Frame-Up Read Free Page A

bars in the City’s financial district frequented by
most of my colleagues and other brokers. Again I wonder whether I will
ever be fully accepted by them or remain no more than the firm’s token
female stockbroker, a sop to the Securities and Futures Association’s call
for greater gender equality.
     
     
    Friday, 2:50 p.m.
     
    Back at my desk after lunch, I ignore several of Long’s gibes. I’m just
closing a small purchase order for a client when heavy footsteps, coming
to a halt behind my chair, make me turn around. Two men stand at the
entrance to my cubicle, one in the dark uniform of a constable, the other
in a well-cut gray suit. Police? What now?
    "Are you Miss Walker?" the one in mufti questions. His tone is polite
and not unfriendly.
    "Yes, I am."
    "Miss Walker, I’m Detective Inspector Willis, and this is Police
Officer Barlow. Will you please accompany us to the district police HQ
to answer a few questions?"
    I get up, my training in assertiveness, all part of Aikido, taking over.
"Sir, am I under arrest?" It takes no guessing to realize that this is my
boss’s doing. He didn’t believe me and reported it to the police. Although
the general office culture accepts that insider trading — a broker illegally
taking advantage of insider information to trade on his or her own account
— that this occurs from time to time, everybody will deny any knowledge
and distance himself or herself if you get caught.
    "Not at this time. It is only to talk in an environment where we have
more privacy."
    And which is also more threatening goes through my mind. "We have
a conference room along the corridor there where we can be alone."
    "Miss, we prefer to interview you at the Snow Hill police station."
    "All right. Let me just quickly log off."
    Without waiting for his response, I log off, but leave the three screens
updating share prices on, inform Maggie, our receptionist secretary, that
I will be out of the office for a while, and then put on my jacket and
retrieve my handbag from the bottom drawer of my desk. After a quick
glance over my desk, I join the detective, the police officer trailing
behind. Keeping my head high, I ignore the curious stares of my
colleagues. Fortunately, Long has just gone out to the toilet. It spares me
being the target for one of his snide remarks.
    They have a car waiting on Lombard Street a few steps from our
offices and drive me to the Snow Hill Police Station, several blocks west.
I’m led into an internal interview room, which reminds me very much of
the scenes on TV crime shows — a sizable room, well lit, somewhat
shabby, bare walls, intentionally intimidating. Willis invites me to take
a seat on one of the four metal chairs at the table in the middle of the
room, chairs that must have been intentionally chosen for being
uncomfortable, and leaves. Officer Barlow remains ominously next to the
door. A microphone and a small electronic control unit stand on the table.
Two closed circuit cameras are centered on me. A dark glass wall — a
one-way mirror, I figure — reflects my image. I can just imagine a group
of detectives standing on the other side, watching me, my every
expression, my every movement, occasionally commenting on what they
observe. The very thought of it feels intrusive.
    About five minutes later, Willis returns in the company of a solidly
built female officer whom he introduces as Detective Sergeant Somes.
Her hooded gray reptile eyes stare devoid of any expression. I take an
instant dislike for that woman. She asks if I would like a drink. I decline
with thanks. Both take seats on the other side of the table, their backs
facing the glass wall.
    "Miss Walker, I guess you’re apprehensive," Willis commences. "Who
wouldn’t be in your situation?"
    Although said in a friendly, sympathetic tone, it sounds threatening.
     "So, to put you at ease," he continues, "let me make clear that this is
only an informal and preliminary interview. Hence, we will not record it.
Do