by Lisa Tucker
But now, sitting at the club, Knolton said he’d spoken with the board, and the R&D sites were safe. Still, they would be going forward with the RIF, and Matthew would need to let go of 187 people from U.S. corporate.
Matthew wondered how they’d pulled that number out of their asses, but it was a lot better than the bloodbath Knolton had been threatening all week. He’d been forced to lay off people before; it was never fun, but it didn’t have to be a disaster. There were always employees who were screwing up and on their (carefully documented) way out the door. And Matthew had barely begun his analysis of all the departments that reported to him now: surely he could find 187 screwups somewhere. This was doable, if unpleasant. Walter had said Matthew would have to compromise with Knolton, and compromise he would. No choice—for now.
Speaking of bloat, Matthew had finally realized who Harold looked like, at least when the man was sitting down: Humpty Dumpty. The same wide, bald head, the same nonexistent waist, the same skinny arms, the same general egg shape. The big difference was that Humpty Harold was smiling a malicious smile. Uh-oh.
“One thing to be aware of,” Knolton said. His drink was already empty, but he was still holding the glass, turning it around in his hand. “The board wants the RIF completed before the end of the year.”
It was Saturday, December 9. Meaning only two weeks until nearly everyone would disappear until January, using vacation time to bridge the gap between Christmas and New Year’s or working at home, which for anyone with a family was virtually the same thing. Meaning Knolton was not only a shit, he was a veritable Scrooge. Laying off people right before the holiday? Merry Christmas and hit the road? Not that Matthew gave a damn about Christmas or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa, but he knew his employees did. Their productivity always took a nosedive after Thanksgiving, when all but senior people began spending half the day online, designing silly candy cane ecards, downloading pie recipes, bidding on crap from eBay. It was hardly an ideal situation, but Matthew accepted it because he knew those same people worked so hard the rest of the year. They didn’t deserve this. Even the screwups didn’t deserve this. It was coldhearted and wrong and—dare he say it? Why the hell not?— immoral.
Knolton’s voice was chillingly congenial as he delivered the final, lethal kick in the balls. The consultants would be choosing the 187 people through some formula of productivity and industry standards. Matthew would have no say, though of course he was welcome to discuss it with the consultants, but their decision would have to be final.
Matthew was already imagining Humpty Harold in pieces at his feet when the bastard added that it was really for Matthew’s own good since he had enough to do getting up to speed in the new position.
“I appreciate the help,” he said, but he was thinking that if Humpty Harold didn’t fall off that wall very soon, he’d have to shove him. This cheater would not win.
On Monday morning, Matthew discovered that Knolton had done the same thing to everyone else on the executive team, including Paul Chan, who was told his RIF list would include 342 people from various research sites, but nothing about who those people would be or why a Manhattan consulting firm was making the decision about what scientists AD could afford to lose. Supposedly the consultants were bringing a crucial objectivity to the process (ignorance is objective?), while also ensuring that the employees kept their trust in leadership (yes, trust in us, because we are powerless to save you).
While Matthew and Chan and the other execs waited for their RIF lists, they were busy dealing with the morale crisis that followed Knolton’s webcast interview with the employees on Tuesday to discuss the reorganization plan. When someone asked about site closures and layoffs, Harold said, “All options are on the table.” Then he said announcements would be made within the next few days, meaning of course that all work ground to a halt as everyone gossiped about whether they would have a job by the end of the week and joked bitterly that the annual holiday party on Saturday could be their funeral. By Friday, Matthew was spending hours assuring his own VPs that they had to stay calm. Yes, the consultants were making a list and checking it twice like some kind of surreal Santa Claus, but their decisions would surely be based on performance reviews. Why the list had been delayed was anyone’s guess, but in the meantime, they were to exude confidence and encourage everyone to attend the party the following night.
The holiday party was the biggest AD event of the year, and it took almost all year to plan it. Cassie had been stuck on some committee and she’d told Matthew some of the crap HR and Legal had to worry about. Employees drinking too much and suing AD if they were in a car accident (solution: strictly cash bar, and dozens of emails to remind everyone about “responsible alcohol consumption”). Employees feeling that their holiday traditions weren’t represented and suing AD for discrimination (solution: represent no traditions; stick with snowflakes). Employees groping one another and suing AD for tolerating sexual harassment (solution: a thousand more emails about sexual harassment, and another all-day training seminar for anyone who still felt he or she wasn’t “sufficiently informed”—the brain dead, perhaps? Someone from Mars?).
The party was held at the biggest and swankiest ballroom in Center City. Dinner was served buffet-style to accommodate the two thousand plus people from corporate headquarters and Chan’s Princeton site, and their spouses or dates. Despite the alcohol consumption emails, nearly everyone was drinking nonstop, no doubt thinking they might as well eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow (well, Monday), they might be axed.
Matthew and Knolton were both slated to give rally-the-troops speeches. Matthew was in no mood to deliver a pep talk, but he tried to inspire the room by frequently quoting from a man they all respected: Walter Healy. He concluded by saying that Walter had taught him that loyalty and hard work would never go unnoticed at Astor-Denning. “Those of you who already know me can attest that I love this company, and I believe our people are what make us great.” He looked around the room and saw so many of those people: Chris Hawkins, a smart guy who was now leading up alliances; Paul Chan and Beth Dwyer, whose team had discovered AD’s about-to-be-launched diabetes drug; Darryl Goodwin, a staff neurologist who’d managed the new schizophrenia drug trials; Martha from the Galvenar marketing team, hugely pregnant, standing in a line with Karen and Srini and Johanna and Link and all the other people who’d busted their asses for Matthew and his miracle drug. He smiled. “This year, we had the largest profit in the company’s history, thanks to you. Your talent is our most important resource. You’ve earned this party. Now let’s celebrate.”
He got a loud ovation complete with whistles and cheers, unlike Harold, whose speech had been met with tepid applause. Too bad it wasn’t a popularity contest. Old Humpty could be thrown from the stage and Matthew could be hoisted on the shoulders of his people and carried to the throne.
He had to indulge the occasional fantasy, especially at this moment, with the hit list in his pocket. Harold had given it to him right before his speech, probably thinking Matthew would scan it and choke. Sorry, Humpty, maybe that shit works in retail, but you don’t get ahead in pharma by acting on impulse. We deal in numbers and reproducibility. We’re a science company, even if you don’t understand what that means. I’m not looking at that list until I’m damn well ready.
Meaning a few minutes later, standing in a bathroom stall.
Most of the names on the list were unfamiliar to Matthew: several dozen from finance, an entire “redundant” department in technical writing, two graphic designers, an entire department of programmers whose jobs were being outsourced to India. The only people from his former division were one alliance guy and two people from marketing, all with performance problems. Probably nothing he could fight, with one very significant exception. He stared at her name, knowing it had to be a mistake, but worried because her assistant, Geoff, was on the list, too. Cassie?! His own assistant was part of the RIF? It would have been impossible when he was a mere division VP, but now it was unth
inkable.
He left the bathroom determined to track down Harold. If it wasn’t a mistake, it would have to become one. Harold was dancing with his wife so Matthew waited, making small talk with whatever employee stepped forward to introduce himself or herself and do a little understandable brown-nosing. Matthew remembered being on the other side, and it was easy to be gracious. “I’ll remember you,” he said, because it was true. He had a great memory for the names and faces of his employees. Unfortunately, some of these names were already familiar to him from the list. In those cases, he also wished them a happy holiday, knowing they’d need all the wishes they could get.
Finally, Harold escorted his wife back to the exec table and Matthew asked if he could have a word with him. From the way the asshole smiled, Matthew suspected he already knew that Matthew would be pissed. But after he told Humpty about the problem, Harold said it was, in fact, a mistake. Of course Matthew’s assistant wouldn’t be laid off. The consultants must have gotten confused in their bid to eliminate redundancy. The names on the list shouldn’t have been Cassie and her assistant; it should have been Phyllis Francis and hers.
Matthew was speechless. Phyllis Francis had worked for AD for almost fifty years. She was seventy-one, but she wasn’t considering retirement, due to some kind of personal situation that made it essential for her to keep working forever (grandchildren she had to support? A daughter with some handicap?). Everyone at corporate knew and loved her. She was also famous for her great basket of teas: one for stress, another to boost your immune system, yet another if you felt depressed, and so on. Actually, Phyllis had been the first person to help Matthew when he started at Astor-Denning. He’d been told to fill out his W-4 and other forms, but he stupidly hadn’t brought anything to write with. Phyllis Francis had given him a pen and told him how to get from Walter’s office to HR.
How the hell could they lay off Phyllis? She’d given her life to this company—and specifically to Walter Healy. She’d been Walter’s Cassie, and Matthew had inherited her with his new job. He now had two assistants, and though he found plenty of work for them both, the redundancy police must have decided one had to go.
He imagined how Walter would feel if he discovered that Phyllis had been laid off a week before Christmas. He and his wife still hadn’t left for their trip around the world; he’d been in the hospital twice with breathing problems. The sad truth was he’d probably waited too long, and now he wasn’t strong enough to travel. He’d waited because of the EU conference, knowing how important it was for AD. After everything Walter had given to the company, it was horrifying to think of his assistant being treated like this. Matthew could not and would not let this happen.
He knew the holiday party was not the place to have this argument, though every cell of him wanted to punch Harold Knolton. Instead, he made his way through the throng of dancing couples and headed toward the door. He had to get some air.
Before he made it, though, he spotted a traitor. There she was, dressed in a long blue gown and high heels, looking for all the world like any other woman standing in the buffet line. At least he knew how she got in; the holiday party wasn’t a proprietary event, and security was only supposed to handle any trouble, meaning escorting drunks to the coffee station. How could they know that Amelia was trouble incarnate?
He walked over and grabbed her arm. “Crashing my party?” he said in her ear. “Are you really this desperate for a social life?”
“No, I’m working.”
“Not here, you’re not. If you don’t leave this instant, I’ll have security throw you out.”
“Fine, I’ll go.” She looked up at him. “After you answer a few questions.”
“Follow me.” He dropped her arm, but she followed him to the exit. Once they were outside, they walked down the steps to the sidewalk to get away from the crowd of smokers huddling by the door.
Immediately, she said, “Tell me what happened in Jakarta.”
They were standing under the yellow streetlight. He could see goose bumps on her bare arms. “Where’s your coat?”
“I didn’t bring it,” she said, shivering. “Don’t change the subject.”
“Oh hell.” He took off his jacket and gave it to her. She said she didn’t want it, but finally she put it over her shoulders. He looked down Chestnut Street for a cab. His only goal was to put her in a cab and send her home to Ben.
“Look, Danny gave me your mysterious message, but I can’t imagine why you think this is worth talking about. It’s nothing more than—”
“You kept out anyone with hepatitis. From the postmarket trial.”
He nodded. “It’s standard procedure. We don’t want to—”
“It causes liver damage, doesn’t it? That’s what you’re trying to hide about Galvenar.”
She looked so proud of herself. Too bad her theory was so ridiculous; he wondered if she was losing her touch. “You’re way off. Sorry, but I have real problems tonight and I’m just not up to your usual—”
“I spoke to the nurses in Long Island. They told me that some patients had to quit the trial when they developed jaundice.”
“I’m aware of that. Independent statisticians determined that our drug didn’t cause it. You can check the data yourself.”
“Did you keep this information from the FDA?”
“Of course not.” He stepped into the street, hoping to hail a cab down the block. “The FDA hearing is a public record. Look it up.”
“I have. I did. But nine out of twelve people who recommended Galvenar at that hearing had ties to AD. The FDA was acting as an arm of your company.”
“That’s not true, either, but even if it was, so what?” He turned around and looked at her. “Would you like me to personally reform the FDA? How about the Justice Department and Congress while I’m at it? Maybe I should go after the media; it needs to be reformed, too, don’t you think? Of course every corporation would have to be changed; that goes without saying. Every person in America, too, since we’re all part of the problem, right?” He forced a laugh. “If only I were that powerful, Amelia. Sorry, not even close. I can’t give you a cure for modern life.”
A car was honking across the street. The smokers were laughing. He needed to get back to the party and meet and greet. After a minute he said, “Ben was really upset when you left him. I’m glad you two worked it out.” She looked strangely sad, so he added, “He said you already found a house? That was quick.”
“The movers delivered our things today. Ben is unpacking boxes right now.”
Matthew smiled. “See, he does know how to do things other than fight disease.” Finally, an empty cab. He hailed it and it stopped. “As enjoyable as this is, it’s time for you to go. And I’ll need my jacket back.”
She took it off and handed it to him. Right before she got in, she said, “You really hurt me with that speech, Matthew.”
He didn’t say anything, but he felt a little bad. She looked worn out; Ben had told him that her pregnancy wasn’t going well, but he didn’t elaborate. Matthew hoped it wasn’t serious.
As the cab drove away, he wondered why she’d come here rather than calling. Something wasn’t right, but he was too distracted to dwell on it. Humpty was the immediate problem, and his consultants, who Matthew thought of as Thing One and Thing Two—thanks to Isabelle, who loved Cat in the Hat .
Since Matthew had moved the kids to the suburbs, Danny had become aloof and quiet, but Isabelle was still happy to see him even if he didn’t visit often or stay very long. He couldn’t fathom what Danny’s problem was, though admittedly he hadn’t spent much time thinking about it. He’d already given them his Malvern house and a nanny who charged an outrageous sum to work around the clock. Where was the gratitude?
Unfortunately, back at the party, Matthew found more gratitude than he could handle. Dozens of employees wanted to thank him for what he’d said in his speech. Even the people on the RIF list were grateful, which made him more pissed at Knolton and the b
oard. The company really was having a great year; the profit margin had never been higher. Why did the shareholders need this reorganization? Why risk morale when the pipeline was paying off and Galvenar was making them all rich? Were they really such greedy bastards that they’d insist on firing Jessica, a single mom and technical writer making fifty thousand a year? A fifteen-minute meeting between Knolton and the consultants cost the company more than that. Why was this happening—and why couldn’t he understand it? Was it possible that he was losing his focus, even becoming soft on profit? He loved money as much as the next guy, but Jessica was standing in front of him. On Monday she would be called into HR to receive “options counseling,” the euphemism they were using for being laid off. Even “layoff” was a euphemism, since no one was ever called back to work. They weren’t being counseled or temporarily sent home; they were being fired.
He dreaded Monday, and it was just as bad as he feared. It was December 18, only a week from Christmas, and everyone sat around waiting for the call from HR, crying when they got it, coming back to find security waiting for them at their desks. They were all escorted out of the building like budding Unabombers, transformed from employees to threats in little more than an hour.
Thankfully, Phyllis Francis did not get the call; she’d been removed from the list pending Matthew’s meeting with Knolton and the consultants. Meaning if he didn’t win, she’d be fired later in the week—even closer to Christmas. Meaning if he didn’t win, he would have to go over Knolton’s head and talk to the board chairman, Stephen Mezalski. Mezalski had been CEO for three years before he retired and they brought in Knolton. He knew Phyllis, and he knew Walter. Surely he would see how wrong this was; maybe he would even agree that Humpty was a psycho who had to be stopped.
