Disclosure
"Yes."
"What time does she go home?"
"Last night, she left at six-fifteen."
"I may want to meet her casually. Can I go up to the fifth floor?" "No. All visitors are stopped at reception in the downstairs lobby." "What if I'm delivering a package? Would Betsy take delivery of a package?"
"No. Packages go to central receiving."
"Okay. What about flowers? Would they be delivered directly?"
"Yes, I guess so. You mean, like flowers for Meredith?"
"Yes," Alan said.
"I guess you could deliver those in person."
"Fine," Alan said, and made a note.
They stopped him a second time when he mentioned the cleaning woman he had seen on leaving Meredith's office.
"DigiCom uses a cleaning service?"
"Yes. AMS-American Management Services. They're over on-" "We know them. On Boyle. What time do the cleaning crews enter the building?"
"Usually around seven."
"And this woman you didn't recognize. Describe her."
"About forty. Black. Very slender, gray hair, sort of curly."
"Tall? Short? What?"
He shrugged. "Medium."
Herb said, "That's not much. Can you give us anything else?"
Sanders hesitated. He thought about it. "No. I didn't really see her." "Close your eyes," Fernandez said.
He closed them.
"Now take a deep breath, and put yourself back. It's yesterday evening. You have been in Meredith's office, the door has been closed for almost an hour, you have had your experience with her, now you are leaving the room, you are going out . . . How does the door open, in or out?"
"It opens in."
"So you pull the door open . . . you walk out . . . Fast or slow?"
"I'm walking fast."
"And you go into the outer room . . . What do you see?"
Through the door. Into the outer room, elevators directly ahead. Feeling disheveled, of balance, hoping there is no one to see him. Looking to the right at Betsy Ross'r desk: clean, bare, chair pulled up to the edge of the desk. Notepad. Plastic cover on the computer. Desk light still burning.
Eyes swinging left, a cleaning woman at the other assistant desk. Her big gray cleaning cart stands alongside her. The cleaning woman is lifting a trash basket to empty it into the plastic sack that hangs open from one end of the cart. The woman pauses in mid-lift, stares at him curiously. He is wondering how long she has been there, what she has heard from inside the room. A tinny radio on the cart is playing music.
"I'll fucking kill you for this." Meredith calls after him.
The cleaning woman hears it. He looks away from her, embarrassed, and hurries toward the elevator. Feeling almost panic. He pushes the button.
"Do you see the woman?" Fernandez said.
"Yes. But it was so fast . . . And 1 didn't want to look at her." Sanders shook his head.
"Where are you now? At the elevator?"
"Yes."
"Can you see the woman?"
"No. I didn't want to look at her again."
"All right. Let's go back. No, no, keep your eyes closed. We'll do it again. Take a deep breath, and let it out slowly . . . Good . . . This time you're going to see everything in slow motion, like a movie. Now . . . come out through the door . . . and tell me when you see her for the first time."
Coming through the door. Everything slow. His head moving gently up and down with each footstep. Into the outer room. The desk to the right, tidy, lamp on. To the left, the other desk, the cleaning woman raising the
"I see her."
"All right, now freeze what you see. Freeze it like a photograph." "Okay."
"Now look at her. You can look at her now."
Standing with the trash basket in her hand. Staring at him, a bland expression. She's about forty. Short hair, curls. Blue uniform, like a hotel maid. A silver chain around her neck-no, hanging eyeglasses.
"She wears glasses around her neck, on a metal chain."
"Good. Just take your time. There's no rush. Look her up and down." "I keep seeing her face . . ."Staring at him. A bland expression.
"Look away from her face. Look her up and down."
The uniform. Spray bottle clipped to her waist. Knee-length blue skirt. White shoes. Like a nurse. No. Sneakers. No. Thickerrunning shoes. Thick soles. Dark laces. Something about the laces.
"She's got . . . sort of running shoes. Little old lady running shoes." "Good."
"There's something funny about the laces."
"Can you see what's funny?"
"No. They're dark. Something funny. I . . . can't tell."
"All right. Open your eyes."
He looked at the five of them. He was back in the room. "That was weird," he said.
"If there was time," Fernandez said, "I would have a professional hypnotist take you through the entire evening. I've found it can be very useful. But there's no time. Boys? It's five o'clock. You better get started."
The two investigators collected their notes and left.
"What are they going to do?"
"If we were litigating this," Fernandez said, "we would have the right to depose potential witnesses-to question individuals within the company who might have knowledge bearing on the case. Under the present circumstances, we have no right to interrogate anybody, because you're entering into private mediation. But if one of the DigiCom assistants chooses to have a drink with a handsome delivery man after work, and if the conversation happens to turn to gossip about sex in the office, well, that's the way the cookie crumbles."
"We can use that information?"
Fernandez smiled. "Let's see what we find out first," she said. "Now, I want to go back over several points in your story, particularly starting at the time you decided not to have intercourse with Ms. Johnson."
"Again?"
"Yes. But I have a few things to do first. I need to call Phil Blackburn and arrange tomorrow's sessions. And I have some other things to check on. Let's break now and meet again in two hours. Meanwhile, have you cleaned out your office?"
"No," he said.
"You better clean it out. Anything personal or incriminating, get it out. From now on, expect your desk drawers to be gone through, your files to be searched, your mail to be read, your phone messages checked. Every aspect of your life is now public."
"Okay."
"So, go through your desk and your files. Remove anything of a personal nature."
"Okay."
"On your office computer, if you have any passwords, change them. Anything in electronic data files of a personal nature, get it out."
"Okay."
"Don't just remove it.. Make sure you erase it, so it's unrecoverable."
"Okay."
"It's not a bad idea to do the same thing at home. Your drawers and files and computer."
"Okay." He was thinking: at home? Would they really break into his home?
"If you have any sensitive materials that you want to store, bring them to Richard here," she said, pointing to the young lawyer. "He'll have them taken to a safe-deposit box where they'll be kept for you. Don't tell me. I don't want to know anything about it."
"Okay."
"Now. Let's discuss the telephone. From now on, if you have any sensitive calls to make, don't use your office phone, your cellular phone, or your phone at home. Use a pay phone, and don't put it on a charge card, even your personal charge card. Get a roll of quarters and use them instead."
"You really think this is necessary?"
"I know it is necessary. Now. Is there anything in your past conduct with this company which might be said to be out of order?" She was peering at him over her glasses.
He shrugged. "I don't think so."
"Anything at all? Did you overstate your qualifications on your original job application? Did you abruptly terminate any employee? Have you had any kind of inquiry about your behavior or decisions? Were you ever the subject of an internal company investigation? And even if you weren't, did you ever, to your knowledge, do anything improper, however small or apparently minor?"
"Jesus," he said. "It's been twelve years."
"While you are cleaning out, think about it. I need to know anything that the company might drag up about you. Because if they can, they will."
"Okay."
"And one other point. I gather from what you've told me that nobody at your company is entirely clear why Johnson has enjoyed such a rapid rise among the executives."
"That's right."
"Find out."
"It won't be easy," Sanders said. "Everybody's talking about it, and nobody seems to know."
"But for everybody else," Fernandez said, "it's just gossip. For you, it's vital. We need to know where her connections are and why they exist. If we know that, we have a chance of pulling this thing off. But if we don't, Mr. Sanders, they're probably going to tear us apart."
He was back at DigiCom at six. Cindy was cleaning up her desk and was about to leave.
"Any calls?" he said, as he went into his office.
`Just one," she said. Her voice was tight.
"Who was that?"
"John Levin. He said it was important." Levin was an executive with a hard drive supplier. Whatever Levin wanted, it could wait.
Sanders looked at Cindy. She seemed tense, almost on the verge of tears.
"Something wrong?"
"No. Just a long day." A shrug: elaborate indifference.
"Anything I should know about?"
"No. It's been quiet. You didn't have any other calls." She hesitated. "Tom, I just want you to know, I don't believe what they are saying."
"What are they saying?" he asked.
"About Meredith Johnson."
"What about her?"
"That you sexually harassed her."
She blurted it out, and then waited. Watching him, her eyes moving across his face. He could see her uncertainty. Sanders felt uneasy in turn that this woman he had worked alongside for so many years would now be so openly unsure of him.
He said firmly, "It's not true, Cindy."
"Okay. I didn't think it was. It's just that everybody is-"
"Okay. Good." She nodded, put the call book in the desk drawer. She seemed eager to leave. "Did you need me to stay?"
"No."
"Good night, Tom."
"Good night, Cindy."
He went into his office and closed the door behind him. He sat behind his desk and looked at it a moment. Nothing seemed to have been touched. He flicked on his monitor, and began going through the drawers, rummaging through, trying to decide what to take out. He glanced up at the monitor, and saw that his e-mail icon was blinking. Idly, he clicked it on.
NUMBER OF PERSONAL MESSAGES: 3. DO YOU WANT TO READ THEM NOW?
He pressed the key. A moment later, the first message came up.
SEALED TWINKLE DRIVES ARE ON THEIR WAY TO YOU TODAY DHL. YOU SHOULD HAVE THEM TOMORROW. HOPE YOU FIND SOMETHING . . . JAFAR IS STILL SEVERELY ILL. THEY SAY HE MAY DIE.
ARTHUR KAHN
He pressed the key, and another message came up.
THE WEENIES ARE STILL SWARMING DOWN HERE. ANY NEWS YET?
EDDIE
Sanders couldn't worry about Eddie now. He pushed the key, and the third message came up.
I GUESS YOU HAVEN'T BEEN READING BACK ISSUES OF COMLINE. STARTING FOUR YEARS AGO.
AFRIEND
Sanders stared at the screen. ComLine was DigiCom's in-house newsletter-an eight page monthly, filled with chatty accounts of hirings and promotions and babies born. The summer schedule for the softball team, things like that. Sanders never paid any attention to it and couldn't imagine why he should now.
And who was "Afriend"? He clicked the REPLY button on the screen.
CAN'T REPLY - SENDER ADDRESS NOT AVAILABLE
He clicked the SENDER INFO button. It should give him the name and address of the person sending the e-mail message. But instead he saw dense rows of type:
FROM UU5.PSI.COM!UWA.PCM.COM.EDU!CHARON TUE JUN
16 04:43:31 REMOTE FROM DCCSYS
RECEIVED: FROM UUPS15 BY DCCSYS.DCC.COM ID AA02599;
TUE, 16 JUN 4:42:19 PST
RECEIVED: FROM UWA.PCM.COM.EDU BY UU5.PSI.COM
(5.65B/4.0.071791-PSI/PSINET)
ID AA28153; TUE, 16 JUN 04:24:58 -0500
RECEIVED: FROM RIVERSTYX.PCM.COM.EDU BY UWA.PCM.COM.EDU (4.1/SMI-4.1)
ID AA15969; TUE, 16 JUN 04:24:56 PST
RECEIVED: BY RIVERSTYX.PCM.COM.EDU (920330.SGI/5.6)
ID AA00448; TUE, 16 JUN 04:24:56 -0500
DATE: TUE, 16 JUN 04:24:56 -0500
FROM: CHARON @UWA.PCM.COM.EDU (AFRIEND)
MESSAGE-ID: <[email protected] COM.EDU >
TO: [email protected]
Sanders stared. The message hadn't come to him from inside the company at all. He was looking at an Internet routing. Internet was the vast worldwide computer network connecting universities, corporations, government agencies, and private users. Sanders wasn't knowledgeable about the Internet, but it appeared that the message from "Afriend," network name CHARON, had originated from UWA.PCM.COM.EDU, wherever that was. Apparently some kind of educational institution. He pushed the PRINT SCREEN button, and made a mental note to turn this one over to Bosak. He needed to talk to Bosak anyway.
He went down the hall and got the sheet as it came out of the printer. Then he went back to his office and stared at the screen. He decided to try a reply to this person.
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
ANY HELP GREATLY APPRECIATED.
SANDERS
He pushed the SEND button. Then he deleted both the original message and his own reply.
SORRY, YOU CANNOT DELETE THIS MAIL.
Sometimes e-mail was protected with a flag that prevented it from being deleted. He typed: UNPROTECT MAIL.
THE MAIL IS UNPROTECTED.
He typed: DELETE MAIL.
SORRY, YOU CANNOT DELETE THIS MAIL.
What the hell is this? he thought. The system must be hanging up. Maybe it had been stymied by the Internet address. He decided to delete the message from the system at the control level. He typed: SYSTEM.
WHAT LEVEL?
He typed: SYSOP
SORRY, YOUR PRIVILEGES DO NOT INCLUDE SYSOP CONTROL.
"Christ," he said. They'd gone in and taken away his privileges. He couldn't believe it.
He typed: SHOW PRIVILEGES.
SANDERS, THOMAS L.
PRIOR USER LEVEL: 5 (SYSOP)
USER LEVEL CHANGE: TUE JUNE 16 4:50 PM PST
CURRENT USER LEVEL: 0 (ENTRY)
NO FURTHER MODIFICATIONS
There it was: they had locked him out of the system. User level zero was the level that assistants in the company were given.
Sanders slumped back in the chair. He felt as if he had been fired. For the first time, he began to realize what this was going to be like.
Clearly, there was no time to waste. He opened his desk drawer, and saw at once that the pens and pencils were neatly arranged. Someone had already been there. He pulled open the file drawer below. Only a half-dozen files were there; the others were all missing.
They had already gone through his desk.
Quickly, he got up and went out to the big filing cabinets behind Cindy's desk. These cabinets were locked, but he knew Cindy kept the key in her desk. He found the key, and unlocked the current year's files.
The cabinet was empty. There were no files there at all. They had taken everything.
He opened the cabinet for the previous year: empty.
The year before: empty.
All the others: empty.
Jesus, he thought. No wonder Cindy had been so cool. They must have had a gang of workmen up there with trolleys, cleaning everything out during the afternoon.
Sanders locked the cabinets again, replaced the key in Cindy's desk, and headed downstairs.
The press office was on the third floor. It was deserted now except for a single assistant, who was closing up. "Oh. Mr. Sanders. I was just getting ready to leave."
"You don't have to stay. I just wanted to check some things. Where do you keep the back issues of ComLine?"
"They're all on that shelf over there." She pointed to a row of stacked issues. "Was there anything in particular?"
"No. You go ahead home."
The assistant seemed reluctant, but she picked up her purse and headed out the door. Sanders went to the shelf. The issues were arranged in six-month stacks. Just to be safe, he started ten stacks back-five years ago.
He began flipping through the pages, scanning the endless details of game scores and press releases on production figures. After a few minutes, he found it hard to pay attention. And of course he didn't know what he was looking for, although he assumed it was something about Meredith Johnson.
He went through two stacks before he found the first article.
NEW MARKETING ASSISTANT NAMED
Cupertino, May 10: DigiCom President Bob Garvin today announced the appointment of Meredith Johnson as Assistant Director of Marketing and
Promotion for Telecommunications. She will report to Howard Gottfried in M and P. Ms. Johnson, 30, came to us from her position as Vice President for Marketing at Conrad Computer Systems of Sunnyvale. Before that, she was a senior administrative assistant at the Novell Network Division in Mountain View. Ms. Johnson, who has degrees from Vassar College and Stanford Business School, was recently married to Gary Henley, a marketing executive at CoStar. Congratulations! As a new arrival to DigiCom, Ms. Johnson . . .
He skipped the rest of the article; it was all PR fluff. The accompanying photo was standard B-school graduate: against a gray background with light coming from behind one shoulder, it showed a young woman with shoulderlength hair in a pageboy style, a direct businesslike stare just shy of harsh, and a firm mouth. But she looked considerably younger than she did now.
Sanders continued to thumb through the issues. He glanced at his watch. It was almost seven, and he wanted to call Bosak. He came to the end of the year, and the pages were nothing but Christmas stuff A picture of Garvin and his family ("Merry Christmas from the Boss! Ho Ho Ho!") caught his attention because it showed Bob with his former wife, along with his three college-age kids, standing around a big tree.
Had Garvin been going out with Emily yet? Nobody ever knew. Garvin was cagey. You never knew what he was up to.
Sanders went to the next stack, for the following year. January sales predictions. ("Let's get out and make it happen!") Opening of the Austin plant to manufacture cellular phones; a photo of Garvin in harsh sunlight, cutting the ribbon. A profile of Mary Anne Hunter that began, "Spunky, athletic Mary Anne Hunter knows what she wants out of life . . ." They had called her "Spunky" for weeks afterward, until she begged them to give it up.
Sanders flipped pages. Contract with the Irish government to break ground in Cork. Second-quarter sales figures. Basketball team scores against Aldus. Then a black box:
JENNIFER GARVIN
Jennifer Garvin, a third-year student at Boalt Hall School of Law in
Berkeley, died on March 5 in an automobile accident in San Francisco. She was twenty-four years old. Jennifer had been accepted to the firm of Harley, Wayne and Myers following her graduation. A memorial service was held at the Presbyterian Church of Palo Alto for friends of the family and her many classmates. Those wishing to make memorial donations should send contributions to Mothers Against Drunk Drivers. All of us at Digital Communications extend our deepest sympathy to the Garvin family.
Sanders remembered that time as difficult for everyone. Garvin was snappish and withdrawn, drinking too much, and frequently absent from work. Not long afterward, his marital difficulties became public; within two years, he was divorced, and soon after that he married Emily Chen, a young executive in her twenties. But there were other changes, too. Everyone agreed: Garvin was no longer the same boss after the death of his daughter.
Garvin had always been a scrapper, but now he became protective, less ruthless. Some said that Garvin was stopping to smell the roses, but that wasn't it at all. He was newly aware of the arbitrariness of life, and it led him to control things, in a way that hadn't been true before. Garvin had always been Mr. Evolution: put it on the shore and see if it eats or dies. It made him a heartless administrator but a remarkably fair boss. If you did a good job, you were recognized. If you couldn't cut it, you were gone. Everybody understood the rules. But after Jennifer died, all that changed. Now he had overt favorites among staff and programs, and he nurtured those favorites and neglected others, despite the evidence in front of his face. More and more, he made business decisions arbitrarily. Garvin wanted events to turn out the way he intended them to. It gave him a new kind of fervor, a new sense of what the company should be. But it was also a more difficult place to work. A more political place.
It was a trend that Sanders had ignored. He continued to act as if he still worked at the old DigiCom-the company where all that mattered were results. But clearly, that company was gone.
Sanders continued thumbing through the magazines. Articles about early negotiations for a plant in Malaysia. A photo of Phil Blackburn in Ireland, signing an agreement with the city of Cork. New production figures for the Austin plant. Start of production of the A22 cellular model. Births and deaths and promotions. More DigiCom baseball scores.
JOHNSON TO TAKE OPERATIONS POST
Cupertino, October 20: Meredith Johnson has been named new Assistant Manager for Division Operations in Cupertino, replacing the very popular Harry Warner, who retired after fifteen years of service. The shift to Ops Manager takes Johnson out of marketing, where she has been very effective for the last year, since joining the company. In her new position, she will work closely with Bob Garvin on international operations for DigiCom.
But it was the accompanying picture that caught Sanders's attention. Once again, it was a formal head shot, but Johnson now looked completely different. Her hair was light blond. Gone was the neat businessschool pageboy. She wore her hair short, in a curly, informal style. She was wearing much less makeup and smiling cheerfully. Overall, the effect was to make her appear much more youthful, open, innocent.
Sanders frowned. Quickly, he flipped back through the issues he had already looked at. Then he went back to the previous stack, with its year-end Christmas pictures: "Merry Christmas from the Boss! Ho Ho Ho!"
He looked at the family portrait. Garvin standing behind his three children, two sons and a daughter. That must be Jennifer. His wife, Harriet, stood to one side. In the picture, Garvin was smiling, his hand resting lightly on his daughter's shoulder, and she was tall and athleticlooking, with short, light blond, curly hair.
"I'll be damned," he said aloud.