Capitol Reflections (23 page)
Jack Maulder pulled up to a modest home in Yonkers. He jumped out of the car, walked up a short walkway, and rang the bell at the address he’d obtained from the laptop.
No answer.
He rang again, and after several seconds, the door opened a few inches. “Yes?” said a young woman.
Jack knew from his experience as an investigator that he might only have seconds to explain his presence before the door shut in his face. “My wife and I were friends of Marci Newman, who represented Virginia against Compson Tobacco.”
The young woman, standing in the dark recesses behind the front door, knit her brows and looked more closely at Jack. “Marci?”
“Yes. Marci Newman. My wife and Marci were friends back in college.”
The woman paused. “How do you know about the suit? Did Marci tell you anything?”
Jack rubbed his chin as he fished for the right words that would keep the stranger engaged in conversation. “Only indirectly. We’ve been trying to put her affairs in order, and we found a brief note that referred to the suit. I don’t mean to meddle, but it seemed that the case must have had special importance to Marci.” Jack was skirting the very edge of the truth in saying “note” and “we” but he wasn’t prepared to go into details that would only confuse his listener. “I was wondering if Virginia were at home, and if so, if I could have a word with her. Again, I don’t want to intrude, but—”
“Ginny died two weeks ago.”
Jack stood stock-still. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said after several seconds. “I had no idea.”
“And I’m sorry about Marci,” the young woman said. “She was handling the case on a
pro bono
basis for Ginny. Her firm called us back in May after Marci died. Nobody else in the firm was willing to continue.”
pro bono
basis for Ginny. Her firm called us back in May after Marci died. Nobody else in the firm was willing to continue.”
Jack shook his head. “It’s terrible what cigarettes can do.”
“Ginny had only smoked for two years, but she was starting to have arrhythmias and shortness of breath.”
“And Marci felt these symptoms were somehow related to cigarettes in someone so young?”
“I guess so. Ginny had only been a client for a couple of weeks before Marci died.”
“Did Virginia have any history of heart problems?”
“Nope. I would have known since … well, let’s just say I would have known.”
In other words, Jack reasoned, Virginia and the young woman behind the door had been more than just roommates.
“I see,” Jack said, though his inner vision was more clouded than ever. “May I ask what Virginia died of? I’m guessing it must have been sudden.”
“She had a seizure one morning, and the doctors at the ER couldn’t stop it.” The woman was crying now.
“I’m sorry,” repeated Jack. “I can tell I’ve upset you, so I’ll be going. Thank you for your time.”
“Wait a minute,” said the tearful woman. “You’re not some attorney or detective from the tobacco company, are you? I mean, I’m not looking to sue anybody, okay? I just want to be left alone.”
“No. Like I said—just a friend of Marci Newman’s. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“Good luck.” The young woman closed the door, leaving Jack standing in the bright sunshine of an otherwise baffling morning.
Back in his automobile, Jack had the same urge he’d been having for weeks—to light up a cigarette. He’d smoked heavily while in the Secret Service—protecting the president was a stressful assignment—but he’d quit two years ago. It wasn’t easy then, and it still wasn’t. Like most ex-smokers, he still experienced the urge to light up at certain times—after dinner, when drinking, or when under stress. He was grateful that getting his hands on a smoke meant taking an out-of-the-way trip to a convenience store to buy a pack. And after what he’d just heard, that would be just plain stupid.
What in the hell were tobacco companies putting in their cigarettes now? Marci Newman and Virginia Rampling—two young women dead from seizures after smoking for relatively short periods. He could easily have chalked it up to coincidence but for the fact that Marci had the Rampling file on her PC.
Jack was more puzzled than ever. There was a bigger picture that Gwen wasn’t sharing with him. Today in Yonkers, he thought he might have stumbled on to a fragment of that picture. This private eye would have to keep the investigation going, at least for the time being.
29
“You’re in pretty good shape,” commented Billy Hamlin, wiping the sweat from his face with a towel, a large “E” monogrammed at the top. Lean but muscular, he wore white shorts and a yellow polo shirt with “Pequod’s” stitched in red beneath the left shoulder.
“So are you,” said Mark Stern, “even though you kicked my ass.”
“But it wasn’t easy kicking. Most of my opponents tank the game so they can ask me for a favor.”
“You’ve already promised mine. The interview.”
“Right you are. Why don’t we shower and sit down in the lounge?”
“Sure. Nice digs, by the way.”
“Thanks. The club is pretty picky about its members and I can exercise and do a little business without getting buttonholed by every wannabe venture capitalist.”
“I would think Randall would have his own gym at the Randall Building.”
“He does, plus another one on the floor below his penthouse, but this suits me fine.”
Mark wondered if Hamlin’s strategy was to impress the reporter with the fact that he was his own man and not a Randall puppet.
“I always used the New York Athletic Club when I lived here,” said Mark.
“That would be ideal under normal circumstances. More people, more noise. I generally don’t like the isolation that goes along with this kind of a position of responsibility. But the N.Y.A.C. wouldn’t work schedule-wise. Crowds slow me down. Although one of my greatest pleasures is to mingle with Pequod’s customers when I do a PR tour.”
A man of the people, thought Mark. Was it hype?
The Excelsior’s lounge was empty and the two men sat near a window that gave them a commanding view of East 57th Street. A waiter wearing a white linen jacket approached them silently.
“Anything to drink, Mark?” asked Hamlin.
“Coke, please.”
“I’ll have a Muscle Punch, Charles,” Hamlin told the waiter, who returned five minutes later carrying the beverages on a silver tray.
“Shall we start?” asked Mark, putting a tape recorder on the glass table where they sat.
“Yes, but sorry, no recording devices. Words are easily taken out of context. Not that you personally would do that, but tapes can be lost or stolen.”
Mark had run into this objection hundreds of times in his career. The reason, of course, was far different from what Hamlin stated. A taped remark couldn’t be disputed. The accuracy of a reporter’s notes, on the other hand, could always be contested.
“No problem,” said Mark. “We’ll do it the old-fashioned way.”
Hamlin struck Mark as a protagonist from the pages of Horatio Alger. The rugged jaw, blond hair, and clear blue eyes created a dual impression of strength and innocence. The Pequod’s chief executive was a composed, articulate man who spoke with an easygoing cadence and a slight Midwestern accent. Farm boy makes good. The perfect corporate image.
“I’ve read your bio on the Pequod’s website, so I don’t need you to tell me that you’re thirty-eight, grew up in Oklahoma City, and have a wife and two kids.”
“Don’t forget the dogs. Two beagles: Roxie and Dynamo. Haven’t the faintest idea how the kids came up with the names.”
“There’s something
Post
readers need to know,” Mark said with a grin while jotting down the names. “Now tell me about your professional life before Pequod’s.”
Post
readers need to know,” Mark said with a grin while jotting down the names. “Now tell me about your professional life before Pequod’s.”
“There was none, really. Gregory picked me straight from the Stanford program to run Pequod’s. The interview process was lengthy and grueling, but when Gregory Randall comes calling, a grad student sits up and listens. I certainly did.”
“That’s not SOP for a conglomerate like Randall, Inc. You’re telling me that Randall took a twenty-eight-year-old man with no experience and put him in charge of a company that would rise to national prominence in a decade?”
“Yes, and you’re right. It was totally unorthodox, but Gregory was interested in someone with no preconceived notions about how things should be done at Pequod’s.”
“That’s sometimes done for low- to mid-level management positions, Billy, but never for the top spot.”
“Gregory Randall is an unusual man, and if his business practices seem equally unusual, all I can say is that the success of his various companies speaks well for his instincts. Gregory gave me the blueprint for what he wanted and, together with his management team, looked over my shoulder for a couple of years. I don’t mind telling you that the scrutiny was pretty darn intense. But after that, Pequod’s really took off, and Gregory gradually stepped into the background.”
“It must have been a pretty futuristic blueprint that Randall handed you.”
“Actually, it was a step back in time—say, about 350 years. Until 1659, coffee was little known in Europe. Coffee berries made their way from the Indies via the spice trade but were only considered suitable for medical compounding into various prescriptions. An enterprising Portuguese Jew, who fled the inquisition to Amsterdam, figured out how to roast the dried berries and brew something akin to today’s coffee. The combination of the aroma and the kick of the caffeine took Amsterdam by storm. Coffee bars proliferated on every corner, and people traded their beer for Kaffee. The Europeans have traditionally savored coffee in a way Americans never have, with the accent on ‘savor’ since we know America loves that first cup every morning. Our friends across the pond have always had the corner coffee bar where they could drink espresso and read the newspaper. American coffee was mostly swill served in a diner, little more than dark dishwater with no real taste. All Pequod’s has done is teach America to savor coffee in the same manner the Dutch did hundreds of years ago.”
“You weren’t exactly the first on the scene with that. There’s, you know, that other megachain.”
Hamlin laughed. “Yes, there is. But our product is the first that really captures our European cousins’ love affair with the beverage.”
“And an empire is born. You and Randall never butted heads on anything?”
“We’ve had our disagreements, Mark, but Gregory has proven himself to be a man of compromise time and time again. With such a clear vision of what Pequod’s could become, he wanted someone who could understand and accept his game plan. He nevertheless wants an executive to be his own man or woman.”
This assertion didn’t quite tally with what Mark knew of Randall. Of course, no one wanted to regard himself as a lackey. Hamlin certainly took great pride in what he’d accomplished. “Can you give me an example of Hamlin trumping Randall on an executive decision?”
Hamlin nodded, took a long sip of his Muscle Punch, and sank deeper into the brown leather chair. “Gregory wanted to introduce all the flavors at once. I convinced him that people would be more likely to be repeat customers if we introduced new flavors every six months. I told him we’d create more ongoing excitement about the product that way. He agreed.”
“Would you say then that Gregory Randall is maybe a bit impatient at times?” Mark already knew this to be the case from his
Journal
profile of Randall, but he wanted to see how Hamlin would respond.
Journal
profile of Randall, but he wanted to see how Hamlin would respond.
“Well, you’re putting words in my mouth, Mark. It goes without saying that Gregory is aggressive. I think that’s a more accurate word than ‘impatient.’”
Hamlin had clearly paid attention during media training sessions.
“So it’s clear sailing at Pequod’s headquarters in Seattle?”
“Generally speaking, but this is the real world, of course. We have problems like any other company. We have the occasional law-suit by people who claim to have found a dead mouse in their coffee, as well as the ever-popular ‘my coffee was too hot and spilled all over me’ suit. That kind of thing is inevitable. I also have to manage my managers, so to speak, and there are personalities to be dealt with in any corporate setting, but I have to say that our management team is professional and a pleasure to work with.”
“Who does the hiring at Pequod’s?”
For the first time, Hamlin hesitated. “The Personnel Division of Randall, Inc. oversees the hiring for all of its subsidiaries, but it’s always done in conjunction with liaison teams from the various companies.”
“Does Pequod’s have veto power over hiring and firing?”
“Absolutely.”
Mark wasn’t sure if Hamlin was being truthful. The CEO had looked away for a split second before his last answer. Mark was an excellent judge of body language, but perhaps some movement on East 57th Street had claimed Hamlin’s attention.
Or perhaps not. Large parent companies never interfered in the hiring of personnel at a subsidiary. Never. However, Randall, Inc. was not your usual large parent company.
“Tell me about your coffee, Billy. What makes it so different from all other brands? Why has the country gone crazy for Pequod’s?”
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