Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “Who did you speak to?”

  “Frederick Carlyle, Jr.”

  Carter sat back in his chair. The son of the company founder was a rising executive. Although he was only forty-five, some believed he would be tapped to one day succeed the CEO, Dick Sherman. Two high-level careers were on the line. And possibly a third potentially high-level career if he played this right.

  His own.

  Establish a bond with her, he thought to himself. Find out what she’s looking for. “Lauren—I hope it’s okay if I call you by your first name.”

  “You’ve been doing that. It’s okay.”

  “I am genuinely sorry about what happened to you. The last thing I want to see is you get victimized any further. How do you want this to end?”

  She started tearing up again. “I love what I do. I love working in television. I don’t want to be the next Monica Lewinsky. I know it’s not an exact analogy, but I don’t want the opening paragraph of my obituary to be about the woman who ended the career of the great Brad Matthews. I want to have a normal life and keep doing the work I love.”

  Carter could barely contain his excitement as he thought about the opportunity Pomerantz had given him to deal with the highest levels of REL News, as an equal. He pictured himself in the much larger office he would occupy in the not so distant future.

  “Lauren, no action I take can undo the hurt you’ve experienced. If you go to an outside law firm, your name will get leaked out. It always happens. Your picture will be on the front page of the New York Post. There is, however, a way for you to get justice and maintain your anonymity.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later Pomerantz had left Carter’s office. At his request, before leaving, she had emailed him the recording of her encounter in Brad Matthews’s office.

  With his feet up on his desk and his hands behind his head, he smiled broadly as he listened to it for the third time.

  28

  Michael Carter had met Richard Sherman a handful of times since he started at REL News. As recently as last week he had passed the CEO in the hallway. “Hello, Mr. Sherman,” Carter had said in his friendliest voice. Sherman had brusquely responded “How are you?” without breaking stride or pausing to hear Carter’s reply. It was obvious that Sherman had no idea who Carter was. That’s certainly going to change, Carter mused.

  Despite his having progressed only to the level of sergeant, Carter prided himself on his ability to think like a general. First and foremost, the accusation—call it what it is, he thought, the proof—that the venerable Brad Matthews was an abuser had to be contained. This would not be easy. REL News was, after all, a news gathering organization. The worst of all scenarios would be if another news organization broke the story about Matthews. REL would lose the opportunity to take the high moral ground, to say that they had acted immediately when they learned about the problem.

  The old adage—when more than two people know something, it’s no longer a secret—likely held true, Carter thought. If he followed protocol, he would bring the Pomerantz situation to his boss in Human Resources. His boss would take it to the firm’s chief counsel, a seventy-year-old attorney who was months away from retirement. In an effort to avoid a blemish at the finale of his career, he would seek guidance from one of the many outside law firms that were retained by the company. All of that would happen before word of the matter got to Dick Sherman, who would ultimately decide how REL News would deal with the crisis.

  Or Sherman could hear about it directly from the attorney who had devised a plan that would not only deal with the situation but keep the head count of those in the know to an absolute minimum. It would also make Michael J. Carter an indispensable player in the future of REL News.

  His first challenge appeared so simple, but the more he thought about how to make it happen, the more complex it became. If something went wrong, Sherman, in typical CEO fashion, would seek to deny ever having authorized Carter’s plan. But Sherman would find it difficult to explain a series of meetings and conversations with Carter that would be necessary to implement the plan. Emails leave a trail. Phone calls and texts leave a trail. If he sent Sherman a typed note through the interoffice mail, he couldn’t be certain that Sherman’s secretary wouldn’t open it before forwarding it to him.

  Her desk was just outside his office. She kept his calendar. If asked at a later date, she would know who met with Sherman in his office, including those who did so without an appointment. He wanted to have the initial discussion with Sherman in total anonymity. But how could he do that?

  Later that evening, after looking through Sherman’s personnel file, he settled on a strategy that he believed would work. During dinner his wife, Beverly, observed, “You seem so distracted tonight. Anything on your mind?”

  Carter was tempted to say, No, dear. I’m just contemplating what’s likely to be the most important decision in my life. Instead he answered, “Sorry. My mind is on a few projects at work. No big deal.”

  After his wife had gone to bed, he entered his son’s room. He kissed him on the forehead and opened his son’s computer to look up the Saturday train schedule from Grand Central Terminal to Greenwich, Connecticut. No one would think to examine his son’s computer.

  He went into the kitchen, opened his briefcase, and deposited the legal pad on the table. Scrawled in pencil were the tasks he had to complete to get ready for the meeting that he hoped would take place tomorrow. On the second page were the terms he would insist on if his plan were approved.

  “Mistake,” he said to himself as he looked at his precise cursive penmanship on the second page. His handwriting. He went over to his computer, typed what he had written, and printed the page.

  Satisfied with his preparation, he repacked his briefcase, went into the living room, and turned on the television.

  REL News at ten o’clock was just beginning.

  29

  Knowing tomorrow would be a big day—a huge day—for him, Michael Carter went to bed at eleven o’clock, an hour earlier than usual. It didn’t do any good. He was awake to see the soft glow light of the alarm clock register twelve o’clock, then one o’clock, then two o’clock. The speed at which his mind was racing easily overwhelmed any feeling of fatigue that would have eased him to sleep. He resisted the temptation to take an Ambien. The last thing he wanted was to spend the day battling a drug-induced hangover.

  He opened his eyes and saw that the normally dark room was light. His wife, Beverly, was no longer in the bed beside him. He glanced at the alarm clock. Seven-fifty-five! Bolting out of bed, he headed for the shower. Grateful for the extra sleep, he made an effort to calm himself down. There was still plenty of time to take care of what he needed to do.

  Dressing quickly, he chose a collared shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of running shoes. He wanted to blend in, to look like what he was: a young professional putting in a few extra hours at the office on Saturday.

  When he entered the kitchen, Zack was at the table halfway through the French toast he had for breakfast every day of the week. Beverly was at the stove. Her exaggerated greeting was “Well, good morning, sleepyhead.”

  Zack laughed uproariously, looked at him, and yelled, “You’re sleepyhead.” He turned to his mother and repeated, “Daddy’s sleepyhead.” They both laughed even louder at the newly assigned nickname.

  How did I marry such a ditz? Carter asked himself as he poured a glass of orange juice. And how can I keep Zack from turning into one? “I’ll think about it tomorrow,” he mumbled to himself, quoting Scarlett O’Hara’s famous line from Gone with the Wind. My plate for today is full.

  “Are you going to come to my soccer game, Daddy?”

  “I hope I can,” Carter said, realizing he had forgotten about it. “What time is it?”

  “He has the late game today,” Beverly answered. “Two-thirty in the Park.”

  “Something came up at the office yesterday and I have to go in and work on it today.” He glanced at his watch. �
��If I leave now, I should be able to finish it in time to make it to the game.”

  “You don’t want any breakfast?” she asked.

  “I’ll pick something up on the way to the office,” he said as he leaned over and kissed Zack. He gave Beverly the mandatory kiss on the top of her head and five minutes later was out the door.

  His first stop was at the Starbucks two blocks from his apartment. It was eight-forty-five. Sherman should be awake by now, he thought.

  Busy during the week, the coffee shop had few patrons on Saturday morning. Ten people, all of whom appeared to be alone, were sitting at the tables in the center of the store reading newspapers or staring into laptops while sipping their drinks. Carter identified the one he wanted.

  “I’m very sorry to bother you, but I lost my cell phone. Could I possibly borrow yours to make a quick call?” As he finished asking the question, Carter dropped a five-dollar bill on the counter beside the young student in the NYU sweatshirt who had looked up from his laptop.

  “You will stay in the store, yes?” the young man with a foreign accent asked.

  “I’ll be right over there,” Carter said while pointing to a quiet corner.

  “You don’t have to pay me,” the student said in heavily accented English as he handed over the phone.

  “It’s all right,” Carter said as he retreated to the corner. After one last glance around to be sure no one was taking notice of him, he dialed the number from memory.

  “Hello” was the answer, in a distinctly grouchy tone.

  “Am I speaking to Mr. Richard Sherman?”

  “Yes. Who the hell are you?”

  “My name is Michael Carter. I’m an attorney in Human Resources at REL News—”

  “Never heard of you. You better have a good reason for calling me at home on a Saturday.”

  “I do, sir.” He had repeatedly rehearsed the words. “Unless appropriate action is taken immediately, REL News is about to be sued by a young woman employee who has proof that Brad Matthews molested her in his office. There is a narrow window of opportunity to contain the situation. I don’t want to say more on the phone. When can we meet?”

  Several moments of silence followed. “Can you come to Greenwich?”

  “Tell me where and when.”

  “Do you know the Greenwich train station?”

  “I’ll be coming by train.”

  “I’ll be in a black Mercedes S550 parked at the northern end of the lot. Twelve o’clock. Be on time.”

  The call ended before Carter could signal his agreement. He exhaled, having made it over the first hurdle. Without thinking, he put the phone in his pocket and started walking toward the door. He looked across the store to see the student waving and pointing to his empty hand. Stay focused, he thought to himself as he returned the borrowed phone.

  30

  The Greenwich station was sparsely populated. Michael Carter proceeded out the front door and glanced toward the northern end of the mostly empty parking lot. He didn’t see what he was looking for. No point standing out there like a jerk, he thought. He walked back inside and took a seat.

  He tried unsuccessfully to focus on the article he was reading. At 11:57 he got up, went outside, and walked slowly toward a lone Mercedes. He was about ten feet away when the driver’s-side window rolled down.

  “Carter?” Richard Sherman asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Sherman. I—”

  “Get in,” he said, waving him around the car.

  31

  Michael Carter walked around the car and climbed into the passenger’s front seat. He closed the door behind him and put his briefcase between his legs. Sherman was wearing a dark blue sweat suit and gray running shoes. The CEO was known for taking pride in his physical condition. He’s probably on his way to or from his trainer, Carter thought.

  He was unsure what to do next. Despite all his preparation, he was extremely nervous. Should he let Sherman begin the conversation or should he take the initiative? Sherman did nothing but stare at him, glare at him was probably more accurate.

  Carter cleared his throat and extended his hand as he said, “Mr. Sherman, I appreciate your agreeing to meet me on such short notice.”

  Sherman made no move to shake his hand.

  “All right,” Carter began, trying to make his voice sound more confident than he felt, “at about five o’clock last night an associate producer named Lauren Pomerantz came to my office. She told me about an encounter she had behind closed doors in Brad Matthews’s office.”

  Sherman listened intently as Carter recounted Pomerantz’s story. The CEO’s reaction was predictable. “It’s just a ‘he said, she said,’ ” Sherman growled.

  “That was exactly my reaction, Mr. Sherman,” Carter replied as he pulled out his cell phone and began swiping and tapping it, “until I heard this.”

  Carter held the phone in the air between them. Neither man said a word until the recording ended.

  “Good God,” was Sherman’s first reaction. It was followed by “What do we know about Pomerantz?”

  Carter pulled a file from the briefcase that was now open on his lap. He savored that he was now part of the we. “Unfortunately for us she’s a model employee. She’s been with the company for three and a half years. All of her annual evaluations have been excellent and resulted in raises. She’s had two promotions.”

  Sherman snapped, “You’re a lawyer. This business of taping people in their office without their knowing it. Isn’t that illegal?”

  “Good point, sir. I researched that last night. Although Pomerantz may have technically violated REL News policy as laid out in the Employee Handbook, that won’t help us very much. Arguably, she could be fired for that, but I got the clear impression she’s planning to leave the company anyway.”

  “Good riddance.”

  “There’s another defense or justification she could offer. REL is a news gathering organization. The fact that the anchor and editor in chief of the country’s highest-rated newscast was abusing an employee in his chain of command certainly qualifies as news. She was doing what any reporter would have done while pursuing a story.”

  Sherman punched his fist on the steering wheel, a reaction Carter noticed with delight.

  “If I can be so bold, sir. Lawyers could wrangle hours over whether or not the tape was admissible in a jury trial,” he began.

  “Kennedy and Edelman would have a field day with it,” Sherman pointed out, referring to the popular REL News program that featured two attorneys debating opposite sides of legal cases.

  “You bet. But if it ever gets to that point, the damage to the company will have been done.” Carter paused for a moment, then continued, “Unless, of course, the situation can be contained.”

  Sherman looked at him. For the first time his tone of voice was respectful. “Is there any way we can keep word of this from getting out?”

  “There is because we caught this so early. As far as I can determine, no trail exists. No emails about Matthews have been sent. I’ve been working on a plan since Pomerantz left my office last night. The only thing it requires is your approval to put it in motion.”

  “What is it?”

  “Outside of this car, as best I can determine, only four people for certain know about Matthews’s behavior: Matthews himself, Pomerantz, and whoever tipped Pomerantz to record what happened in Matthews’s office.”

  “And the fourth?”

  “Pomerantz told me she brought the Matthews matter to the attention of Frederick Carlyle, Jr., immediately after the incident happened.”

  “Daddy’s little Freddie, the village idiot,” Sherman said. “Did he do anything about it?”

  “According to Pomerantz, no. He reminded her that she was lucky to have a job at REL and advised her to get back to work.”

  A long silence followed. Carter waited for Sherman to break it. “Will Pomerantz keep quiet?”

  “I’m confident she will if we give her what she’s looking for.�
��

  “Money, right?”

  “That, too. Do you know your counterparts from CNN and Fox and the other broadcast networks?”

  “That’s a stupid question.”

  “Sorry. After she leaves REL News, Pomerantz wants to stay in the industry. Maybe in New York, maybe in Houston, where she’s from. A phone call from you could make that happen?”

  “Absolutely. How do we know the one who tipped off Pomerantz isn’t going to talk?”

  “We don’t, but the good news is that she’s kept quiet so far. Whoever she is, a healthy deposit into her bank account should buy her continued silence.”

  “And if there are others?”

  “There probably are, and we treat them the same way. Instead of sitting back, dreading the day one or several of them and their attorneys call a news conference, we, I should say I, find them one by one and settle directly with them.”

  “What do you mean by ‘directly’?”

  “Do you really want to know all the details?”

  “No, I guess I don’t.”

  Carter could feel the excitement inside him building. He had succeeded in creating the interest. Now he had to close the deal.

  “The only chance of our containing the situation is to keep the number of people who know about Matthews to an absolute minimum. That means no talking to REL lawyers or outside counsel.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m going to start with Pomerantz, convince her to settle and sign a nondisclosure agreement.”

  “You think she’ll do it?”

  “For two million dollars, I think she will.”

  “Two million’s a lot of money!”

  “I know it is. To get her money she’s also going to tell me who else knows about Matthews. And let’s put this in perspective. How much revenue does Matthews generate for REL every year? Fifty million?”