“Chuck, it all makes sense,” he agreed.
“It’s an unusual series of events, to say the least,” I replied, pleased with how convincing I was.
“You’ve thought this through with great care, as usual,” he continued.
I acknowledged the compliment but was wary of the fact that he gave one.
“As tempting as it is to hit the PAUSE button on this,” he added, “let’s press forward and discuss it with the management committee this afternoon. It’s too critical.”
I almost threw up for the second time in twenty-four hours.
“Pat,” I choked, “that was going to be my recommendation.”
For the next three hours I placed frantic calls to every phone number associated with Power of One. I left several messages on the room phone at the Omni Hotel. I sent urgent emails and rat-a-tat texts featuring a growing proportion of capital letters until the last one simply read: CALL ME!
All I got back was silence. I had no choice but to go over to the Omni and camp out in the lobby, where I hoped to run into Rebecca.
Sitting on one of the sofas in the upper level facing Grand Avenue, I replayed the events of that morning and regretted having underestimated Pat. I had lulled myself into thinking he was just a doddering old exec, but he still had his corporate manipulation wits about him. I needed to remember that if you can’t see yourself being played, it’s already too late. I was so absorbed in rethinking how I could have done better with Pat that I almost missed Rebecca.
She crossed the lower section of the lobby that led onto Olive Street. I called out her name, but she either didn’t hear me over the din or she outright pretended not to hear me. The purposeful way she strode out the revolving doors and into the valet loop—almost too purposeful—made me think it was the latter.
I placed a call to her cell and watched as she grabbed her phone, checked the number, and pushed me straight to voicemail before jumping into an idling taxi.
I hustled down the stairs and ran out into the valet loop. I jumped into the back of the next taxi in line and instructed the driver to follow the car ahead of him.
“You serious?” he asked, making no move to heed my instructions.
I made up some lie about it being my wife and hinted that she might be doing something she shouldn’t. I must have nicked some once-spurned scar because the driver said nothing as he put the car in gear and pulled in behind Rebecca’s taxi.
Clearly, Power of One didn’t think too highly of the contract with my firm, because after ignoring my call, Rebecca did a series of errands in and around downtown, none of which had anything to do with the presentation. She led us off the hill to a shopping center near the Staples Center, then to an office building that overlooked the downtown skyline from its perch on the north side of the freeway. It looked like a delivery because she entered with a shopping bag and emerged ten minutes later without it. She made a few more stops before concluding her journey at a medical mega-complex of Soviet-style structures in Lincoln Heights. This time she released her taxi and entered the maze of buildings.
No-showing on the presentation with the board was unacceptable. That kind of behavior was something you’d expect from Julie, the eccentric thinker of the group, not from the team’s stalwart organizer. Power of One was always something of a nuisance to me but never a major concern. They were the equivalent of making my long glide into retirement a little more turbulent than necessary, but these latest developments threatened to take the plane down entirely.
I checked my watch and realized I needed to get back to the office for the presentation to the management committee. As I made the short return trip, I worked over in my head what I would say now that I had to give the speech without the benefit of Julie being there to defend her work.
Any hope of an easy time of it was dashed when I entered the boardroom. Everyone was in attendance and looked eager to hear what I had to say, none more so than Pat, who sat there smiling like a gambler on the right side of a rigged fight.
Pat started the meeting by quickly briefing the committee before launching into the attack before I could even get through my prepared remarks.
“Do you still believe in Power of One?” he asked, in a masterful stroke of manipulation. The inclusion of still assumed I believed in them in the first place.
“I believe in what they’re trying to accomplish,” I replied.
“But are they going to get us over the goal line?” asked one of the committee members, unaware that we phased out football-related jargon several years earlier, following the national uproar against concussions.
“We’re a unique firm, with unique needs,” I replied, playing into their misplaced view that our firm was somehow special in the industry.
“Are we seeing the results in the engagement scores?” Pat challenged.
None of the committee members wanted to accept the dismal scores coming in from the recent employee survey. They couldn’t figure out why no one shared the same level of satisfaction with the work they were doing (and more importantly, with the compensation that came with it). That disconnect led us to perpetually pursue solutions that didn’t exist.
Sometimes it manifested itself in concrete ideas, like the continuous rollout of new Power of One programs. Or the extreme example of hiring a chief engagement officer, who after six months of staring at a blank screen, as she tried to figure out what she was actually supposed to do, just walked out and never returned. But mostly it meant people like me having to persuade everyone that our folks actually found passion in their meaningless work.
“Remember what Julie has always preached: ‘Engagement is a journey, not an event.’”
I had thus far successfully avoided being pinned down, but it was only a matter of time before it happened. I could feel the frustration building. I flirted with losing the confidence of the committee members entirely.
Pat pounced.
“That brings up a good point,” he said. “Where is Julie?”
“Yes, why isn’t she here?” someone else piled on.
“Is this not important to her?” rang the chorus.
They served up the opening I needed to throw Julie and Power of One under the bus. But only a fool would have taken it. As much as I relished the opportunity to purge two decades’ worth of complaints about them, I knew better than to pursue that tactic because ultimately, it would be used against me.
“Julie couldn’t be here today,” I began, “because she is working on something revolutionary.”
Pat looked at me like I had lost my mind. But this time, he underestimated me.
I praised the new program for the lasting contributions it would make to the firm and to the individuals enrolled in it. I used all of the buzzwords of the truly disingenuous—powerful, transformative, indelible, and significant.
Pat looked disappointed. While he understood that ultimately I’d need to come back and prove these broad statements—something we both knew I couldn’t do—he had tasted blood and wasn’t ready to delay the finishing blow for another month until the next committee meeting.
“After all the failures they’ve had up to now,” he started, “what gives you confidence that they will be successful this time around?”
All eyes settled on me. I paused a good ten seconds before responding.
“Let me tell you about someone,” I began. “A guy early in his career driven only by the paycheck and the promise of promotion. His success was defined by personal advancement and although he accomplished that in spades, he wasn’t a success in the truest sense of the word. But then he started working with Julie St. Jean. And he learned to harness the power of mindful collaboration. Only then did he realize what real success looked like—making others better.”
I paused before delivering the obvious punch line.
“That someone was Chuck Restic.”
Pat may have stared at me with an icy glare, but I got five heads nodding around him. He knew enough to not press it furt
her.
“We look forward to reviewing their new revolutionary program,” he said flatly.
Poor Pat would never get the chance to see it. I was going to get Power of One to resign long before that ever happened.
HORSE PILLS
A little-known secret of Corporate America is that nearly sixty percent of employees who are “let go” are never officially terminated. Most leave voluntarily to “pursue other opportunities outside the firm.” That carefully crafted language indemnifies the company from future lawsuits and relieves it from paying unemployment claims. The reason so many associates agree to such lose-lose terms lies in the simple yet powerful technique of repeated humiliation.
The process begins benignly enough under the guise of helping the employee overcome an issue. But despite the countless regular meetings with HR and their manager, the issue never seems to get resolved. If it does, another issue crops up to replace it. These discussions begin to feel like they will never end. They won’t.
An air of inevitability takes over, the process hurtling toward an outcome that always ends with their resignation. Of course, the associate is resigned long before the actual resignation comes in. Men have more pride and prove easier to shame than women, but both buckle eventually. Sociopaths are the only ones impervious to this technique, and with them you’re better off just terminating and dealing with the lawsuit later.
I can’t remember the number of times I navigated people through this process, but I do recall all of their faces on the day they finally “agreed” to part ways. The dignity of walking out of the building on their own was worth far more than the financial benefits of being terminated. The strangest part was that almost every one of them, often at the very end when they stood at the threshold to the elevator that would snuff out their career, thanked me for all I did for them.
Those ghosts still haunt me.
I had found my pressure point that afternoon when doing some research on Power of One. It was an interesting tidbit in a building management company’s newsletter, announcing the exciting news that they would have a new tenant—an innovative consulting firm that would use the space to hold large lecture sessions complete with state-of-the-art interactive capabilities. The building was the very one Rebecca had visited earlier that morning. But something was off.
The date on the article was over a year earlier, which meant the lease was probably signed long before that. It looked like the Power of One women had overextended themselves, a common mistake of consultant outfits whose vision is grander than their ability to execute it. Fiscal irresponsibility and financial peril were fertile ground for me to pressure them into resigning.
My plan was to lay out for Julie and Rebecca an augmentation of their program. Our firm was fully committed if—and this was where the stress point hit—they could deliver. I’d ask for certain things I knew their small outfit couldn’t handle. I’d overwhelm them with requests for more and more deliverables until they reached a breaking point. Throughout, I’d constantly ask about their financial situation to apply more pressure.
I was certain it would work, but I didn’t necessarily feel good about it. I just wanted this entire thing to be over.
I tried to beat the elevator rush by leaving a little early, but everyone else had the same idea. The busiest time was always ten minutes before people were supposed to leave for the day. As the throng was let out and flowed down into the parking garage and the standstill traffic that ultimately awaited, I peeled off and made the short walk over to the Omni Hotel.
After the third ring on the house phone, I was just about to give up when Rebecca answered. She sounded both exhausted and hopeful but settled on disappointed when it finally registered who was calling her.
“I’m downstairs,” I said. “Can I come up?”
In her disorientation she accepted and gave me her room number.
Rebecca was slow to answer the door. She kept one hand on the doorframe, but it was more for her own support than any kind of gesture to keep me out. The poor lighting from the hallway mercilessly accentuated every hollow, every wrinkle in her face. She looked beaten down.
Five steps into the room, I found out why.
A quick glance told me she had been staying here for longer than one night. There were large suitcases and clothes everywhere. Boxes of Power of One training guides sat in a corner. And on the narrow secretary were a large water bottle, a glass, and a simple tray lined with orange prescription bottles. There were nearly fifteen of them in various sizes, neatly laid out with the lids all on but not closed tight. Labels faced out. The symmetry spoke of routine.
I pulled my eyes from the orange bottles and met Rebecca’s gaze.
“I’m not sure that’s any of your concern,” she stated flatly.
My mind rushed back ten years to another tray of pills laid out in a remarkably similar fashion. This one sat on the counter in my father’s kitchen in between the cupboard with the juice glasses and the sink. I remember him standing there every morning as he methodically made his way through the bottles. He’d stare out the little window over the sink at the climbing rosebush outside. The process took up to twenty minutes, particularly when he had to get up the fortitude to swallow the larger pills. Eventually, when he didn’t have the strength to stand for such a long period, his routine moved from the kitchen counter to the couch. By the time he moved to the hospice bed in the living room, there was no longer any reason to take the pills.
“What do you want?” she asked.
What I wanted was to duck my head and leave. But now that I was there, I had to come up with a viable reason for dropping in unannounced. I began vaguely with some comments about “progress toward mutual goals” and “getting traction on core deliverables” and got vaguer still the more I spoke. The clearest solution to the hole I was digging was to just put down the shovel. Instead, I doubled down and rambled on for another three minutes.
“Huh?” she replied.
Rebecca’s one-word response perfectly captured her bewilderment and the fact that I had used many words to say absolutely nothing.
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here,” she challenged.
“Like I said, I just wanted to—”
“Really here,” she interrupted.
“I thought we could regroup on the program,” I started again, but Rebecca wasn’t buying any of it.
“Are you trying to fire us?”
“Fire?” I repeated incredulously.
Rebecca was smart enough to realize that the repetition of her question squarely confirmed that that was the exact reason for my visit. I watched her pallid complexion get a little less so. She regained some of her balance, her eyes got some vigor back in them, and in that brief instant she looked healthy again.
The demonstration proved life’s great motivator after fear was anger.
“We’re not quitting,” she stated.
“I understand you guys are going through a lot right now—”
“Do you, now?”
“Well maybe not everything—”
“Get out,” she hissed.
We had officially passed the point at which all hopes of rescuing the discussion were lost. It was best to heed her request and live to fight another day.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered pathetically.
I made my way toward the door. As I opened it, I was greeted by a deep voice, one far deeper than Julie St. Jean’s. Attached to it was a short-nosed gun pointed right at my stomach.
OKAY
Where’s Fitch?” asked the man.
He couldn’t have been more than five-and-a-half-feet tall, with a neck so thick that no standard collar could wrap around it. His physique was in the bowling ball category—round and hard. He was probably in his sixties and looked like he had a lot of vinegar left in him.
“Who?” I asked.
“Fitch,” the man repeated. “I’m looking for Jimmy Fitch.”
“I, I think you have the wrong roo
m…” I said, turning for confirmation from Rebecca.
“Who is it?” she asked behind me. “What does he want?”
I was obstructing her view of the man and, more importantly, of the gun pointed at my stomach. Therefore, she didn’t feel the need to tread lightly around him. If anything, she was overly antagonistic.
“Tell him to buzz off.”
“I think you have the wrong room,” I said softly. “Probably just an honest mistake.”
“Both of you get out,” Rebecca sniped.
The man took that as his invitation to come inside. I found myself backing into the room and trying to get as far from the barrel of the gun as possible.
“What’d I just say?” Rebecca shouted. “I told you to get out.”
“Everyone just relax,” I said, in an attempt to defuse the situation. No one likes to be told to relax, and this man was no exception. He flicked his free hand and shoved me backward. My foot caught the edge of the bed and I tumbled dramatically to the floor.
“Jesus! Take it easy,” I cried, in a voice a little too whiny for my own liking.
The man stood over me as he surveyed the room. His eyes darted from one object to the next, looking for something familiar, but with each turn of his head he grew less certain. He blinked his way to the conclusion that he did indeed have the wrong room. He didn’t apologize. He turned and quietly exited.
I cautiously followed him to the door and locked it. The fish-eye view out the peephole showed the hallway was empty, but I couldn’t be sure. I hoped Rebecca had forgotten about kicking me out earlier, even just for a minute to give me time to put more distance between me and the armed man.
“Do you know that guy?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“What about the man he was looking for? I think he said the name Fitch?”
Again, she shook her head.
I glanced around. Suddenly this little box of a corporate hotel room situated on a heavily patrolled hill in downtown no longer felt very safe. Even the heavy door with three forms of locks and latches looked ominous.
The Big Con Page 3