Sophia of Silicon Valley

by Anna Yen

  Ashley had warned me Scott didn’t like to shake people’s hands.

  I could tell by Mitch’s expression that he found Scott’s behavior odd, so to get past the uncomfortable moment, I chimed in and introduced myself as the head of IR.

  “Ah, the gatekeeper,” Mitch said with a nod and a grin.

  The gatekeeper. I like that.

  I knew from the banker briefing this morning that Mitch was the young portfolio manager of a $400 billion technology fund at Baron Capital, and he tended to be a solid, long-term holder. It occurred to me that I should have reminded Scott and Jonathan about the who and what of this meeting while we were all still in the limousine. Too bad we didn’t have code words.

  Mitch led us into a packed conference room just on the other side of the fish tank. When we entered, three professionally dressed men and a woman stood from their seats at the large oval table, and it was standing room only for the other dozen or so suits. Mitch joined his colleagues on the far side of the room and motioned Team Treehouse and the bankers to take the remaining five chairs. I wondered if the people who were left standing were going to remain that way for the entire duration of the meeting.

  “So, I’ve seen the commercials,” Mitch began. “In fact, my kids are really excited about seeing your movie,” he continued as he sat down in one of the black leather chairs. “Now, are those ad trailers all created and paid for by Samba?”

  Ric chimed in. “We can certainly get into that, but we have a prepared deck that explains everything.” He was referring to the investor presentation I’d helped Jonathan prepare. “So should we start there? Feel free to break in with questions, though.” The banker’s tone suggested Mitch didn’t really have a choice, and I was suddenly thankful for the role he played controlling the conversation. Maybe Jack Wynn isn’t that bad.

  As if on cue, Sendur passed out bound copies of our slideshow, opened his laptop, and projected our twenty-slide presentation onto the conference room screen.

  The first image in the deck was the safe-harbor slide. The young banker flashed it onto the screen, displaying a dizzying array of legal jargon meant to protect companies from lawsuits by warning investors to do their research before investing. He then clicked to the next slide in the deck, which outlined the financial details of the IPO: number of shares offered, per-share price range, etc.

  Ric addressed the group as if everyone in the room understood the safe-harbor information was simply a formality. “With that out of the way, let me hand it over to Scott Kraft,” he said.

  Scott stood in front of the screen, which showed the Treehouse logo modified to incorporate several of the Treasures characters.

  “There is only one significant brand in the animated film industry today,” Scott began. “Samba. Our goal is to establish Treehouse as the second. A brand’s success is earned over time if a company has the right mix of trust, experience, and, in our case, story. For example, Samba pioneered the animated feature-film industry in the mid-1930s and since then has been the trusted brand to provide appropriate family entertainment. Their track record of hiring the storytellers and animators to create this type of entertainment gives them undisputed experience in making wonderful animated films. This in turn gives movie audiences a viewing experience that no other brand has been able to surpass. Until now. At Treehouse, we believe we have recruited the industry’s best talent—that is, animators and storytellers—and equipped them with the most advanced computer-generated imagery technology to give audiences an entirely new, mind-blowing, heartwarming viewing experience. It’s an experience that starts with Treasures.”

  The Baron Capital guys, Jonathan, and I listened intently as Scott explained the points of the next ten slides: the experience of our management team, our proprietary software, and our other revenue-generating businesses. When the title slide showing Jonathan Larsen, Office of the President and Chief Financial Officer, appeared, Scott said, “Now Jonathan will review the financials, including the business relationship with Samba.”

  After Jonathan finished, Mitch and his colleagues used the remaining time to fire off questions. They weren’t trying to be difficult; they were trying to weigh the risks of investing in Treehouse.

  “So this Samba deal—can you give us more details other than sharing box office receipts after their marketing expenses are recouped? That’s not enough detail for us to build our internal models.”

  “How important is the technology here? Will it speed up the time between movies?”

  “How do I know Treehouse isn’t a one-trick pony with Treasures?”

  “Why the name Treehouse?”

  “How are you planning on using the proceeds from the offering?”

  Throughout the entire meeting, I didn’t say a word. There was nothing for me to say. It was up to Jonathan and Scott to sell these people on our company, and I knew they had this covered. I also knew I was there to hear them tell the story. To learn. I sat at the end of the table memorizing Scott’s and Jonathan’s cadences and writing down everything they said; I was exhilarated by the thought that one day soon I’d sound as polished, knowledgeable, and passionate as they did.

  Approximately two minutes before our meeting was scheduled to end, I waited for Jonathan to finish answering a question, then said while looking at my watch, “We need to wrap things up.” Mitch, who’d greeted me so warmly just forty minutes ago, glared at me as though I’d duped him out of a winning lottery ticket. “Just a few more minutes,” he shot back.

  “I think our time is up,” Jonathan broke in as he and Scott stood from their seats. “If you have any follow-up questions, perhaps Sophia can find some time for Scott or me to ring you later.”

  Yeah, take that, Mitch!

  Once we were back inside the car, Jonathan said, “It’d be a good idea to sound the bell five minutes earlier next time.”

  I nodded. Inside I felt much more than that. Jonathan’s support in that meeting and his acknowledgment of my role made me feel like part of the team; I wanted to impress him even more.

  Minus the M&M’s and fish tank, almost the exact same scenario played out seven more times a day for eight more business days. Forty-five-minute meetings (thirty minutes for presentation and fifteen minutes of Q&A) and thirty minutes to travel to check in at security and start the next meeting.

  In the big cities like New York, Boston, and San Francisco, our schedules often included catered lunch meetings where we presented to larger groups of fifty to one hundred people. Who knew there were so many institutional investors in the world? They packed themselves into the ballroom of the local five-star hotel and sat patiently, intently, listening to Scott and Jonathan pitch Treehouse’s investment opportunity. Scott hated those meetings the most—the clinking of knives and forks against plates made it hard for him to concentrate. He also was bothered by the “stalkers”: well-dressed women who approached him for autographs or asked to take photos with him, neither of which Scott ever agreed to because he despised doing both. These women sat front and center pretending to be potential investors—and maybe they were—but they paid more attention to their lipstick and hair than anything else. Their softball questions and their way of slinking around afterward, trying to get close enough to snap a selfie with Scott in the background, gave them away. These stalkers gained access through their large bank accounts at the investment firms. I kept noticing one blond helmet-haired, Chanel-suited woman in particular. Am I imagining it, or is she following us from city to city? Despite her efforts, she never managed to lock eyes with Scott while he was presenting; she also never succeeded at getting in front of all the aggressive investors, mostly men, who circled Scott as soon as he left the stage. By the fourth city, I had become annoyed with Ms. Chanel and intercepted her while she scurried toward Scott. I gave her a we both know what’s going on here smile and handed her my card before saying, “If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to contact me directly.” I never saw her again.

  The car rides in be
tween meetings were the most exciting for me. As soon as the limo pulled away from the curb, Ric would call us from the SUV and give us his thoughts on the investor response to our presentation. Midway through the roadshow, I began adding my feedback as well, reminding Scott if he’d forgotten to say something important or suggesting Jonathan consider answering a specific question differently. We were constantly refining our messaging, making adjustments to the presentation on the fly, and if an investor asked Jonathan a financial question that he couldn’t answer, he’d call his finance team when we got into the car so he could get the answer for next time. The end of the day rarely involved dinner but rather planes, trains, and automobiles to race to the next city—Boston, Chicago, Baltimore, Dallas, Denver, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Kansas City, London, and back to New York, where most companies make their last push toward the finish line. When we checked in to each hotel, a fresh delivery of Scott’s applesauce and trail mix would be waiting in my room with a print-out of the next day’s agenda and the never-ending call log, which I did my best to keep up with while I was on the road.

  At first I felt an odd sense of power, from my association with Scott and Jonathan (the dynamic duo), from the banker entourage, and from usually being one of the few women in the room. It was the only time I didn’t mind not being “normal.” But by the fifth day on the road, none of it mattered anymore: the views and luxury hotels didn’t impress me and I could have cared less that I was in the presence of the great Scott and Jonathan team—they were old hat. I’d already memorized their monologues and answers verbatim and I was getting bored. Been there, done that. Add that to my exhaustion and I just wanted to go home and stuff my face with Mom’s ma po tofu.

  Our flight from San Francisco landed in Kansas City just past midnight, and by the time I rolled my suitcase into my hotel room, it was well after one o’clock Monday morning. Three more days to go.

  “Hello,” Daniel said, his voice sounding raspy with sleep.

  “Hi. Sorry to wake you,” I said tenderly. “I already miss you.”

  “Hi, babe. I miss you, too. Where are you?”

  The weekend break at home with Daniel and my parents hadn’t been enough to erase the feeling of dread when I left for the airport again Sunday evening. Hearing Daniel’s voice made me teary and homesick; my dreams of becoming a Mrs. came flooding back. It just seemed so much easier.

  “I’m in my room now. Go back to bed. I just wanted to say good night.”

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I’m just ready to finish this whole thing.”

  “Home stretch, babe. Home stretch. I love you. Sleep tight.”

  Click.

  When the telephone rang loudly the next morning, I had no idea which city I was in. I picked up the receiver assuming it was my wake-up call, but instead, I heard Sendur’s voice on the other end of the phone.

  “Hi, Sophia. We’re all waiting for you in the lobby. Are you on your way down?”

  Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

  “Yes! I’ll be right down. Give me two minutes!”

  I leaped out of bed, ran to the bathroom while stripping off my pajamas, then fumbled for the toothpaste in my cosmetic bag. As I used my tongue to rub around a glob of Colgate in my mouth, I applied mascara while I peed. It was a miracle, but five minutes later I grabbed a banana out of the fruit basket and ran down the empty hotel hallway. Suddenly, I stopped. Where in the hell is the elevator? The hallways all looked the same by now, and I had no recollection of even arriving last night. I quickly looked both ways and saw an exit sign in the direction I’d just come from, so I turned around and ran that way.

  I was breathless when I reached the lobby; my eyes were swollen, my hair was in a disheveled ponytail, and I was carrying my shoes. Mom would be so proud.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said.

  Scott looked at me. “You have banana on your face.”

  I could feel a smudge of it on the corner of my mouth and tried to play it cool. “I know.”

  “You know you have banana on your forehead?” he asked, wearing a quizzical look.

  I couldn’t help but burst out laughing; my unruly, undisciplined manner caught Scott off guard and the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly.

  Ric ruined my fun. “I hope you get used to this. You’ll be leading this show the next time,” he said.

  I’d rather eat glass. Amazing how quickly the novelty of it all had worn off.

  Jonathan handed me the napkin that was wrapped around his mocha and Sendur passed me my morning soy au lait. “How often do companies do these things?” I practically whimpered.

  “A few times a year—they’re called nondeal roadshows. Your investors like to see you in person every once in a while, and it’s good to give them face time and remind them why they invested. It’s a way to keep the shareholders loyal and engaged,” said the young banker.

  Jesus flipping Christ!

  “Anyway, where were we?” Ric asked. “Oh yeah, the book. Let me tell you how we’re doing and I’ll ride with you guys to the next meeting so I can brief you on today’s meetings.”

  The book was the list of investors who’d contacted our bankers and placed “indications of interest” in Treehouse stock. These forms detailed the number of shares each investor wanted to buy and the price he or she was willing to pay, which usually fell within the price range that was set by bankers before the roadshow started. The point of the roadshow was to build as much demand from investors as possible; the more demand, the higher the price. On occasion, if an IPO was really hot, the bankers would “raise the range,” and that’s what Jonathan and Scott were hoping for.

  The first meeting of the day started like every other, except I noticed something I hadn’t before. Perhaps because I wasn’t so busy trying to listen, I had a chance to observe, and what I saw was fascinating: Scott scanned each batch of new investors we met, reading each one of them to figure out what he needed to say to make the entire room tick. He had an incredible gift—the gift of human observation—even though he seemed to be living in his own world. Based on the investors’ body language, questions, and other things that I hadn’t quite figured out yet (not for lack of trying), Scott ever-so-slightly adjusted his comments for each slide and his responses to each investor question so that his audience’s eyes would almost glaze over in awe. I tried to make the connections he was making—What does he see in that person to make him answer that question that way? And there was a tone to Jonathan’s voice that I noticed; it made people think, Of course I should invest. That was another talent I knew I needed to acquire.

  “No, Mr. Investor. We don’t make any money, we have no experience doing what we’re doing, and, by the way, our hands are tied by the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the industry. But of course you should invest millions in our business. You’d be stupid not to.”

  After our last meeting the next day, we had enough time for an early dinner at a trendy sushi restaurant that Scott wanted to try. Sendur said, “I doubt we can get in. They only take four or five reservations a night, so there’s like a two-month wait at that place. The rest is walk-in.”

  “It’s only five fifteen,” I said. “We’ll get in.”

  Minutes later, Team Treehouse pulled up to the restaurant, which had a line wrapped around the corner. Uh-oh. We’re not getting in. We all got out of the car and I led the way toward the front of the line.

  “How long have you been standing here?” I asked the hungry-looking couple who were waiting patiently just outside the restaurant doors.

  “We got here three hours ago,” the woman said matter-of-factly.

  I laughed, then realized the woman was serious. And she didn’t think it was funny.

  Jonathan opened the door and we all stepped inside the dimly lit hot spot. It was a suave vision of cerused oak, brass, and a combination of teal leather couches and zebra-patterned chairs. I stepped up to the hostess, who looked as though she were made of plastic and h
ad a stick permanently installed up her rear. “Good evening. We don’t have a reservation, but I was hoping there was some way we could get a table for five? We just flew in.”

  She guffawed, then said with a horrified look on her face, “If you don’t have a reservation, I can’t help you. You’ll have to wait like all the others.”

  “There’s no way you can seat us?”

  “Did you see the line out there?” asked Barbie Doll.

  “Your manager may be able to help us. The name is Kraft. Scott Kraft.”

  The name didn’t seem to register with Barbie, but she left her station and told me to hold on. I turned to see Scott’s reaction, but he was staring at the floor, deep in thought. He’d done this a few times over the last two weeks, looking as though the world weighed heavily on his shoulders. He seemed tired and vulnerable when he had this look, and it concerned me. Or maybe I should offer him some applesauce.

  Barbie returned with a large man wearing a baseball cap.

  Mr. Manager, I assume?

  “Hi! Welcome! Come with me, I’ll take you to your seat,” the man said.

  “One of us is vegan. Will you be able to accommodate him?” I asked as I sat down and pointed my chin toward Scott.

  The manager turned to look at my CEO, and he nodded as though my request was no big deal. Twenty minutes later, five different white-gloved waiters carrying beautiful trays of sushi stood before our table.

  “The vegan plate goes to . . . ?” one of the waiters asked.

  “Me. That’s me,” said Scott, staring at the plate of brightly colored vegetable skewers with three different dipping sauces and tightly wrapped vegetable rolls.

  “We made these just for you, Mr. Kraft,” said the owner, who had returned to wish us a “lovely dinner.”

  I picked up my fork and reached over to Scott’s plate to taste one of his sauces.