by Leslie Wolfe
"What's keeping you from making me money out of the strategic projects? Just because we're fixing an issue doesn't mean we shouldn't be looking to cut some costs while we're at it, right?"
"Yes, but—"
"No buts, Mr. Wilson, get me my money. That's what you signed up for when you took this job. If you can't find me my money, I'll take it out of your paycheck. It's too fat as it is."
"Sir, it might happen that the solutions we propose to some of these issues could potentially require us to put money back into the product. Our numbers indicate that, in some cases, the cost cutting might have been the root cause."
"Really? Didn't I say as clearly as possible that you were supposed to cut costs without bringing down quality?"
Robin was nodding her enabling approval again.
"Yes, sir," Peter mumbled.
"Then put back the cost you absolutely have to, fix the errors you've made, and find the money elsewhere. Find some people we can fire . . . I can't possibly believe we need all these people around here. Have you seen the cafeteria lately? This morning I had to wait almost five minutes to get my coffee. Our payroll is way too fat."
"Well, sir," Peter ventured, "we also grew quite significantly as a business. Our revenue increased by almost 20 percent over the previous year. We do need more people if we're growing so fast."
"I don't care about any growth. I don't!" Walker slammed his fist some more. "Do you know why I pay people like you more than they're worth?" No one dared to respond. "Because I need you to figure out ways in which you can get me the money I want. Growth rate is no excuse for hiring hordes of incompetents to crowd the parking lots and coffee lines. Find me some money, or I will take it out of your paychecks."
"If I might intervene," Alex heard herself say. She couldn't tolerate the abuse any longer.
"No, you may not!" Walker slammed her, without hesitation.
Janet gave her a comforting glance.
"We'll meet again in two weeks," Walker said. "Better have it figured out by then. Defect rates under control and cost savings as planned. Is that understood?"
Everyone nodded slightly.
"Dismissed!"
They started gathering their things to leave the room, while Walker did not move from his chair.
"Miss Hoffmann, please stay behind," he said, giving Alex the chills. She should have seen this coming.
Peter was the last to leave the conference room, gently closing the door behind him.
"Yes, sir?" Alex said.
"Never, ever interrupt me again," Walker said, in his roaring voice, filled with anger and contempt. "The only opinions you are authorized to express in this room should be in direct alignment and support of our goals, such as quality improvement and cost cutting. Do not speak, unless spoken to. As a support function, you are here to take notes of what I want to have done, by when. Your opinions aren't welcome, not now, not ever. This is not a democracy, where everyone gets to vote and feel important. This is a business. Is that understood?"
She nodded silently.
"Dismissed."
She rose and left the room, trying to walk straight and keep her knees from shaking. Goddamn, sick son of a bitch! You do get off on humiliating people!
...61
...Friday, July 9, 7:55PM
...Alex Hoffmann's Residence
...Carmel Valley, San Diego, California
Alex was trying on outfits in front of the mirror . . . seemed like déjà vu, only this time she found herself aiming for more seductive attire. She didn't know why and refused to think about it or rationalize any of it. Ever since Steve's invitation for dinner, she had been restlessly anticipating the date. What was it? Steve was just a colleague of hers, a mentor and a friend, nothing more. This was not a date. This was going to be more of a business meeting. He probably wanted an update on the status of her investigation, and to check up on her, to see if she was all right. Maybe. Whatever. She could still look sexy for it, right? Sexy, but not desperate, she tempered herself cynically, as she chose her attire with care.
Probably everyone else at that mysterious restaurant would wear short skirts, so she opted for a black Jones New York Platinum Collection pair of pants, which accented her slim waist, and a shimmering white, silk blouse, which showed just enough cleavage to be intriguing. She picked up a leather Gucci travel wallet, instead of her usual briefcase. She was ready. She sat in front of the TV, waiting for the doorbell to ring and reminiscing of high school dates, filled with the anxiety of anticipation.
The doorbell finally rang, startling Alex from her reverie. Steve, looking better than ever, stood in the doorway.
"Ready?"
"Yes."
He opened the car door for her, in a gesture of gallantry rarely seen these days.
"Nice ride you have here," Alex couldn't refrain from commenting. "I haven't seen a six series in this color."
"Well, I've customized it a little," he said proudly.
"How little?"
"Not much, really. I've increased its horsepower, which led to the need to enhance the suspension and drive control. Then I had this special order matte charcoal paint done and a few other minor things."
"Ah, that little," she said, and they both laughed.
Alex noted the luxurious feel of the leather interior and the overall feeling of comfort and class.
"Oh, and it has the same customized air conditioning system that you have," he added with a wink.
"Just a little customization, huh?" She smiled appreciatively. The 650i was definitely a head turner. "Where are you taking me?"
"We're going to explore one of southern California's finest dining places, called the Garden of Sins."
"Sounds intriguing, where is it?"
"A few minutes away. Well, more like thirty or so."
"Ah, that few," she laughed again. "You have a natural gift for understating."
It felt good to be able to relax and chat casually with someone who knew who she really was. No secret agendas, no concern for saying the wrong thing, tipping her hand, or getting caught. No concern for her safety either, while traveling with this careful and thoughtful man and enjoying the ride in his luxurious car.
The restaurant, set up nicely in the backyard of a sizeable home, was divided by intriguing landscape arrangements, lit discreetly by lanterns suspended in mature trees. Half-buried light projectors delivered well-positioned beams of ambiance light to emphasize particular aspects of the landscaping. Alex noticed there was no sign to indicate the restaurant's name.
"It's more like a private club," Steve clarified. "You have to know it's there and be a member. Membership is free, yet exclusive."
"How's membership granted?"
"Referral and approval only. I was lucky to be accepted; the owner and I went to school together. This is the house he grew up in. His parents died when he was still in college, and he starting throwing these parties to pay for school, to support himself, and to try to keep the house. Nothing outrageous, just good food and good atmosphere. Before a couple of years had gone by, he was highly successful. Now he's netting a few million a year from this."
"I bet the food is great, if that's the case. Good, 'cause I'm starving."
They sat at a remote table, in a distant corner of the garden, lit discreetly by a lantern hanging from a huge California oak. She opened the menu and smiled.
"Now I see why it's called the Garden of Sins. 'Wicked Coffee-Cured Steak, Immoral Lobster Tail, Indecent Midwestern Filet,' wow . . . They are all sinful, I'll give you that. Really creative, this high school buddy of yours," Alex said, smiling. "What do you recommend?"
"The Shameless Crab is amazing, and all the steaks are quite off the charts. I actually can't think of one item that I don't enjoy."
"I'll take the Wicked Steak. I am curious about this coffee-cured thing." She closed the menu and set it aside, for the waiter to pick up.
"You should hold on to that menu, you might want dessert."
&nbs
p; "Usually they take the menu away."
"True, yet strange and counterintuitive for the restaurant owner who wants to sell more. My friend knows that rule. Therefore, this is one of the few dining places where they do not yank the menu out of your hands while you're still at the table."
"Makes sense," Alex agreed.
The waiter noted their preferences. Steve ordered the Maliciously Peppered Filet, for himself, and French wine to go with their steaks.
"So, how are you?" Steve asked, as soon as the waiter was gone. He soon returned with aperitifs, giving Alex time to think about her answer. She needed Steve's advice on a lot of things.
"Well, I don't really know sometimes," she said, blushing slightly. "This was supposed to be an easy enough question, an ice breaker, right?"
He nodded, his eyes focused on her delicate features.
"Well, it's not so easy for me, I'm afraid," she continued. "Sometimes I feel that I'm close to finishing this assignment. I think I know who the bad guys are. Then I stop and think: what do I really know? I know that some of these leaders are abusive, mean, selfish, greedy, and acting as such. I know that some of their demands are ridiculous, and that these demands might have caused failures in some processes. However, I still think I'm missing something. Do I know precisely who spiked my coffee and set me up? No, I don't. Do I know precisely who all the players are in the stock-price game? No, I don't know that either. There has been some mention of using media articles to control the price of the stock, but I have no hard evidence that someone is actually doing it."
"I see," Steve said, carefully listening. "How do you feel about all this?"
"You're being a shrink with me," Alex said, with a sad smile.
Steve shrugged. "Can't help it, it's who I am."
"Never mind, I need it. I feel frustrated and scared. I'm frustrated, because I can't seem to get to the bottom of this. I can't seem to make enough undisputable progress to take these guys down and make things better. These are dangerous people, you know, and I'm right there in the middle of the snake pit, afraid for myself, afraid that I won't be able to figure them out, and afraid that my hesitation, or maybe my lack of experience doing this kind of work, could cause delays in our ability to stop this chain of drone-related events. And that means more people could die, because I'm not fast enough, or smart enough, or bold enough."
"Oh, but you are fast enough to bring blame on yourself, aren't you?"
Steve surprised her with his question.
"What do you mean?"
"Let's think of serial killers, for example. After they kill their first victim, and she is found, the cops working that case should be, in your opinion, directly responsible for all the subsequent killings, until the serial killer is caught. Right?"
"Well, to some extent—"
"No, that's not correct. Not unless they do a sloppy job, lose evidence, not show up for work, or whatever else they could do other than their absolute best to get the killer caught. Are you with me on this?"
"Yes, but I don't see how it correlates to my situation," Alex pushed back.
"Wait for it. Are you doing your absolute best to get this job done?"
"Yes, I am," she smiled, starting to see the encouragement he was giving her.
"Then you should be fine, and you shouldn't be blaming yourself for any potential future drone-related deaths that could happen until you catch your killers."
"OK, I get it."
"Self-blame, check!" Steve said humorously, marking an imaginary task list. "Let's move to self-doubt now, shall we? What's on your mind?"
"I don't know that I'll be able to figure all this out, to the last one of the questions we have. Who did what and why? I've been right there among them for a month now and I don't seem to know any more than I did the first week. I have more suspicions about some individuals, but nothing concrete. What am I missing? I can't stop thinking that someone faster, more experienced than me, would do a better job at this."
"Do you want to throw in your towel? You know, you would have every right to, especially after last weekend," Steve asked, referring to the traumatic event of her arrest.
"That was scary and disappointing. I felt alone, frightened, and abandoned. I hated feeling like that. Then I felt relieved and grateful when they released me, only to feel cheated hours later, when Tom said he had not raised a finger to help me. None of you did."
"I can understand that, and you're justified in feeling all that." Steve paused for a minute, letting Alex appreciate he was not challenging her at all. "You know, Tom lost someone a couple of years back. One of us."
"I didn't know that. Who? And how?"
"He was a promising and talented computer expert, just like you—ambitious, bold, and smart. He was deployed to work with a client, and then he caved under the pressure and turned to drugs. Never said a word to any of us. We all noticed he was a little edgy, but we blamed it on the stress of his double job. When asked, he also blamed it on the stress of his work. A month later, he was hooked badly on amphetamines, crystal meth, and any other form of performance-enhancing drug he could lay his hands on. Then he made a mistake on the client side, and jumped off the roof. Tom was devastated, he felt personally responsible. We all did."
They sat silent for a while.
"I'm still not going to forgive Tom that easily for last week, you know," Alex said, in a softer voice. "He should have trusted me. He should have given me the benefit of the doubt."
"Yes, he should have. Brian got the coffee filter analyzed, and the rest of your office and home, looking for clues."
"He was in my home? Oh, my God!" She thought of her habit to leave her clothing scattered on the floor, just where it happened to fall, and blushed.
"He didn't mention anything worth worrying about. When he found the meth traces in your coffee filter, Tom realized just how wrong he'd been. But, by then, they had already released you."
"Not forgiven yet," Alex repeated.
"I'm not asking you to forgive him. Just allow him to make it up to you."
"That, we shall see," Alex said, smiling.
"Ah, the steaks are here," Steve said, rubbing his hands together.
They started eating their succulent meals.
"You know," Steve said, "the best way to gauge the quality of the food is by observing how silently people eat. Good food allows for no conversation."
"True. So, why are you talking?"
"I gotta apologize for not speaking with you while we have our dinner together, right?"
"Wrong. Please let me enjoy this steak without having to talk my way through it." They both laughed. It felt so good, just being herself with him.
With dinner out of the way, Steve resumed the original course of conversation.
"We haven't dealt with self-doubt yet, you know. What else is bothering you?" Steve asked, refilling her glass with wine.
"These guys, I can't figure out their limits. How far would they go? Initially I thought they would only go so far, but then I ended up in jail and figured out we were in a different kind of game. I'm afraid I'm not that good at reading people. I don't know, even from the victims, if some of them wouldn't do something stupid, just because of the pressure."
"The victims?"
"Some of these leaders are victims of others. They are constantly pushed and humiliated, mocked, insulted, set up to fail, and threatened. Some of them might cave. I can't even figure out why some of them don't just get the hell out of there. Why do they let themselves be subjected to such abuse? You see, I feel like I lack the basic understanding of human nature, to figure out even this much."
"OK, let's figure it out together," Steve said calmly. "Life is mostly easy when you're young, free, and single. If you have a wife, potentially sick, and a bunch of kids to feed, you don't own your life anymore. Chances are you barely make ends meet, and you can't afford the dignity of walking away from abuse, holding your head up. Nope, if you're that man, you endure. Sometimes it happens that you ca
n't endure anymore, and can't leave either. Then you snap. You do something stupid, break the law, get a gun, and shoot someone. We've all seen it in the news. It even has a name, it's called going postal."
"In reference to the incident where a postal worker shot his manager?"
"Yes, only there wasn't just one incident, there were many more." Steve paused to take a sip of wine. He raised his fingers discreetly, pointing at the empty bottle. The waiter returned promptly with a new bottle.
"It could also happen that, due to prolonged exposure to abuse and the impossibility to leave, some victims, as you call them, end up developing Stockholm syndrome. You'll recognize these victims by the fact that they will endorse the abuse, find excuses for it, even defend the abuser."
"I think I have seen one of those," Alex said, thinking of Miles Putnam.
"You have to keep in mind that, most likely, the majority of these employees are, in fact, hostages. Do you remember we discussed this?"
"Yes. How far can a hostage go? After all, it's just a job—"
"It's not just a job, it's survival. It's having food and shelter for tomorrow, for yourself and your family. It's so much more than just a job. They can go really far if they're pushed."
"Let me ask you something else then."
He nodded, encouragingly.
"How far would you take this? Would you settle to figure out the majority of the problem, and the most likely wrongdoers, so Dr. Barnaby can fire them and fix the issue? Or would you continue digging until you have proof enough to hold some of them responsible in court?"
"Personally, I would hate to let the villains go with a nice severance package instead of a prison sentence. Setting you up last week was a crime, you know. Do you know who did it?"
"I have an educated guess, that's all I have," she sighed.
"Then that's not enough, or, at least, it wouldn't be for me."
She agreed, tapping gently on her glass to signal it was empty. She felt a bit lightheaded, but relaxed.
"I wasn't even able to visit the plant, you know, during all this time. I am sure that I'll understand more once I see the plant. It took the client's intervention to make it happen, but I am finally going there next week."