by Gail Hewitt
So, that was that. No easy out. She didn't really look forward to bringing up the subject of Josh Wells to Tom during their meeting this afternoon, but it appeared she would have no choice. Damn, damn, damn.
Well, she couldn't allow herself to be distracted by that any longer. Losing two hours by having the appointment moved up was going to make it difficult to put together everything she wanted to take to Tom's office. She didn't know why he'd asked to see her, but she wanted to be prepared. In any event, this was the ideal opportunity to get the answers to questions that had occurred to her in the last few days, after their earlier discussion about TTI. She looked at the clock. It was 9:05 now; she had to be in Alysha Harding's office by 1:50. That gave her four hours and forty-five minutes. It was doable with no interruptions. She handmade a "Do Not Disturb" sign and tacked it to the outside of her door, which she then locked. At her desk, she cut off the office phone.
She started to cut off her cell phones, both personal and the one issued by TTI, but stopped. Emergencies did happen. Anyway, that cell and her personal Palm were the only digital addresses remaining that Miles had. She laughed bitterly. Miles wasn't going to call, and she didn't care if anyone else did. She cut off every digital device in the room save for the laptop. Which made the cutting-off of the other devices more symbolic than anything else, as Jennifer had set it up so she'd be signaled on its screen if she got calls or texts. She then opened the research binder that the librarian had left for her, and began to read. Half an hour later, she turned to the laptop. Four hours later, she finished her inputting, printed out the result, reread it, and pronounced it as adequate given the amount of time she'd had. At the least, she'd organized and articulated those areas of TTI activities about which she'd like some guidance or at least more information. She printed a second copy, then put one in a script binder for Tom and the second in another script binder for her.
She stood up and stretched, then went into the surprisingly primitive adjoining bathroom, used the facilities, and began to freshen up. There wasn't a lot she could do with her thick hair, which was, as usual, curly almost to the point of frizziness, but she got it as tidy as she could, then smoothed her eyebrows and reapplied lipstick, a coral shade which the cosmetician at Saks had said went well with her brown eyes and dark brown hair. Then she looked at herself in the long mirror that hung on the back of the door. She was wearing jeans and a white button-down shirt again, but this time with a brown tweed blazer and brown suede high-heeled boots instead of black leather. She liked the outfit; it made her look businesslike without being overpowering, and it was comfortable. She thought it met Tom's instruction not to look too corporate.
Back at her desk, she popped a cinnamon Altoid, put the two thick script binders she'd created into her briefcase, and headed upstairs. Although she was a few minutes early, Alysha arose immediately. "Mr. Scott just called and said he's ready for you. If you'll follow me, we go this way."
She went back into the hall but, instead of going toward the elevator, which Maggie had expected, turned toward the door through which Mrs. Evans had led her the day before. In the residential hallway, which now seemed even quieter than it had yesterday afternoon, Alysha stopped at a door Maggie had not noticed, on the wall across from the door into Mrs. Evans' apartment. "Mr. Scott's office is just here."
She opened the door and led Maggie inside. It wasn't at all what Maggie expected. For all their stylish location, the TTI offices were a bit scruffy, obviously still being cobbled together, at least in a decorative sense. Mrs. Evans' apartment, on the other hand, at least what she'd seen of it the day before, was luxurious almost to the point of parody. Here, in what was apparently Tom's private office, a very different hand had been at work. The aesthetic was specific and highly edited, with cream walls, large paintings of city street scenes by Tom Christopher, a Scandinavian rug woven in a riot of red and purple tones, and very little furniture, all of it in contemporary Italian style with the upholstered pieces in tan leather. The style did not, Maggie thought, look particularly like something Tom would choose. It did, however, look expensive, and it did impress. At least, it impressed the hell out of her. Tom had come a long way from the wounded side chair and battered sofa his aunt had given him (Mrs. Evans or another, she wondered?).
This appeared to be an anteroom as there was no desk here or any evidence of office equipment. In the center of the opposite wall was a frosted glass door mounted in chrome. As she glanced at it, it was pushed open from the other side and Tom emerged, looking rumpled after the flight from the coast. His face bore a slight stubble, his hair was uncombed, and his clothes — tan chinos and a brown leather jacket with leather boots — looked slept in. It was as if he'd just come from the airport and hadn't had time (or hadn't bothered) to freshen up. The whole effect was highly masculine, she realized and was immediately bothered by the fact that she had noticed. As she moved closer to shake hands, she thought she even caught a hint of his body odor, and it was disturbingly familiar. Could she really, she asked herself disbelievingly, remember what he had smelled like? That was just bizarre.
Alysha watched the two of them shake hands before speaking. "Will there be anything else, Mr. Scott?"
"No, thanks. I think I have everything I need for the moment. Just let me know if you hear anything from my broker. I left a message for him to meet me here this afternoon at four. He's supposed to call to confirm."
Alysha nodded and left.
"It's good to see you," he said, turning and leading her into a much larger room, in the middle of which was an enormous desk of frosted glass and metal. Behind the desk was a credenza and an oblong conference table, each of the same frosted glass and metal. On the wall to the left of the desk was a freestanding Esse stove in which a fire was already burning. Before it was a small tan leather sofa.
"That's a nice sight on a blustery day," she told him.
"It's vented through one of the old fireplaces," he told her. "This space takes up most of the top floor of the townhouse that's used for staff."
"Very nice," she said. "Very high concept."
"And very not me, you're thinking," he laughed.
"Not really," she said. "You've had time and opportunity to develop your taste in any direction, and this is handsome."
"Well, I'll tell the designer you said so if I happen to see her again, which is unlikely," he grinned. "But you haven't noticed my favorite part of the room. Look over here." He gestured toward the wall that held two widely spaced windows overlooking the rear yards of the three townhouses. Between the windows was a splashy floor-to-ceiling wall graphic made of interlocking wood pieces in various bright hues. "Very striking," she agreed.
"When I look at that, I think of all sorts of things," he told her, still smiling. "But we're not here to talk about the effect of décor on creativity. There are a couple of things I want to share with you about the meeting next week that might affect how you prepare for it. Also, I want to give you an opportunity to ask me anything that may have occurred to you. I see you have a binder, so I'm assuming you're ready to do just that. Do you prefer the desk or the conference table?"
"The conference table," she said promptly.
"Coffee?" he asked her, nodding toward a tray holding a carafe on the credenza.
"No, thanks," she told him. "I expect your time is short, and there are several things we need to discuss."
"That sounds serious," Tom said. "Don't tell me you're having a problem already? What can I do to help?"
"First, what do you want me to call you?"
"Call me?" He had a genuinely puzzled expression on his face.
"Well, I've always thought of you as Tom, but everyone around here seems to call you either Mr. Scott or Merriman. It occurs to me that you might find it awkward for me to be calling you something completely different. So, if you'll tell me which you prefer — Mr. Scott or Merriman or even TMS — that's what I'll call you from this time forward."
"For God's sake, Maggs, ca
ll me Tom."
"Maggs? I haven't heard that for a long time."
"Call me Tom," he repeated firmly. "I don't even know why you bring it up."
"Because my calling you something completely different from everyone else here is going to be noticed sooner or later," she pointed out. "Everyone will assume there's some kind of prior relationship, and I wouldn't want to cause you that sort of embarrassment."
Now he looked even more puzzled, and it hit her. He had been so rich and so powerful for so long that he didn't get embarrassed.
"Well," she concluded, "if you don't care, I don't care. So, on to the next item on the agenda."
"Shoot," he grinned, leaning back, obviously pleased to have dealt with the name thing so quickly.
"Do you know all of the staff here, well enough to recognize them I mean?"
"It's set up so that I'm consulted on every TTI hire, so I've at least seen everyone's name, picture, and resume. Why? Have you spotted an axe murderer on the premises?" He laughed.
"It might be simpler if I had. Have you ever had anyone complain about sexual harassment?"
"Has someone bothered you?" he grinned. "Not that any sane man wouldn't want to. Or was it a woman?"
"Tell me something," she snapped. "Does this strike you as funny because things are more loosey goosey in California?"
"Well," he said indulgently, "Things are, shall we say, less formal there, and I can see how someone coming from the kind of companies you've worked for could misinterpret . . . "
"There was no possible misinterpretation," she said crisply. "The proposition was direct, clearly worded, and repeated by someone who spoke excellent English."
His smile faded. "Just tell me who it was. I'll take care of it."
She shook her head. "It's not that simple, Tom. If the guy had just hit on me, I'd have handled it. I'm a grown-up, and I don't need a big brother to clean up my messes."
"A big brother, huh? So that's how you think of me. Well, that's one way to deal with it." He grinned again. "If you aren't asking me to deck the son-of-a-bitch, what is it you want me to do?"
"Just listen to me for a minute, then you can decide. As the guy was preparing the field, so to speak, he bragged that what he was proposing was something of a norm around here, that he'd successfully worked his magic on at least two other female employees. That makes him a serial sexual harasser, which not only exposes others on the TTI staff to potential problems but also, sooner or later, almost guarantees TTI some serious liability. Sexual harassment is illegal. That makes it my managerial duty to report it to someone up the chain of command. Since there isn't an HR group on premises, I prefer to let you decide whether to take it outside."
"No one else has complained," Tom said doubtfully.
"From what he said, he's hitting on clerical and tech types, probably mostly younger women whose jobs make them relatively powerless. They may not feel they can complain without risking a backlash that could cost them their place here."
Tom frowned. "I just can't believe anyone who works here thinks anything like that. Surely they know . . . "
"There isn't anything about harassment in the employee booklet that's handed out. I know. I went through mine line by line. Has TTI ever had any sort of harassment-prevention training?"
"Well, no," he conceded. "Look, Maggs, just tell me who it is, and I'll deal with it."
"Do you know a guy named Josh Wells?"
Tom thought about it for a minute, then rolled over to his computer and accessed the master employee list. He motioned her to come over. She stood behind him and looked over his shoulder at the image of a broadly grinning Josh Wells. "That him?"
"Yeah," Maggie said sarcastically. "A real mom-American flag-and-apple-pie type, isn't he?"
"And you're absolutely clear on the fact that he propositioned you?" Tom asked, frowning again, evidently finding it hard to believe that this goofy-looking kid had dared. "Did he know who you are?"
"I think he thought I was a techie there to install equipment, and that's really the point. He hit on someone he didn't expect. How many others has he hit on? And I make that assumption based on what he himself said, even bragged about."
"But Security . . . " Tom shook his head.
"Yeah, about that," she said. "The fact that Josh is one of your Security people is what'll get some girl a really big, headline-attracting settlement up the road. You've made Security pretty much the center of your operations in New York. They run this place in terms of logistics."
"It was just simpler," Tom conceded. "I had threats in the past, and this setup made it easier to control the perimeter 24/7."
"I can see that, and I'm not saying there's necessarily anything wrong with the Security group as a whole, because I haven't been here long enough to know. I'm just saying this one young man is a threat to the organization and should be dealt with according to the protocol set forth by your HR consultants or your lawyers."
"I can't just fire the little turd?" Tom grinned.
Maggie sighed. "Listen, don't listen. All I'm telling you is that, even if you don't care about the harassment per se, which I can't quite believe, vicarious liability makes this a sensitive and potentially costly issue. Also, no new organization dealing with programs involving educational institutions can get within a hundred miles of a sex scandal and survive. And if another one of his victims — past, present, or future — goes public, it'll definitely get press, which you say you're trying to avoid for the time being, just because of TTI's connection to you. You should get professional advice about when and how to fire him and also about what to do to try to determine who else he may have harassed."
"Okay," Tom said. "Let's make sure we call the right person at PeopleMatters."
He turned back to his computer and checked his personal directory, then hit a key on his desk set, leaving it on speaker phone.
A crisp voice at the other end answered, "Julie Hunt."
"Julie Hunt," Tom said, his voice almost caressing. "Eager legal beav supreme, this is Merriman Scott, and I have a challenge for you. There's someone I want to fire as quickly as possible, preferably this afternoon, and I have someone here with me who says we should get your advice first about how to do it."
"This afternoon may be a stretch," Hunt said, "but tell me first what you're talking about."
"We've evidently got a problem with a sexual harassment thing — a guy in Security. On her first day, he hit on a new hire, an attractive new hire who looks a lot younger than she is, not realizing she's going to be one of our top people. From something he told her, he's previously done this, successfully, at TTI on at least two occasions."
"What did he do?" Hunt asked crisply. "I need all the details, the exact circumstances, exactly what he said and did, and what the complainant said and did."
"We haven't gotten that far. I'll let the complainant tell you herself," Tom said in the same teasing tones. "Just have her give you back to me when you're done with her."
Tom disconnected the speaker phone and passed the handset to Maggie, motioning her to sit at his desk. "I'll be out there," he said, nodding toward the anteroom. "Let me know when you need me."
Hunt took Maggie through the encounter line by line, then asked her about the time of day, how he was dressed, how she was dressed, if they'd had any physical contact, even shaken hands, and if there had been any witnesses.
Maggie, feeling silly, repeated the entire conversation word for word and then provided the other information.
"Is that everything you can tell me?" Hunt asked her.
"It's all I know," Maggie said.
"Then the next step is for you to put in a written statement exactly what you've told me about the encounter itself, especially the part where Mr. Wells says he's done this with others at TTI and that you get better service from Security if you do what he wishes. Be sure to include a scan of the personal card he gave you with the 'titmanone' email address written on it. I need for you to do that as soon as poss
ible and email it to me." She gave Maggie her email address. "And I need your contact information."
Maggie provided the contact data and added, "I'll be back in my office shortly. I'll take care of the scan and the statement ASAP. Do you need anything else from me?"
"No, I'm ready to talk to Mr. Scott again."
Maggie went over to the door. Tom was sprawled on one of the sofas, his cell phone at his ear, evidently listening to someone not terribly interesting at the other end. Seeing her, he immediately got up and ended the call even as he followed her back into his office.
"She's ready for you again," Maggie told him.
He went over to his desk, sat down, and hit the speaker phone bar.
"Okay, who fires the idiot? Me or someone from your office?"
"That's part of our contractual responsibility," Hunt said hastily, and in spite of the circumstances, Maggie almost grinned. She'd bet that Tom made a difficult client. "It all seems pretty clear, Mr. Scott, but a couple of things trouble me in terms of avoiding undesirable fallout related to firing this employee without a prior investigation. Since no one else has reported the young man, that puts this in the he-said-she-said category, which is always tricky unless the complainant is absolutely above reproach."
"She is," Tom said, winking at Maggie. "I've known her since college, and she's top rate."
"The other thing is that a good lawyer might say that because she didn't at once identify herself and protest what he said, she led him on and so bears some responsibility for his continuing to be offensive."
