Chapter 14
Morgan awoke the next morning to a buzzing sound that bored into her brain. But it wasn’t her alarm clock. The hard-driven corporate executive who rose at 5:30 AM every weekday and who was prone to logging double-digit office hours over the weekend, as well, had not set her alarm, despite the fact that it was a Friday.
Instead, the source of the annoying sound was inside the drawer of Morgan’s night table. The wooden echo chamber only amplified the grinding, grating sound.
Morgan stirred in her bed, feeling refreshed and recharged. She blindly reached a hand for the drawer pull. And when she opened it, the sound became clearer and instantly identifiable.
It was her smartphone. And Morgan, being Morgan, that signature sound seemed to instantly snap her back into corporate climber mode. With her eyes immediately clear and alert, and a single cough to transform her voice into its typical calm executive confidence, she answered the phone, even though she did not immediately recognize the caller’s number.
“Hello?” she said, snapping herself out of bed and springing to her feet. She was always better – sharper, quicker -- on her feet.
“Morgan Chase?” It was a male’s voice, sounding somewhat uncertain. It was not one that Morgan could identify.
“Who’s calling?”
“Dale Barbaro. From the Journal,” he replied, more confident now, even arrogant. “May I speak to Morgan Chase? It’s concerning a story that we’re planning to run.”
Morgan’s stomach, full of the remnants of last night’s pizza feast, suddenly sank. She began pacing the original oak floor of her bedroom.
What did they have on her?
“This is Ms. Chase,” she said.
“I hope I’m not bothering you,” the business reporter said. But Morgan could tell Barbaro could have cared less.
“A source gave me this number. I was told you’re not expected in the office today.”
“I have meetings,” Morgan said curtly.
Barbaro blew out air that whooshed like a tornado through the phone. “That’s not what I heard,” he scoffed.
“Then you’re misinformed.”
“Why didn’t you attend the client meeting with Pennsylvania Department of Education officials yesterday?” the reporter shot back. “Your absence was quite noticeable, considering it was your project and this was your company’s first major client for this product.”
“It was a private meeting,” Morgan said as evenly as she could. “Neither side is releasing a list of attendees. The news – the real news – in case you missed it, is that the contract is signed. Our company’s Public Education Renaissance Curriculum is being rolled out across Pennsylvania. And because of this, there will be many more client meetings and many more contract signings to come. That’s the story, Mr. Barbaro.”
It was a classic non-denial denial, and Dale Barbaro knew it.
Morgan had never answered his question. She never said if she was present for the Pennsylvania meeting, or not. Besides, reporters like Barbaro hated being told what the story was, especially by corporate executives who earned ten times his salary.
Barbaro’s journalistic license to harangue business big shots was the one thing that made up for his salary deficit. In this one respect, Dale Barbaro, and all the nettlesome journalists just like him, possessed the one form of power corporate titans could never wield.
And he meant to use it.
“Then, I take it you’re denying the rumors of your suspension?” Barbaro plowed ahead, each question more inflammatory, sensational and provocative than the last.
“I’m not commenting on anything beyond the news of the successful consummation of our agreement with the state of Pennsylvania. It’s a bold, groundbreaking step that will allow our company and the students of this state to show the world the power of progressive, self-directed and fully integrated intellectual software.”
Morgan quoted rehearsed, scripted lines.
“We are gratified that we will have this unique opportunity to partner will the educators of Pennsylvania, and more importantly, to engage, excite and re-invigorate the students of this state.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Barbaro sloughed her off. “I heard that one before. Funny how no one’s talking about why the design director who conceived and created all that groundbreaking software is nowhere to be seen when this historic stuff goes down.”
Morgan said nothing. The phone line swelled with silence.
“Ms. Chase?” Barbaro asked.
“I’m here,” she said. “I’m not just in the habit of responding to a reporter’s idle musings, even one as accomplished as you, Mr. Barbaro. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do have work to do. Believe it, or not.”
“I understand,” the squelched scribe dejectedly said. “Thanks for the time.”
“I do appreciate your calling for my response,” Morgan said. “I hope I’ve settled the matter to your satisfaction. And if in the future there is anything I can report, you’ll be my first call.”
“I can live with that,” Barbaro said. “To be continued, then. I guess we can leave it at that.”
“Yes,” she said, wondering how all those future pages would be written. “To be continued.”
The moment Morgan disconnected from Barbaro, she called Hal Linden’s personal, private line, the one for internal executives only.
The genial vice president picked up on the second ring.
“Hal, this is Morgan,” she said in tones that sounded more urgent than was wise.
“Morgan,” Linden gregariously said. “I thought I told you to relax. That voice of yours doesn’t sound very relaxed.”
He came off like a father scolding his little girl. So damned condensing.
“You tell me,” Morgan demanded hotly. “Do I have reason to relax?”
“Well, we haven’t heard a peep from Darren, if that’s what you mean,” Linden elaborated. “No further calls to HR. No push to move this mess into a full-fledged accusation. It sounds like my little huddle with him is working. Cooler heads are prevailing. I just need you to simmer down, as well. For once, no news is good news.”
“That’s just it,” Morgan said. “I’m not sure there is no news.”
She paused for effect, and Linden didn’t say a word. It was either shock on his part that she had discovered his back-channel play, or his genuine interest beckoning Morgan to continue.
“No sooner do I take your advice to lay low for a couple of days, and I get a wakeup call from a reporter,” Morgan said.
“Who?”
“That pain-in-the-ass tech writer for the Journal,” she said.
“Christ,” he sputtered. “Barbaro?”
Linden sounded genuinely surprised. If he had set her up, he was a hell of an actor.
“That’s the one,” Morgan said. “Don’t tell me someone’s selling me out at my own company. You said you were putting a lid on this thing.”
“I was,” Linden stammered. “I am. Now, tell me exactly what this bastard said.”
Morgan related the conversation, nearly word for word. Linden listened intently, then rendered his verdict of what it all meant.
“Nah,” Linden drawled. “He’s fishin’. Barbaro doesn’t have anything. Not on you, Morgan. But he might have got wind of the company’s financial play.”
“There’s been rumors all along that Nestor would take us public,” Morgan pointed out, referring to the company’s slick British CEO, Nigel Nestor. “It’s always been a matter of when, not if.”
“Well, let’s just say that the ‘when’ has gotten a lot closer,” Linden hinted. “Unofficially, Nigel is in London as we speak courting investment bankers for a deal. The timing of our Pennsylvania contract, the prospect of a nationwide rollout for this software and the friendly climate for international IPOs makes now the time to strike. I’m not privy to details, but I’ve been instructed to eliminate all bumps back home. That’s why I’ve handled your situation the way I did. It’s for all of our benefit, re
ally. As an equity partner in this company, do you have any idea what your share of an IPO would be worth?”
There was a pause in the conversation. Morgan had been so focused on the details of Project Renaissance and the path to an executive vice president’s position it represented, that she had almost forgotten the bigger picture. The company itself was ripe for promotion to the wild world of the public sector, where the sky was the limit for the stock price of a suddenly hot technology company.
“Well, I haven’t calculated it down to the penny, or anything,” Morgan said. “But you’re right. Everything makes more sense in the context of a pending IPO. I hadn’t considered it when last we talked. But the whole thing with Darren – could he be a puppet for someone trying to torpedo the deal?”
“I don’t know,” Linden answered in low, measured tones that dripped with deep contemplation. “That’s why I’m handling him with kid gloves. Sorry if I was less than ginger with your feelings, but I assumed you would be on the same page with the bigger picture, given everything that’s at stake. Besides, now I know that you do fit in with the Big Boys. Not a doubt in my mind.”
Morgan wondered if Linden was playing her again, but it didn’t much matter. He was right. And all of his actions up to this point had served larger interests – theirs personally and the company’s.”
“I’m over it,” she said. “And I’m with you one hundred percent. But I’m wondering how leak-proof your containment really is, what with Barbaro sniffing around. Not just sniffing, either. Coming right to me, the unexpected chink in the company’s armor.”
“I still don’t think he knows anything,” Linden analyzed. “And if he has caught wind of Nigel’s moves in London, a little fishing from a reporter is to be expected. In fact, the media scrutiny will only intensify as this deal moves closer to consummation.”
“Not a great time to have a rogue secretary out there with secrets.” Morgan’s voice dripped with self-recrimination. “It’s all my fault. I wasn’t thinking far enough ahead.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Linden consoled. “It happens. And right now, we have it contained. I’ve set myself up as Darren’s white knight in the company. He knows to come to me when he’s ready to talk. Going to him before he’s ready will only strengthen his hand by signaling our own desperation. In my experience, people tend to think only as big as their job titles. An executive assistant sees a pampered department director, and dreams of walking in those shoes. He doesn’t dream of corporate sabotage to service a rival investment banker and bring down billion-dollar deals. We shouldn’t let our imaginations run away with themselves. Let’s not invest your handsome secretary with the skills of a boardroom chess player. Not yet, at least.”
Morgan’s esteem for Linden had increased ten-fold since their conversation began. As field general, people-reader and corporate strategist, the old quarterback was an All-Pro. There was much she could still learn from him.
“You’re right,” Morgan said. And the mere words themselves were a relief. “You’re absolutely right. We sit tight.”
“We sit,” Linden corrected. “No need to be uptight about it. In fact, I know one dedicated director who should be enjoying some well-deserved downtime. How are we doing with that?”
“Not bad, actually,” Morgan said. “Believe it or not, I actually managed to decompress and feel somewhat human last night. I guess I have you to thank for that, as well.”
“Not necessary,” he said. “Just carry on. And let me know if you receive any other calls from fishing business journalists. I’ll stay in touch on my end, as well.”
“Thanks, Hal,” Morgan said. “I really mean that.”
“I know,” he said. “And you’re quite welcome.”