, it’s going to drive up prices for your customers, if it doesn’t put you out of business.”
“The same kind of thing can happen in a lending situation. Federal laws designed to ensure equal opportunity can be abused by predators to put a bank at a legal disadvantage and to extort money. So in banking, if you’re smart, what do you do? You have to use the law preemptively in order to keep the advantage and keep the playing field level so those bad actors can’t get a foothold to build a case.”
The bankers in the seminar room were riveted. JW’s stories conjured up so many aspects of race, law, and economics that seemed fraught with peril—both personal and professional. This was his intent. For a student to learn, you first had to elevate their level of concern, he believed, and then you had to create cognitive dissonance. He did this by playing with their fears and prejudices, and setting them against their hopes.
As he moved back to the center he saw his boss, Frank Jorgenson, sneaking up the steps at the side of the room. Jorgenson was a co-sponsor of the conference this year. After a decade at North Lake, he had gone on to manage the bank chain’s entire Greater Minnesota operations, and now people considered him CEO material. Several of the bankers sat up as he climbed the tiers. At fifty-five he had a round face and extremely close-cropped hair. He carried himself with the swaggering, faux-jolly demeanor of a cop, with a big white smile and a toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth. He had cautious eyes that were constantly sizing people up. He leaned against the wall, his growing belly emerging from his suit coat like a sack of oats. He waved JW on.
“Okay. So a Native customer with decent credit asks why we don’t lend more to his people. Almost a threat, but not quite. So the situation is delicate, to say the least.” He watched them think it over. “One false move and you could wind up in a lawsuit. The most important thing for you to do at that moment is what?”
He scanned for hands and took another sip of coffee. It had the faint flavor of burnt plastic, so he set it down. He checked his watch. He had ten minutes left. A balding banker near the window raised a hand.
“Yessir,” said JW.
“I think your hands are tied.”
“Why?”
“Well, we run from that stuff. Federal law prohibits redlining—”
“And the Community Reinvestment Act requires banks to apply the same lending criteria in all communities,” said another banker in the center. He had a self-important moustache and blow-dried hair.
“If they escalate it to the branch president,” said the first man, “and they can show income and collateral, you gotta approve or you expose the bank to a lawsuit.”
JW nodded and waited for any further objections. This was the point where he would pivot the talk. He glanced up at Jorgenson and saw a twinkle in his eye.
“One word,” he said. He advanced the slide to show a handshake between a white hand and a Native American one.
“Empathy.”
He looked at them, then launched back into his story. “The surest defense against this sort of predator is a hand reached out in friendship. This makes clear that you are not doing what he is accusing you of. And it protects you in court later on.”
He ran through a series of slides illustrating the bank’s outreach to the Native community. “We donate to the Indian college fund. We sponsor the Native Night Out against crime on the reservation. We’re a sponsor of the reservation high school sports teams. We try to be a good neighbor in the community. That kind of outreach, that empathy, was doubly important in this guy’s case. He had been a banker himself, right here in Minneapolis, before moving back to the reservation. In fact, he probably had more CE credits than most people in this room. And make no mistake, a legally sophisticated opponent is by far the most dangerous. So. Preemptive community outreach. But there was still a question. Why would he accuse us of redlining if he was just trying to get a personal loan? The man must have successfully navigated the line between race and business for years in Minneapolis. He had to know that barking at me like that would set off red flags. So what do you think? Was he trying to entrap us?”
JW paused and scanned the room while they thought. “When you don’t know the answer to a question like that,” he said, “and most times you don’t, there is still one good defense. More empathy. ‘I really empathize with members of your band,’ I told him. ‘How frustrating it must be, dealing with people like Sam Schmeaker, and what can seem like a double standard.’ He was disarmed. His whole posture changed. ‘Redlining is illegal,’ I told him, ‘and worse, it’s wrong. I’m sorry if Sam offended you. For what it’s worth,’ I said, ‘I do know that was definitely not his intent.’ Those last four words are critical under Regulation B of the Equal Credit Opportunity Act. Repeat after me: ‘definitely not our intent.’”
He conducted the audience in the recitation. “Good.”
The slide changed to one showing the phrase. JW looked around the room at his audience. The balding banker by the window was confused.
“So you approved the loan?”
JW shook his head. “No. This is where the risk of the reservation we discussed earlier comes into play. It has nothing to do with him, or with race, okay, so forget all that. What matters is Regulation B, which says, and I quote, ‘The act and regulation may prohibit a creditor practice that is discriminatory in effect because it has a disproportionately negative impact on a prohibited basis, even though the creditor has no intent to discriminate and the practice appears neutral on its face, unless the creditor practice meets a legitimate business need that cannot reasonably be achieved as well by means that are less disparate in their impact.’ Okay? It’s the ‘legitimate business need’ we are talking about. I’m not trying to discriminate, and I’m not racist. In fact, I help the Native community. I do outreach; I give them money. But my job is to protect my bank’s assets. I have a legitimate business need to do that, or I can’t continue banking. I can’t assume someone can’t pay, but I can point to the legal problems inherent in lending on an Indian reservation. So I told him, ‘Your reservation is a domestically dependent sovereign nation, and as such it does not have to recognize certain federal laws with regard to foreclosures.’ He immediately objected—”
JW shot up a strident finger, assuming Eagle’s role again.
“But I cut him off. ‘Of course I want to help you! We’re in the business of making loans, right? Be silly not to. And frankly, we’d be absolutely crazy not to want to do business with a customer with your credit history. But,’ I said. ‘I need you to help me.’ ‘How can I do that?’ he asked. And I said, ‘Very simple. Very easy—’”
JW held his hands open as he reenacted the encounter. His eyes shone. “As a condition of the loan, you sign a waiver that prohibits you and your band from using their sovereign status as a shield to avoid legal disputes filed in United States courts. If you default, we have a right to acquire a portion of tribal land. Can I have Sam prepare that for us?”
JW strolled across the seminar room as they contemplated the legal maneuver he had just described.
Jorgenson watched from his place against the wall. JW knew that this is what Jorgenson had invited him to the conference to do. He had told JW he would make sure that every president and vice president from every Capitol Bank Holdings branch in Greater Minnesota was in this room. Jorgenson couldn’t say these things himself, not in his position, but he wanted JW’s methods to become wider practice as the chain expanded its holdings in communities near casinos. Reducing the downside was absolutely essential to his expansion plan. And improving the performance of the Greater Minnesota banks overall was the key to his campaign to be named CEO when the Old Man retired. It stood to reason that such a development would also be very good for his old protégé, JW.
“Typically,” JW went on, “the Native customer will reject this condition for legal or, more often, emotional reasons. As you can understand. These structural legal conflicts are a sad part of our country’s legacy, something none of us should be satisfied with. We have simply got to do better. But tribes are domestically dependent sovereign nations. They own reservation land collectively, not as individuals, and as bankers it’s neither your fault that it is this way nor your responsibility to fix it. You can’t change the legal system or the very unfortunate history of the United States when it comes to the treatment of Native Americans. You are required to work within it, and you have a legitimate business need to protect your customers’ assets to the best of your ability. Now, I’ll look for an answer from a brave soul.” JW faced the audience, his hands in his pockets.
“Is this redlining? Is it a crime?”
His shirt was a brilliant white, his tie a lavender slash. He was almost done, and on time. Just a few minutes left for them to understand, his lessons slipping into their thinking, their mental scales tilting. Finally the balding banker replied in a voice that was barely audible.
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
His look admitted the truth of this, but nevertheless he seemed defeated by it. JW saw Jorgenson make a note in his cell phone as he watched the man’s reticence. Jorgenson viewed anyone who wasn’t adamantly in support as a bitter enemy, and someone to purge. It was his one major weakness.
JW gave a slow, gentle nod.
“No. The gentleman is right. He is absolutely correct. This is not redlining. This is business. You have left the choice up to the customer. Remember, this is the free market. You are using an inherent conflict in federal law to protect your assets, which you are obligated to do as a fiduciary. And, incidentally, any choice the customer makes, you win. You can protect your bank, which is your depositors’ funds, your community’s funds, and you can make money. You have reduced your exposure to risk, and hung onto your casino deposits.”
The room was silent. A tone sounded and a female announcer’s voice came on over the room’s speakers.
“This concludes our afternoon breakout sessions,” she said. “Please join us for a wine and cheese reception in the Pocahontas Room.”
For a moment, the bankers remained in their chairs, mulling ethics, profits, and legality. It was, as JW had said, a new era. The buzzword at the conference was aggregation, which meant cobbling many small victories together into larger portfolio gains. It’s what the big boys were doing, and it required intelligence and agility at the margins—the very qualities JW was talking about. The law was no longer a simple set of boundaries to the playing field; it was sports equipment to be used in the game. Community bankers needed to get more aggressive or they were going to get eaten for lunch. They had to remember their role. They weren’t legislators or social workers. They weren’t there to right the greater wrongs of society. They were bankers. And as the plenary speaker had said in the morning keynote, “If you’re not at the table, you’re on the menu.”
Jorgenson shifted off the wall. He drew his hands from his pockets and started to clap. The bankers glanced over at him and then joined in. He walked down the steps along the wall as the applause continued. The bankers gathered up their briefcases and swag bags and began to mill out.
“John White,” he said, stepping up to the table, “you are a strategic genius.”
JW smiled wryly and coiled his power cord. “I guess that’s why you made me branch president.”
Jorgenson laughed. “Guilty as charged. You got time for a Grain Belt?”
JW looked at the clock and winced. “I told Carol I’d be home for dinner. It’s a four-hour drive. Can I take a rain check?”
He saw a cloud pass briefly across Jorgenson’s face, then it was gone. Jorgenson smiled and nodded. “Yeah, sure. How is that beauty queen?”
“Oh, you know Carol. Always into something.”
The two of them walked out onto the mezzanine, where conference-goers were congregating in small groups or speaking with industry reps at display tables along the walls. Like royals, they strolled toward the glass balcony and rode the escalator to the vast atrium below.
They shook hands at the bottom, and then JW pushed his way out into the afternoon sun. It was bright and hot, and as he turned he could still see Jorgenson, a ghost beyond the glare of the plate glass, standing there watching, with a hand in his pocket. For an instant, his expression seemed almost malevolent, but then the glare shifted and Jorgenson smiled and waved. JW waved back and stepped across Nicollet Mall, heading toward his parking ramp.