by Dan Webb
44
In the cramped conference room, Brad pressed on.
“Mr. Hubbard, you spend more than a million dollars a year, but have a salary of only one million dollars. If you don’t sell stock, how do you fund your lifestyle—the house in the hills, the cars, all the rest of it?”
“Liberty pays me other compensation.”
“How much other compensation did Liberty pay you last year?”
“I’d have to check,” Luke said.
Brad opened another of his folders and passed the papers from inside to Luke. “Here is Liberty’s most recent shareholder proxy statement,” he said. “This lists how much you and the other top executives got paid last year. What does it list as your total compensation last year?”
“Just over twenty million dollars.”
“Is that number accurate?”
“If that’s what the proxy says, I believe it,” Luke said.
“Personally, twenty million is a number that I would have remembered,” Brad said with a smile.
“Objection,” Alan said.
“And of that twenty million, one million was salary. Where did the other nineteen million come from?”
Luke again checked the proxy statement Brad had given him. “Eighteen million from my bonus plan, the rest is attributable to various perks and accounting charges.”
“Did anyone else get bonuses under this plan?”
“No, it’s just for me. It was put in as part of the last employment agreement I negotiated with the company.”
Brad took the proxy statement away and pulled another document from yet another folder. Alan craned his neck to see what it was.
“Is this a copy of your bonus plan?” Brad said.
“Where did you get this?” Luke said.
“This was filed by Liberty Industries with the Securities and Exchange Commission.”
“Alan, do we file this with the SEC?” Luke said.
“Mr. Hubbard’s question is off the record,” Alan said. He took a look at the document and nodded in the affirmative.
“Yes, this is the bonus plan,” Luke said.
“How was your bonus for last year calculated under the plan?” Brad said.
“Well, it wasn’t just for last year. The plan has been in place for three years, but didn’t pay anything out until this year.”
“Fine, a bonus for three years,” Brad said. “How was it calculated?”
“The size of the bonus depended on Liberty’s cumulative earnings over that three-year period.”
“The three-year period ending last December?”
“Correct. Earnings had to be at least three billion dollars over that period.”
“They had to be at least three billion, or else what?”
Luke looked at Brad scornfully, like he thought Brad was feigning stupidity just to annoy him. “Or else I wouldn’t get a bonus under the plan,” Luke said.
“Nothing at all? Not a smaller bonus?”
“Nothing. The bonus was either-or.”
Brad handed Luke some additional documents. A small pile of paper was now gathered in front of the CEO.
“Here are copies of Liberty’s annual reports for those three years,” Brad said. “I’ve circled their earnings for each year. I added up all three years and got three billion, fifty-three thousand dollars. Do you agree with that calculation?”
Luke looked the pages over quickly. “Yup.”
“So in percentage terms,” Brad said, “Liberty met the bonus threshold by just .002%. You just barely earned that twenty million dollar bonus, didn’t you?”
“That’s right. And it was eighteen million, not twenty.”
“So in late December, you must have been pretty nervous about whether you would earn that big bonus, isn’t that right?”
“Not really.”
“Not really? An eighteen million dollar payday wasn’t on your radar screen? Whether or not you earn a bonus that you need to fund your lavish lifestyle is beneath your notice? I remind you that your testimony today is under oath.”
“No need to remind me, Mr. Pitcher. Like I’ve said, my focus is on the long-term health of the business. If the business does well, I’ll do well.”
“You’ll do well. I see. So if you hadn’t earned that bonus last year, you would have had another chance to earn it?”
Luke looked surprised at the question. “No, the bonus plan ended last year.”
“So you have another bonus plan in place for this year?”
“Um, no, the board hasn’t approved another bonus plan.”
“Why not?”
“That wasn’t in the terms of my employment agreement.”
“Do you expect the board to approve another bonus plan for you like this one?”
“I have no idea what the board will do,” Luke said, having recovered his accustomed polish.
“My question is about your expectation,” Alex said. “Do you expect the board to renew the bonus plan?”
“Same answer: I have no idea.”
“OK, has anyone on the board proposed renewing the bonus plan?”
“Not to me.”
“Have you discussed renewing the bonus plan with anyone on the board?”
“We talk about compensation in general terms from time to time, so it may have come up, but there was never a proposal.”
“What was the board’s response to the possibility of renewing the bonus plan?”
Luke sighed in frustration at Brad’s persistence. “They said it would depend on what the compensation consultants say.”
“Why is that?”
“The board hires a compensation consulting firm to look at executive pay at similar companies and make sure Liberty’s pay is in line with its peers’. It’s standard procedure.”
“And did the compensation consultant find that your peer companies have bonus plans like the bonus plan of yours that just expired?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Bonus plans like that have sort of gone out of fashion.”
“I see. So to sum up, you had a special bonus plan, it wasn’t likely to be renewed and so last year was really your one-time shot at an eighteen million dollar windfall, wasn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t call it a windfall.”
“Just answer yes or n—”
“Yes, yes, already.”
“So, it was pretty convenient for you personally the way things turned out, wasn’t it?” Brad said.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Luke said.
“I mean the way five of your employees died barely a week before year end and the life insurance proceeds enabled you to get the bonus.”
As soon as the word “died” left Brad’s lips, Alan lurched out of seat, hurling a stream of profane invective that the stenographer either couldn’t keep up with or refused to transcribe. At the end of it, Alan stood panting and hunched, glaring at Brad.
“Off the record?” the stenographer said.
Alan nodded dourly, and Brad and the stenographer both stood and left Luke and Alan alone in the room.
* * *
“We need to stop this,” Alan said to Luke once the door closed. “I know you didn’t kill anybody; I’ve known you for twenty years. But the coincidence—your bonus and the accident—it looks really bad. What if this little shit Pitcher helps the media connect the dots on the bonus plan? What if he clues in Grant Steele?”
Luke’s eyes were like burning embers and his voice was calm but firm. “Alan, my view is that you let Pitcher lay a trap. He played you.” Luke stared stonily at his lawyer for several painful seconds. “But we are where we are,” he said. “How do you suggest we fix this?”
“We settle this divorce. We get Sheila to drop the wrongful termination case, and we get a strong confidentiality clause that keeps her and Pitcher quiet.”
Luke’s eyes narrowed. “So, give up. That’s your solution.”
“Luke, when something looks this bad, peopl
e have to react. And they will react to this. The papers will, Grant Steele sure will. Oh, and your board of directors has about lost patience with all your recent legal troubles. Don’t pretend for a second that they wouldn’t fire you if Liberty had another round of bad press.”
“Come on, they can’t fire me.”
“Oh yes they can. Even you. Even though firing you would be the worst thing they could do to the company.”
Luke sighed and stared at the ceiling. “Losing is bad enough, but like this . . .”
“How much pain has Sheila caused you?” Alan said after a moment. Luke didn’t say anything. “Look at it this way,” Alan said. “Finalizing this divorce will be like removing a cancer . . . and cutting out a tumor is something to celebrate.” Alan smiled weakly at Luke. Doesn’t that make sense? his smile asked.
Luke looked around the room, at the table, at the door, at the clock. “Ten more minutes, and I would have been fine,” he said.
“Luke, you are fine. You’ve got a dream job. You’ve now got the son you always wanted. And once we settle this, you’ll be rid of Sheila.”
Luke continued staring blankly at the wall, and Alan said, “When I got divorced—both times—the day I signed the papers I just felt an overwhelming sense of relief—and even more, of freedom, like I’d turned off a narrow country road onto a ten-lane freeway. But this? This moment here”—Alan pointed at the table where they sat—“I know what it feels like. It’s the worst.”
Luke gave a weak smile himself. It was the baseless, undirected smile that he used when meeting strangers. Twenty years’ worth of memories and emotions churned in Luke’s mind, but that mask kept them private.
Finally, he nodded to Alan. Alan rose and placed a steady hand on his shoulder, then opened the door and called for Brad, who stood with the stenographer a respectful distance away. Cindy peered eagerly over Brad’s shoulder.
Pointing at the stenographer, Alan said, “You can take her off the clock now.”
“You know damn well I’ve got ten more minutes,” Brad said.
“Brad, I mean the deposition is over. We’re ready to talk about a settlement.”
It took a second for the momentous news to sink in, then Cindy clapped her hands and then reached around Brad’s neck and hugged him joyously. Tentatively at first, Brad’s mouth widened into a triumphant smile.
45
The guy at the front desk of the motel reacted like he was used to people coming by to ask questions. He must have thought that Alex was a police detective, because as soon as Alex mentioned Frees’ name, the man began complaining loudly about how he couldn’t rent out the room where Frees died because “you”—he pointed an accusatory finger at Alex—“still have it sealed off.” Alex said he would see what he could do about that, which calmed the man down. The man’s own information was not much more precise than what Alex heard from his coworkers, but Alex did learn from the man that Frees checked in alone in the afternoon of the day before his body was found. Did Frees leave his room after checking in? The man didn’t know, because the doors to the rooms opened directly onto the parking lot.
So much for the direct approach, Alex thought. He thanked the motel attendant, left the office and took a stroll around the building. Sure enough, yellow police tape still festooned the door to one of the rooms.
The door was locked. Alex tried to peek under the door but saw nothing. Then he noticed a cleaning lady eyeing him suspiciously from several doors down, where she struggled to lift a vacuum cleaner from her cleaning cart. Alex stood, smiled and waved. She waved back, tentatively.
Alex looked around to see if anyone else had noticed him, but he saw no one. Then the vacuum cleaner started to whir loudly, and Alex got an idea. He walked casually over to the cleaning cart that stood outside the empty room. As he expected, its supplies included a box of rubber gloves. If the police still had the room sealed off for investigation, Alex didn’t want to leave fingerprints. Protected by the din of the vacuum cleaner, he took two gloves from the cart, put them on and took the cleaning lady’s keychain that hung from the cart. In a few moments he was back at the door to Frees’ room, testing the keys to find the one that turned the lock.
Soon he was inside the room, a musty little den furnished in earth tones and with thin, worn carpet. In a flurry of motion he opened every drawer and looked under every piece of furniture. His heart pounded from the danger of being found inside. He threw open drawers and threw them closed again. He wondered why he was doing this. Curiosity? For what—to find out why a dead man had tried to kill him? It was foolish—Alex didn’t have a stake in stopping Frees anymore. But at the nightstand table Alex met with unexpected delight. When Alex flung the drawer open, a cell phone and a set of keys hurtled out from behind the Bible like dice falling onto a craps table. Not knowing what else to do with this booty, Alex dropped the items in his jacket pocket and quickly left the motel room.
His heart still pounding, Alex discreetly dropped the cleaning lady’s keys back on to her cart as he walked by her open door. The vacuum cleaner was silent now, and she had moved on to the bathroom.
Alex felt the weight of the cell phone and keys in his pocket. He had them now, and couldn’t well give them back. He would keep them as souvenirs.
* * *
That night, Cindy went with Brad to the fancy French restaurant he was always talking about. Sheila had come as well, with Alex as her date.
The dinner was a victory celebration for Sheila’s divorce settlement. And it sounded like the settlement was a good one, though in the car on the way over Brad clammed up when Cindy asked him how much money Sheila had gotten.
Cindy couldn’t help feeling embarrassed at how much everything cost. The cheapest thing on the menu was a simple salad, but even that cost as much as she was used to paying for a whole meal at a restaurant.
The others ostentatiously deliberated over which extravagant dish to order. Cindy quietly told the waiter just the salad would be fine. She didn’t say it quietly enough, because Brad asked her if she was feeling all right. Sheila just gave Cindy an impatient look like she thought Cindy was one of those girls.
This dinner was the first time Cindy had ever said more than two words to Sheila face to face. Cindy liked Sheila even less in person than on the phone. Sheila smiled and acted friendly, but Cindy kept thinking about the times over the past weeks she’d been brought almost to tears by Sheila’s snotty attitude, and about how Sheila so often yelled at Brad for no reason.
Cindy picked at her salad as Sheila told a rambling story. Sheila had already put away two cocktails and a glass of wine, but it was her party, so Brad was making sure to laugh at the right times. Cindy could tell he was being insincere and wanted to turn away from the demeaning spectacle.
“Don’t you like the wine, dear?” Sheila asked her.
Cindy looked at the still-full wine glass in front of her. “Oh, It’s great,” she said. “It tastes very . . . expensive.”
“I can see how it might overpower the salad,” Sheila said dryly.
“Well, that just leaves more wine for you.” Cindy tried to suppress a mischievous grin—in vain.
Brad gave her a concerned look. Brad had gotten the lobster, and the melted butter lay in a glistening halo around his lips. Cindy wished she and Brad could just sneak away for some burritos. She felt hungry.
Sheila turned to Alex. “So,” she said, “what do you think—Switzerland or Tahiti?”
“Why not both?” Alex said with a smile.
“Ah, decisions, decisions,” Sheila said airily. “It’s not easy to figure out how to spend ninety million dollars.”
Cindy dropped her fork. It hit the plate with a sound like a muffled bell.
“Quickly,” Alex said, smiling, though he looked distracted.
Brad leaned over toward Sheila and whispered something about a confidentiality clause in the settlement.
“Oh, lighten up,” Sheila said. “You know . . . if we had broken nine figu
res, I was planning to give you a bonus.”
Brad chuckled nervously and glanced at Cindy.
“Oh, just kidding,” Sheila said. “I’ll give you a bonus anyway. Besides, the confidentiality clause isn’t really about the amount of money he’s paying me, it’s about him paying to keep you and me quiet about his deposition.” She let out a laugh that was more like a snort.
A waiter walked by, and Sheila stopped him by grabbing a fistful of the back of his jacket.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Can we have another bottle of wine here?”
* * *
Alex had decided to leave with Sheila. Switzerland? Tahiti? It could have been Antarctica, as far as he was concerned, because he was ready to leave L.A. Sheila offered to repay his mortgages if that’s what it took to get him to come with her, and Alex figured, why not? That way he wouldn’t be leaving town as a deadbeat, which he refused to do. Sheila understood that paying back the mortgages was a matter of principle for him and floated her offer of assistance in a gentle way that respected how serious the matter was to him. He’d liked that. Who knew where his relationship with Sheila would lead, but a change of scenery would give him a new start, if nothing else.
Alex resolved to quit his fake job under his fake name at Liberty. He hadn’t figured out exactly how. Maybe by postcard. If quitting suddenly meant that Al Franks’ name was blacklisted, who cared? Al Franks didn’t exist.
Alex was rifling through a drawer, looking for his passport to check the expiration date, when his cell phone rang. With one hand still in the drawer, and without looking at the number, Alex answered the phone. Zeke’s voice greeted him on the other end of the line. Shit, Alex thought. “You gave me a journalistic equivalent of blue balls,” Zeke said, omitting any conventional greeting.
“What are you talking about?” Alex asked innocently.
“You know damn well what I’m talking about, which I’m sure is why you’ve been dodging my calls. I mean that scoop. You have me break into an office for you, you tell me all sorts of juicy rumors about the MacArthur Park bombing, we learn your alleged bomber has died, and then you just hustle me out of the office? I need quotes, Alex. I need other witnesses I can talk to. I need something definitive that I can actually, you know, print in the paper.”