by Mike Brogan
Karla Rasmussen raised her hand, revealing a chunky gold bracelet the size of a man’s Rolex.
“Madison,” Rasmussen said, “How long have you worked in advertising?”
“Nine years.” Madison knew how pathetically few that was compared to the seasoned professionals surrounding her. Beneath the table, her knees began to shake.
“In which departments?”
“Two years as a creative copywriter, one in media, and the rest as an account director working with a range of clients.”
“That’s good experience,” Rasmussen said, adjusting her scarf, “but it does not seem, ah ... commensurate with the skill-sets and experience required to manage a multi-national advertising network of Turner Advertising’s 2.4 billion dollar size, in my opinion.”
“Nor mine,” Leland Merryweather said. “And what about international experience, Madison? Have you had any?”
“Quite a bit, actually. I’ve coordinated multinational advertising for some Gillette products, and for Proctor & Gamble in European and Asian markets. In three years P & G sales increased 44 percent and 78 percent respectively.”
Merryweather appeared taken aback by her experience and began to fiddle with his eyepatch. Carswell had told her that Merryweather, who managed the international agencies, was respected internationally, but rumored to have once received huge kickbacks from the Lebanese newspapers where he’d placed ads.
“What about Internet and social media, consumer-generated communications?” asked Alison Whitaker.
“Six years for various clients: airline, pharmaceutical, hotel, banking and automotive.”
Most directors seemed impressed.
Karla Rasmussen did not. “All good experience, Madison, but again, do you really believe your nine years in a small agency has adequately prepared you to run a massive, global advertising network of twenty-three agencies?”
“No.”
Everyone looked shocked by her response.
“And that’s why, if I’m elected chairwoman, things won’t change.”
Rasmussen frowned. “But how is that possible?”
“Because I would ask Evan to function as de facto CEO until he retires. He would collaborate with me only on major economic decisions. In brief, you would continue working with Evan as you have been. Business as usual. I would appoint Carswell immediately and ask for your consent on that appointment.”
Many directors breathed out in relief, knowing they could continue reporting to Carswell.
“Any more discussion?” Carswell asked.
Madison girded herself for new attacks on her inexperience, but, amazingly, none came.
“In that case,” Carswell said, “let’s vote on my motion, namely that Madison McKean be named chairperson of Turner Advertising. All those in favor please raise your right hand.”
Madison watched six directors raise their hands: Evan Carswell, Alison Whitaker, plus the Corporate Counsel, and three others.
“And those opposed?”
She watched four directors – Karla Rasmussen, Leland Merryweather, Inga Kruger and Dana Williams - raise their hands.
Silence filled the room.
“Congratulations, Madam Chairwoman,” Carswell said, grinning at her.
“Thank you. I’m honored.” And scared as hell. “I’m sure you all have questions and concerns. I know I would. So later this morning, say at 11:30, let’s reconvene so we can discuss any concerns you may have. If you can’t make that meeting, just see me at your convenience. But right now, please excuse me. I have to make an important phone call.”
Madison stood, feeling elated.
And terrified.
And wondering if she’d walked into a snake pit.
* * *
The Executive Vice President watched Daddy’s Little Princess open the boardroom door and walk out.
Sorry, Madison, but your tenure here will be short-lived.
After all, you were only elected because Daddy left you his 79 percent voting share. But then, Daddy McKean has given you nothing but silver spoons your entire coddled life.
By the way, when Daddy told you about the e-mail he received, did he also indicate who he thought might have sent it? Did he tell you what he accidentally saw in my office? Did he leave you a note about all this, a note you haven’t found yet?
Whatever the case, Madison, I can’t take that risk.
Six
Madison hurried from the boardroom, checking for an empty cubicle with a phone. She had to call John DuMaurier, CEO of her Boston agency, and tell him she was resigning before he got blindsided by the news via the industry’s warp-speed grapevine. She dreaded telling John, her longtime friend and mentor at the agency.
She sat in an empty cubicle and called his cell phone. He picked up and again offered his condolences for her father. Then she began explaining what had just happened in the board meeting, realizing sadly that it would be a long time before she saw John’s friendly smile again. When she finished, he remained silent for so long, she thought the line had disconnected.
“John?”
“Yeah...?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your knife in my heart!”
“You were my best boss ever, John!”
“I was your only boss ever!”
They discussed the transition of her Boston clients to other executives for several minutes, and promised to keep in touch with each other.
After hanging up, she walked from the cubicle, already missing John and her agency pals and feeling increasingly alone. She also felt overwhelmed. Had she been foolish to accept the enormous responsibility of managing gigantic Turner Advertising? Would some clients take their business away because she lacked big league experience? Would some refuse to work with a woman CEO?
Would the employees accept her? Was she risking their jobs? And everything her father had worked so long for?
I have about as much experience to run a $2.4 billion dollar global ad network as Saddam Hussein had to run a charm school. Still, despite her self-doubts, she had to try. Her father would have wanted her to.
Her throat felt like she’d swallowed chalk dust. Remembering a coffee machine on the seventh floor, she entered a nearby elevator and headed down.
The elevator door whooshed open. She hurried out and bumped smack into a tall young man, scattering his stack of videotapes and DVDs across the green carpet.
“Oh crap, excuse me,” she said, scooping up some of his tapes. “I was hurrying to the coffee machine.”
“Actually, it’s down on five, where I’m going,” he said, picking up the rest of the tapes and brushing his dark auburn hair away from very blue eyes. “I can show you.”
“Only if I can carry these tapes for you.”
“Deal.”
They entered the elevator and he pushed five.
“Are you new here?”
“Yes.”
“When did you start?”
She checked her watch. “About eleven minutes ago.”
“So by now, you know all the ins and outs.”
“Except for the elevators.”
He smiled a very nice smile.
“Where will you be working?”
She hesitated to tell him who she was. “In various departments to start with.”
The elevator opened and he led her around a corner to a cafeteria-like room with wall-to-wall vending machines. She was relieved to see they contained the four important food groups: Hershey bars, Cheez-Its, Almond Joys and Walnettos.
“How do you like your coffee?” he asked.
“Black, please.”
He dropped coins in the slot, came away with two coffees and handed her one.
“Thank you.”
“Welcome to Turner Advertising. I’m Kevin, the Creative Director.”
“I’m Madison, the new girl.”
“Those videotapes you’re kindly now carrying are going to my office just around the corner, where I have been known to bestow
upon neophytes, not unlike yourself, my highly esteemed, Creative-Guy’s-Five-Minute-Overview of our glorious agency. Interested?”
“Yes, bestow away.”
As she followed him, she realized that as Creative Director, Kevin would have known her father well and may have thoughts about who wanted to oust him. They walked past rows of cubicles and entered Kevin’s spacious, high-walled cubicle. He sat behind his desk and she settled into a nearby director’s chair with Kevin Jordan embossed in white letters.
She looked around his office. Typical creative guy. On one wall hung a toy moose’s head, its furry pink tongue dangling out. Beneath the tongue was an old Gibson guitar, some TV commercial storyboards and a Nerf basketball with a big chunk missing. On the back wall were some highly-coveted advertising awards: Clios, a Lion D’or, and some Effies. Kevin Jordan was obviously a talented professional.
He was also a handsome, early-thirties guy with no wedding band and a smile that clearly contributed to global warming.
For the next five minutes, he showed her some excellent ads and answered all her questions. When he finished, she thanked him.
“Kevin, can I ask you one more question?” Sure.
She smiled. “Did you know Mark McKean well?”
Kevin’s eyes saddened fast. “I sure did. He was a terrific man. He often helped me sell innovative ads to timid clients. I considered him a great boss, a teacher and a friend.”
“I heard a rumor about him.”
“What rumor?”
“That someone here was out to get him.”
Kevin frowned. “As far as I know, everybody liked McKean.”
“I heard he was being framed.”
His thick, auburn eyebrows rose. “Really?”
She nodded.
“I heard nothing about that.”
Again, Madison studied him closely. His honest sadness at the mention of her father’s death and the obvious admiration suggested she might confide in Kevin. Her instincts told her she could trust him. But then her instincts had been wrong before, especially when it came to men.
Madison put down her coffee and looked at him.
“Kevin, I have a little secret.”
He waited.
“Mark McKean is my father.”
Kevin’s mouth opened wide enough to catch a line drive. “You’re ... that Madison?”
“The very one.”
“Jesus H....”
“Can I tell you something in confidence?”
Still looking shell-shocked, he nodded.
“Dad called me the day he died. Someone here accused him of misappropriating $8.7 million from company funds and was forcing him to resign.”
Never taking his eyes from hers, Kevin stood up and paced back and forth. “I don’t buy it. No way your father would take company money. He was the company! And he didn’t need money.”
“I agree. But there’s also a note in his handwriting ... a suicide note.”
Kevin dropped back into his chair and stared at her. “Your father would never have taken his own life, Madison. He was the original cockeyed optimist! You know that!”
She nodded. “I think someone forced him to write the note.”
“That makes more sense.”
“And then murdered him and made it look like a suicide,” she added.
“What do the police say?”
“Suicide. Based on the note. And without the body, they won’t investigate further.’
Kevin nodded and stared out the window.
“Any idea who might have accused him?” she asked.
His eyes took on a strange, faraway look for several moments, then he faced her. “Sorry, Madison, but no one comes to mind.”
“Are you sure?”
He closed his eyes and seemed to search his memory. “Well, I heard that about nine years ago, before I got here, a couple of EVPs disliked him, but I don’t know who.”
Madison wondered if they were still on the board.
“How can I help you, Madison?”
She looked at his computer. “I’d like to see the anonymous e-mail memo that accused my father. But my dad’s secretary, Christine, couldn’t find it in his e-mail files.”
“Should be a copy in the backup files,” he said. “But we’ll need authorization to get into them.”
“I’m authorized.”
“How’d you get authorized so fast?”
She paused. “I have another little secret.”
“What’s that?”
“I was just elected chairwoman of Turner Advertising.” Saying the words felt awkward, like she’d tried on a dress ten sizes too big.
Kevin’s jaw dropped open again, then an enormous smile spread across his face. He reached over and shook her hand like he was pumping water from a spigot.
“This is just terrific, Madison! Congratulations!”
“Thank you, Kevin.”
She looked back at his computer. “I wish we could access Dad’s backup e-mails without anyone here knowing what we’re doing.”
He closed his eyes a moment, then grabbed his phone. “Dean!”
“Who’s Dean?”
“My pal, a computer whiz. He’s an outsider and I’m sure he’ll help if he’s in town.” He punched in a number, nodded at her when Dean picked up, explained what he needed and a minute later hung up.
“Seven o’clock tonight. I’ll meet you at Dean’s. I’ve got a client meeting before, or I’d drive you over.” He wrote down Dean’s address and handed it to her.
“Thank you, Kevin” she said, standing and walking over to the door.
“Madison....”
“Yes?”
“Two things I know for sure.”
“What’s that?”
“One, your dad would never misappropriate funds. Two, he’d never take his own life.”
“It’s nice to find another believer.”
“It’s nice to have a McKean running the agency.”
Not into the ground, she hoped, as she headed back to the elevator. After all, she’d run some things into the ground before.
Like relationships.
Seven
For the first time, Madison settled in at her father’s desk. She took a deep breath and told herself she could do the job. It would be stressful and overwhelming at times, but she’d rely heavily on Evan Carswell to teach her everything about the company. She’d also rely on Evan to help her identify her father’s accuser.
Earlier, she’d asked Evan to set up some get-acquainted meetings with clients, and he’d already arranged lunch today with the CEO of an important client, Mason Funds. By then, Madison wanted to have at least a basic understanding of the man’s vast banking and investment business.
“Madison...?”
It was Christine Higgins, hurrying into Madison’s office.
Christine, her father’s secretary for twenty-six years, was a smart, trim fifty-two-year-old. She’d recently run the New York Marathon faster than many women half her age. Madison’s father had called Christine the secret behind his success, and for sure she’d played a huge role. She was organized, efficient and cheerful.
But right now Christine looked anything but cheerful.
“Evan Carswell wants to see you. It’s urgent!”
“OK.”
As Christine walked out, Evan hurried in. He plopped down in the chair opposite her desk with a concerned look. His jaw muscles looked hard as marbles.
She closed the Mason Funds file.
“Nat-Care just called me,” he said.
Nat-Care was their health care client, a national, managed health care plan that she knew represented about seven percent of the agency’s revenue.
“They already know about my appointment?”
He nodded.
“And...?”
Evan looked down at the carpet and shook his head.
“They’ve dropped us, Madison.”
She felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. A major clie
nt pulls out one hour after she’s named chairperson?
“Because of me?” she whispered.
Carswell blinked. “No. They said they’ve been planning to switch agencies now for a few months.”
“Why?”
“They claim they want a smaller agency that specializes in nontraditional media. You know, social media, consumer-generated media, customers blogging about their products on the Internet.”
“But we already handle some consumer-generated media for them!”
“I reminded them.”
“And...?”
“They didn’t elaborate.”
Madison shook her head in amazement. “What’s really behind their decision, Evan?”
He paused, ran his fingers over his face and shrugged. “I wish to hell I knew.”
“Did they get along with my father?”
“Yes. They greatly respected his advice.”
And apparently weren’t interested in mine....
“Who are they moving their advertising to?” Her heart was pounding in her ears.
“Kearns & Marcotte.”
A damn good agency, she knew. “They do a ton of consumer-generated media.”
“We do it as well. And our awards prove it.”
She nodded.
“Here’s what really pisses me off,” he said, his face red. “We’ve increased Nat-Care’s new customer enrollment by over 58 percent in the last three years. Second highest HMO growth rate in the nation. And this is our thanks?”
Evan was taking this hard. She understood. Every ad person, sooner or later, experiences the pain of losing a client for whom they’d created highly effective advertising.
“I saw no hint of this coming, Madison.”
“I understand.” She knew that clients often switched their ad assignment to another agency when a CEO left. Or when a young, inexperienced CEO like me is brought in....
“They’ve given us the basic three-month notice.”