Authors: Michael Crichton
True? Yes, you see that. Good.
“But if you are a woman, everything is different. Now you must be your mentor's daughter, or lover, or wife. Or perhaps sister. In any case, very different.”
Sanders frowned.
“I see this often, now that men are starting to work for women. Many times men cannot structure the relationship because they do not know how to act as the subordinate to a woman. Not with comfort. But in other cases, men slip easily into a role with a woman. They are the dutiful son, or the substitute lover or husband. And if they do it wel , the women in the organization become angry, because they feel that they cannot compete as son or lover or husband to the boss. So they feel that the man has an advantage.”
Sanders was silent.
“Do you understand?” Dorfman said.
“You're saying it happens both ways.”
“Yes, Thomas. It is inevitable. It is the process.”
“Come on, Max. There's nothing inevitable about it. When Garvin's daughter died, it was a personal tragedy. He was upset, and Meredith took advantage of”
“Stop,” Dorfman said, annoyed. “Now you want to change human nature? There are always tragedies. And people always take advantage. This is nothing new.
Meredith is intel igent. It is delightful to see such an intel igent, resourceful woman who is also beautiful. She is a gift from God. She is delightful. This is your trouble, Thomas. And it has been a long time coming.”
“What does that-”
“And instead of dealing with your trouble, you waste your time with these . . .
trivialities.” He handed back the pictures. “These are not important, Thomas.”
“Max, wil you-”
“You were never a good corporate player, Thomas. It was not your strength. Your strength was that you could take a technical problem and grind it down, push the technicians, encourage them and bul y them, and final y get it solved. You could make it work. Is that not so?”
Sanders nodded.
“But now you abandon your strengths for a game that does not suit you.”
“Meaning what?”
“You think that by threatening a lawsuit, you put pressure on her and on the company. In fact, you played into her hands. You have let her define the game, Thomas.”
“I had to do something. She broke the law.”
“She broke the law,” Dorfman mimicked him, with a sarcastic whine. “Oh me, oh my. And you are so defenseless. I am fil ed with sorrow for your plight.”
“It's not easy. She's wel connected. She has strong supporters.”
“Is that so? Every executive with strong supporters has also strong detractors.
And Meredith has her share of detractors.”
“I tel you, Max,” Sanders said, “she's dangerous. She's one of those MBA image people, focused on image, everything image, never substance.”
“Yes,” Dorfman said, nodding approvingly. “Like so many young executives today. Very skil ed with images. Very interested in manipulating that reality. A fascinating trend.”
“I don't think she's competent to run this division.”
“And what if she is not?” Dorfman snapped. “What difference does it make to you? If she's incompetent, Garvin wil eventual y acknowledge it and replace her.
But by then, you wil be long gone. Because you wil lose this game with her, Thomas. She is better at politics than you. She always was.”
Sanders nodded. “She's ruthless.”
“Ruthless, schmoothless. She is skilled. She has an instinct. You lack it. You wil lose everything if you persist this way. And you wil deserve the fate that befal s you because you have behaved like a fool.”
Sanders was silent. “What do you recommend I do?”
“Ali. So now you want advice?”
“Yes.”
“Real y?” He smiled. “I doubt it.”
“Yes, Max. I do.”
“Al right. Here is my advice. Go back, apologize to Meredith, apologize to Garvin, and resume your job.”
“I can't.”
“Then you don't want advice.”
“I can't do that, Max.”
“Too much pride?”
“No, but-”
“You are infatuated with the anger. How dare this woman act this way. She has broken the law, she must be brought to justice. She is dangerous, she must be stopped. You are fil ed with delicious, righteous indignation. True?”
“Oh, hel , Max. I just can't do it, that's al .”
“Of course you can do it. You mean you won't.”
“Al right. I won't.”
Dorfman shrugged. “Then what do you want from me? You come to ask my advice in order not to take it? This is nothing special.” He grinned. “I have a lot of other advice you won't take, either.”
“Like what?”
“What do you care, since you won't take it?”
“Come on, Max.”
“I'm serious. You won't take it. We are wasting our time here. Go away.
“Just tel me, wil you?”
Dorfman sighed. “Only because I remember you from the days when you had sense. First point. Are you listening?”
“Yes, Max. I am.”
“First point: you know everything you need to know about Meredith Johnson. So forget her now. She is not your concern.”
“What does that mean?”
“Don't interrupt. Second point. Play your own game, not hers.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning, solve the problem.”
“Solve what problem? The lawsuit?”
Dorfman snorted and threw up his hands. “You are impossible. I am wasting my time.”
“You mean drop the lawsuit?”
“Can you understand English? Solve the problem. Do what you do wel . Do your job. Now go away.”
“But Max-”
“Oh, I can't do anything for you,” Dorfman said. “It's your life. You have your own mistakes to make. And I must return to my guests. But try to pay attention, Thomas. Do not sleep through this. And remember, al human behavior has a reason. Al behavior is solving a problem. Even your behavior, Thomas.”
And he spun in his wheelchair and went back to the dining room.
Fucking Max, he thought, walking down Third Street in the damp evening. It was infuriating, the way Max would never just say what he meant.
This is═ your trouble, Thomas. And it has been a long time coming.
What the hel was that supposed to mean?
Fucking Max. Infuriating and frustrating and exhausting, too. That was what Sanders remembered most about the sessions he used to have, when Max was on the DigiCom board. Sanders would come away exhausted. In those days, back in Cupertino, the junior execs had cal ed Dorfman “The Riddler.”
All human behavior is solving a problem. Even your behavior, Thomas.
Sanders shook his head. It made no sense at al . Meanwhile, he had things to do. At the end of the street, he stepped into a phone booth and dialed Gary Bosak's number. It was eight o'clock. Bosak would be home, just getting out of bed and having coffee, starting his working day. Right now, he would be yawning in front of a half-dozen modems and computer screens as he began to dial into al sorts of databases.
The phone rang, and a machine said, “You have reached NE Professional Services. Leave a message.” And a beep.
“Gary, this is Tom Sanders. I know you're there, pick up.”
A click, and then Bosak said, “Hey. The last person I thought I'd hear from.
Where're you cal ing from?”
“Pay phone.”
“Good. How's it going with you, Tom?”
“Gary, I need some things done. Some data looked up.”
“Uh . . . Are we talking things for the company, or private things?”
Private.”
“Uh . . . Tom. I'm pretty busy these days. Can we talk about this next week?”
“That's too late.”
“But the thing is, I'm pretty busy now.”
“Gary, what is this?” “Tom, come on. You know what this is.” “I need help, Gary.”
“Hey. And I'd love to help you. But I just got a cal from Blackburn who told me that if I had anything to do with you, anything at al , I could expect the FBI going through my apartment at six a.m. tomorrow morning. “Christ. When was this?”
“About two hours ago.” Two hours ago. Blackburn was way ahead of him. “Gary .
. .” “Hey. You know I always liked you, Tom. But not this time. Okay? I got to go.”
Click.
Frankly, none of this surprises me,” Fernandez said, pushing aside a paper plate.
She and Sanders had been eating sandwiches in her office. It was nine p.m., and the offices around them were dark, but her phone was stil ringing, interrupting them frequently. Outside, it had begun to rain again. Thunder rumbled, and Sanders saw flashes of summer lightning through the windows.
Sitting in the deserted law offices, Sanders had the feeling that he was al alone in the world, with nobody but Fernandez and the encroaching darkness. Things were happening quickly; this person he had never met before today was fast becoming a kind of lifeline for him. He found himself hanging on every word she said.
“Before we go on, I want to emphasize one thing,” Fernandez said. “You were right not to get in the car with Johnson. You are not to be alone with her ever again. Not even for a few moments. Not ever, under any circumstances. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“If you do, it wil destroy your case.”
“I won't.”
“Al right,” she said. “Now. I had a long talk with Blackburn. As you guessed, he's under tremendous pressure to get this matter resolved. I tried to move the mediation session to the afternoon. He implied that the company was ready to deal and wanted to get started right away. He's concerned about how long the negotiations wil take. So we'l start at nine tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Herb and Alan have been making progress. I think they'l be able to help us tomorrow. And these articles about Johnson may be useful, too,” she said, glancing at the photocopies of the ComLine pieces.
“Why? Dorfman says they're irrelevant.”
“Yes, but they document her history in the company, and that gives us leads. It's something to work on. So is this e-mail from your friend.” She frowned at the sheet of printout. “This is an Internet address.”
“Yes,” he said, surprised that she knew.
“We do a lot of work with high-technology companies. I'l have somebody check it out.” She put it aside. “Now let's review where we are. You couldn't clean out your desk because they were already there.”
“Right.”
“And you would have cleaned out your computer files, but you've been shut out of the system.”
“Yes.”
“Which means that you can't change anything.”
“That's right. I can't do anything. It's like I'm an assistant.”
She said, “Were you going to change any files?”
He hesitated. “No. But I would have, you know, looked around.”
“Nothing in particular you were aware of?”
“No.■
“Mr. Sanders,” she said, “I want to emphasize that I have no judgment here. I'm simply trying to prepare for what may happen tomorrow. I want to know what surprises they'l have for us.”
He shook his head. “There isn't anything in the files that's embarrassing to me.”
“You've thought it over careful y?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” she said. “Then considering the early start, I think you better get some sleep. I want you sharp tomorrow. Wil you be able to sleep?”
“Jeez, I don't know.”
“Take a sleeping pil if you need to.”
“I'l be okay.”
“Then go home and go to bed, Mr. Sanders. I'l see you in the morning. Wear a coat and tie tomorrow. Do you have some kind of a blue coat?”
“A blazer.”
“Fine. Wear a conservative tie and a white shirt. No after-shave.”
“I never dress like that at the office.”
“This is not the office, Mr. Sanders. That's just the point.” She stood up and shook his hand. “Get some sleep. And try not to worry. I think everything is going to be fine.”
“I bet you say that to al your clients.”
“Yes, I do,” she said. “But I'm usual y right. Get some sleep, Tom. I'l see you tomorrow.”
He came home to a dark, empty house. Eliza's Barbie dol s lay in an untidy heap on the kitchen counter. One of his son's bibs, streaked with green baby food, was on the counter beside the sink. He set up the coffeemaker for the morning and went upstairs. He walked past the answering machine but neglected to look at it, and failed to notice the blinking light. Upstairs, when he undressed in the bathroom, he saw that Susan had taped a note to the mirror. “Sorry about lunch.
I believe you. I love you.
S.”
It was just like Susan to be angry and then to apologize. But he was glad for the note and considered cal ing her now. But it was nearly midnight in Phoenix, which meant it was too late. She'd be asleep.
Anyway, as he thought about it, he realized that he didn't want to cal her. As she had said at the restaurant, this had nothing to do with her. He was alone in this.
He'd stay alone. Wearing just shorts, he padded into his little office. There were no faxes. He switched on his computer and waited while it came up.
The e-mail icon was blinking. He clicked it.
TRUST NOBODY.
AFRIEND
Sanders shut off the computer and went to bed.
WEDNESDAY
In the morning, he took comfort in his routine, dressing quickly while listening to the television news, which he turned up loud, trying to fil the empty house with noise. He drove into town at 6:30, stopping at the Bainbridge Bakery to buy a pul -apart and a cup of cappuccino before going down to the ferry.
As the ferry pul ed away from Winslow, he sat toward the stern, so he would not have to look at Seattle as it approached. Lost in his thoughts, he stared out the window at the gray clouds hanging low over the dark water of the bay. It looked like it would rain again today.
“Bad day, huh?” a woman said.
He looked up and saw Mary Anne Hunter, pretty and petite, standing with her hands on her hips, looking at him with concern. Mary Anne lived on Bainbridge, too. Her husband was a marine biologist at the university. She and Susan were good friends, and often jogged together. But he didn't often see Mary Anne on the ferry because she usual y went in early.
“Morning, Mary Anne.”
“What I can't understand is how they got it,” she said.
“Got what?” Sanders said.
“You mean you haven't seen it? Jesus. You're in the papers, Tom.” She handed him the newspaper under her arm.