As corporate litigations rose, along with the sizeable compensation juries were awarding, companies across the country scrambled for ways to mitigate the risk of being sued. I found a niche where one didn’t exist before — liability eradication. My big breakthrough came in 1993.
The hot issue of the day was sexual harassment, following the Navy Tailhook scandal. A pat on the ass, a couple “sweetcheeks” comments, and a promotion to a male colleague was becoming a slam dunk case. We quickly realized that changing associate behavior would take time, especially among the older set of associates who still expected their “secretaries” to buy gifts for their wives and girlfriends. And because of this, we were going to experience growing pains where we could potentially open ourselves up to a lawsuit.
Like many discoveries in Los Angeles, my “aha” moment came while sitting in traffic. That’s where I devised the “Stoplight System.” It was a way for associates to warn each other that their words or actions were inappropriate. It worked like this.
There were three zones: Red, Yellow, and Green. Green was logically the safest zone, yellow meant you were approaching a dangerous area, and red was pure, unacceptable behavior. So say someone was to ask an African American associate about his plans for the holidays.
“What are you doing for Christmas, Gary?”
This could be countered with a warning that the seemingly innocuous question wasn’t entirely appropriate.
“Yellow Zone, Jerry,” he would say. “My family chooses to celebrate Kwanzaa at this time of year.”
If the dialogue were to escalate — “You know that’s a made-up holiday, right?” — all the offended party had to say were two words — “Red Zone” — to alert everyone of the seriousness of the offense. The issue would then immediately be reported to Human Resources.
The beauty of the Stoplight System was that it put the onus of educating the workforce on the offended party. It also hedged against claims that the company willingly ignored signs of discrimination. After all, it was on the complainant to notify in the moment if there was an issue and then file it with the appropriate groups. A person could not later claim habitual abuse if they failed to follow the policies set by the system.
The program was a huge success. We were never successfully sued for an unsafe workplace claim. It also launched me into management. I never quite replicated the success of the Stoplight System but that didn’t matter. Reputations are built on first impressions and they last for many years. I parlayed my reputation into numerous promotions and an outer office on the north side of the building. I achieved a level of success where I would soon throttle back on my career journey and begin the long, slow descent into early retirement. That is, of course, unless I ruined it by foolish actions like snooping through personnel files after everyone had gone home for the weekend. Although the family had asked me for help, sifting through someone’s personnel file was in direct violation of our ethics policy. It was another poor decision I had made that no more than a year ago would have been unthinkable.
I didn’t want to admit it but I had changed since my separation. The enthusiastic dedication of a mid-level corporate cog was eroding to a point where I was putting my long-term future with the company in jeopardy. All those creeping doubts about the value of a career in liability management surfaced in my comments in meetings. They were caustic, not yet “poisonous,” but the shift was palpable. I needed to be more careful. Even the hatchet man has a hatchet with his name on it waiting to fall.
As I reflected on my mistakes, I noticed something at the top of Ed’s file that made my heart skip. There was a small call-out box that listed all the people who had viewed the file. There was my name alongside a date stamp. This tool was put in place to monitor ethics violations like the one I was committing. If anyone were to look through this file they would see I had been snooping. That was a very unlikely scenario and one I could easily talk my way out of but the threat was there.
Then I noticed something else — I wasn’t the only one nosing around Ed’s file. Right above my name was that of my co-manager, Paul Darbin. I pondered this discovery for a moment. Ed wasn’t in Paul’s coverage group so he had no work-related reason to look at his file. Also, by his comment earlier in the day by the elevators it seemed he didn’t even know who Ed was. It was odd that he would say that when he had viewed the man’s profile just two days ago.
ARMENIAN POWER
As financial pundits desperately searched for signs of a recovery from the 2007 crash, the catchphrase “green shoots” seeped into their daily lexicon. They pointed to any economic report that was even remotely positive as an indication of good tidings ahead. These wonderfully delicate seedlings were emerging from the rubble, signifying rejuvenation and future prosperity. Humans can be relentlessly optimistic when they need to be. Of course, all of these signs of life could be indications of another Wall Street favorite: “Even a dead cat will bounce if it falls from a great height.”
In the real estate market, green shoots were popping up all over the city — the number of first-time buyers was on the rise, the median price of Westside condos was ticking upwards, some other finely sliced-and-diced figure showed a clear recovery was in the works. Neighborhoods boasted of their “price resiliency” and “unique buying opportunities” to entice newcomers. One area that didn’t need to believe in green shoots was Hancock Park.
I drove through the tony streets with their Colonial Revivals and sprawling lawns on my way to meet the broker who worked with Ed on a recent deal. Business really was soft with my old real estate agent because she got back to me with this information and more within the hour. Ed was underwater on the two apartment complexes in Glassell Park. The situation on the Lincoln Heights property was bleaker as he hadn’t made a payment in over a year. He had tried to sell the property weeks before he disappeared but for some reason it had fallen out of escrow.
The broker’s office was in Larchmont Village, a one block area serving as the mini-downtown for Hancock Park. It specialized in brunch and Pilates. Saturday afternoon was its high season so I was forced to park at one of the meters on a side street.
Emerald Properties occupied the space over a fine wine and cheese shop. They were allowed one of the ground-floor bays to advertise their services but the actual office was up a creaky flight of stairs. Like cars, you couldn’t use addresses to surmise one’s financial status. Behind many a BMW there’s a lease agreement the driver can’t afford and behind every address on a well-heeled street was a back office at half the rent.
Bill Langford was a lithe, well-groomed man in his forties. He sported aggressive eyewear, a big-faced watch that looked expensive, and a striped shirt with monogrammed cuffs. He buzzed around the office with a nervous energy and took two telephone calls before turning his attention back to me.
“Sorry about that. Saturday’s my busy day,” he told me but it didn’t sound like he was at all remorseful.
“It’s amazing how we find a way to get it all done,” I commiserated. I had learned in an offsite training program that establishing a hierarchy, or eliminating one, was critical in all personal interactions. By using the pronoun “we” I was putting us on equal ground. And to prove that my time was just as important as his I added, “I have to run to an appointment across town so this should be quick.”
Now that the values of each of our respective times were equal, he stopped fussing with his papers and phone calls and gave me his undivided attention.
“So you wanted to talk about the Deakins Building? There’s not much I can tell you. I don’t represent the owner on that property.”
“You made an offer to purchase it.”
“Incorrect,” he snapped like a middle school English teacher. “I represented a buyer who made an offer to purchase it.”
“Do you do a lot of deals in that area?”
I seemed to have nicked his pride. “I do all types of agreements, in all neighborhoods, at all levels,” he answered tersely
.
“So what happened to this deal?”
“Nothing happened. It fell through.”
“Any reason?”
“The buyer backed out.”
“Did he give a reason why?”
Langford started to answer but then thought better of it. “Who are you?” he asked. I told him my name. “No, who are you? An agent?”
I shook my head.
“A broker?”
“No.”
“A lawyer?”
“Nope.”
“Then why are you wasting my time asking me all of these questions?”
“Ed Vadaresian, the owner of the building you tried to purchase went missing six months ago and hasn’t been heard from since.”
I was purposely blunt to match the tone he was using on me but I didn’t expect the kind of reaction I got. Langford sat up in his chair, coiled like he was ready to bolt for the door. His movement was slight but very noticeable. Years of grilling associates taught me to pick up on a few things. I also knew the next thing he said would tell me a lot.
“Okay. But what does that have to do with me?” he asked and I knew he was trying to hide something. It was a common deflection technique the guilty use when pressed.
“Nothing, as far as I can tell. I am working with the family to find out some answers.”
“What are you, a detective?”
All these careers he accused me of having sounded better than the one I had. I secretly wanted to tell him I was a detective. I had a romantic vision of some shadowy, marginal figure helping out those who needed the help but couldn’t get it, someone who settled things with his fists in a time when that only got you sued. “I’m just a friend helping out the family,” I told him instead.
“Oh. Why didn’t you say so?” he said and deflated back to his original posture. He leaned back in his chair and his tone changed. He rattled off all he knew like we were two chums catching up on old times.
Langford brokered the deal for the Deakins sale. It was a strange deal from the start. First, Ed represented himself during the sale but had a limited grasp on even basic commercial real estate contracts.
“I was doing more teaching than negotiating!” he laughed. Langford admitted that he was tempted to take advantage of Ed but the deal they were talking was good enough as it was. His buyer made a very strong, very competitive, all-cash offer. “Cash is king right now,” he added.
“Yeah, I heard that already. Who was your buyer?”
“An investor. I shouldn’t give out their name.”
“That’s all right. I am more interested in their interest in the property. It’s not in a great neighborhood. What do you think they wanted to do with it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Okay, so what happened to the deal? Why did he pull out?”
“I can’t say but it didn’t make a lot of sense,” he said. “Sure, deals fall through all the time. It’s part of the business. But this fellow was very motivated. There was no activity on his building and we came in with a good offer.”
“Any chance he might have gotten a better offer?”
“Have you seen the building?” he laughed. I told him I hadn’t. “No one wants anything to do with that area.”
“You had someone who was interested,” I reminded him.
“Special circumstances.”
“What does that mean?”
“I shouldn’t discuss details with you.”
“Privacy concerns,” I finished for him.
“Right.”
“Back to the Deakins Building. So why do you think Ed backed out of the deal?”
“Can’t say. Maybe his time ran out,” he added mysteriously.
I pondered that last comment. All morning I lurched towards the conclusion that Ed, under the great financial burden of underwater properties and foreclosure notices, realized that he had no satisfactory exit and decided to make his own by taking his life. But why would he pull out of a deal that would have given him some respite from his money issues? That part made no sense. Also, Ed didn’t fit the type, if there was one, who would turn to suicide as an answer.
“What do you mean by ‘time running out’?”
Langford stared at me with a coy smile. “How much digging have you done?” he asked in a whisper.
“I just started. And why are we whispering?”
“Think of it this way. What’s this guy doing with that kind of building way over there?”
I followed his finger as he pointed at a spot on the desk that I imagine represented Ed, then moved to another spot that was the Deakins Building, then a sweeping gesture that could only be Lincoln Heights.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I told him.
“He wasn’t in on this by himself,” he lectured. “Everyone has a business partner.”
“Okay…”
“He’s Armenian…” he said again like that teacher, this time trying to lead their student to the answer. This student was clueless.
“Spell it out for me, please, Mr. Langford.”
“Outsiders don’t do a lot of real estate deals with Armenians. They are notoriously hard to work with and the ownership structure is always way too murky. Nothing ever has a clear title. And you never know where the money is coming from. One day you’re talking to a sweet man like Mr. Vadaresian and the next minute two bruisers in leather jackets and shaved heads are pounding on your door.”
* * *
“Armenian Power?” I laughed. “Isn’t that the name of Glendale’s utility company?”
Easy Mike didn’t laugh at my joke but I could tell he appreciated it. We stood in line at a small taco stand on the seedier, east end of Melrose Avenue. The al pastor was good here, as evidenced by the dozen or so people milling about. A short vaquero with a pot belly and a straw hat stood just off Mike’s shoulder like he was ready to dart forward and cut in front of him. It clearly irritated Mike.
“Armenian Power is an Armo organized crime group,” he explained, then glanced in the potential line-cutter’s direction. “They’re big in East Hollywood and Glendale and starting to spread out into the Valley. So go the Armenians, so follows the AP.”
“The Armenians have a mob?”
“It’s no joke,” he said. “These guys are legit. The big shots — they call them “vors” — are all back in Russia. They run the operation out of there.”
We shuffled forward to the order window, and the vaquero moved in step with us, maybe even a tad closer.
“Can you believe this guy?” Easy Mike said to me. “I can feel his breath on my shoulder.”
“So what do you make of this story?”
“That broker may not be too off. We ran a story on Armenian Power a few years back after the FBI broke up an identity theft ring. They’re a pretty nasty group,” he said, moving forward in line and in tandem with his new friend. “We tried to make a link between them and Councilman Abramian. He didn’t take it too well. AP has their hands in a lot of pots. Credit card fraud, Medicaid fraud, mortgage —”
Easy Mike stopped mid-sentence, whirled around to face the vaquero, and started unbuttoning his pants.
“Jump on in,” he shouted and dropped his pants to his ankles. “You’re standing close enough we might as well be sharing the same pair of pantalones.”
For what seemed like the thousandth time since I had known him, I found myself muttering the phrase that eventually would be shortened into a nickname. “Take it easy, Mike.”
The vaquero gave a confused stare and took a step backward, along with everyone else in line, and finally gave Easy Mike the space he wanted. He turned back to me.
“— so mortgage fraud, insurance fraud, any fraud you want, the AP is in it. There’s a lot of angles in Glendale.”
Easy Mike was one of the first people I fired at the company. It was a simple decision. He was known for his incredibly inappropriate, incredibly antagonistic remarks. His reputation was so terrible I had even conte
mplated making a “Red Zone” training video made up entirely of examples from his short career with the firm. The proverbial final straw that led to his termination came during the company holiday party.
We crowded into an ornate salon at the California Club while one of the original partners of the firm stood up to give his annual year-end speech. Everyone had a style at work, be it the “roll up your sleeves” type or the “straight shooter” kind. This particular partner was the “wise sage.” He never took a notepad to meetings; thinkers don’t have to write down other people’s thoughts. His speeches were delivered as if from an atomizer where words hovered over you and one merely had to walk through this mist of knowledge to absorb its wisdom. That fateful night’s speech was all about family.
For the better part of twenty minutes, the partner droned on about the importance of your loved ones in everyone’s life. He mercifully wrapped up his speech with a quote from Dr. Joyce Brothers. “‘When you look at your life, the greatest happinesses are family happinesses’,” the partner told us, at which point Easy Mike felt the need to add, “…and whatever piece of ass you can get on the side!”
He got a few nervous laughs but that was about it. Poor Mike, with one too many gins in him, had picked the wrong time for a wisecrack. As much as this particular partner was known for his “family values” speeches, he was equally known for diddling any new administrative assistant we placed on his floor. The partner glared at Mike, then he looked at me and without words, he passed down the orders for Mike’s execution, corporate style.
Smile Now, Cry Later (Chuck Restic Mystery Book 1) Page 3