John D. Rockefeller Jr. came out of his sister's parlor in a whirl of cold, purged anger. Ezra's calm, his impassive pride in poverty, only solidified Junior's conviction. This was no argument about philosophy; this was a rescue. He knew his brother-in-law must have been destroyed by the Depression, his mind wrecked, with repercussions sending him down a path of madness that would devastate his sister's life.
He would not fight Ezra on the stock exchange—no decent man would—that was a squalid, coarse arena he despised. He would fight on the field he dominated with absolute control: reputation.
The day's war council was not convened in a board room, but luncheon in a spacious, wood-paneled dining room of an uptown Manhattan club. Heavy with a scent of old leather and cigar smoke, the air was thick with a sense of history. Junior's guests were two of his toughest men: Mr. Harrison, a banker who controlled the largest Rockefeller trusts, a man whose well-spoken word or two could freeze the capital going into a city; and Mr. Debevoise, who stood for the family's lead counsel, a man who thought of the world as a matter of clear fault and fiduciary duty.
Junior hadn't gone into a tirade. His punch was far more subtle, and therefore far more destructive.
"Thank you so much to be here on short notice," he began, delicately unfolding his napkin. "I'm in an awkward position, and your discretion is more important to me than anything."
He stirs his vichyssoise, his countenance a mask of patrician alarm. "I'm worried about Ezra. About my sister's husband." He makes a gentle, troubled breath. "Stress of this economy... it takes its toll on us all, of course. But with Ezra, though, I think it's gone a step further in. He's become... erratic. Making judgments that as a layman, I find very disconcerting."
He did not have to provide details. Alta's dowry selling was still the most flavorful piece of gossip circulated within the muted corridors of high finance. Harrison and Debevoise exchanged a keen, knowing glance.
"This man speaks of high ideals, of a fire that engulfs a forest and a new garden taking its place," Junior continued, his head moving in a gesture of sadness. "It's a beautiful thing, but his actions are... erratic. I am worried about my sister's money. I wish to protect her, but my hands are ineffective. He is her husband."
The phrase, unstated but as clear as a bell, settled into the table. The son-in-law is delicate. Son-in-law is a risk. Treat with circumspection any business with him. He wasn't lying about Ezra; he was a brother. It was a tour de force of defamation, served with a silver spoon. And so the whispering campaign was started.
Isolated at Kykuit, he was not inactive. He had spent a whole career in a universe of whispers, of rumors, of back-channel diplomacy. He knew that reputation was intertwined with capital. He was expecting a counter-attack from Junior.
That afternoon, he placed a quiet call of his own from a private telephone in his manor library. He called the shark, a man referred to as Mr. Pierce.
"Mr. Pierce," he said, his voice casual. "I'm sure an exchange of this sort, with the names involved, must've generated some... discussion in the customary quarters."
There was a pause on the telephone. "One would think so, at any rate, Mr. Prentice," remarked the broker, his voice businesslike.
"I'm a mite isolated from city hubbub out here," Ezra continued smoothly. "It would be a great personal convenience if you would politely pass on any interesting rumors you happen to hear about the general mood... of the market with respect to my recent efforts."
Pierce, who owed his first loyalty to the old man who paid his commissions, and who burned with a desire to know about this odd experiment, knew just what to say. "I am a man with an ear to the ground, Mr. Prentice. Naturally, I will transmit any market intelligence that is pertinent."
The letter arrived a day later, crumpled up in a bundle of financial statements sent from a courier. It was a personally signed letter on letterhead from Pierce. It said: Market sentiment isn't your only headwind. Your brother-in-law is a well-connected man, and all his friends happen to be worried about your well-being.
Ezra torched it in an ashtray. And so it began. He was being called a lunatic. It was an old, successful strategy. If they could not question his reason, they would question his sanity.
The following three days were agonizing. Days four, five, six of his own one-week deadline. The market hadn't risen. It hadn't fallen. It inched sideways, a torpid, stagnant morass of lethargy, then down again via declining volume, a slow, torturous bleed. Every headline in The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal shrieked of more factory closures in Detroit, more farm foreclosure in the Midwest. Hoover gave another speech promising recovery, and the market declined.
The whispering campaign was viciously successful. Ezra felt the chill fall. Distant relatives and family friends who were once warm and inquisitive were now formal but frosty. Conversation would subtly shift when he entered a room. He was being quarantined, isolated as a trouble spot and embarrassment.
However, the true point of stress, the place that strained Jason's 21st-century reserve, was Alta. She was caught in a crossfire, a piece in a war she didn't understand. Her pillar of a brother was telling her she was married to a madman. Her city associates having heard rumors were calling with mawkish expressions of condolence and grief that were more offensive than any of the charges.
That evening, on the fifth day, she stood in front of him in their bedroom. She was crying.
"They are all talking, Ezra," she said, her tone strained. "Eleanor van Rensselaer visited us today. She inquired as to whether we were in need of anything. If I was in need of anything. She felt sorry for me. They all think you've gone mad! That you've thrown our future down a drain!"
She wrung out her hands, her composure breaking at last. "Just…please," she begged, "I can't take it. Sell the stocks... We can get some of our money back. We can go back to normal. I don't want to be better off. I want my life back."
Jason took her by her shoulders, his hands firm but gentle. He looked into her frightened eyes. He was the rock he had to be. "Listen to me," he declared, his voice low and steady. "Don't listen to others. They are the herd. At junctures, the herd is always incorrect. What you are witnessing right now is that weak hands are being purged. They are selling to me cheap because they are frightened. That is exactly what we want."
He was so sure of himself it was almost inhuman. It comforted her, but it frightened her as well. She did not know this man, yet she could not resist clinging to him.
It was the sixth day's evening. The market concluded its worst day of the week. Ezra's rally promise appeared not only false, but terribly delusional. He sat alone in the dark study with a glass of unused brandy before him, staring into dead embers of the fire. The fortress he was building felt more like a jailhouse.
The door opened silently. It was Alta. She hadn't said a word. She moved towards him and dropped a copy of the evening paper of the New York Post on the table beside him. He did not need to read it. He could read the black, large headline.
MARKET DECLINES IN REACTION TO HOOVER'S GRIM OUTLOOK
She stood there, her eyes fixed on him, and for an instant he saw no hope in her eyes whatsoever. Only despair, and a still, torturing resignation. Tomorrow was his one-week deadline. And on any rational count, he had lost. Catastrophically.