Nine months after his last trade, Tom was on a Manhattan sidewalk when he heard, “Are you Thomas Covey Hardin?” and found himself upstairs at a Wendy’s with two agents and a flipped FBI badge. “We know about your four trades,” they told him, and even mentioned his baby nephew by name; his first thought was not heroic—it was, “Oh my God, my parents are gonna kill me,” followed quickly by fears of prison and losing his wife. Over the next seven years, he wore a wire, helped build dozens of insider‑trading cases, spiraled into shame and depression, and watched his thirties disappear while he tried and failed to start businesses with a Google‑searchable felony on his name. He says it was his wife who insisted on him taking small, concrete steps to normality and redemption — running 5Ks, volunteering at church, being a stay‑at‑home dad. And one night he realized he was finally sleeping again because, finally, “I was thinking less about myself.”
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