Former Wells Fargo Advisors Sue the Company Over Cross-Selling

Two former Wells Fargo advisors are suing the firm for breach of contract, unfair business practices, and retaliation after they say they resisted pressure from their supervisors to secretly transfer sensitive client information from the advisor and brokerage side of the company to the private bank.

The advisors, Karen Keusayan and Richard Green, are also alleging that Wells Fargo improperly withheld deferred compensation after they resigned in 2021 and joined Morgan Stanley , where they are still registered.

In their complaint, filed in Los Angeles County Superior Court, the advisors describe themselves as high-producing employees who were loyal to the company even through the “nightmarish” years of 2015 to 2017, when Wells Fargo’s banking division was “publicly scorned” for the fake account scandal.

“This is not the ‘sour grapes’ case of a disgruntled employee(s) who sought a promotion and did not get one,” the advisors say in their complaint. “Neither Ms. Keusayan nor Mr. Green ever wanted to leave Wells Fargo. The goal for each had always been to retire at Wells Fargo.”

Wells Fargo declined to comment on the lawsuit.

The two advisors joined forces in 2015 to form a “production partnership,” according to the complaint, which says they grew their book of business to more than $1 billion by 2020.

In 2018, Wells Fargo introduced a new element to its advisor compensation plan, according to the complaint. Advisors were expected to complete forms called client discovery reviews, or CDRs, detailing information about advisory clients. The plaintiffs say they were directed by a compliance officer to keep the forms secret from the clients themselves.

Instead, the CDRs were intended for Wells Fargo’s private bank, “not the broker-dealer/financial services side where plaintiffs worked,” according to the complaint.

They contend that advisors were pressured to work with clients to complete CDRs, which would be secretly shared with Wells Fargo private bankers who could use them as sales leads.

Before submitting the forms to count toward a quota that resulted in additional compensation, the advisors had to check three boxes stating that they had discussed the information with the client, that the information was accurate, and that they had offered the client an opportunity to obtain a copy of the document. On that last item, the plaintiffs allege that Wells Fargo essentially instructed the advisors to lie, explaining that the document didn’t belong to the advisors, but the bank, even though the information came from their own clients.

“[H]igh-ranking compliance personnel at Wells Fargo Advisors repeatedly told plaintiffs to never deliver or present the CDR to the client since, as it was explained by compliance, the CDR was a bank document,” the complaint states. “Worse, plaintiffs were told not to inform the client that a CDR had been prepared.”

The plaintiffs say that these “dishonest instructions” put them in an “impossible position” and that they soon began raising concerns with their superiors. But each time they spoke out, they were told by their supervisors to continue submitting the forms as a requisite part of the company’s compensation plan.

The complaint describes the advisors’ growing unease with being pressured to falsify the CDR submission document, as well as concerns over the personal privacy of their clients, whose information was allegedly being shared internally without their knowledge or permission.

The advisors say that their bosses undertook a retaliatory campaign against them for continuing to raise objections to the CDR program, “including by failing to provide the banking support that plaintiffs and their clients had come to expect as a benefit of being associated with a large, full-service, retail bank,” according to the complaint.

They also say that the advisors felt their jobs were at risk, offering examples of a hostile or coercive work environment. “Mr. Green was berated by a yelling supervisor in front of fellow employees, and Ms. Keusayan was informed that the bank would not issue a routine credit card to her sister (a customer) if a CDR was not on file,” according to the complaint.

The advisors say the deteriorating work environment ultimately led them to resign around July 2021, after which they were informed that they were ineligible for large sums of deferred compensation—$662,000 for Keusayan and nearly $814,000 for Green.

The advisors are seeking to recoup the deferred comp they say they are owed, and are asking the court for additional damages, as well as an injunction barring Wells Fargo from engaging in the conduct alleged in the complaint, among other relief.

In Singapore, it’s not unusual for total strangers to ask, “Have you eaten yet?” A greeting akin to “Good morning,” it invariably leads to follow-up questions. What did you eat? Where did you eat it? Was it good? Greeters reserve the right to judge your responses and offer advice, solicited or otherwise, on where you should eat next.

Locals will often joke that gastronomic opinions can make (and break) relationships and that eating is a national pastime. And why wouldn’t it be? In a nexus of colliding cultures—a place where Malays, Indians, Chinese and Europeans have brushed shoulders and shared meals for centuries—the mix of flavours coming out of kitchens in this country is enough to make you believe in world peace.

While Michelin stars spangle Singapore’s restaurant scene , to truly understand the city’s relationship with food, you have to venture to the hawker centres. A core aspect of daily life, hawker centres sprang up in numbers during the 1970s, built by authorities looking to sanitise and formalise the city’s street-food scene. Today, 121 government-run hawker centres feature food stalls that specialise in dishes from the country’s various ethnic groups. In one of the world’s most expensive cities, hawker dishes are shockingly cheap: A full meal can cost as little as $3.

Over the course of many visits to Singapore, I’ve fallen in love with these places—and with the scavenger hunts to find meals I’ll never forget: delicate bowls of laksa noodle soup, where brisk lashes of heat interrupt addictive swirls of umami; impossibly flaky roti prata dipped in curry; the beautiful simplicity of an immaculately roasted duck leg. In a futuristic and at times sterile city, hawker centres throw back to the past and offer a rare glimpse of something human in scale. To an outsider like me, sitting at a table amid the din of the lunch-hour rush can feel like glimpsing the city’s soul through all the concrete and glitz.

So I’ve been alarmed in recent years to hear about the supposed demise of hawker centres. Would-be hawkers have to bid for stalls from the government, and rents are climbing . An upwardly mobile generation doesn’t want to take over from their parents. On a recent trip to Singapore, I enlisted my brother, who lives there, and as we ate our way across the city, we searched for signs of life—and hopefully a peek into what the future holds.

At Amoy Street Food Centre, near the central business district, 32-year-old Kai Jin Thng has done the math. To turn a profit at his stall, Jin’s Noodle , he says, he has to churn out at least 150 $4 bowls of kolo mee , a Malaysian dish featuring savoury pork over a bed of springy noodles, in 120 minutes of lunch service. With his sister as sous-chef, he slings the bowls with frenetic focus.

Thng dropped out of school as a teenager to work in his father’s stall selling wonton mee , a staple noodle dish, and is quick to say no when I ask if he wants his daughter to take over the stall one day.

“The tradition is fading and I believe that in the next 10 or 15 years, it’s only going to get worse,” Thng said. “The new generation prefers to put on their tie and their white collar—nobody really wants to get their hands dirty.”

In 2020, the National Environment Agency , which oversees hawker centres, put the median age of hawkers at 60. When I did encounter younger people like Thng in the trade, I found they persevered out of stubbornness, a desire to innovate on a deep-seated tradition—or some combination of both.

Later that afternoon, looking for a momentary reprieve from Singapore’s crushing humidity, we ducked into Market Street Hawker Centre and bought juice made from fresh calamansi, a small citrus fruit.

Jamilah Beevi, 29, was working the shop with her father, who, at 64, has been a hawker since he was 12. “I originally stepped in out of filial duty,” she said. “But I find it to be really fulfilling work…I see it as a generational shop, so I don’t want to let that die.” When I asked her father when he’d retire, he confidently said he’d hang up his apron next year. “He’s been saying that for many years,” Beevi said, laughing.

More than one Singaporean told me that to truly appreciate what’s at stake in the hawker tradition’s threatened collapse, I’d need to leave the neighbourhoods where most tourists spend their time, and venture to the Heartland, the residential communities outside the central business district. There, hawker centres, often combined with markets, are strategically located near dense housing developments, where they cater to the 77% of Singaporeans who live in government-subsidised apartments.

We ate laksa from a stall at Ghim Moh Market and Food Centre, where families enjoyed their Sunday. At Redhill Food Centre, a similar chorus of chattering voices and clattering cutlery filled the space, as diners lined up for prawn noodles and chicken rice. Near our table, a couple hungrily unwrapped a package of durian, a coveted fruit banned from public transportation and some hotels for its strong aroma. It all seemed like business as usual.

Then we went to Blackgoat . Tucked in a corner of the Jalan Batu housing development, Blackgoat doesn’t look like an average hawker operation. An unusually large staff of six swirled around a stall where Fikri Amin Bin Rohaimi, 24, presided over a fiery grill and a seriously ambitious menu. A veteran of the three-Michelin-star Zén , Rohaimi started selling burgers from his apartment kitchen in 2019, before opening a hawker stall last year. We ordered everything on the menu and enjoyed a feast that would astound had it come out of a fully equipped restaurant kitchen; that it was all made in a 130-square-foot space seemed miraculous.

Mussels swam in a mushroom broth, spiked with Thai basil and chives. Huge, tender tiger prawns were grilled to perfection and smothered in toasted garlic and olive oil. Lamb was coated in a whisper of Sichuan peppercorns; Wagyu beef, in a homemade makrut-lime sauce. Then Ethel Yam, Blackgoat’s pastry chef prepared a date pudding with a mushroom semifreddo and a panna cotta drizzled in chamomile syrup. A group of elderly residents from the nearby towers watched, while sipping tiny glasses of Tiger beer.

Since opening his stall, Rohaimi told me, he’s seen his food referred to as “restaurant-level hawker food,” a categorisation he rejects, feeling it discounts what’s possible at a hawker centre. “If you eat hawker food, you know that it can often be much better than anything at a restaurant.”

He wants to open a restaurant eventually—or, leveraging his in-progress biomedical engineering degree, a food lab. But he sees the modern hawker centre not just as a steppingstone, but a place to experiment. “Because you only have to manage so many things, unlike at a restaurant, a hawker stall right now gives us a kind of limitlessness to try new things,” he said.

Using high-grade Australian beef and employing a whole staff, Rohaimi must charge more than typical hawker stalls, though his food, around $12 per 100 grams of steak, still costs far less than high-end restaurant fare. He’s found that people will pay for quality, he says, even if he first has to convince them to try the food.

At Yishun Park Hawker Centre (now temporarily closed for renovations), Nurl Asyraffie, 33, has encountered a similar dynamic since he started Kerabu by Arang , a stall specialising in “modern Malay food.” The day we came, he was selling ayam percik , a grilled chicken leg smothered in a bewitching turmeric-based marinade. As we ate, a hawker from another stall came over to inquire how much we’d paid. When we said around $10 a plate, she looked skeptical: “At least it’s a lot of food.”

Asyraffie, who opened the stall after a spell in private dining and at big-name restaurants in the region, says he’s used to dubious reactions. “I think the way you get people’s trust is you need to deliver,” he said. “Singapore is a melting pot; we’re used to trying new things, and we will pay for food we think is worth it.” He says a lot of the same older “uncles” who gawked at his prices, are now regulars. “New hawkers like me can fill a gap in the market, slightly higher than your chicken rice, but lower than a restaurant.”

But economics is only half the battle for a new generation of hawkers, says Seng Wun Song, a 64-year-old, semiretired economist who delves into the inner workings of Singapore’s food-and-beverage industry as a hobby. He thinks locals and tourists who come to hawker centers to look for “authentic” Singaporean food need to rethink what that amorphous catchall word really means. What people consider “heritage food,” he explains, is a mix of Malay, Chinese, Indian and European dishes that emerged from the country’s founding. “But Singapore is a trading hub where people come and go, and heritage moves and changes. Hawker food isn’t dying; it’s evolving so that it doesn’t die.”

Former Wells Fargo Advisors Sue the Company Over Cross-Selling

No trip to Singapore is complete without a meal (or 12) at its hawker centers, where stalls sell multicultural dishes from generations-old recipes. But rising costs and demographic change are threatening the beloved tradition.