Disclosure
He thumbed back quickly to the first article, to look at the original picture of Johnson. He compared it to the later one. There was no doubt about what she had done. He read the rest of the first article:
As a new arrival to DigiCom, Ms. Johnson brings her considerable business acumen, her sparkling humor, and her sizzling softball pitch. She's a major addition to the DigiCom team! Welcome, Meredith!
Her admiring friends are never surprised to learn that Meredith was once a finalist in the Miss Teen Connecticut contest. In her student days at Vassar, Meredith was a valued member of both the tennis team and the debating society. A member of Phi Beta Kappa, she took her major in psychology, with a minor in abnormal psych. Hope you won't be needing that around here, Meredith! At Stanford, she obtained her MBA with honors, graduating near the top of her class. Meredith told us, "I am delighted to join DigiCom and I look forward to an exciting career with this forward-looking company." We couldn't have said it better, Ms. Johnson!
"No shit," Sanders said. He had known almost none of this. From the start, Meredith had been based in Cupertino; Sanders never saw her. The one time he had run into her was soon after her arrival, before she changed her hair. Her hair and what else?
He looked carefully at the two pictures. Something else was subtly different. Had she had plastic surgery? It was impossible to know. But her appearance was definitely changed between the two portraits.
He moved through the remaining issues of the magazine quickly now, convinced that he had learned what there was to know. Now he skimmed only the headlines:
GARVIN SENDS JOHNSON TO TEXAS
FOR AUSTIN PLANT OVERSIGHT
JOHNSON WILL HEAD NEW
OPERATIONS REVIEW UNIT
JOHNSON NAMED OPERATIONS VEEP
TO WORK DIRECTLY UNDER GARVIN
JOHNSON: TRIUMPH IN MALAYSIA
LABOR CONFLICT NOW RESOLVED
MEREDITH JOHNSON OUR RISING STAR
A SUPERB MANAGER; HER SKILL IN
TECHNICAL AREAS VERY STRONG
This final headline ran above a lengthy profile of Johnson, well placed on the second page of the magazine. It had appeared in ComLine only two issues ago. Seeing it now, Sanders realized that the article was intended for internal consumption-softening up the beachhead before the June landing. This article was a trial balloon that Cupertino had floated, to see if Meredith would be acceptable to run the technical divisions in Seattle. The only trouble was, Sanders never saw it. And nobody had ever mentioned it to him.
The article stressed the technical savvy that Johnson had acquired during her years with the company. She was quoted as saying, "I began my career working in technical areas, back with Novell. The technical fields have always been my first love; I'd love to go back to it. After all, strong technical innovation lies at the heart of a forward-looking company like DigiCom. Any good manager here must be able to run the technical divisions."
There it was.
He looked at the date: May 2. Published six weeks ago. Which meant that the article had been written at least two weeks before that.
As Mark Lewyn had suspected, Meredith Johnson knew she was going to be the head of the Advanced Products Division at least two months ago. Which meant, in turn, that Sanders had never been under consideration to become division head. He had never had a chance.
It was a done deal.
Months ago.
Sanders swore, took the articles over to the xerox machine and copied them, then put the stacks back on the shelf, and left the press office.
He got on the elevator. Mark Lewyn was there. Sanders said, "Hi, Mark." Lewyn didn't answer. Sanders pushed the button for the ground floor.
The doors closed.
"I just hope you know what the fuck you're doing," Lewyn said angrily.
"I think I do."
"Because you could fuck this thing up for everybody. You know that?"
"Fuck what up?"
"Just because you got your ass in the sling, it's not our problem."
"Nobody said it was."
"I don't know what's the matter with you," Lewyn said. "You're late for work, you don't call me when you say you will... What is it, trouble at home? More shit with Susan?"
"This has nothing to do with Susan."
"Yeah? I think it does. You've been late two days running and even when you're here, you walk around like you're dreaming. You're in fucking dreamland, Tom. I mean, what the hell were you doing, going to Meredith's office at night, anyway?"
"She asked me to come to her office. She's the boss. You're saying I shouldn't have gone?"
Lewyn shook his head in disgust. "This innocent act is a lot of crap. Don't you take any responsibility for anything?"
"What-"
"Look, Tom, everybody in the company knows that Meredith is a shark. Meredith Manmuncher, they call her. The Great White. Everybody knows she's protected by Garvin, that she can do what she wants. And what she wants is to play grabass with cute guys who show up in her office at the end of the day. She has a couple of glasses of wine, she gets a little flushed, and she wants service. A delivery boy, a trainee, a young account guy. Whatever. And nobody can say a word because Garvin thinks she walks on water. So, how come everybody else in the company knows it but you?"
Sanders was stunned. He did not know how to answer. He stared at Lewyn, who stood very close to him, his body hunched, hands in his pockets. He could feel Lewyn's breath on his face. But he could hardly hear Lewyn's words. It was as if they came to him from a great distance.
"Hey, Tom. You walk the same halls, you breathe the same air as the rest of us. You know who's doing what. You go marching up there to her office . . . and you know damned well what's coming. Meredith's done everything but announce to the world that she wants to suck your dick. All day long, she's touching your arm, giving you those meaningful little looks and squeezes. Oh, Tom. So nice to see you again. And now you tell me you didn't know what was coming in that office? Fuck you, Tom. You're an asshole."
The elevator doors opened. Before them, the ground-floor lobby was deserted, growing dark in the fading light of the June evening. A soft rain fell outside. Lewyn started toward the exit, then turned back. His voice echoed in the lobby.
"You realize," he said, "that you're acting like one of those women in all this. The way they always go, `Who, me? I never intended that.' The way they go, `Oh, it's not my responsibility. I never thought if I got drunk and kissed him and went to his room and lay down on his bed that he'd fuck me. Oh dear me no.' It's bullshit, Tom. Irresponsible bullshit. And you better think about what I'm saying, because there's a lot of us who have worked every bit as hard as you have in this company, and we don't want to see you screw up this merger and this spin-off for the rest of us. You want to pretend you can't tell when a woman's coming on to you, that's fine. You want to screw up your own life, it's your decision. But you screw up mine, and I'm going to fucking put you away."
Lewyn stalked off. The elevator doors started to close. Sanders stuck his hand out; the doors closed on his fingers. He jerked his hand, and the doors opened again. He hurried out into the lobby after Lewyn.
He grabbed Lewyn on the shoulder. "Mark, wait, listen-"
"I got nothing to say to you. I got kids, I got responsibilities. You're an asshole."
Lewyn shrugged Sanders's arm off, pushed open the door, and walked out. He strode quickly away, down the street.
As the glass doors closed, Sanders saw a flash of blond in the moving reflection. He turned.
"I thought that was a little unfair," Meredith Johnson said. She was standing about twenty feet behind him, near the elevators. She was wearing gym clothes-navy tights, and a sweatshirtand she carried a gym bag in her hand. She looked beautiful, overtly sexual in a certain way. Sanders felt tense: there was no one else in the lobby. They were alone.
"Yes," Sanders said. "I thought it was unfair."
"I meant, to women," Meredith said. She swung the gym bag over her shoulder, the movement raising her sweatshirt and exposing her bare abdomen above her tights. She shook her head and pushed her hair back from her face. She paused a moment, and then she began to speak. "I want to tell you I'm sorry about all this," she said. She moved toward him in a steady, confident way, almost stalking. Her voice was low. "I never wanted any of this, Tom." She came a little closer, approaching slowly, as if he were an animal that might be frightened away. "I have only the warmest feelings for you." Still closer. "Only the warmest." Closer. "I can't help it, Tom, if I still want you." Closer. "If I did anything to offend you, I apologize." She was very close now, her body almost touching his, her breasts inches from his arm. "I'm truly sorry, Tom," she said softly. She seemed filled with emotion, her breasts rising and falling, her eyes moist and pleading as she looked up at him. "Can you forgive me? Please? You know how I feel about you."
He felt all the old sensations, the old stirrings. He clenched his jaw. "Meredith. The past is past. Cut it out, will you?"
She immediately changed her tone and gestured to the street. "Listen, I have a car here. Can I drop you somewhere?"
"No, thanks."
"It's raining. I thought you might want a lift."
"I don't think it's a good idea."
"Only because it's raining."
"This is Seattle," he said. "It rains all the time here."
She shrugged, walked to the door, and leaned her weight against it, thrusting out her hip. Then she looked back at him and smiled. "Remind me never to wear tights around you. It's embarrassing: you make me wet."
Then she turned away, pushed through the door, and walked quickly to the waiting car, getting in the back. She closed the door, looked back at him, and waved cheerfully. The car drove off.
Sanders unclenched his hands. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His whole body was tense. He waited until the car was gone, then went outside. He felt the rain on his face, the cool evening breeze.
He hailed a taxi. "The Four Seasons Hotel," he said to the driver.
Riding in the taxi, Sanders stared out the window, breathing deeply. He felt as though he couldn't get his breath. He had been badly unnerved by the meeting with Meredith. Especially coming so close after his conversation with Lewyn.
Sanders was distressed by what Lewyn had said, but you could never take Mark too seriously. Lewyn was an artistic hothead who handled his creative tensions by getting angry. He was angry about something most of the time. Lewyn liked being angry. Sanders had known him a long time. Personally, he had never understood how Adele, Mark's wife, put up with it. Adele was one of those wonderfully calm, almost phlegmatic women who could talk on the phone while her two kids crawled all over her, tugging at her, asking her questions. In a similar fashion, Adele just let Lewyn rage while she went on about her business. In fact, everyone just let Lewyn rage, because everyone knew that, in the end, it didn't mean anything.
Yet, it was also true that Lewyn had a kind of instinct for public perceptions and trends. That was the secret of his success as a designer. Lewyn would say, "Pastel colors," and everybody would groan and say that the new design colors looked like hell. But two years later, when the products were coming off the line, pastel colors would be just what everybody wanted. So Sanders was forced to admit that what Lewyn had said about him, others would soon be saying. Lewyn had said the company line: that Sanders was screwing up the chances for everybody else.
Well, screw them, he thought.
As for Meredith-he had had the distinct feeling that she had been toying with him in the lobby. Teasing him, playing with him. He could not understand why she was so confident. Sanders was making a very serious allegation against her. Yet she behaved as if there was no threat at all. She had a kind of imperviousness, an indifference, that made him deeply uneasy. It could only mean she knew that she had Garvin's backing.
The taxi pulled into the turnaround of the hotel. He saw Meredith's car up ahead. She was talking to the driver. She looked back and saw him.
There was nothing to do but get out and walk toward the entrance.
"Are you following me?" she said, smiling.
"No."
"Sure?"
"Yes, Meredith. I'm sure."
They went up the escalator from the street to the lobby. He stood behind her on the escalator. She looked back at him. "I wish you were."
"Yeah. Well, I'm not."
"It would have been nice," she said. She smiled invitingly.
He didn't know what to say; he just shook his head. They rode the rest of the way in silence until they came to the high ornate lobby. She said, "I'm in room 423. Come and see me anytime." She headed toward the elevators.
He waited until she was gone, then crossed the lobby and turned left to the dining room. Standing at the entrance, he saw Dorfman at a corner table, eating dinner with Garvin and Stephanie Kaplan. Max was holding forth, gesturing sharply as he spoke. Garvin and Kaplan both leaned forward, listening. Sanders was reminded that Dorfman had once been a director of the company-according to the stories, a very powerful director. It was Dorfman who had persuaded Garvin to expand beyond modems into cellular telephony and wireless communications, back in the days when nobody could see any link between computers and telephones. The link was obvious now but obscure in the early 1980s, when Dorfman had said, "Your business is not hardware. Your business is communications. Your business is access to information."
Dorfman had shaped company personnel as well. Supposedly, Kaplan owed her position to his glowing endorsement. Sanders had come to Seattle on Dorfman's recommendation. Mark Lewyn had been hired because of Dorfman. And any number of vice presidents had vanished over the years because Dorfman found them lacking in vision or stamina. He was a powerful ally or a lethal opponent.
And his position at the time of the merger was equally strong. Although Dorfman had resigned as a director years before, he still owned a good deal of DigiCom stock. He still had Garvin's ear. And he still had the contacts and prestige within the business and financial community that made a merger like this much simpler. If Dorfman approved the terms of the merger, his admirers at Goldman, Sachs and at First Boston would raise the money easily. But if Dorfman was dissatisfied, if he hinted that the merger of the two companies did not make sense, then the acquisition might unravel. Everyone knew it. Everyone understood very well the power he wielded-especially Dorfman himself.
Sanders hung back at the entrance to the restaurant, reluctant to come forward. After a while, Max glanced up and saw him. Still talking, he shook his head fractionally: no. Then, as he continued to talk, he made a subtle motion with his hand, tapping his watch. Sanders nodded, and went back into the lobby and sat down. He had the stack of ComLine photocopies on his lap. He browsed through them, studying again the way Meredith had changed her appearance.
A few minutes later, Dorfman rolled out in his wheelchair. "So, Thomas. I am glad you are not bored with your life."
"What does that mean?"
Dorfman laughed and gestured to the dining room. "They're talking of nothing else in there. The only topic this evening is you and Meredith. Everyone is so excited. So worried."
"Including Bob?"
"Yes, of course. Including Bob." He wheeled closer to Sanders. "I cannot really speak to you now. Was there something in particular?"
"I think you ought to look at this," Sanders said, handing Dorfman the photocopies. He was thinking that Dorfman could take these pictures to Garvin. Dorfman could make Garvin understand what was really going on.
Dorfman examined them in silence a moment. "Such a lovely woman," he said. "So beautiful . . ."
"Look at the differences, Max. Look at what she did to herself."
Dorfman shrugged. "She changed her hair. Very flattering. So?"
"I think she had plastic surgery as well."
"It wouldn't surprise me," Dorfman said. "So many women do, these days. It is like brushing their teeth, to them."
"It gives me the creeps."
"Why?" Dorfman said.
"Because it's underhanded, that's why."
"What's underhanded?" Dorfman said, shrugging. "She is resourceful. Good for her."
"I'll bet Garvin has no idea what she's doing to him," Sanders said.
Dorfman shook his head. "I'm not concerned about Garvin," he said. "I'm concerned about you, Thomas, and this outrage of yours-hmm?"
Dorfman sighed, shaking his head. "Thomas. Thomas."
"Well, I can't. Can I?"
"Are you enjoying this? You seem to be enjoying this outrage."
"I'm not."
"Then give it up," Dorfman said. He turned his wheelchair to face Sanders. "Stop talking this nonsense, and face what is true. Young people in organizations advance by alliances with powerful, senior people. True?"
"Yes."
"And it is always so. At one time, the alliance was formal-an apprentice and master, or a pupil and tutor. It was arranged, yes? But today, it is not formal. Today, we speak of mentors. Young people in business have mentors. True?"
"Okay . . ."
"So. How do young people attach themselves to a mentor? What is the process? First, by being agreeable, by being helpful to the senior person, doing jobs that need to be done. Second, by being attractive to the older person-imitating their attitudes and tastes. Third, by advocacy-adopting their agenda within the company."
"That's all fine," Sanders said. "What does it have to do with plastic surgery?"
"Do you remember when you joined DigiCom in Cupertino?"
"Yes, I remember."
"You came over from DEC. In 1980?"
"Yes."
"At DEC, you wore a coat and tie every day. But when you joined
DigiCom, you saw that Garvin wore jeans. And soon, you wore jeans,too.
"Sure. That was the style of the company."
"Garvin liked the Giants. You began to go to games in Candlestick Park."
"He was the boss, for Christ's sake."
"And Garvin liked golf. So you took up golf, even though you hated it. I remember you complained to me about how much you hated it. Chasing the stupid little white ball."
"Listen. I didn't have plastic surgery to make myself look like his kid."
"Because you didn't have to, Thomas," Dorfman said. He threw up his hands in exasperation. "Can you not see this point? Garvin liked brash, aggressive young men who drank beer, who swore, who chased women. And you did all those things in those days."
"I was young. That's what young men do."
"No, Thomas. That's what Garvin liked young men to do." Dorfman shook his head. "So much of this is unconscious. Rapport is unconscious, Thomas. But the task of building rapport is different, depending on whether you are the same sex as that person, or not. If your mentor is a man, you may act like his son, or brother, or father. Or you may act like that man when he was younger- you may remind him of himself.
True? Yes, you see that. Good.
"But if you are a woman, everything is different. Now you must be your mentor's daughter, or lover, or wife. Or perhaps sister. In any case, very different."
Sanders frowned.
"I see this often, now that men are starting to work for women. Many times men cannot structure the relationship because they do not know how to act as the subordinate to a woman. Not with comfort. But in other cases, men slip easily into a role with a woman. They are the dutiful son, or the substitute lover or husband. And if they do it well, the women in the organization become angry, because they feel that they cannot compete as son or lover or husband to the boss. So they feel that the man has an advantage."
Sanders was silent.
"Do you understand?" Dorfman said.
"You're saying it happens both ways."
"Yes, Thomas. It is inevitable. It is the process."
"Come on, Max. There's nothing inevitable about it. When Garvin's daughter died, it was a personal tragedy. He was upset, and Meredith took advantage of"
"Stop," Dorfman said, annoyed. "Now you want to change human nature? There are always tragedies. And people always take advantage. This is nothing new. Meredith is intelligent. It is delightful to see such an intelligent, resourceful woman who is also beautiful. She is a gift from God. She is delightful. This is your trouble, Thomas. And it has been a long time coming."
"What does that-"
"And instead of dealing with your trouble, you waste your time with these . . . trivialities." He handed back the pictures. "These are not important, Thomas."
"Max, will you-"
"You were never a good corporate player, Thomas. It was not your strength. Your strength was that you could take a technical problem and grind it down, push the technicians, encourage them and bully them, and finally get it solved. You could make it work. Is that not so?"
Sanders nodded.
"But now you abandon your strengths for a game that does not suit you."
"Meaning what?"
"You think that by threatening a lawsuit, you put pressure on her and on the company. In fact, you played into her hands. You have let her define the game, Thomas."
"I had to do something. She broke the law."
"She broke the law," Dorfman mimicked him, with a sarcastic whine. "Oh me, oh my. And you are so defenseless. I am filled with sorrow for your plight."
"It's not easy. She's well connected. She has strong supporters."
"Is that so? Every executive with strong supporters has also strong detractors. And Meredith has her share of detractors."
"I tell you, Max," Sanders said, "she's dangerous. She's one of those MBA image people, focused on image, everything image, never substance."
"Yes," Dorfman said, nodding approvingly. "Like so many young executives today. Very skilled with images. Very interested in manipulating that reality. A fascinating trend."
"I don't think she's competent to run this division."
"And what if she is not?" Dorfman snapped. "What difference does it make to you? If she's incompetent, Garvin will eventually acknowledge it and replace her. But by then, you will be long gone. Because you will lose this game with her, Thomas. She is better at politics than you. She always was."
Sanders nodded. "She's ruthless."
"Ruthless, schmoothless. She is skilled. She has an instinct. You lack it. You will lose everything if you persist this way. And you will deserve the fate that befalls you because you have behaved like a fool."
Sanders was silent. "What do you recommend I do?"
"Ali. So now you want advice?"
"Yes."
"Really?" He smiled. "I doubt it."
"Yes, Max. I do."
"All right. Here is my advice. Go back, apologize to Meredith, apologize to Garvin, and resume your job."
"I can't."
"Then you don't want advice."
"I can't do that, Max."
"Too much pride?"
"No, but-"
"You are infatuated with the anger. How dare this woman act this way. She has broken the law, she must be brought to justice. She is dangerous, she must be stopped. You are filled with delicious, righteous indignation. True?"
"Oh, hell, Max. I just can't do it, that's all."
"Of course you can do it. You mean you won't."
"All right. I won't."
Dorfman shrugged. "Then what do you want from me? You come to ask my advice in order not to take it? This is nothing special." He grinned. "I have a lot of other advice you won't take, either."
"Like what?"
"What do you care, since you won't take it?"
"Come on, Max."
"I'm serious. You won't take it. We are wasting our time here. Go away.
"Just tell me, will you?"
Dorfman sighed. "Only because I remember you from the days when you had sense. First point. Are you listening?"
"Yes, Max. I am."
"First point: you know everything you need to know about Meredith Johnson. So forget her now. She is not your concern."
"What does that mean?"
"Don't interrupt. Second point. Play your own game, not hers."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning, solve the problem."
"Solve what problem? The lawsuit?"
Dorfman snorted and threw up his hands. "You are impossible. I am wasting my time."
"You mean drop the lawsuit?"
"Can you understand English? Solve the problem. Do what you do well. Do your job. Now go away."
"But Max-"
"Oh, I can't do anything for you," Dorfman said. "It's your life. You have your own mistakes to make. And I must return to my guests. But try to pay attention, Thomas. Do not sleep through this. And remember, all human behavior has a reason. All behavior is solving a problem. Even your behavior, Thomas."
And he spun in his wheelchair and went back to the dining room.
Fucking Max, he thought, walking down Third Street in the damp evening. It was infuriating, the way Max would never just say what he meant.
This is your trouble, Thomas. And it has been a long time coming.
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Fucking Max. Infuriating and frustrating and exhausting, too. That was what Sanders remembered most about the sessions he used to have, when Max was on the DigiCom board. Sanders would come away exhausted. In those days, back in Cupertino, the junior execs had called Dorfman "The Riddler."
All human behavior is solving a problem. Even your behavior, Thomas.
Sanders shook his head. It made no sense at all. Meanwhile, he had things to do. At the end of the street, he stepped into a phone booth and dialed Gary Bosak's number. It was eight o'clock. Bosak would be home, just getting out of bed and having coffee, starting his working day. Right now, he would be yawning in front of a half-dozen modems and computer screens as he began to dial into all sorts of databases.
The phone rang, and a machine said, "You have reached NE Professional Services. Leave a message." And a beep.
"Gary, this is Tom Sanders. I know you're there, pick up."
A click, and then Bosak said, "Hey. The last person I thought I'd hear from. Where're you calling from?"
"Pay phone."
"Good. How's it going with you, Tom?"
"Gary, I need some things done. Some data looked up."
"Uh . . . Are we talking things for the company, or private things?"