X - Chapter Twenty "The Thirty Percent Solution"

 

"The Thirty Percent Solution"

Chapter Twenty 

      Bill Voldman couldn’t remember a morning when he felt more exhausted. His flight from San Jose came into JFK late, and traffic slowed the taxi on the way into the city. By the time he got to his hotel room at The Warwick, it was already after ten. His dinner with Dorothy Reynolds at the hotel was short; when she asked why he was on his third Bourbon, he said he just needed sleep. Finally in bed, sleep didn’t come, but the series of telephone calls did – from Winshire consultants around the world, telling him they were counting on him to save the firm. 

      When the wake-up call came at seven, Bill’s only desire was to block the entrance to his room and sleep through the day. Of course, he didn’t. He arrived at Winshire’s offices at eight and set himself up in an empty office. Sipping a cup of steaming black coffee, he removed his notebook from his brief case and began noting what he needed for the meeting of Winshire’s board of directors at ten. 

      Bill’s mind drifted to what he desired from the meeting, but dared not write it down: “Do not accept any added responsibility, or any responsibility at all.” He felt his mind wandering, and he knew he could not allow himself to doze off. He took several more sips of coffee, and hoped that would help. 

      When Dorothy burst into the office, her face was twisted in agony. Her gray hair had fallen to one side, and her complexion was almost as red as her lipstick. It hurt Bill to see her that way. 

      “They’re here,” and her voice sounded abrasive, as though the words had to pass by the sandpaper in her throat before exiting her mouth. “A lot of them, with Federal police. They want to search our offices. Please, please come!”

      Bill rose, circled his desk to touch Dorothy’s shoulder for a few seconds, and then walked to the entrance to the offices. He was confronted by six men in business suits, and perhaps ten men in dark blue uniforms, Federal police officers, who were carrying side-holstered arms and were already starting to enter the hallways to the interior offices. 

      One man – a tall man in a business suit – stepped forward. “I’m Special Agent Vincent DuBois, of the FBI. We’re here to enforce a Search and Seizure warrant issued by District Court Judge Willard Esposito. Are you the senior officer of Winshire Associates currently in charge?”

      Bill Voldman looked the special agent straight in the eye. “What does this concern? Why were we not informed in advance?”

       Vince DuBois pulled his ID packet from his side pocket and exhibited his shield and his ID card, with his name and photo. “If you like, I can explain everything to you, in an office or anywhere you want. But first, what’s your name? And please confirm the location of Theodore Merritt’s office.”

      “First, I want to see your warrant,” Bill shot back.

      “Of course,” and DuBois pulled a document from his breast pocket and handed it to Bill. 

      It was 8:30 in the morning. Few staff members and consultants had arrived at the office. An eerie silence reigned at the worldwide headquarters of Winshire Associates, broken only by the opening and closing of doors and the interspersed shouts of the FBI agents and Federal police as they started to spread out through the hallways and offices. Two of the Federal policemen remained at the entrance.   

      Bill took his time to examine the Search and Seizure warrant. It was on a thick, crackly paper, and he could see the official stamps, the red wax and gold seal on the last page, along with the signature of Willard K. Esposito, Federal Court Judge. 

      Bill said: “Okay. My name is William Voldman. I head one of Winshire’s practices. Let’s go, can you follow me?”

      Bill led DuBois through the entry and one hallway that passed Dorothy’s desk. 

She was not there. Beyond her desk, there was an entrance to a large, luxurious office with an L-shaped desk. “I see your agents found it on their own,” Bill said. “That is, in fact, Mr. Merritt’s office.” 

      Inside the office, two agents had just started going through documents that had been stacked on the floor and opening file cabinets and the drawers of the desk. One of them signaled DuBois, who joined the agent inside the office. They talked briefly, and then DuBois rejoined Bill. 

      “One thing would make our job easier . . . and quicker,” DuBois said. “If I could talk to one of your IT people, we’d like to review some of your data files. It’d save all of us a lot of time, and it could mean that we don’t have to get a moving truck here to move equipment, like computers and servers.” 

      Bill led DuBois to an empty office, and the two men took seats at a table. 

      DuBois began speaking. “Let me just tell you what’s going on. We’re investigating a possible fraud case for the U.S. Attorney’s office. Issues were raised about your company, and we want to see if they’re serious enough for the U.S. Attorney’s office to pursue. Now, the murder of your president, Mr. Merritt, well . . .  It could be related to the issue of fraud, but we can’t be sure. And, if we have a murder case, we have to work out who should pursue it, that is us or the NYPD.”

      It started to dawn on Bill that he was out of his depth. These weren’t the kind of issues he usually handled. “Look, before we go any further, if it’s all right with you, I’m gonna call our legal staff.”

      And without waiting, he grabbed an internal phone and dialed an extension. A voice came on the line. “This is Bill Voldman, yes, Technology  . . .  Yes, I’m here for the board meeting. Who’s this? . . .  Is Grant there? . . .  Great, no? Look, I need you to come, right away, over to the small office near Ted’s office. Right away! I’m sitting here with the FBI. And I want you to get someone to tell Grant to join us as soon as he comes in.  . .  Okay, right away.” 

      Bill cradled the receiver and raised his eyes to DuBois. “Thanks.” Time passed, one, two, five minutes. Then Bill said, “How’d all this start? I mean, to see a federal force . . .  all of you to show up at our door.”

      DuBois’ voice took on a more personal tone. “My understanding is that it was a tip. But not just a vague tip, but a real detailed one from a good source. Then, with the murder and all . . . ”

      Bill thought of the rumors that circulated among some of the senior consultants, mainly some of the guys that came over from McKinsey, that Merritt was trying to increase revenues. Word had it there were several projects. One of them Bill had written, an aggressive and honest proposal that he’d written for Gordy after Gordy begged him for help. Another Merritt was just starting to consider, to increase services to clients and then steal up to thirty percent of their revenue. Bill didn’t like that one.  

      Then, it hit Bill like a hammer up-side the head. Holy shit, no! An image popped up in his memory, the image of a bar, the Paper Plane in San Jose, and his old friend, Paul Price. No, it couldn’t, it couldn’t have led to Merritt’s death. Immediately, Bill realized, he couldn’t show any emotion. 

      He looked up, and he saw Lee Meyer, a young lawyer who had joined the firm maybe only a few months ago, practically a kid with no experience, talking with Agent DuBois.

      DuBois was giving Lee Meyer the same explanation he, Bill, had just heard. The credible tip, the possibility of a fraud case, and the added element of Merritt’s murder . . .  when Grant Stauffer, the firm’s chief counsel, entered the room.

      Still standing, Stauffer listened for a few minutes, and then began speaking. “Look, guys, let me make a suggestion.” Stauffer was short, round and had a full head of gray hair and a full moustache; he had the appearance of an old barrister who loved life.

      As he resumed speaking, he paced back and forth, as though he was in front of a jury. “You, the FBI, you want certain information to assess if a crime has been committed, this is clear. And us, Winshire, we want to do our job, serve our clients, and avoid as much disruption and interference and harm to our reputation as possible. So, let’s cooperate. We’ll conduct an internal investigation and find out what we can. And you do the minimum, as far as your investigation is concerned. How about that?”

      DuBois placed his hand on his chin, and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Let me tell you how I see it,” he began. “We’re conducting this investigation for the U.S. Attorney’s office. You can’t do our job. But you can help. We will be as efficient as possible, and for you, you’ll assist us as much as you can. That means, data storage access, cooperation on interviews, and if necessary, security tapes, whatever. Basically, we want to conclude this investigation as fast as possible, and then we’ll leave you alone as fast as we can.”

      The room was silent for a few seconds. “And a few more things,” DuBois continued. “Basically, we have two investigations, possible fraud and real murder. The investigation into possible fraud is in the jurisdiction of the U.S. Attorney, no question there. The murder investigation could also, but it could also be a New York police matter. If that’s the case, you’ll be cooperating with them. I hope to be talking to NYPD, that is, I believe, Captain Jimenez.”

      A scream echoed through the Winshire offices, followed by: “What? What the fuck! What the fuck’s going on here?”

      DuBois, Bill and Stauffer rushed through the hallway, to the entrance, where they believed the shouting was coming from. It was, and the person making the racket was Captain Jimenez, detective of the New York City Police Department. Jimenez was accompanied by two uniformed officers and one crime scene technician carrying his equipment.  

      “Someone’s trying to steal my case, and it’s the FBI. I can sure see that. The feds want what they can take,” Jimenez continued at a slightly lower volume. 

      DuBois walked up to him and patted him on the shoulder. “How ya doin’? Raf, long time no see. How ya doin’?”

      Capt. Jimenez smiled broadly and extended his hand. The two men shook. “Just fine,” he said. “I’m still here. They still haven’t gotten rid of me. Not yet, that is.”

      “Let’s find a place to talk, and work this thing out,” DuBois said. “I’m sure Mr. Voldman will extend us that courtesy. In the meantime, we’ll get your team to the crime scene.”  

-0-

      The sunlight shone through the blue-tinted windows and onto the high-gloss surface of the Nakashima table in Winshire’s board room. The table was long, and every seat was occupied. A good number of those attending the board meeting were members of the original group that had fled McKinsey & Co. now eleven years ago. Others were new hires who had proven themselves over the years, two others were representatives of major clients, another one represented a major charity, and the last was Winshire’s chief counsel, Grant Stauffer. 

      A cloud of jabbering whispers filled the space; the attendees felt the need to chatter to mask the tense silence. 

      Grant Stauffer sat at the exact middle of the table, with his back to the wall of leather-bound volumes and facing the view of Lower Manhattan. It was Stauffer’s role to open and moderate the meeting. It was a role Stauffer relished.

      “Gentlemen, this meeting of the board of Winshire Associates will please come to order,” he said in a sonorous voice filled with authority. He looked up and down the table and spotted a bottle of Perrier. He took the bottle and tapped the crystal wine glass in front of him. The sound of a bell rang clearly and silenced the men at the table. 

      Stauffer looked slightly to the right, at a large television screen blocking just a small portion of the window across from him. “And you, gentlemen in our world outside, can you see us?” he said. “Is our Zoom working this time?”

      “Fine,” “Great,” “Pas de problème,” came the response of three of the six board members from business centers around the world.

      Stauffer looked directly at the video camera at the side of the television screen. “We all know why we’re here. We want to honor our friend and leader, Ted Merritt, for his contribution, and we want to assure the growth and prosperity of Winshire.” He paused for a few seconds. “We want to serve our clients in the most effective way, and we want to make a bunch of money for ourselves.”

      There was a mumble of assent.

      “I move that we take on the most important, and the most difficult decision we have to make today: The choice of our new leader,” Stauffer said. “Do I hear a unanimous consent?”

      “First, I’d like to know if we have a slate of declared candidates.” That was Steve Bucknell, a relatively new member of the firm who earned his board membership based on his record of signing on new clients.

      “Everything in its time,” Stauffer said, holding up one hand in a calming gesture. “I don’t think we need that level formality. Any candidate for president and CEO is sitting at this table or looking at us thanks to Mr. Zoom. So, by the way,” Stauffer stopped and smiled broadly, “does anyone want to declare his candidacy?”

      “Yes,” said Bucknell. “I would. I believe that I . . . ” 

      Stauffer held up one hand. “I suggest we get our slate before we hear the political speeches from the candidates. Any others?”

      “I hereby nominate Bill Voldman to the post of President-CEO,” declared Gordon Hope. “And when you want the reasons why, I’m ready.”

      Oh, no! Bill Voldman screamed to himself. He was sitting toward the end of the table facing the wall of leather-bound books. He wanted to be far from the action, but he was suddenly thrust into its center. If they only knew! My God! How could I?

      Bill pushed back his chair and stood. “Gentlemen, and my friend Gordy, frankly . . .  frankly, I just don’t know. This comes at a time when . . . I’d like to . . . ”

      “My friend, Bill, I fully understand,” and Stauffer was also on his feet. “This is a difficult period for all of us. But let’s see, let’s see what other candidates step forward. Are there any others? Anyone else who believes he can step into very large shoes?”

      “Yes, there is. I’d like to nominate myself, add myself to the slate.” That was Howie Rosen, a smallish man with thinning blond hair, a member of the founders’ group from McKinsey, and a member of Bill’s Technology Practice. 

      A few of the board members smiled, and then a few giggles were perceived somewhere along the long table, although it was not clear who was responsible. Howie Rosen was respected for his technical knowledge and his ability as an innovative consultant, but not as a leader. 

      “Any more candidates?” Stauffer asked. 

      Silence followed. 

      “Then maybe we can consider the candidates we have to work with,” said Stauffer. “Who would like to speak . . . ” 

      Kelly Aleksander, head of the firm’s Energy Practice, shot to his feet. “I honestly believe, there’s only one person sitting here who could do the job we need done. It’s Bill Voldman. Really, just think about what’s happened and what we have to do.. . . ” 

      As the members of the board spoke, Bill Voldman’s mind was somewhere else. He was in a bar, in the Paper Plane in San Jose, and he was with his old friend, Paul Price. Years ago, they went to Stanford at the same time. Bill studied computer sciences, and Paul philosophy. They kept in touch, and over the years, they remained close, their wives and their families became friends, and they had a drink once in a while. 

      “I could give . . .  I don’t know, any number of examples,” Aleksander went on. “Once, I worked with Bill when some oil majors had systems problems, that is, along with big problems with each other. No long stories, okay? It seemed like a conflict without a solution, could’ve been a good movie, a horror show. Bill helped us work it out, and after five or six years, both of them are still good clients.”

      And then, just a while ago, Bill got upset about a program the president of his firm was getting ready to spring on the consultants. Bill had no intention of talking about it, but he had one more cocktail and then another, and he kept thinking about Ted Merritt’s program, and he was getting more and more upset. It was wrong, it was dishonest, it was illegal. So, it was natural for him to mention it to his friend. What are friends for? So, he explained it. And Paul is an intelligent guy with a good memory.

      Gordon Hope stood up to hold the floor, and then waited several seconds before speaking: “You know, no one loved good ol’ Ted. We put up with him because he fought dirty. He was the dirtiest I ever knew!  But he was smart, this firm developed a long way from what it was in the beginning. Now, maybe we need a leader who’s both smart and a leader, and at the same time is honest and decent.”

      Bill heard the words that were spoken around the table, but his mind was on the past, the images of the long bar and being with his friend. He was talking with his friend, not as an assistant U.S. attorney, but as a friend. And he didn’t tell his friend to never tell a soul, the last cocktail took care of that. But, without telling Bill, his friend Paul wrote up the information and passed it up the chain, all the way up to the U.S. attorney’s office in New York, and then to the FBI. And now, here Bill was in Winshire’s boardroom.  

       “There’s no doubt in my mind,” Gordy concluded, “that man is Bill.” 

      And Bill asked himself, Bill feared, did he have anything to do with Ted Merritt’s murder? Was that process like the process going on in this boardroom right now? Was it just like a train that couldn’t be stopped, as one more person praised Bill, that he would be the best person to replace Ted Merritt? At what point did the murderer decide to kill Ted Merritt? Did the killer murder Merritt because he knew there was an investigation into Merritt’s illegal program? Why? Was the killer involved in it?  

      “I’ve only been here two years.” Scott Li remained seated. “And, by the way, I came from McKinsey. But in that time, more and more, I realize that there’s a lot to learn about Winshire and all you guys. But when I need to find out about a practice, when I need to know where to find info, I’ll bet you can guess who I go to, and who always has the info and helps me without any complications. You’re right, it’s Bill.” 

      “Lordy, me thinks we got a wave developing here,” said Stauffer, leaning back in his chair. “Why don’t we give this maybe another ten, fifteen minutes, and then see where we are. If we all agree, I don’t see . . . “

      “I just wanna say, I wanna say a few words,” Steve Bucknell broke in. “In the last two years I’ve signed on almost twenty new clients, good clients. I have a way of presenting our firm, and gaining confidence, and getting them to commit to us. And I think my contribution should be recognized. I think I represent a new generation of leadership.” 

      “We all want to thank you, Steve,” Stauffer said slowly. “Your contribution is very much appreciated, honestly. But, Steve, you said it yourself: Two years. You know we’re all over the world, and I can’t think of an industrial sector where we’re not present. Do you realize what there is to learn about Winshire? It’s huge and complicated. Please, Steve, my personal recommendation is to give it some more time.” 

      Bucknell sat down.

      And the words didn’t stop. One person after another wanted Bill to become the next president. Bill watched, and he couldn’t control it. It was crowd behavior. The praise piled up. The train couldn’t be stopped. He was experiencing first-hand being railroaded. But still, he did not want to become president. 

      “Honestly, I have confidence in only one person sitting here,” said a voice with the slightest French accent on the TV screen. “Only one person here who can see us through everything and get us back on the track. You know who that is? Of course, it’s Bill Voldman.” 

      And one of the oldest veterans from the original McKinsey group: “With Bill, we’re dealing with someone we know, someone we’ve seen what he can do, and there are so many examples. It’s about character, and how he’s viewed by the rest of the world. And, of course, we don’t have time for on-the-job training.”

      Every eye turned to Steve Bucknell. His expression was frozen and stern.   

      No, no, Bill thought. I didn’t kill him. Whoever did had his own reasons. I didn’t do it. But if the killer heard about the investigation, the investigation I started . . .  

      The board’s choice was obvious. Every member at the table, with one exception, realized it. Finally, Stauffer stated, “Gentlemen, I think we’ve invested enough time in this exercise. Would anyone want to move for a vote?”

      “I would be honored,” Gordy said. “I move for a unanimous consent for Bill Voldman for president and CEO.” 

      The vote was taken. It was unanimous, except for Bucknell, who abstained. 

      The board meeting ended with a review of the firm’s accounts by the Finance Department. The review concerned only the latest quarter. It reflected a strong increase in revenue, a fact that brought smiles around the table. It was noted that the firm had signed on seven new clients, all major forces in their industrial sectors. Spending had increased by a slightly high percentage, eleven percent, and restaurants and hotels stood out. But there were a few contributions to cultural organizations, one to the Art Alliance for $100,000, which no one seemed to know about. 

      As the board members filed out of the room, one by one they complimented Bill. Graciously, he shook every board member’s hand and smiled. But Bill did not appear to be engaged in the moment, as if his mind was elsewhere. Toward the end of the procession, Steve Bucknell went through the motions, but he held onto Bill’s hand just a few instants too long, and he stared coldly when Bill removed his hand from Bucknell’s grasp.