“You’re wrong.
This isn’t a post-crisis analysis.” Roosevelt shook his head, his expression complicated.
William froze for a moment before hurriedly asking, “Mr.
President, then…
what is it?” “This was given to me several months ago by a young man—the very night you assured me the financial markets wouldn’t face a collapse anytime soon.” The document nearly slipped from William’s hands.
He stared at Roosevelt in disbelief.
“Mr.
President, th-this is impossible.
I refuse to believe anyone could dissect this crisis in such detail months in advance and even devise such a comprehensive response plan…
unless he were Alexander Hamilton himself!” Alexander Hamilton—the Founding Father of the United States and its first Secretary of the Treasury.
With his extraordinary intellect, he laid the foundation of the American financial system and was later hailed as the Father of American Finance.
Roosevelt ignored William’s remark and turned to his aide.
“Call Helen immediately.
Tell her to bring Francis to see me at once!” “Yes, Mr.
President.” …
At the Kennedy family’s private estate outside Boston.
Joseph sat behind a dark mahogany desk, a file pinched between his fingers as his eyes repeatedly swept across its pages.
His face was filled with confusion and puzzlement.
The file contained a detailed record of Francis’s background.
His birth date, childhood, education, and a long list of incidents highlighted in bold.
Skipping school.
Heavy drinking.
Running around with street thugs.
Living a life of nightlife and excess.
He had even been arrested several times for causing disturbances with unruly crowds.
From beginning to end, the dossier painted the picture of nothing more than a spoiled heir from a wealthy family.
How could someone like that possibly be the financial prodigy who had foreseen a nationwide financial crisis and possessed such astonishing insight?
Joseph closed his eyes as the events of that night replayed in his mind.
“The New York Federal Reserve Bank’s gold reserves have fallen by nearly fifteen percent over the past three months.
Net outflows to Europe are accelerating.
This isn’t normal trade settlement—it’s capital flight…” “Then there’s the commercial paper market.
Over the past two weeks, yields on prime commercial paper have jumped by eighty basis points, while trading volume has shrunk by forty percent.
That’s a clear sign banks are becoming increasingly unwilling to lend to one another…” Looking back now, every single prediction Francis had made had come true.
Could it be…
that someone—or some organization—had been speaking through Francis?
But that didn’t make sense either.
Even the people on Wall Street, along with his own team of financial analysts, had failed to foresee the situation becoming this disastrous.
So who possibly could have?
“This young man…
is certainly interesting.” Confusion and intrigue mingled across Joseph’s face.
…
New York.
Francis sat listening to the news on the radio.
Just then, someone knocked on the door.
He assumed it was another one of those so-called friends hoping to ride his connection to the White House.
Instead, when he opened the door, he found Helen standing there.
“Helen, come in.” Francis’s heart skipped a beat as he stepped aside with a welcoming gesture.
Helen walked into the apartment, instinctively preparing to wrinkle her nose against the usual smell of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and general disorder.
But when she looked around, she froze.
The apartment was almost unnaturally clean.
The floor gleamed.
Books were neatly arranged on the shelves.
Instead of empty liquor bottles and horse-racing newspapers scattered across the table, there were thick bound volumes of The Wall Street Journal, The Commercial and Financial Chronicle, and stacks of manuscript paper covered with notes and figures.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Francis asked from behind her.
“No, thanks.” Helen walked over to the sofa and sat down.
“I only came today to find out one thing.” “What is it?” “A few months ago, at the Hyde Park estate…
those warnings about the banking crisis.
Whose message were you delivering?” Francis paused for a moment before answering calmly.
“No one’s.
They were my own conclusions.” Helen’s eyes sharpened as she locked onto him.
“The severity of this crisis caught even the Wall Street financiers and their best analysts completely off guard.
And you, Francis—my little brother.
I’ve known you since you were five years old.
I watched you grow up.
If anyone knows what you’re capable of, it’s me.” Francis sighed helplessly and raised his right hand.
“My dear sister, I swear before God, and in the names of our father and mother, that every word of those analyses and predictions came from my own judgment.
No one was pulling the strings behind me, and I wasn’t speaking on anyone else’s behalf.” Helen frowned and remained silent for several seconds before speaking again.
“Do you know something?
Uncle Franklin called me.
He wants me to bring you to see him.” “All right.
When do we leave?” Francis’s heart skipped a beat as a surge of overwhelming joy rushed through him, but he forced it back down.
“Oh, don’t give me that, Francis.
Do you think this is some family gathering?
Besides him, the Secretary of the Treasury, the Secretary of State, and every key member of the Cabinet will be there.
They’re the sharpest minds in the entire country.
You won’t be able to bluff your way past them.” Meeting Helen’s warning gaze, Francis replied evenly, “Then let them see for themselves.” “You brought this on yourself!” Helen shot to her feet in frustration and strode toward the door.
Francis immediately grabbed his coat from the rack and followed her out.
The Lincoln Model K was already waiting downstairs, with Beach—the same driver who had picked Francis up last time—behind the wheel.
After opening the doors for the siblings, he climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and headed south.
In 1933, most people traveling from New York to Washington chose to go by train or hitch a ride with freight trucks.
It was both cheaper and more convenient.
Traveling by automobile, on the other hand, required a great deal of fuel and expensive tolls, making it a luxury only the upper class could afford.
After several hours on the road, the outline of Washington finally appeared on the horizon.
The Washington, D.C.
of 1933 was nothing like the grand, crowded capital of later generations, filled with monuments and centers of power.
It felt more like an overgrown Southern town.
A handful of stately neoclassical buildings dominated the city center, while most neighborhoods were lined with low-rise houses.
The Lincoln eventually pulled up in front of an unremarkable federal building.
Far from the White House, it was clearly the temporary headquarters chosen by Roosevelt’s team.
It offered greater secrecy and kept them clear of any last-minute interference from the Hoover administration.
Inside the building, the conference room was so thick with cigarette smoke that it was almost impossible to see through it.
The meeting had already been going on for most of the day.
Fatigue was etched across every face, yet not a single person complained.
The Hoover administration was still technically in office, bearing the government’s final legal responsibilities.
But in just a few days, all of that burden would fall squarely onto their shoulders.
They had to use what little time remained to find a workable solution.
Just then, one of Roosevelt’s aides entered the room.
“Mr.
President, Miss Helen and Mr.
Francis have arrived.” “Show them in.” —