In “Mary’s Place,” a rural, small-town bank meets its demise ...Middle East

This book is a finalist for the Colorado Book Award for Historical Fiction.

Editor’s note: A bank in rural western Kansas is about to be closed by examiners as the region suffers through one of the worst agricultural disasters in American history. This excerpt comes from Chapter 11.

“Forrest. Do you have any idea what you’ve done to us all? This bank? This community? All these people we have working here?” J.C.’s tongue thickened with anguish. 

Forrest’s eyes were as inscrutable as those on a Roman coin as J.C. flipped through the auditor’s report. “I can explain, Dad.”

“No need. No need. It’s all there in black and white, Forrest. All of our new investors, every single one of them, every penny, every god-blessed penny they’re putting into this bank has come from you kiting their loan. If they asked to borrow $70,000, you asked them to take $100,000 and then invest the extra $30,000 in our bank. What in the god-damned gold-plated hell did you see as the end to all this?”

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“It would have worked out, I’m telling you. In time. These men were in real estate construction. They would have been able to pay the money back and the extra they borrowed from the money they received from…”

“Shut up, Forrest. Do you think I’m a fool? Jesus H. Christ, what have you brought on us all?”

“Given time…”

“Time? We need capital, not time. Well I found a new investor.” He inspected Forrest’s face, wanting to see something there besides greed. Wanting to see something besides pure self-interest. 

“And it’s a done deal, Forrest. There’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it.” J.C glanced at the stern portraits of his ancestors. Their rock hard chins. “I called my lawyers last week and had them break the Espy trust. Your two-million-dollar inheritance was pumped back into the bank at closing time yesterday. You are now the major stockholder in the State Bank of Gateway.”

“You can’t do that.” A muscle in Forrest’s jaw leaped. His voice rose. “You can’t do that.”  

Once money was put into a bank’s capital accounts, the government made it nearly impossible to get it back out without inviting the kind of investigation neither of them wanted.

“The hell I can’t,” J.C. said. “I could and I did. Shows what you think of this place deep down inside, doesn’t it? Think you’ll ever see the money again, Forrest? What’s your gut feeling? Are you going to come out of this a pauper or a rich man?”

“Mary’s Place”

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“You had no right, no right to take my money. To rob my trust.”

“Wrong. It’s my trust. Until I die, I’m the sole and only trustee of the Espy trust. And in my impeccable business judgment, this bank is a sound and wonderful place to put your money.” He oiled his words, wanting them to cling. “Of course, I could be wrong. I’m taking your word for that. You’re the one who keeps carrying on about the soundness of the new investors. My own gut feeling is that we’re on pretty shaky ground, Forrest. In my judgment, there’s going to be all hell to pay when the examiners come around.”

“God damn you. You vicious old man.”

His son. His son. Hearing the words, J.C.’s soul turtled up into his old banker’s shell, laid down layer upon layer by generations of Espys. Proud and honorable men who had sired proud and honorable sons.

“And in my judgment, Forrest, this bank needed a new infusion of capital. For real this time. Only that’s not just my opinion. That’s a fact. I have an audit here to prove it. We just got that new infusion of capital. Now get out of my sight. You sicken me.”

He turned away and walked slowly back to his office.

He never spoke to his son again.

J.C. Espy was looking out the window that Thursday, August 15, 1985, when the shiny black cars rolled into Gateway City. His mind numbed up and blanked out the metallic gleam. For an instant, he refused to see them again. 

He closed his eyes and splayed his fingers across his face. Something in him split as though lightning grounded him to his chair. His fear smelled and tasted of sulfur. For a moment he was wild to find some other explanation for the shiny black cars. A funeral perhaps. But he knew, he knew what they were at once. The shiny black cars were coming for him. They always came after a bank on a Thursday. 

Then the air was filled with the sound of sirens and there were flashing red lights.

His son. His son. 

Only in cases of suspected fraud did they come this suddenly. Normally the bank’s owner knew several days in advance. He closed his eyes again.

J.C. was not a crook, and he should have had the customary courtesy warning. He should have had time to urge depositors with accounts over $100,000.00 to move the uninsured excess to another bank. He should have had time for a number of things. Would have had, if it weren’t for Forrest.

“Dear God,” he prayed as he laid his pen carefully on his desk and rose unsteadily to his feet. “Dear God, I’ve never asked you for much. This time, please, if you’ve got it in you to help a tired old man, please let me face these people with dignity.”  

The bank closing team came in from a number of surrounding counties, where they had spent the night. Over the past couple of years, the FDIC personnel had learned not to have all their people cluster in one town or one motel the night before. It was too easy for someone to guess their purpose and spread the word. Early warnings brought the risk of having a run on the bank, or where fraud was involved, it gave bankers time to sweep the dirt under the rug.

Thirty persons stormed the bank with portable computers. Bright young men with three-piece suits and young women with silk ties gathered into prim roses against the collars of their starched white blouses. 

It was fifteen minutes until noon.

The team from the FDIC was accompanied by the sheriff, two highway patrolmen, and a locksmith, who immediately headed for the vault to change the combination. 

Jay Clinton Espy walked forward to meet the chief liquidation officer. He paused, shuddered, winked back tears as his eyes swept down the heavy gold-framed portraits of his ancestors hanging on the wall. It was coming to an end. He did not need to worry about an heir after all. 

“Mr. Espy.”

The old man nodded. 

“I’m Stanley Morrison, and it is my duty inform you that by order of the State Bank Commissioner, Eugene T. Winthrop, Jr., this bank ceases to exist and your charter has been revoked. The Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation has been named as receiver. The First Bank of Gateway has been purchased by Abner Wise. It will reopen Monday morning under a new charter as the Agland State Bank.”

A wave of panic passed over J.C. face. He could not bring himself to look at his employees. Customers froze in confusion. Awareness came slowly. Hastily depositors pocketed their money and stood in unhappy clusters, eyeing the door. 

“We are sealing the vaults at once and ask that all the staff turn over their keys.”

Espy’s hands shook as he unfastened the ring he wore at his waist. He sorted off all the keys involving bank functions. The remainder dangled lightly at his side.

Quickly a young woman walked from one employee to another, collecting keys which she turned over to Morrison.

“Go change the combination of the post office box,” Morrison said to her curtly.

“Some of the staff receive personal mail here,” J.C. said. 

“They can pick it up Monday, after we’ve sorted through it,” said Morrison. “Until we can inspect the contents, we’ll assume everything coming into this bank is the property of the FDIC.”

J.C. looked away in despair. He and his bank were knocked flat like wheat after hail. But if someone had bought the bank then some of the farmers would be protected. Not all, but some.  

The bright young men and women whirled like dust devils, touching down long enough to slap stickers on every safety deposit box, all the furniture, everything within the bank. “Property of the FDIC.”

During the weekend, the team would work furiously to sort out those depositors who also owed money to the bank.

A phone rang and Cynthia Benton reached for it, but before she could pick up the receiver, Morrison stopped her.

“Let it ring,” he said quickly.

“But, we’re still supposed to be open for business,” she stammered stupidly. “I have to answer it.”

“Let it ring for now. By the time they call back, you’ll have instructions. We need your help and cooperation,” said Morrison. “Any of you who wish to stay on through the afternoon, to help us find papers and documents and give general clerical assistance will be paid an hourly wage by the FDIC.”

He turned to Cynthia. “If you want to answer the phone we’ll pay you for it and we’ll tell you what you must say.”

“I can’t think,” she said, pressing her palms over her ears. “Of course, someone has to answer the phone. Of course, I’ll do it.”

Morrison handed her a three by five card. She read the words, and her face paled. She walked back to her desk. The phone rang again and in her confusion, she accidentally punched the speaker function broadcasting the conversation throughout the bank.

“This is the FDIC,” she read slowly from the card. “The First Bank of Gateway no longer exists. The bank will open Monday morning under new ownership as the Agland State Bank.”

“Cynthia? I know that’s you. What in the hell is going on? Honey? Cynthia?”

She was too choked to reply. Tears streamed down her face.

“Cynthia?” the voice became more urgent as the woman repeated her name. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it? My God, is there a robbery?”

Everyone listened in stunned silence, standing like statues. 

“Hang up, honey,” the caller whispered coarsely. “I’m going to call the police.”

Cynthia slowly replaced the receiver, stood, and fumbled for her purse. She ran across the lobby then stopped at the locked door. Morrison crossed the lobby and opened it. He smiled sadly at the customers who quickly followed the receptionist.

They’ve closed the bank. Word would sweep through the community. They’ve closed our bank.

Only the personnel remained. J.C. solemnly looked from one face to the other, seeing their fear turn to anger, as though he had betrayed them. As though he could have given them warning. 

Otto Jones did not come out of his office. J.C. could see him through the window. Otto  sat unmoving except for the shudder of his shoulders as he sobbed into cupped hands. Every cent the vice president owned was invested in bank stock which he planned to sell when he retired. No other savings. 

Otto was sixty-one, and the chances of him finding work elsewhere were slim. He could assess the value of an agricultural loan more accurately than any man J.C. knew, but the stigma of being a loan officer in a failed bank would haunt him wherever he applied for work.

Then all the employees began to cluster around J.C. where he stood in the north corner of the lobby.

“What are we supposed to do?” asked Helen Warsaw. “Are we supposed to come to work Monday morning? I want to know who in the hell decides all this. How can a bank be just fine one day and closed the next?”

“I don’t know,” mumbled J.C., gobbling for air like a guppy in a bowl gone foul. “I don’t know what you’re supposed to do.”

“Why are they treating us like we’re thieves, J.C.?” asked Patrick Wein. “Did you do something wrong we don’t know about?”

“What am I supposed to do?” Helen persisted, planting herself in front of J.C., legs akimbo, her fists digging into her waist. “I’ve got kids to feed and you know what the chances are of finding a job in this town. Or any other town in Western Kansas for that matter.”

“I’m pregnant,” said Lydia Spencer, the newest teller hired. “What about my health insurance?”

J.C. flinched as he looked at the pretty blond woman.

“I’m still insured for having the baby, aren’t I? Isn’t there a law about health insurance? I mean they can’t just let all of us go. Who will work for the new owners?”

J.C. had no answers. Not for any of their questions. 

Stanley Morrison came up, cleared his throat and stood expectantly by the front door, jingling the new keys in his hand.

“Once again, those of you who wish to stay and help us will be paid an hourly wage,” he said. “Those of you who plan to leave should go now.”  

Every single employee filed out, one by one, until J.C. stood alone, looking at the invaders. He raised his eyes to Morrison and gave a slight defeated nod. Then he walked back into his office, put on his hat and his overcoat and slowly walked toward the front door. 

My son. My son. 

My bank. My bank. 

A silent tormented spasm escaped from his soul and echoed down the century of careful accumulation of marble and brass and iron and coins by generations of Espys. He turned for one last look; then the doors to the First Bank of Gateway closed behind him forever.

Charlotte Hinger has won multiple awards for both fiction and nonfiction writing. In 2021 she was inducted into the Colorado Authors Hall of Fame. In 2008 she moved to Fort Collins, where she applies her degree in history to academic publications and her depraved imagination to a mystery series published by Poisoned Pen Press. “Mary’s Place” is her third historical novel. 

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