At 12:17 on a crisp, quiet Thursday afternoon, Brandon Coleman walked through the heavy revolving glass doors of First Heritage Bank carrying a scuffed, worn leather briefcase and a cashier's check worth exactly ten million dollars. He did not look like the kind of man people automatically imagined when they heard the staggering sum of ten million dollars, nor did he carry himself with the ostentatious swagger of the newly wealthy who usually graced the financial district's elite branches. His navy blue suit was clean and meticulously pressed, but it was several years old, bearing subtle signs of thoughtful tailoring; the cuffs had been altered twice by a neighborhood tailor because Brandon despised replacing clothes that still had plenty of life left in them, viewing wastefulness as a personal failure. His shoes were polished to a decent shine, though they were inexpensive leather loafers he had bought on clearance half a decade earlier, and his briefcase was a heavy, battered thing that had once belonged to his father, Gerald Coleman, a tireless machinist who had spent thirty-eight years standing on the concrete floor of a Philadelphia manufacturing plant before arthritis finally forced his hands to lock and his career to end. Brandon had kept that briefcase long after his father passed away, carrying it through college, through late nights in cramped apartments, and through every high-stakes corporate meeting that had ultimately changed his life.
It was one of the few tangible things he had left of the man who taught him the value of an honest hour's labor. Pushing past the marble pillars of the grand lobby, Brandon took a slow, grounding breath as the ambient roar of the financial institution washed over him. The bank was predictably crowded for a weekday afternoon, buzzing with the restless energy of the city's working and professional classes. Scores of people stood in winding queues beneath the harsh glare of modern LED ceiling lights, while tellers moved quickly behind thick, bulletproof glass partitions, their fingers flying over keyboards with practiced efficiency. Telephones rang in rhythmic choruses, old dot-matrix printers hummed in the background, and somewhere near the corporate loan department, a tired child was complaining loudly and repetitively about being hungry. Brandon smiled faintly to himself, a warm, nostalgic curve of his lips that contrasted sharply with the tense, anxious expressions worn by many of the patrons around him. He had deliberately chosen this specific downtown branch, despite having closer options near his loft. First Heritage was undeniably one of the largest and most prestigious banks in the entire city, and he already maintained a modest business account there for his software enterprise, though that account was managed through a smaller branch on the industrial east side. He could easily have deposited the check online with a few clicks on his smartphone, or wired the multi-million-dollar sum securely through encrypted channels. His corporate attorney had even strongly advised him to use a private banking suite downtown, where affluent clients were treated with deferential luxury and insulated from the common public. But Brandon wanted none of that sterile exclusivity.