by Daniel Lyons
“What, swindling people?”
“Helping people.”
“Please.”
“People need to believe in something. I become that something for them.”
“You take their money.”
“They give only what they want to give.”
“They won’t give much after I go back down there and tell them the truth.”
“Yeah, see, that’s the beauty of it. They won’t believe you. Quite the opposite. They’ll probably declare you a heretic, and stone you to death. That’s the great thing about religious belief. We did studies on this back at Harvard. The power of faith, the ability of the human mind to believe in irrational things, the hunger for meaning, the need for God to exist—these are amazing things. That’s the lesson for you. That’s why I brought you here. That’s the lesson you should take back with you to America.”
“News flash: Con men are able to fool people. That’s not exactly big news.”
“The lesson,” he said, shaking his head, “is that people are hungry for meaning, and they will go to great lengths to find it. Look at how far you came. Look what you put yourself through. Look at everyone around you in America. It’s the wealthiest country that has ever existed in the history of the planet. Yet it’s also the most miserable. Nobody is happy. How does that make sense? People have big cars, big houses, plenty to eat. Nothing works. They go to church. They go to shrinks. They drink, they take drugs. Or, like you, they give away all their possessions and fly to India. Only there’s no answer here, either. As you are discovering today.”
“I feel like an idiot.”
“That’s good.” He smiled. “That’s the first step toward learning something. Now let me leave you with a thought. America is all about commerce. That’s what America is good at. Someone is going to figure out a way to create material things and to imbue them with a sense of religious significance. I don’t know how this will happen. But it will happen, because it needs to happen.” He held up his hands. “God on the one hand,” he said, “and products on the other.” He brought his hands together, and interlaced his fingers. “Whoever weaves these together will become more powerful than you can imagine.” He stood up. “So,” he said, “that’s my lesson. Have a safe trip home to California. I’m going to take a nap.”
One thing I love about the Valley is the way we combine our hyper-competitive work-hard-play-harder lifestyle with a desire to be socially responsible. Yes, people here have a lot of money. But almost everyone I know is also involved in philanthropy. So even while we’re bashing each other’s brains out in a sailing race or bike race or running race, we’re also raising money to fight breast cancer or clean up the environment.
One of the best things we do is the annual party at Nigel Dryden’s mansion in Woodside. Nigel is a Brit, but he’s not uptight, I guess because he’s been living here for so long. He originally came here as a tech reporter for the BBC. Then he became a venture capitalist, and got lucky—he was one of the early venture investors in eBay. These days he runs a blog about startups, and his blessing is considered a make-or-break thing for startups. Thumbs-up from Nigel means you’ll get your Series A funding.
The Dryden (which is what everyone calls his party) happens every year in the fall, and the purpose is to raise money for the homeless. It’s invitation only, to keep out the kind of strivers and start-up dorks who would use it as a chance to schmooze with A-listers like me and Larry Ellison. You pay five thousand dollars to attend, and there’s a charity auction. The kicker is that everyone dresses up in rags and tattered clothing, so that we can see what it’s like to be poor. Nigel got the idea from Bob Geldof, who has a similar party every summer at his castle in Ireland.
I know it sounds weird, but it’s really effective, and everyone important shows up, from celebrity CEOs like Larry and me to the top venture capitalists and investment bankers. There’s no press allowed, because unlike Hollywood, where no good deed occurs without camera crews present to broadcast the whole thing on some entertainment TV show, here in the Valley we don’t like to be showy about our giving.
Only one party in the Valley draws a larger crowd than the Dryden and that’s Mitchell Kaplan’s Global Warming Beach Bash. People fly in from all over the world for that one. But the Dryden is far and away my favorite party, mostly because of the costumes. People get really creative. They spend huge amounts of money hiring designers and makeup artists. They show up with shopping carts filled with cans and bottles, or bring dirty sleeping bags and ripped-up blankets. Some bring little mangy dogs and cats, and hand-lettered cardboard signs saying things like will work for food, or homeless vet clean and sober needs a break.
This year’s party is the biggest one ever, but it’s a bit of a somber affair since some of the people here have been hit with criminal charges and the rest of us have an axe hanging over our heads. Talk about irony. Here we are, five hundred of the richest, most successful people in the Valley, doing yet another great thing for the world, making a huge difference in the lives of people less fortunate than ourselves, and we can’t even enjoy it because some government hacks have decided to start hunting us for sport. Sure, we’re all trying to smile and laugh as we’re huddling around garbage cans with fires in them, but the whole thing just feels forced.
“Sorry to hear about your problems,” Nigel says, sliding up. “Right-wing fascists, eh? But I’m glad you came. Good to get out and show your face.”
“Oh, it’s no big deal. We’ve looked into it. There’s nothing.”
This has become my standard response when anyone mentions the SEC investigation.
“Oh, I’m sure. Ridiculous. Crazy. Your tax dollars at work, right? Say, did you hear what we’re doing later? After the auction? We’re doing this Burning Man thing out on the back lawn. We’ve got two twenty-foot wooden statues around the back of the house. Paul Sarbanes and Mike Oxley. Sort of symbolic. Larry’s idea. Brilliant one, I must say.”
Larry takes a small bow. “Just my little way of making a statement,” he says.
Larry’s just had a combination face lift and eye job. He looks like he’s been in a car accident—a really bad car accident. He also looks Japanese. Each time he goes in he has them make his eyes a little more slanted.
Waiters and waitresses in black formal attire are circulating through the crowd, delivering drinks and appetizers. The cool thing is that these people—the wait staff, the valets, the busboys and bartenders—are actual homeless people rounded up from shelters in the area.
“For a lot of these folks it’s a chance to make a fresh start,” Nigel says. “And they pick up a few bucks, which doesn’t hurt.”
“You don’t let them in the house, do you?” Larry says.
“Please,” Nigel says. “I’m generous, but I’m not crazy. Though I’ll tell you, no matter how good the security is, we’re always missing a few cases of booze by the end of the night. They’re crafty, these folks, I’ll give them that.”
We’re standing by a garbage can eating vegetarian egg rolls. Nigel is sporting old-fashioned hobo attire, with charcoal on his face and a kerchief tied to a stick. Larry’s wearing baggy sweatpants, an old Army jacket, and mismatched shoes held together with duct tape. Mrs. Jobs and I are wearing layers of colorful pants and sweaters which my driver, Miguel, and his wife, Maria-Teresa, picked up for us in a Goodwill store up in East Palo Alto.
Suddenly a siren starts blaring and a dozen cops (actually actors in costume) swarm into the yard, shouting and waving nightsticks and shining flashlights in our eyes, pretending to be carrying out a “raid” on the “hobo camp.” Not exactly a great idea, considering the way things are going in the Valley lately. Several dudes actually start running for the back hedges, until Nigel informs us that it’s all stunt, and they’re just here to herd us into the house for the auction.
We’re almost at the door when I spot Tom Bowditch and Bobby DiMarco heading toward me from around the side of the house. They’re not wearing costumes
, and they’re not smiling. I take this to be a bad sign. I’m correct.
“We need to talk,” Tom says.
“My God, can’t it wait?” Mrs. Jobs says.
They don’t even bother to answer. Larry escorts Mrs. Jobs into the party. I follow Tom and Bobby around the house to Tom’s Maybach.
“Doyle called me today,” Bobby says, once we’ve settled ourselves inside the car. “Zack rolled. They flipped him. He’s turning state’s evidence.”
“English, please,” I say.
“Zack Johnson,” Bobby explains, “has agreed to testify against you in exchange for a lighter sentence. Or possibly no sentence.”
Tom leans forward in his seat. “They played Sonya and Zack off each other. Told them one of them was going to go free and the other was going to go to jail, and it was up to them to decide, but whoever rolls first gets the deal. Oldest trick in the book. Good one, too. It works.”
“My bet,” Bobby says, “is that they went to Sonya first, and she figured their first offer was shit and she’d wait for something better. So she turned it down, figuring Zack would know enough to do the same and then they’d come back to her with something better. Only Zack didn’t pass. But who knows. It’s entirely speculative.”
“Point is,” Tom says, “Doyle says he’s ready to move on you. He was threatening to come here tonight and pick you up in front of the crowd. Wanted to make a splash.”
“I backed him off for now,” Bobby says. “But we’re not going to be able to keep him off you forever.”
We sit there for a minute. I’m not sure what to say. Bobby and Tom exchange a look, and then Bobby says he’s going to step out of the car for a minute and stretch his legs.
“I want to give you some advice,” Tom says, when we’re alone. He opens the bar and pours us each a glass of Glenlivet. “This stuff I’m going to tell you, I’m going to say it once, and then once I’ve said it, I never said it. Okay? If I’m ever asked about this I’ll deny I ever talked to you. Do you understand?”
I nod.
“I think you need to consider some drastic measures,” he says.
“Finally! Yes! Thank God. I’ve been waiting for someone to say that. Who can we get to do it?”
“Do what?”
“Kill Zack.”
“We’re not going to kill Zack.”
“Who are we going to kill then? Sonya?”
“We’re not going to kill anyone.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s against the law.”
“I’m not saying we admit to doing it.”
“We’re not doing it, period.”
“But it’s a good idea. It’s the most obvious solution. I mean, okay, it sucks for Zack. But for everyone else I think it’s the best solution. Not just for me. But for the shareholders, the board of directors, the customers. Everyone.”
“Steve, we’re not going to kill anyone.”
“But you said ‘drastic measures.’”
“Look,” he says. “Be quiet for a minute. Okay? Don’t talk. Just listen.” He takes a big drink of his Glenlivet, then pauses and takes another gulp, draining his glass. “There’s this program,” he says. “Sort of like the witness protection program. You can get out of the country. You can get a new identity, change your appearance. There are people I know who can help you do this. I’m telling you this as your friend.”
“I’d rather just kill Zack. Seriously. You sure we can’t do that?”
“I know it’s a lot to digest,” he says. “Think about it. Just don’t think too long.” He hands me a piece of paper with a name and phone number on it. “That’s someone you should see. He’s a plastic surgeon in Scottsdale. He’s the one that did Princess Diana.”
“But she’s . . .”
“No. Not dead.” He shakes his head. “Living with Dodi Al-Fayed in Qatar. This guy did Ken Lay too. Same thing. He’s in the South Pacific someplace, banging Polynesian girls. Living the
good life. The heart attack was staged.”
“No way.”
“Why do you think they cremated the body? You remember who went to his funeral? Bush Forty-One and James Baker.”
“You’re messing with my head.”
“It’ll cost you a fortune. But it will keep you from going to jail. And if everything blows over, who knows? Maybe you can come back.”
“I thought you told me the company was going to protect me. You said you had no choice. They couldn’t survive without me.”
“I did say that. It’s true. They can’t survive without you. But I don’t see any way around it. Either you go to jail, or you fake your death and flee the country. Either way the stock gets killed. In which case you might as well save your own ass, don’t you think? Right now my biggest concern is taking care of you.”
“I still can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”
“We’re not,” he says. “Remember? By the way, this guy in Scottsdale also did Sam Palmisano from IBM.”
“Sam’s not dead. He visited Apple six months ago. He thought the iMacs were flat-panel TVs.”
“That didn’t tip you off?”
“I figured, Hey, he’s from IBM. What does he know about computers?”
“The real Sam died a year ago. Heart attack, at home, in bed. They didn’t have a successor. So they created a Fake Sam. Gives them time to do a search for the next CEO. Soon as they find someone, Fake Sam gets the boot.”
He opens the car door. Nearby, on the front lawn, Bobby D. is talking to an incredibly attractive bag lady who I would guess is some kind of PR flack. Something about the vacant look in her eyes, the fake smile. They all look like this. I think they go to a school someplace to learn how to do that smile.
Tom whistles. Bobby looks over and holds up one finger, as if to say, Just a minute.
“Guy never stops chasing pussy,” Tom says. “It’s his one weakness.” He glances at my layers of pants and sweaters. “Nice outfit, by the way. First step toward your new identity. I like it.”
Back inside the party, Mrs. Jobs is looking worried.
“It’s nothing,” I tell her. “No big deal.”
She just looks at me. We’ve been married way too long for me to get away with whoppers like that.
PART THREE
Enlightenment
“I’m not going to move,” Mrs. Jobs says. “I’m not going to change my identity and have plastic surgery and get a new passport and go live in hiding. I’m sorry. I’m just not.”
We’re sitting in the kitchen, eating kiwi fruit for breakfast. I’ve been eating nothing but kiwi fruit for seven days and I feel amazing.
“We could go to Bali,” I say.
“I’ve been to Bali. There’s bugs.”
“There’s bugs everywhere.”
“Well I don’t need to live in Bali. I can go back to Bali anytime I want. I can go anywhere I want to go. But I’m not going to move. I love the Bay Area. It’s the most beautiful, perfect, holistic, organic, self-righteous place on the entire planet. And the weather is sooo amazing. No. I won’t move.”
“We could live on a boat. We could travel the world.”
“Why don’t you go live on a boat. Go live on the moon.”
Fair enough. She’s angry. She says I must be guilty because if I were innocent I would stay and fight the charges and clear my name. I’ve told her it’s not like that. The reality, I’ve told her, is that our government has been hijacked by fascists, and they’ve decided to target entrepreneurs and wealthy people.
“It’s the same thing the Russians did in Czechoslovakia,” I tell her.
“Honey,” she says, “what you don’t know about Czechoslovakia could fill volumes. Anyway, I talked to Nancy Johnson.
Zack told her what you guys did. You cooked the books.”
“We did not cook the books. That is an absolute lie.”
“Well that’s what Nancy says.”
“And you believe her? Did Nancy also t
ell you that she eats meat? Did she tell you that? It’s true. She sends away on the Internet for those Omaha steaks. She cooks them when she’s alone, when there’s no one around. Zack caught her doing it.”
“Look,” Mrs. Jobs says, “I’m not moving to Bali. I’m not going to live on a boat like some fugitive. If you want to go, go.”
Obviously things are not going well. Nevertheless I agree to meet with the CIA guy that Tom Bowditch recommended. We do this at the Garden Court, in the penthouse, which the guy has reserved under the name “Reinhardt.”
We set the meeting for midnight, and I park down the street, hoping to avoid being seen. I enter through a side door, wearing a bulky coat and a baseball cap—and I’m spotted right away, as soon as I walk into the lobby.
“Good evening, Mr. Jobs!” beams one of the well-scrubbed kids whose job, it seems, is simply to hang around in the lobby and find ways to be annoying. This one, whose badge declares that his name is brad, and that he hails from san francisco, ca, holds the elevator door open for me and even offers to push the buttons for me. I assure him I can do this myself.
The elevator opens into a small foyer, opposite a door. I ring the bell. My host is about sixty, lean and tall, with gray hair cut short and the kind of anonymous, generically handsome face you see on Lands’ End catalog models. Khakis, button down shirt, navy blazer. East Coast accent. Extremely formal. Offers me a drink. I take a bottle of water. He’s having Scotch.
He introduces himself as Matt. Matt the part-time spy and part-time male model, I think. I assume that Matt is not this guy’s real name. He doesn’t mention credentials, and to be sure, Tom hasn’t said explicitly that this guy is with the CIA, but I figure that must be where he’s from. There’s no small talk, no chit-chat, no discussion of my circumstances. The television is turned on and tuned to a Lakers game, with the volume turned up high—a precaution, I suppose.
