by Kate Flora
My conversation with Reeve had raised some issues that would need to be visited later, about exactly how lax the administration had become, what had caused it—Joel's affair? Reeve's passivity? A cultural failure? A leadership failure?—and how that had contributed to the current situation. But that was for later. Right now, we had to focus on the best way to punish their errant students and on damage control.
I put my phone away, used the facilities, washed my hands, and turned to go. The corridor had been lined with photographs of students. On stage. Playing instruments. Playing sports. That theme had continued on into this little room. On the wall beside the door was a large photograph of a vibrant, smiling young woman, her red hair flying, running across a field. She was wearing shorts and a tank top, arms pumping, a number on her chest, leading a pack of runners. She had a sprinkle of freckles. It was a stunning photo. I could almost feel the runner's pleasure and her strength. What held me there, though, was that except for the red hair, she looked like Ginger, right down to the one slightly crooked tooth.
A total wild card. Still, I whipped the phone back out and took a couple photos. I'd send them to Roland and Andre, who'd probably think I was a nutcase. But they'd told me anything might help. Was it possible Ginger had had a child she'd given up? Could this be a photo of a young Ginger from years ago? A sister or close relative? Mere coincidence? No time for those questions now. The meeting was starting and Reeve would be falling apart. I was here to control damage, not inflict it.
He was literally hovering outside the door, and attached himself to me like a limpet finally finding a rock.
* * *
The boardroom was elegant. A long oval table inlaid with exotic woods. Comfortable high backed chairs upholstered in navy and gold—the school's colors. Slate blue walls with what looked like authentic Hudson River School paintings. A credenza with a silver tea and coffee service. A huge oriental rug. Everything spoke of understated class and old money. Charlotte Ainsley, Chanel-suited, straight-backed and adorned with pearls, her perfectly coiffed silver hair flying away from her face in two graceful wings, presided over the room like the distinguished dowager from central casting.
For that matter, the whole board, mostly broad shouldered, graying men in dark suits, looked like the Yankees from central casting. And not the baseball team. Reeve seemed to shrink a few inches when he entered the room, and he took his place at the table like a boy being called on the carpet. Joel wasn't there.
Mrs. Ainsley, who didn't miss much, said, "We've asked Joel to come at ten. And Dr. and Mrs. Crimmons are coming at 10:30." A nod and a hand gesture sent me to the chair beside Reeve. She introduced the people around the table and said, "We really need your help here, Ms. Kozak."
I sat and waited. The Charlotte Ainsleys of the world still had the power to make me feel like an awkward child. The feeling didn't last long. Mrs. Ainsley didn't waste time on small talk. She asked a question, I answered, and we were off and running. I walked them through communications strategies and pulled in aspects of the crisis plan we'd developed that we would need to handle the situation. In particular, I suggested that the faculty be reminded of the school's media policy, so they didn't start talking independently to the media. We agreed that as soon as this meeting was over, I would sit down with the communications director and work out a media strategy, including what would be said to the parents, what would be said to the students, and what would go on the school's website.
On my advice, the school had already sent out a "holding statement" to the press, with the assurance that it would be updated soon. We agreed it was important that any statement lead with the information that the student who'd fallen ill had made a quick and complete recovery.
I told them about Glen Stryker—both his actual value and his PR value—and repeated my suggestion to Reeve that the press be invited to Glen's talk. I explained the complexity of synthetic drugs and my suggestion that we use our own expert to analyze the substance Alyce and Johnny had been selling. I emphasized the separate issue of breaking school rules.
"We've got a pair of very upset parents on our hands," Mrs. Ainsley said. "They're going to fight expulsion, or even a suspension, tooth and nail."
"Tooth, nail, and legal team," one of the other trustees added.
"That's why Reeve and I think an on-campus suspension might be the best solution," I said. "You remember that the rules were amended last year to allow for that."
She raised an eyebrow. "Why would it be better?"
I let Reeve explain. He was supposed to be looking managerial. Headmasterly. If I did all the talking and let him sit there like a chastened child, that wouldn't happen. I was glad we'd gone over all this on the phone.
Thankfully, despite his shambling bear desperation, he'd come prepared. He read the rule, and described how it would work. And the reasons why it was a better plan than sending the errant students away. They kept up with their work. Had to face the approbation of the community. Were forced to acknowledge the problems their behavior caused and admit that they'd broken rules. The value to the community of modeling both firmness and understanding that teenagers made mistakes.
When he finished, there was a murmur of assent around the table.
I took a moment to remind them that even though she had suffered the consequences of her actions, Nina should also be disciplined. She had admitted breaking the school's rules about using drugs. I pointed out that identifying her as a rule-breaker, as well as a victim, also created leverage with her parents.
The minutes flew. It seemed like I'd just sat down when Mrs. Ainsley said, "It's time to meet with Joel, and we haven't discussed that yet. In your experience, Thea, how have other schools handled a situation like this?"
A dozen different ways, I thought. I told her it depended on the egregious nature of the behavior and how much damage had been done to the school. Also on the school's culture. Was it rigid or forgiving? What kind of modeling did they want to do for the students? Did they want to set a stern example? Did they want to send the message that immorality wasn't going to be tolerated in role models?
She listened and nodded. I studied the faces of the men around the table, wondering how many of them had strayed, and whether that would influence their decision here. Whether some of them held the belief some men did that cheating on your wife was not a sign of bad character. That sexual lapses were just part of life and had no impact on a man's ability to do his job. Not a sentiment they were likely to voice in front of Charlotte Ainsley.
"Quite frankly," I said, "it also depends on how much you need Joel to lead you through this crisis. Does he add value or subtract credibility? Because you can be sure that, however circumspect everyone has been about discussing the issue, your students know what has happened. It's something you have to take into account. Can he provide credible leadership in a situation involving rule-breaking and poor decision-making given his own personal failures?"
I gave them a moment to absorb that and added, "And of course you need to think about whether his lapse will damage your fundraising campaign. Whether acknowledging his lapse and offering a sincere apology will be enough. And whether the bigger loss is your erring headmaster or your erring fundraiser."
I wished I felt more optimistic about Reeve stepping into Joel's shoes, even temporarily. But Reeve, while a genuinely likeable human being, was not a leader, and he didn't want to be. I knew it. Everyone around this table knew it. This was an awkward time to be looking for a new headmaster. The school needed leadership now. Strong, decisive leadership in the form of someone willing and able to stand up to Alyce's parents. And Nina's parents, if that evolved into a problem situation.
I wondered if Nina's parents would be content with an offer to refund her tuition for the semester. That was as much as I'd advise the school to do. It was going to take some thought and some finessing even to do that without making them regard it as an invitation for a bigger grab. The fact that she'd suffered the harm while breaking s
chool rules was a good counter.
As the swell of discussion rose around me, I contemplated a new career as a hermit. It was looking very appealing. It wouldn't matter if I spilled coffee on my last good blouse, because no one would see it. I wouldn't have to get up at ungodly hours and drive under horrid conditions. I could throw my cell phone in a pond. There was the small matter of Andre, though. But where it is written that hermits can't have conjugal visits?
Tuning out was a mistake. Not only because I was supposed to be working with them, helping them handle their dual crises, but because the instant my attention wavered from the task at hand, it focused on Ginger instead. That picture, with its striking resemblance to Ginger, surfaced and tried to claim my attention. The smile. The freckles. That slightly crooked tooth that gave her character. I wanted to go back and stare at it. Compare it to my memories of her. Maybe pull up the realtor's website on my phone. If Ginger's picture hadn't been taken down, I could see if I was just imagining all this.
I corralled my mind and dragged it back to the discussion, pushing thoughts of Ginger, and a career change, away. It was well past nine-thirty, and I imagined Joel just outside the door, pacing and practicing his mea culpa speech as the clock ticked toward ten.
It looked like the consensus, pending Joel's interview, was to ask for a formal apology and admission of failure—a teaching moment for the students in which he modeled accepting responsibility—and putting him on some kind of employment probation for a few months to scare some sense into him. I wanted to believe it was the right move, but I didn't know whether this was his first lapse, or if philandering was a habit. Maybe they did.
Finally, Mrs. Ainsley signaled that discussion was over, and asked Reeve if he would bring Joel in. I was curious to observe his demeanor. Joel could be arrogant. I knew that sometimes people met presumed opposition with an attitude. I thought that was not the best approach with this board, but would he?
Joel looked like he'd been spit-shined. Fresh haircut. Fresh shave. Crisp navy suit. Stafford school tie. He was humble. Contrite. Full of apologies for his lapse and for letting everyone down. He was willing to take any punishment they deemed suitable, but hoped they'd give him a chance to help deal with the current pressing situation. I'd forgotten how handsome he was, and how charming he could be. Maybe because he had the kind of charm that he turned on like a faucet, using it where it worked to his advantage and otherwise not bothering. While Joel could be charm itself to those above him, he could be hateful to underlings. Not to Reeve. He needed Reeve. But when I'd consulted with the school before, he hadn't bothered much with me. I was an employee.
Something businesses don't always consider when assessing employees is how they are at 'managing down' as well as 'managing up'. Joel was a model employee with his superiors. He could be a total snot with underlings, and that could have an effect on his ability to manage this crisis, because keeping the faculty on board was critical.
Charlotte Ainsley, despite her shrewd ability to assess character, had a soft spot for Joel. And despite the firmness they'd discussed, the board seemed inclined to forgive their prodigal son and welcome him back to the tiller. Never mind that he'd been absent from the bridge when the ship went aground.
I was getting some insight into how the current situation had come about. Sure, people want to be liked. But they also have to act like grownups. I like charm and good looks as much as the next girl; but as a professional, I put a higher value on substance. While he was probably the best the school had right now, he wasn't the leader the school needed in the long term. Not the easiest thing for an outside consultant to share with Mrs. Ainsley, who had a perpetual air of "not now, young lady." For the present, I would keep my opinions to myself and use my skills to help them through this with whatever they had at hand. When this was over, perhaps I could speak more frankly.
Before too many minutes passed, Joel had been forgiven, Reeve's color was improving, as befitted a man whose death sentence had been reprieved, and it was almost time to call in Dr. and Mrs. Crimmons and their entourage.
Before that happened, Mrs. Ainsley took a moment to update Joel.
"We've discussed Ms. Kozak's suggestion that we give Alyce and Johnny on-campus suspensions, Joel, and the board agrees. It will diffuse many of the family's objections and gives us an opportunity to work on drug issues with the entire community. You'll recall that we added that to the rules last—"
Joel gave me a poisonous look and shook his head. "It's a bad idea, Charlotte. They need to be suspended for the remainder of the term. They need to be sent away."
"Joel," I said. "Let's take a minute and review the advantages of—"
"I'm headmaster," he said. "It's my decision."
Just moments ago, he'd been in danger of being suspended himself. Had he already forgotten?
I looked at Mrs. Ainsley. Would she step in here or simply let Joel have his way? Did she realize that if she didn't set him straight, she was buying the school a boatload of unnecessary trouble?
We didn't get to discuss it. At that moment, the door burst open and a very large, very angry man, trailed by a smaller, officious-looking man carrying a large briefcase, and a slender, overdressed woman, entered.
"You've kept us waiting long enough, Mrs. Ainsley," he bellowed. "It's time to decide what you're going to do about that awful boy who tried to lead our daughter astray."
Chapter 13
Dr. Peter Crimmons had one of those famous four hundred dollar haircuts. In his case, not only cut but colored and neatly sprayed into place, and a face that, despite no expense being spared, was as nondescript as a man's face could be. The only outstanding features were the high red color, suggesting imminent heart attack or stroke, and how many gleaming white teeth showed when he bellowed. I could pretty much deduce that he'd never had his tonsils removed and that he'd had both bacon and sausage for breakfast.
Okay. Truth. I'd never met him and I already didn't like him. And since I didn't like Joel, either, the next half hour promised to be a super fun time. Like Suzanne reminds me though, I wasn't here to have fun. I'd just neglected to demand hazardous duty pay for coming into a war zone.
It certainly felt like a war zone. Crimmons stood at the opposite end of the table from Charlotte Ainsley, dominating the table. The room. The conversation. Shooting words in a machine gun ra-ta-tat-tat that allowed no room for response. Mrs. Ainsley seemed to be waiting for a pause in the fire to speak. Joel was just sitting there like he was plugged into some socket that was recharging his charm. Reeve had lost his color again. And—the downside of genteel—all the high-powered men around me were sitting like well-behaved schoolboys.
I guessed none of them had faced down angry militiamen or ax-wielding bad guys or watched someone being cooked alive. Well, I had, and I was not intimidated by this man's bad behavior. Yes. He was concerned about his daughter. But just as I'd felt that Joel ought to show some humility in return for not being terminated on the spot, I thought a man whose daughter was selling drugs that nearly killed a friend on her drug-free school campus ought to take a more conciliatory approach to her school's administration.
Yeah. I'm freaking naïve. I am. Which is why I stood up. In heels, I'm over six feet tall, and while Joel might be able to turn on charm, I can turn on frost.
"Dr. Crimmons," I said. "Perhaps you haven't noticed, but you are interrupting a Stafford Academy board meeting. What's worse, you are behaving inappropriately to the very people who are charged with deciding your daughter's academic fate. Either contain yourself, take a seat, and conduct yourself in a civil manner, or we will call campus security and have you removed from the room."
I keep running across people who seem never to have heard the word 'no' in their lives. Peter Crimmons was one of them. Instead of shutting up and sitting down, both he and his attorney started talking at once.
I did not raise my voice. I didn't look around the table for permission to continue, either. They'd hired me to trouble-shoo
t and that's what I was doing.
"Dr. Crimmons?" I said.
I turned to Reeve, on my right, and said, "Reeve, would you call Security, please? Tell them we have a situation with a disruptive person in the boardroom."
As Reeve rose and headed for the door, Peter Crimmons stared at me like I was a species he'd never seen before. "Listen, young lady," he began.
"Ms. Kozak," I said.
Something I've learned from hanging around with cops. Some of them have this special quality of authority they call 'command presence'. Today I was channeling Andre Lemieux, trying to pull some of that into this room. Doing what Charlotte Ainsley should have been doing.
"Young..."
"Ms. Kozak." I stood taller and made my voice colder. "Sit down, Mr. Crimmons. Mrs. Crimmons. And if you would please introduce this gentleman?" I gave a perfect Charlotte Ainsley tip of my chin. Across the table, Joel was about to stand, his nose so far out of joint it was practically sideways.
"Hold on, Joel," I said.
I looked at Mrs. Ainsley. She gave him a nod that meant he was to stay in his seat. I had at least a few more minutes to be the grownup here. Perhaps to get myself fired. Ruin my reputation in the business. Put our bottom line in the red and bring Suzanne's wrath down on me. Or do the job I'd been hired to do.
I stood up straighter. "You know Mr. Phelps and Mrs. Ainsley. And these are..." I circled the table, introducing the rest of the board, until I came to the still unnamed attorney. "And sir, you are?"
He was Harold Davenport III, probably 'call me Harry' on friendlier occasions. And like Crimmons, a man used to being the one who dominated the room, or at least to be fighting for dominance. But also one who had the sense to see that this would go better if he could keep his client quiet.
"Thank you. So, as we are all together, this is a good time to discuss the situation concerning your daughter, Alyce, and Jonathan Wylie Gordon."
