But Francis was different.
He had seen how they dismantled the safeguards of the New Deal, piece by piece, after Roosevelt’s death.
He had seen how, ninety years later, they were still extracting wealth from this country.
He had seen how algorithms had dressed up society’s bare minimum for survival as an unbreakable law of modern life.
Francis took a deep breath and softened his tone.
“Ballantine, I know what you’re worried about.
But look at the state of America right now.” “The banks are closed.
Factories have shut down.
Hundreds of thousands are out of work.
People are lining up for relief, and farmers are burning corn they can’t sell.” “The men on Wall Street need the government now more than ever.
They need the government to stabilize the situation, restore confidence, and keep those angry crowds from storming their mansions.” “If we don’t make everything clear now—if we don’t spell out exactly what powers the government has—then once things settle down, once the banks reopen and people are back to work…” “They’ll say, ‘Thank you for your help.
Now please leave our boardrooms.’ And we won’t have a single word to say in response.” Silence lingered for several seconds.
Then Ballantine slowly nodded.
“I understand.
I’ll revise it.” Taking the draft in hand, he turned and walked back into the drafting room.
“Gentlemen, we need to revise the provisions regarding government representation on bank boards.
They need to be much more explicit.” Standing outside the room, Francis let out a quiet breath.
Footsteps echoed through the hall.
He turned to see Roosevelt being wheeled in.
William Woodin walked beside him, accompanied by several aides and White House officials.
Roosevelt looked especially energetic today.
There was even a hint of barely concealed satisfaction in his eyes.
Spotting Francis, he grinned proudly.
“My boy, take a look at this.” One of the aides immediately handed over a document.
Francis accepted it and began reading.
It was a preliminary polling report on last night’s Fireside Chat.
New York: Sample size of 200.
167 expressed confidence in the President, 21 said they needed more time to judge, and 12 remained undecided.
Ohio: Sample size of 150.
138 expressed confidence in the President, while 12 said they wanted to wait and see.
Illinois: Sample size of 180.
152 expressed confidence in the President…
California: Sample size of 120.
96 expressed confidence in the President…
There were pages upon pages of additional results.
But every one of them pointed to the same conclusion.
After last night’s Fireside Chat, people across the country had regained confidence in the President.
His approval had even risen.
A slow smile spread across Francis’s face.
To him, this poll was more than just a report on last night’s broadcast.
It was one of the strongest bargaining chips they could bring to the negotiating table with the Wall Street financiers later that day.
The drafting room door opened once more, and Ballantine stepped out carrying the revised bill.
“Mr.
Francis, it’s been updated.” Francis took it and skimmed through the changes.
Section 7 of Chapter 4 now read: Upon providing capital to a banking institution under this authorization, the Treasury Department shall have the right to obtain a proportional number of seats on its board of directors and to exercise oversight over the assisted institution’s executive compensation, dividend policy, and major business decisions.
The Treasury Department shall establish the detailed implementing regulations separately.
No assisted institution may refuse or evade these requirements on any grounds.
There was no “at its discretion.” No ambiguity.
Only a clear mandate.
Francis handed the bill to Roosevelt.
“Mr.
President, what do you think of this draft?” Roosevelt accepted the draft, read through it carefully, then looked up with a satisfied smile.
“Excellent.
In a little while, we’ll let those gentlemen see the new rules the new administration has prepared for them.” …
Before long, the Wall Street financial houses led by Morgan all received a notice from the White House.
They were instructed to report to the Treasury Department at three o’clock that afternoon for negotiations.
The invitation came as no surprise.
They knew the government needed Wall Street’s backing to restore confidence, and it also needed them to provide the syndicated credit necessary to ensure the banks could reopen.
Without their endorsement—or their money—Roosevelt’s promise to reopen the banks would be nothing more than an empty pledge.
Yet despite knowing the government needed them, none of them could muster any excitement.
Over the past few days, every one of them had sensed the same thing hanging in the air.
The unmistakable scent of a price that would have to be paid.
As for what that price would be, no one knew.
At 2:45 that afternoon, several black sedans approached the Treasury Building.
They were promptly stopped.
They were informed that they would have to enter through the rear entrance.
The demand instantly infuriated the Wall Street magnates led by Morgan.
Over the past several decades, they had walked through countless front doors.
The front entrance of the White House.
The front entrance of the Capitol.
The front door of Number 10 Downing Street.
The front entrance of the Élysée Palace.
But never—not once—had anyone dared tell them to use the back door.
Angry as they were, they ultimately had no choice but to comply.
Because they knew they hadn’t come today to preserve their pride.
Roosevelt had arranged it this way for two reasons.
The first was to remind this group exactly who was calling the shots now.
The second—and more important—was political insulation.
Ever since 1929, Wall Street bankers had come to be widely regarded as the men responsible for plunging the nation into the abyss.
Farmers hated them.
Workers hated them.
The unemployed hated them.
And the depositors who couldn’t withdraw their savings hated them most of all.
Roosevelt had only just used his Fireside Chat to establish himself as the people’s president.
But if photographers caught Morgan and the other financial titans arriving here, the picture would dominate the next day’s newspapers.
THE NEW DEAL PRESIDENT ARM IN ARM WITH WALL STREET PIRATES It would damage the image he had worked so hard to build.
Roosevelt needed the key held in these capitalists’ hands to reopen the nation’s banks.
But he couldn’t let the public see whose hand that key had come from.
The Treasury’s rear entrance was on Fifteenth Street.
Strictly speaking, though, it wasn’t much of a street at all—just a narrow gap squeezed between the east side of the Treasury Building and the structure next to it.
It was barely wide enough for a single car to pass through.
After getting out of their vehicles, Jack Morgan and the others were escorted to a conference room on the third floor.
Several people had already arrived.
Charles Mitchell, president of National City Bank; Albert Wiggin, president of Chase National Bank; representatives from Guaranty Trust; and executives from more than a dozen other Wall Street powerhouses.
Of course, in the presence of the Morgan, Rockefeller, DuPont, and Mellon financial dynasties, these so-called giants could only be considered second—or even third-tier players.
“Mr.
Morgan.” “Mr.
Rockefeller.” “Mr.
Mellon.” “Mr.
DuPont.” As the assembled bankers rose to greet them, the four men merely gave slight nods before taking their seats.