"So I go to the Whiz and I ask him what he thinks about ValueNow, a new online company I read about in Forbes," Rook explained. "It was about to go public, and I liked the idea behind the company. Whiz said he'd check it out for me. I heard nothing. So I went back to him and said, `Hey, Whiz, what about ValueNow?'And he said he thought it was a solid company and the stock would go through the roof."

"I did not say that," the Whiz inserted quickly. He was seated across the room, by himself, his arms folded over the chair in front.

"Yes you did."

"I did not."

"Anyway, I go back to the club and tell them that Whiz is high on the deal, so we decide we want to buy some stock in ValueNow. But little guys can't buy because the offering is closed. I go back to Whiz over there and I say, Look, Whiz, you think you could pull some strings with your buddies on Wall Street and get us a few shares of ValueNow? And Whiz said he thought he could do that."

"That's a lie." said Whiz.

"Quiet." said justice Spicer. "You'll get your chance."

"He's lying." Whiz said, as if there was a rule against it.

If Whiz had money, you'd never know it, at least not on the inside. His eight-by-twelve cell was bare except for stacks of financial publications. No stereo, fan, books, cigarettes, none of the usual assets acquired by almost everyone else. This only added to the legend. He was considered a miser, a weird little man who saved every penny and was no doubt stashing everything offshore.

"Anyway." Rook continued, "we decided to gamble by taking a big position inValueNow. Our strategy was to liquidate our holdings and consolidate."

"Consolidate?" asked justice Beech. Rook sounded like a portfolio manager who handled billions.

"Right, consolidate. We borrowed – all we could from friends and family, and had close to a thousand bucks."