On November 15, I read the Seventh Circuit's opinion with the February sentencing release beside it. I had learned to keep a date attached to a number, though my first impulse was still to look for the largest one and let it stand for progress. The opinion affirmed Gordon Pell's 235-month sentence. It also described recoveries large enough to make an ordinary reader pause, and perhaps stop reading too soon.
Beverly Sloane came by that evening with a folded sheet on which she had tried to work out what the city had recovered. She had written three amounts in a column and left a question mark beneath them. “I know this isn't right,” she said. “But I can't explain why it isn't right without making it sound as though the money doesn't count.”
I cleared the kitchen table. “It counts. We have to be careful what we're counting.” She took off her coat but kept her scarf on, as if she might settle the matter quickly and leave. I handed her the November 15 opinion and pointed to the passages I had marked. She read them herself before looking at my notes.
The Seventh Circuit had upheld the sentence, including consideration of harm beyond the stolen money: harm to citizens and public confidence. I could say that from the opinion. I could not turn it into a new proceeding or an answer to every grievance anyone had brought to my desk. Beverly tapped the paper. “So the sentence stands.” I said yes. That was a complete sentence we could safely write.
The harder part was her column of figures. The DOJ release dated February 14, 2013, reported more than $12.38 million in gross sales and nearly $9.5 million net in escrow. The November 15 opinion described approximately $10 million from asset sales and an approximately $40 million civil settlement with the bank and two auditors. Beverly moved her pencil toward the space below the figures.
“Not a sum,” I said.
“Then give me a heading that stops me.”
We tried several. Recovered sounded too simple over amounts described differently at different dates. Money back suggested every figure represented money already available for the same purpose. Finally we wrote two dated headings and put the February figures beneath one and the November figures beneath the other. Beneath both we added a plain warning: these asset-sale figures overlap and must not be added together.
Beverly read it aloud, then pointed at gross. “People will ask why more than twelve becomes about ten.” I said we should not pretend the two documents supplied a complete reconciliation. Gross sales, net proceeds in escrow, and a later approximate asset-sale account were different descriptions. We could identify the difference without inventing an explanation for every dollar. She erased a little arrow she had drawn between the amounts.
“And the settlement?” she asked. “Somebody will say that means the bank and auditors were convicted too.”
“Then we say what the opinion says. A civil settlement.” I wrote the words on a separate line so they wouldn't get lost beneath the money. We added that the settlement did not establish a criminal conviction of the bank or auditors. I had spent enough time correcting claims that began with an accurate number. I did not want to make another one because its conclusion happened to feel satisfying.
By then Beverly had unwound her scarf. She sat looking at the two pages while I put water on for tea. “This will disappoint people who want one answer,” she said. “Including me.” I asked what answer she had wanted. She said she wanted to know whether we could call the damage repaired. I stayed beside the counter a moment before bringing the cups.
“The opinion doesn't give us that,” I said. “Neither do these figures.”
She drew another line on our sheet and wrote questions. We listed what residents could reasonably want explained: how recovered money would be accounted for, what work remained deferred, how people could follow later information. We did not supply answers we hadn't read or been given. Beverly added a question of her own: what would help someone believe a shortage explanation the next time they heard one?
We worked on the wording again on November 20. Beverly wanted the sheet short enough that someone would actually read it; I kept wanting another qualification. We agreed to keep the source dates directly beside the figures and leave the questions separate from the legal outcome. When I reached for the pencil once more, she covered it with her hand. “Is something wrong, or do you just wish it settled more?”
I looked over the page. The sentence had been affirmed. Recovery had made real progress. Neither statement required us to claim that lost years of services or confidence had been restored. “I wish it settled more,” I said. Beverly lifted her hand. I put the pencil away, and we made copies of the page as it stood.