Criminally Innocent

I don’t think I can tell this story without first mentioning the Iron Horse Bar & Grill; after all, that’s where I was when the trouble started. Located in midtown Manhattan, it’s an unpretentious place. The food’s decent and the prices are reasonable. The thick wooden tables and chairs could use an upgrade – they’ve received more than their share of wear and tear. Someone once said the place is haunted. If that’s true, the phantom must have played baseball. The dark paneled walls of the Iron Horse are covered with baseball paraphernalia from the early 1900s, including a giant photo of Lou Gehrig swinging the bat, just above a sign proclaiming the Iron Horse goes yard. I’ve been to the Iron Horse more times than I can remember, but I’ll never forget June 30, 2003. It was a gorgeous evening and the place was packed – you nearly had to scream to be heard. The four of us were there, huddled at a table near the back. We’d brought our uniforms – suits and ties – although our jackets were off, our ties were loosened and our shirt collars unbuttoned. The smell of beer permeated the air above our table; we’d knocked over a bottle or two. We were making the most of the occasion, celebrating the 25th of our annual June 30 Iron Horse dinners. I raised my bottle to make a toast, but before starting, a cell phone buzzed. Kavi Chander stood up and crouched against the wall, holding his phone and covering both ears. After a few grunts, he smashed his fist against the wall and said, “Someone’s going to jail, but it won’t be me.” He hung up and glared at the crowd. That put a little damper on things. It was supposed to be a night to appreciate how much we had accomplished, and each of us had done well, although Kavi had done the best. He was the chief financial officer of American Dynamics Group, or ADG as they were known, one of the largest corporations in the world. He was also being groomed for the company’s top spot, yet none of the success had gone to his head; a down-to-earth kind of guy, he was as comfortable in a bar as he was in a boardroom. He was also my best friend. Kavi sat down and grabbed his beer, clutching it so tightly his knuckles turned white. He eased his grip and took a sip. In response to our stares, he provided an explanation. Debra Jennings, ADG’s assistant controller, had called from Nikolaev, Ukraine where she’d been sent to get information about delays and cost overruns for a construction project. She’d found evidence ADG may have illegally bribed Ukrainian government officials. Marc Abrams, a partner with the prestigious law firm of Bartman & Cross, fired away with questions. “Is she reporting through you or your legal counsel? Who knows about her work? Is her information reliable? Can it be controlled?” Although Marc didn’t look intimidating, his style could quickly put you on the defensive, even though he had your best interests in mind. We wouldn’t have been surprised if one of his clients slugged him. Kavi dodged the questions, and Marc deferred his inquiry for another day. A round of beers later, Kavi made light of the situation, doing an impersonation of Marc as a prosecutor cross-examining an 80-year-old grandmother. Kavi was great at things like that. We always said he’d have been a comedian had he not chosen to become a CPA. Ken Tanner, the member of our group who never met an attractive woman he didn’t like, returned his focus to a woman at the bar. She’d held his attention for a good portion of the evening, and she must have scrambled his brains, because while looking at her, he said, “Companies lose up to half their market value within weeks of making a scandal public.” He turned to Kavi. “What’d your stock hit today, $65?” I wasn’t sure how Kavi would take that, but he smiled and said, “What’s next, statistics about CFOs getting fired?” “You have to be a CFO to worry about that in the first place, so don’t complain.” Ken led the tax department at NV Industries, a multi-billion dollar company, though it wasn’t as big as ADG. If you didn’t know what he did for a living, you’d never have guessed. He stood a shade under 6 feet tall and had muscles on his muscles. He’d been a baseball prodigy during his college years, and with a little luck could have made it to the majors. Still looking like a ballplayer, he had a way of attracting women, doing what he could to encourage them even though he was happily married, or at least we thought he was. After a while, we got back to our burgers and fries, and my thoughts turned again to what we had accomplished over the years. As for me, Carl Messina, I was the only one of us who had remained with the firm. Making partner in the world’s largest accounting firm was a pretty decent accomplishment for an Italian boy from Brooklyn, but I didn’t think I measured up to the others, and it bothered me that I was the lone bachelor, despite all my efforts to join the married club. Anyway, I wasn’t thinking about women that night, and I suspect no women were thinking about me. Getting together for our annual dinners was a fabulous tradition, and we considered ourselves fortunate that it had started in 1979 at the Iron Horse. Though it could never be mistaken for a four-star restaurant, we could afford the prices with our then salaries of $13,000 per year, which at the time seemed like all the money in the world. As the years passed and our paychecks grew, we talked about switching to a better place, but tradition always won out.