Revenge of the Cube Dweller

by Joanne Fox Phillips

  “Thanks. I know I can be a fanatic sometimes.”

  “Sometimes?” I pull up curbside to the United Airlines dropoff and give my sister an awkward hug as she adjusts her backpack in the passenger seat.

  “Let me know what happens,” she says as she gets out of my car. “I love you.”

  “Me, too,” I shout out the window as I watch my sister push through the glass doors to the ticketing terminal.

  I go back to the office to use my computer to establish an electronic document trail that could be given to even the least capable government auditor for follow-up. It takes awhile to put a paper trail of reports together, but around six or so, I am satisfied with my product.

  As I stand at the post office dropbox, I take a deep breath, thinking about what I am about to do. Up until this point, it has just been a lot of talking. Once I mail the files, it will be real. People will know about Bishop. People will speculate as to how all this was discovered. I know how these things play out. Who has access to the files? Who has an axe to grind? I am sure that I have adequately covered my tracks, but what if everyone thinks Sullivan is the whistleblower? I could see the Bishops talking about “that nincompoop in EH&S” again and administering punishment on an innocent guy. Still, if I don’t do this, Lucy will, and then it would be fairly easy to track me down. It would not take long to figure out that Lucy O’Leary, environmental Nazi, has a sister who works at Bishop.

  Maybe if Sullivan had been a little nicer to the cleaning lady the decision would have been harder. But just as many others on the horns of dilemmas do, I elect to save my own patootie.

  I pull open the slot for domestic first-class mail and slowly watch the legal envelopes drop out of my hand: the first to the enforcement division of the TCEQ, the second to the Oklahoma City district office of the FBI, and a third to the Tulsa World newspaper, attention Dan Schweitzer.

  To celebrate my divorce from a life of silliness, I drive to Woodward Park, a lovely botanical garden near my condo, and sit on a bench near an expanse of azaleas just starting to bloom. I think about Sullivan and Hal and the people in Longview. I think about the Bishops. I think about the cyber security guy. It is getting dark as I watch the joggers and dog walkers go by, and I light a cigarette, exhaling into the crisp Tulsa air.

  The next Monday, I call in to the executive meeting and chuckle silently when Baldwin discloses that he has received a call from a Tulsa World reporter asking for a comment on bribery allegations involving Bishop and the TCEQ.

  “Judas Priest! That has absolutely no foundation, none at all,” he fumes. “But of course I told him we simply do not comment on unfounded rumors.”

  Oh, just you wait, I think. Wait until the FBI shows up at the door.

  The Project Titanic update includes the revelation that there will be a 20 percent reduction in force this Friday.

  “Many shared service teams will be outsourced, including Accounts Payable, Payroll Processing, and IT,” Skip reports.

  Poor Todd, I think. Even worse, I’d forgotten all about the cupcakes I’d promised him.

  But just then, I lost my ability to worry too much about other people’s employment: “Internal Audit, Community Relations, and Employee Training will be eliminated altogether.”

  What? So the fraud discovery hasn’t saved us? I gave the write-up to Frank on Friday, as asked, but haven’t heard anything. It is really too early in the morning for Frank to have met with Jim, so maybe there could be a reprieve once Jim and Skip have a chance to reevaluate things.

  “Thanks for that update, Skip,” Bennet adds, and with that I hear the three phone chimes indicating Skip has hung up from the conference. Immediately after he is gone, Bennet continues, “I’ll be sorry to see Skip go.”

  “It can’t be helped, Bennet.” This is from Baldwin. “We just can’t do what we have to do as well as Farley Solutions. Really a stroke of genius finding them.”

  Farley is a huge HR outsourcing firm in Dallas. Winston used their Houston branch over the years. So that means all of HR is going; probably not on Friday, but sometime shortly after that. Most likely right after they have put in their all-nighters to prepare for this mass layoff.

  Damn! The only person with any stroke at Bishop who understands my capabilities is a short timer. I scowl at the receiver.

  The meeting continues, taking longer than usual because of all the updates on the Houston explosion. The situation does not look good for Bishop, and preliminary results indicate that terrorism was not a factor. Damage by construction or sewer crews has been deemed unlikely, but has not yet been ruled out completely by the investigation team in Houston. Legal reports that outside counsel will be filing certain preemptive motions later today and that only small progress has been made on getting injured parties to accept settlement payments.

  Things break up by 9:30, and after I hang up I surf through my documents file to begin the depressing task of updating my resume. There isn’t much to add for my six months at Bishop, and the idea of doing this all over again for some other company sends my stomach churning.

  I get on some job websites. There isn’t anything in Tulsa and very little in Houston. Most companies want at least a supervisor-level auditor. The job market is still struggling nationwide.

  I jump like a nervous cat when Frank sneaks up behind me, coffee cup in hand, asking me to come into his office. “Pull the door closed, please,” he says as I enter. Has he somehow figured out I have been eavesdropping on the executive meeting? Has the cyber security guy contacted him? I bite my lower lip, waiting to hear what he has to say.

  “I just met with Jim and Skip about the fraud in Accounts Payable,” Frank begins.

  “What did they think of the write-up?” I am trying not to give away that I have just heard our department is being eliminated. I wonder if Frank has been able to impact the plan I’ve heard about at the meeting. “Are we going to prosecute?”

  “No.” I detect a little shame and frustration in Frank’s tone. “Jim took this all the way up the chain, while I was in his office. Bishop does not want to chance any publicity indicating that they are mismanaged in any way. They have decided just to let the employees go.”

  “Frank, you saw how much they stole—it’s in the millions. Of course, it is confusing and I can’t be sure,” I add out of sheer habit.

  “Even more reason to keep it quiet.” I can tell this rankles Frank. There is nothing worse for an auditor than to uncover a fraud and have management look the other way. There will be no framed handshake photo ops for Frank. No assholes sitting in jail. “They need you to put together a list of the payments.”

  “Why do they want that?” I ask.

  “They just want to write off the payments in the accounts.”

  I blink. “So these women get off scot-free?”

  “‘Fraid so. Look, I don’t like this any more than you do.”

  “Are they going to at least remove their system access?” I ask. “When are they going to fire them?”

  “Friday. I think.”

  Same as the rest of us.

  “So these women just keep on stealing until Friday and they don’t even get anything in their personnel files about this?”

  “Tanzie, it’s not my decision.”

  “Well, Frank,” I say, getting a little loud, “it is just so like Bishop to dump their garbage on everyone else’s front lawn. If they don’t file charges, these gals will move on to the next employer and do the same thing.”

  “Tanzie, I agree with you, but there is nothing I can do about it. The decision has been made already. Let’s just get Jim what he needs and move on.”

  We will be moving on, all right. All of us.

  “When do you need this by?” I ask.

  “Jim would like it by the end of the week. Friday, first thing?”

  “Sure. No problem.” My face is red, perhaps from a hot flash, or more likely from the anger of letting Mazie off the hook and me looking at unemployment. And there is a
horrible irony in all of this: Mazie and Amy and I will get exactly the same recommendation from Bishop. They will land on their feet, but I won’t. It doesn’t matter that Skip knows I am the brains behind the fraud discovery. No one cares. The unfairness of all this is galling.

  “One more thing, Tanzie,” Frank says. “I checked back on the audit I did last year at Boyd, and our scope did not include a review of vendor setup. I wanted you to know that.”

  At lunch I drive down to the library again to take a look at Baldwin’s e-mail and calendar that I accessed through Marla’s account. I notice that on Friday from 10:00 to 10:30 he is scheduled for “Titanic,” which means he will be speaking to the lucky 80 percent who get to keep their jobs. I remember that Winston, in a similar circumstance, had to tell his staff that as sad as it was to watch coworkers leave, the remaining workforce should feel complimented that they were so valuable. They were the winners.

  Actually, they are not necessarily winners. Yes, they will keep their jobs and are spared the humiliation of having to tell their friends and neighbors that they were let go. They will not have to make those embarrassing phone calls to professional colleagues “touching base,” “testing the waters,” or arranging for networking lunches. They will not have to suffer the awkwardness of unreturned messages and the standard “I’ll let you know if I hear anything” from the employed population.

  The survivors, though, are left inside a company full of belt tightening: no Christmas party, lousy bonuses, and the elimination of all Styrofoam cups and plastic cutlery. Health insurance premiums will increase, and there will be no raises. Meanwhile, private planes and off-site management boondoggles will continue for the executive team, as well as deferred compensation plans for which the proletariat does not qualify. I know all the tricks well, since I have been an indirect beneficiary of big-ass executive compensation programs.

  I am now on the other end. I am only entitled to two-weeks’ pay and a swift kick in the rear. There will be no corner office for Tanzie Lewis. My career, despite my best efforts, is done. My six months in the workforce has resulted in a layoff, which is code to all future employers for “you weren’t valuable enough to keep around.”

  I return to the office after lunch and wander down to the third floor in search of Todd. I have once again forgotten about the cupcakes but I really want to meet the cyber security specialist and try to find out exactly what he will be doing. Todd escorts me to a small office near the server room.

  “Tanzie Lewis, Internal Audit.” I extend my hand.

  “Raj Basu,” he says, standing up and smiling. Raj is tall, dark, and round with a thick head of black hair. He looks about forty years old, but I can’t be sure. He is one of those guys who don’t get wrinkles, lose their hair, or go gray.

  “I’m not an IT specialist, but I do most of the IT-related audits, so if there’s anything I can help you with, just let me know,” I say.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Raj says coldly. “But thanks for the offer.” He sits back down and faces his computer screen, signaling the conversation is over.

  Raj is all business and is not to be charmed into discussing the investigation. Still, I now know what he looks like and where his office is, so it isn’t a total waste of time.

  “He’s a lot of fun,” I say to Todd as we walk to the elevator.

  “You were expecting what? This is IT, remember.”

  “You’re an IT guy, and you’re fun, Todd,” I say. “Keep me posted if you hear anything. I think this hacking thing is pretty interesting, don’t you?”

  “Okay, Tanzie. Will do. You already owe me cupcakes from two weeks ago, you know.”

  I leave the third floor with an uneasy feeling in my gut. I again sit at my desk thinking about what Raj will find out. As far as I can tell, my only slip was accessing Baldwin’s account from Grant’s computer. But that was just for a second or two, and I never got beyond the login screen. Maybe that will be chalked up to some cyber anomaly and not followed up. It horrifies me to think that I may be exposed as the hacker, the informant, the saboteur. Perhaps I can provide a red herring for Raj. I know from experience that evidence that is tied up with a bow for someone to find can eclipse some of the more subtle things that take time and money to figure out. If I can provide something to make Raj’s investigation quick and easy, perhaps he will blow off getting a court order to identify my initial login from the McAfees’.

  Unfortunately, I have no immediate ideas about what evidence I can manufacture, but I am satisfied momentarily and begin to relax.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  When I get home just before five o’clock I feel beat. I pour a glass of wine and flip on the news as I cuddle up on my couch. The local news comes on with a lead reporter stationed in front of the Bishop building. According to her story, the Bishop Group has earlier today filed documents claiming that “third-party negligence” is responsible for the explosion. Allegedly a sewer contractor weakened the pipe with some work done in 2009, and the victims of the blast—fifty-seven dead, scores injured, and a neighborhood destroyed—could be considered guilty of contributory negligence. So this is the legal move I heard about in this morning’s meeting.

  No further elaboration is given on the story, and even the national news has nothing other than what got reported locally. A Bishop spokesman indicates that the filing is part of a larger complaint and that it is standard in matters such as these. They are not blaming the victims per se, just making some preemptive legal moves that are considered prudent under the circumstances.

  Don’t you worry, I think. Just sit tight and wait for the Bishop boys to hang themselves with this.

  I go out on my balcony for my customary evening smoke and to take stock of my situation. My successful husband dumped his old and lumpy wife for a beautiful, young, successful woman. My share of our accumulated wealth took a serious dive in the economic crisis, and with this layoff, any hope I may have had of resurrecting my career is over. I have a cyber security specialist on my tail who can create all kinds of legal problems for me down the road. Still, yesterday, I got to use my skills on behalf of the people of Longview, Texas, and that is just about the only thing that makes this otherwise horrible day more palatable.

  Maybe Lucy is right. Maybe if I think less about myself and more about humanity things will improve overall. I am never going to get my old life back, never have a real career, but maybe I can have something even better and all my own.

  I sublet this condo from an oil company employee stationed in Russia until August, so only the linens and towels actually belong to me. I can fit everything, including my golf clubs, in the trunk of my Lexus and hit the road anytime I want to. I can pack up and leave at a moment’s notice, and except for the remaining rent payments on the condo, I never even have to think about Tulsa again. All I have to do is pick the right moment to go. I have only a few days of employment left at Bishop, and I start thinking about what I can accomplish during that time frame.

  There is no one left on the executive floor this Tuesday evening as I take a moment to survey the territory and sit at Marla’s desk. There is a security camera, but it is pointed toward the elevators. While security might see a cleaning lady get off on the floor, they will not be able to see me at Marla’s desk or in Baldwin’s office now or later if they decide to pull the tapes.

  My hands are shaking as I log in using MWALTERS on Marla’s computer and upload LEAR_2008_17_Houston_Gas into her file. I save a backup copy in the 2005 folder and leave a hard copy among some other paperwork she keeps in the one unlocked file cabinet drawer I found previously. I also upload the recorded meeting from the other night onto Marla’s machine, stored in a file labeled Misc. If the Department of Justice does a sweep, surely they will find these files. I look under Marla’s pen set and almost fall over laughing. Baldwin’s new password is recorded there, right next to the old one. GOJayhawks!18—he only changed one digit in response to a security breach. Why am I surprise
d? This is unexpected, and I can’t help myself as I look around the abandoned floor. With Raj on my tail, accessing Baldwin’s computer remotely will leave a trail, but it certainly won’t if I use his desktop. I smile at the many possibilities circulating in my brain as I sit in Baldwin’s enormous leather chair.

  In less than five minutes, I reconfigure his date/time function to a week ago. I quickly compose the following e-mail:

  SULLIVAN,

  PLEASE TAKE A MOMENT TO REVIEW THE FILES WITH RESPECT TO RECENT EVENTS AND SANITIZE THEM ACCORDINGLY. I DO NOT WANT ANYTHING REGARDING THE HOUSTON PIPELINE BLOW-UP TO REMAIN IN ANY OF OUR FILES.

  REGARDS,

  BRB

  Send. Done. When the “could not deliver” notification chimes because of the slight difference in Sullivan’s address, I quickly delete it. If Baldwin checks his iPhone, there will be no trace of this correspondence. I print out a hard copy and slide it behind his credenza. The same investigators who will find the files I left in Marla’s office and on her computer will certainly find this smoking gun.

  I change back the date on the computer and re-sort his sent file. The e-mail is there, but Baldwin would never think to look in his sent file from a week ago. I compose a couple new e-mails, deleting all of them from the sent file almost immediately after they are sent. One brings me great joy: I email Rosie Daugherty, the Accounts Payable Director, asking her to make some sizable donations to Planned Parenthood, the Urban League, and the Sierra Club. I finish up that e-mail with:

  PLEASE DO NOT DISCUSS OR CORRESPOND WITH ME IN THE FUTURE REGARDING THIS. I CANNOT EXPLAIN THE PARTICULARS OF THIS REQUEST RIGHT NOW, BUT YOUR DISCRETION ON THIS SENSITIVE MATTER IS GREATLY APPRECIATED AND WILL BE REWARDED VERY SOON.

  ALL THE BEST,

  BRB

  I would give anything to know what the donation chairs of those charities will think when they open their envelopes containing $250K from the Bishop Group.