Conflict of Interest (Employee Relations Book 1)

by Teresa Michaels

  “No!” Sandra exclaims, slamming her fists on the table. “You can’t fire me! This is…you just can’t…this is all a huge misunderstanding!”

  “Sandra,” I begin, words failing me as visions I’ll never be able to erase from my memory flash in my mind.

  I’m scared for life. Two days have passed yet I can’t shake the images. I close my eyes and cringe, recalling the moment that led to this meeting.

  The plane hadn’t even finished its descent on the tarmac when I powered up my phone to check my work email on Saturday night.

  Biggest. Mistake. Ever.

  A new message from Jack Kent, the division president, flagged with a red exclamation mark waited for me. Subject: Read Now!!!! Without a second thought, I clicked on the email and immediately regretted the decision. Humungous, very fake, breasts stared back at me. I frantically tried to close out of the picture and accidentally selected the next.

  I tilted my head to process what I was seeing.

  Was that?

  Oh, yes.

  It was an aerial shot of a Brazilian waxed vagina, spread wide open, with someone’s tongue licking the center. I thought I was going to be sick. Gasping and muttering “Oh, God” was probably the wrong reaction to have with a priest sitting to my right. My apology was drowned out by several Hail Mary’s. I didn’t join in—they weren’t my pictures; my conscious was clean. I did however thank God that the flight was over and prayed the good Father and I would not cross paths again.

  In that moment, I couldn’t figure out why Jack had sent the pictures to me. It must have been a mistake. Some sort of computer virus that had spammed everyone in his contact list. Whatever the reason, I hoped the brain cells that just witnessed those images would die.

  I had minimized that email and groaned as I sank deeper into my seat. Why would Jack send those to me? Pondering the situation didn’t last long as another email from Jack appeared in my inbox. This time the subject demanded that I call him immediately, which meant those pictures were sent on purpose.

  Given my surroundings, a phone call had to wait until I got off the plane. Curiosity got the best of me though, and I returned to the first email and clicked on the last picture. Had I been able to speak, I would have asked the stewardess to pick my jaw up off the floor.

  “Get the fuck out of town,” I had said under my breath. The words had just left my mouth when Rosary beads were placed on my tray, but I paid them no mind.

  Sandra Caine, the Vice President of Strategy sat naked on her desk, knees bent and legs spread like she was in a gynecologist’s chair.

  Why couldn’t I have let myself enjoy the remainder of my vacation? Why?

  Okay, it wasn’t exactly a vacation. I had been in Chicago for a conference and because O’Hare International Airport is about as reliable as the weatherman, I spent most of Saturday being recruited by the Red Hatters in terminal B. Still, the weekend constituted my time.

  If I had just ignored my emails until this morning, a colleague would’ve had to fill in and I wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable right now sitting across the table from a woman I’ve known for years, terminating her from the company.

  But here I am.

  Talk about having a case of the Monday’s.

  “Gabby, we’ve worked together for six years. How can you let this happen?” Sandra pleads.

  Easy, I didn’t spread my legs for my assistant and distribute the documented proof.

  “Sandra, you violated several company policies,” I explain. “As part of the management team—”

  “Jack,” she cries, turning her attention to her soon-to-be former manager. “I never meant to send those pictures to you.”

  Jack looks as uncomfortable as he must feel. His eyes continuously flicker back and forth between me and Sandra, working overtime to maintain eye contact. I feel your pain, buddy. At sixty-three years old I imagine it’s been some time since he’s seen a set of breasts like that belonging to someone he knew and wasn’t married to.

  I’m still shocked she’s a natural redhead.

  “The pictures were taken using your company issued phone and sent via company email and text. That, in and of itself, is grounds for termination,” I retort.

  “Aren’t I allowed to have a personal life? Huh?” Sandra scoffs, her voice getting louder. “Jesus, they were for my boyfriend.”

  Yes, her boyfriend, Jacob Kent. A man who unfortunately has nearly the same email address as her boss, save the number ‘2’ after his first initial and last name.

  “Who is also an employee in your organization,” I remind her. “One that you recently promoted, I might add.”

  “You can’t prove that,” she protests, crossing her arms over her chest.

  As an executive of one of the worlds leading cyber security and risk management companies, Sandra should know better.

  “Actually, we can. A review of your accounts shows that you’ve sent Jacob several pictures and videos of yourself over the last four months. Internal audit is still reviewing your expense reports, but at first glance it would appear there’s been misuse of your company credit card at a number of lavish hotels.”

  Her normally rosy cheeks turn ashen. “Wh-what? How could you? That’s a violation of my privacy! Those pictures and messages are personal.”

  Is she serious? If anyone was violated, it was me! I had to sit with our legal council to review her files all day Sunday. Jack’s lucky he didn’t see what I had. I am literally scarred for life.

  Looking at her now, I never would have thought she was so flexible or that there were so many uses for office supplies. And did she not hear the part that we know there was misuse of her company card?

  “Sandra—”

  “You’re just jealous they weren’t for you,” she accuses Jack, and I swear if it was possible smoke would billow out of his ears.

  His jaw clenches. “I warned you two months ago when I heard you were sleeping with an employee that if there was any merit to the rumors you had to end it, that it was your one chance.”

  “But if you just give me another—”

  Jack wipes a hand over his face. “Jesus.”

  I lightly kick his foot under the table, letting him know that I’ve got this. “Our decision is non-negotiable Sandra. Today is your last day.”

  “What will you tell everyone? This is a small industry; I won’t let you ruin my reputation.”

  “We won’t discuss the reason behind your departure, you know that. The only message that’ll be communicated is you’ve left the company to pursue new opportunities, and your staff will report to Jack until a new leader has been identified.”

  She blinks at me and shakes her head. “You won’t reconsider?” she asks Jack.

  “No.”

  “Fine,” she declares, her tone and expression now glacial. “If we’re done here, I’d like to get my things.”

  On cue, my colleague knocks on the glass wall of the conference room. Normally, I’d never have a private conversation in such an open room, not that the modern design of our building lends itself to privacy. Aside from the executive offices, and those of the HR staff, the rest of the workplace is completely transparent. That said, no one’s in the office yet and Jack wanted security to have visibility on the off chance Sandra lost her cool.

  I motion for my colleague to come in and take the items she’s carrying.

  Sandra looks at her belongings that have been put in my hands—coat, purse and keys. Her gaze narrows on them, then darts to me.

  “I can’t pack up my own office? Are you worried I’ll steal proprietary information, or are you just trying to get me out of her
e before everyone comes in so I don’t cause a scene?”

  Um, both…hello!

  “We did this for your benefit, Sandra. Not ours,” Jack assures her. “Be professional and I won’t contest unemployment.”

  “Unemployment? Please, Jack,” she chides. “My attorney will be contacting you to negotiate a package. I’ve lived and breathed this company from the day I walked through those doors. No one has ever been more committed than I have. I’m entitled—”

  “If you’d like to pack the rest of your belongings before the office opens, I’ll accompany you,” I offer, desperate to get this over with. “Otherwise, we’ll pack and ship your things to your home.”

  “Fifteen fucking years.” Sandra glares at me, clearly offended that I’ve stopped her tirade. She’s been on the other side of a termination meeting plenty of times; she knows the drill. “Pack it yourself,” she snaps.

  She abruptly slides her chair back from the table and stands, collecting her belongings. Riffling through her purse, she chucks her company issued phone, company card and security badge across the table, one at a time. Biting her lip, she stares through the glass, out into the open office area.

  “What’s going to happen to Jacob?” she asks, her voice suddenly laced with concern.

  “I’m not at liberty to speak with you about anyone else’s employment,” I tell her.

  To be honest, I’m not sure what we’ll do. He received and signed off on the same employee handbook that everyone else received. Company policy does not lend itself to employee relationships, especially when one of the employees has influence over the compensation and career trajectory of the other.

  Sandra nods, taking a moment to compose herself. “All right, shall we?” she prompts, knowing one of us has to walk her out of the building. In this situation, I decide it’ll be me.

  Jack owes me big time.

  Escorted by security, we ride down the elevator together in awkward silence. Our high-heels click against the marble floor in unison until we reach the front door.

  With her hand touching the handle, Sandra pauses and turns to me. I hold out my hand to say goodbye and wish her well, but she refuses.

  “Wipe that judgmental look off your face,” she hisses. A speck of spit lands on my cheek and I cringe knowing where her mouth has been.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re thinking how badly I’ve fucked up my career. It’s written all over,” she accuses, swirling her pointer finger in the air a mere inch from my face. “Maybe I have…but the sex was worth it.” She leans forward, getting way closer that necessary and nearly snarls. “Screw you and your bullshit theories on right and wrong.”

  Sandra pulls back marginally and grins wickedly. “Not to worry. Your day will come. You pretentious. Little. Bitch.”

  I square my shoulders and school my expression into one that’s professional. “I—”

  “Fuck off!” Her parting words echo throughout the lobby.

  I let out a sigh of relief when the door closes behind her. Well, that went well. I take out my phone and text Jack that she’s gone. Noting the time, I groan. My first “fuck off” of the day and it’s not even 8AM.

  My phone buzzes with a reply before I reach the bank of elevators.

  Jack: Good. I want to discuss Sandra’s backfill. He starts next Monday.

  “Drinking alone is usually the first sign of a problem,” I tease Kyra, who scowls at me briefly before resuming whatever she’s doing on her phone.

  On the last Friday of every month, my roommate Summer, our friend Kyra and I meet at Alibi, a cocktail lounge in Boston’s renovated penitentiary, the Liberty hotel.

  It’s a tradition we started three years ago shortly after we began our careers. Being that all of us are Human Resources Business Partners we found that work had taken over our lives, becoming the subject of nearly all our conversations. The more invested we became in our jobs, we found we spent too much time outside the office focusing on employee relations nightmares such as employee misconduct, progressive discipline, grievances…you name it, instead of bonding over more important aspects of life.

  Men.

  We resolved the problem by limiting these kinds of discussions to once a month. And since each of us is competitive in our own way, we also turned it into a game of sorts.

  “Well, if you bitches were ever on time, I wouldn’t have been alone, now would I?”

  I laugh and flag down the waiter to order us all a round of drinks. Kyra continues typing furiously with her thumbs on her phone’s miniature keypad, stopping every few seconds to toss her silky, black hair over her shoulder while simultaneously cursing.

  “We’ll take one Rosemary’s Baby, a Jailbait and a Rehab.” The waiter winks and walks away.

  Without looking up, Kyra informs me, “If Summer’s not here soon I’m having her drink too.”

  I shake my head at her antics and scour the crowd for any sign of our tardy friend.

  Summer and I have been roommates since our freshman year of college. She’s the product of two teen parents who couldn’t afford to raise her and spent her entire adolescence in foster care. No matter how hard growing up was, Summer never let her circumstances get in the way of her dreams. She got accepted to college on a scholarship and worked part-time all four years. Getting to know her isn’t easy but once you do you’re bonded for life. She’s as loyal as they come but also unforgiving when it comes to second chances. I pity the men who have wronged her and unfortunately there have been a few.

  Shortly after starting graduate school, Summer and I met Kyra who was in our program but also getting her law degree. Her given name is Jung, which means “silent and chaste”. It would have been the perfect name for a traditional Korean daughter. Unfortunately for her parents it’s her life-long mission to piss them off. She legally changed her name on her eighteenth birthday to Kyra, which based on her Internet research means “strong woman”. She hoped it’d send them over the edge, and internally I’m sure it did, though they’ll never admit it and still won’t call her anything but Jung.

  To this day she refuses to date an Asian man just to spite them.

  Kyra drops her phone into her purse precisely at the same time the waiter attempts to set her drink on the table. She intercepts her orange vodka concoction and tosses it back in one fluid motion before proceeding to order another.

  “Bad day?” I guess while allowing the waiter to actually set my drink down.

  Kyra grins wickedly. “I’m totally winning tonight, let’s leave it at that.”

  “I wouldn’t get overconfident if I were you,” I warn in a sing-song voice. There’s no way her situation can trump mine.

  “Well, if Summer ever shows up, we’ll find out.”

  As if on cue, Summer struts through the door in dramatic fashion. I say strut because she walks like she’s on a runway and looks the part too, with long blond hair, even longer legs and an obnoxiously flawless body. She has the name and physique of a stripper and the intelligence of a member of Mensa.

  Throwing her purse and a shopping bag into an empty chair, Summer grabs a shot from a passing patron and slams the empty glass on the table.

  “I’m going first,” Summer demands.

  “Not a chance,” Kyra retorts, crossing her arms over her chest. “Rules are rules, ladies. I won last month. I’m up.”

  We don’t have many rules, but the few we have are sacred. The winner of last month always goes first at the next ‘meeting’. Second, no using real names or titles. Third, the case you describe must have taken place in the last month and has to be your issue; not a colleagues. Last but not least, the winner doesn’t pay for drinks anytime we go out over the course of the next month.

  Summer glares at Kyra over the rim of her martini. “Get started then. Unless of course you want to wait a few more minutes so you can remember what it was like to be first.”

  “Ooohh. Someone’s in a mood,” Kyra teases. “Just for that you can wait until I finis
h this drink.” Summer huffs and rolls her eyes as Kyra pulls her into a hug. “All right, all right. Let me put you out or your misery.”

  Kyra launches into describing a case she recently investigated where a female leader was accused of discriminating against the men she managed. At first it appeared that the leader was supportive of diversity, hiring women of all ages and ethnicities in a male-dominated field. Sure the women were advancing faster than their male peers, but all employees had development plans in place and the experience and education of the women was superior to that of the men. Kyra was close to dismissing the allegations when one of the women came forward during the investigation with proof that the leader was exchanging sexual favors for promotions…but only with the female employees.

  “It’s an interesting case given that men aren’t typically the ones claiming discrimination, but not worthy of first place,” I tell Kyra.

  “That’s because you didn’t let me get to the part where the deciding factor in which woman got promoted was based on a point system. The leader kept an electronic file that not only kept a running tally of her subordinates ‘achievements’,” she air-quotes. “There were defined guidelines tied to the performance review process.”

  “What do mean?” Summer asks.

  “That if the manager was in the mood for some oral and ‘Sue’ was able to juggle her work commitments and service her manager during the day, it equated to Sue exceeding expectations. She got more points, a better review and the promotion.” Kyra crosses her arms over her chest.

  I drop my head to the side and think over the details. “Wait a minute. What about the men? And why is this a discrimination case verses harassment?” I blurt out my questions as Kyra takes a bite of calamari. She holds up a finger indicating she needs a minute.

  “One of the guys on the team found out about the point system from a woman who was passed up for a promotion. He in turn told the two other men on the team and over time, each of them propositioned the manager and all were turned down.” Kyra takes another drink. “They were completely on board so naturally they couldn’t claim harassment.”

  “So they claimed discrimination?” Summer asks.