“No way to justify that statement. Now, based on that line of thinking, let’s find some criminals.”
An older man walks out of the bank; he looks to be in his eighties and holds the door for a younger woman walking in.
“Nope.”
“How do you know? Because he held the door for her?”
“I don’t for sure. But he doesn’t look the type.”
“What’s the type? Everyone dressed in a hoodie? Everyone with tats? Who smells like pot? Sagging skinny jeans? Skin color? What about haircut? Can you tell by a haircut?”
“You’ve made your point.” Heat travels up my neck.
“No, I haven’t. Watch.”
And I do. For several minutes I scrutinize every person walking in and out of the bank and dismiss them.
“You don’t see one?”
“This is ridiculous. How am I supposed to know?”
“How about this one?”
A forty-something man walks out in a soiled work uniform just before he climbs into a utility truck.
“Clearly a hard worker. Looks local, and he’s probably all about providing for his family. This is wrong. I get what I said was generalizing but—”
“Where’s the criminal, Cecelia?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about this guy?” Tobias juts his chin toward a suit walking in.
“I don’t know!”
“Then keep looking.”
I search our conversation until I realize I’ve been looking at the people, not the building itself. “It’s the bank, isn’t it?”
“You think organized crime is as bad as it gets?” He says, staring up at the logo before turning to me. “Ask yourself this. Why is a twenty-year-old employee feeling threatened enough by management to bring her elderly grandma into the branch to open a second bank account she doesn’t need?”
“Because it’s her job?”
“It’s so her granddaughter can reach her eight accounts a day quota so she can keep her job. Because there were thousands just like her in small towns, who thought they were signing on to be a part of a well-known bank with a stellar reputation and only a week or so in, found out they were dancing chickens. Every day they felt pressured to open accounts. A ploy by the powers that be to drive up stock prices to an untouchable status, to fatten an overstuffed cow because Midas rich wasn’t fucking rich enough. Some resorted to opening accounts for dead people. This happened every day for years, all the while these people, these low-level employees, desperate for a paycheck, were being mentally abused to the point they committed criminal acts.”
“I bank here.”
“Then you’re contributing to the problem without being aware of it. It all trickles from the top. If you think the bad guys are the ones selling dimes on the street, that’s nothing compared to these fucking crooks. And the sad part is that some of the current customers wouldn’t blink if it were brought to their attention, because it’s someone else’s problem. Their money is covered federally, so very few give a fuck if they’re banking with a known and exposed criminal. But if enough of those customers cared, they wouldn’t be getting away with it. But they did and still are. The higher-ups should have been crucified for what they did. There was a hearing. They paid a hefty fine, one that did absolutely nothing to hurt their bottom line. The CEO stepped down after the hearing, but no jail time was served, and here they are today, still in fucking business.”
He focuses back on the bank, a clear look of disdain on his face.
“You want to find real criminals? Follow the money. Always follow the fucking money. I’m not saying none of it was earned legitimately, but I’m saying those that did earn it legitimately are grouped with those who didn’t. It truly is a small world once you connect the dots. It’s an incestuous mess. Everyone has fucked everyone at some point, and most of them stay in bed together for the same reason.”
“You’re talking about the one percent? The wealthiest.”
“That’s where it gets tricky because that trickles from the top too.”
“This really happened, and they got away with it?”