All my years on the job had taught me there was no way to maneuver out of this. Once my name was on it, I owned it. I could remind everyone that I never believed in Power of One, that I was very vocal in expressing those views, and that I could even summon a catalogue of emails—tangible proof—that early on I recommended eradicating this scourge Pat Faber had unleashed on the firm. But all of that would go unheeded. Not only would nothing change but expressing those views publicly would be perceived as a further blemish on my record.
I could anticipate the response: “Chuck, let’s not play the blame game.” No one wanted to hear a recrimination, even if it had merit. “We need to focus on the now, and what you are doing to right this ship.”
Never was I more engaged in my work than when it was threatened to be taken away. Fear proved, once again, man’s greatest motivator. This coaching guru might be in the twilight of her career, but she wasn’t going to take me down with her.
I had my assistant cancel all meetings for the rest of the week and schedule several all-day sessions with Julie St. Jean. I also dropped in on a couple of management committee members to give them a quick preview of Monday’s presentation so they’d feel like they were in the know. And for the first time since I took this job some twenty years ago, I actually had to work on a weekend so we could rehearse exactly how to position Power of One’s disastrous program as a ringing success.
The drive over to Julie’s house was interminable not because there was traffic but because early on a Sunday morning there weren’t any cars at all, just empty stretches of five-lane freeways that seemed to go on forever. I traveled at an unusually high speed through gray fog that filled the Los Angeles basin and obscured any view beyond a few hundred feet, making me feel like I was moving backward.
Palos Verdes Peninsula was a tony outcropping specifically designed to be very difficult to enter and even harder to leave. All major roads leading to it either funneled you to the massive port to the south or to the beach cities to the north. To actually penetrate the peninsula, you were routed through a series of roads laid out in concentric circles, whose intended effect was to make you feel like you were being herded by an overriding force.
At the core of PV was the incorporated town of Palos Verdes Estates, one of the most heavily patrolled areas in the country, with a law enforcement–to–resident ratio that the International Union of Police Associations held as their high-water mark, plus some.
Julie’s house was low and deceptively large. A layer of fog hugging the hilltop somewhat veiled the true extent of the wings protruding from each side of the main entrance. The outline of the house ran in a long, jagged line that traced the contour of the cliff, which I assumed was to maximize the ocean vistas from every room, even the coat closet.
I stared up at the moving clouds and the fine mist they deposited on everything below. We were officially in El Niño season but the serious rains had yet to begin. Ever-hopeful, I wondered just how close to the unstable cliff’s edge this house might be as I made my way up to the entrance.
Two heavy doors were framed by panels of glass that gave a glimpse into the foyer. I tried the bell a few times and then an elaborate door knocker but got no response to either. Cupping my hands over the glass, I saw dark, empty rooms and then nothing as my breath’s condensation obscured everything. I heard tires on the gravel behind me.
A black Town Car appeared from the pine grove shadows and came up the driveway. Rebecca emerged from one of the rear doors. I waited for Julie St. Jean to step out, always the last one to arrive on the scene for maximum dramatic effect. I learned early on that she applied her showmanship to all facets of life, including the order of who came through the door last. But no one trailed Rebecca out of the sedan.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Have you been waiting long?”
“No, I just got here,” I answered, and watched the sedan back out of the driveway. “Where’s the boss?”
Rebecca sensed my impending frustration.
“She’ll be here,” she replied firmly. “Let’s go inside.”
Rebecca pulled a key from her purse and with some effort swung the big door open. She hurried over to the alarm panel but stopped a few feet short. There was no chirping that signified a code was needed. She stared quizzically at the little box and then made an obvious statement.
“She must be here already.”
“I rang the bell but didn’t get an answer,” I said, following Rebecca past a formal sitting room and into an expansive kitchen that looked like something out of a magazine photo shoot. Even the appliances seemed like decorations.
I was drawn to the westward-facing wall, which was really more of a window than a wall. It ran floor to ceiling, and on closer inspection, I could see hinges in the frame that meant the windows could fold open like an accordion door. Each of these probably cost twenty-five grand, and the entire west wall was covered in them. That, more than any other ridiculously expensive feature in the house, filled me with envy.
“Too bad it’s cloudy,” Rebecca said from the entrance to a hallway. “It’s an amazing view from Long Beach Harbor all the way up to Malibu.”
But all I saw was a dense mist that shifted slightly in the onshore winds and made me slightly queasy as my eyes searched for something to fix on. I suddenly felt very cold and glanced around the room. They either didn’t believe in heat or the system was out of order, because the house held the kind of cold that seemed to permeate every object inside it. The expensive terrazzo floors were probably pleasant in the heat of summer but on a wintry day like today you wanted something soft—a heavy pile rug, a threadbare throw, a scattering of hay, anything to keep the cold from coming up through the soles of your shoes.
Rebecca gestured for me to follow her. She led me down a long hallway lined with the same accordion doors as the other rooms. With no view to provide a distraction, it felt more like a dimly lit tunnel.
I followed a few feet behind Rebecca and found myself studying her figure. She had always been a slender woman but up close she looked even thinner. She wore black slacks that were always two sizes too large. Her belt, already cinching a narrow waist, looked like it could tighten to yet another hole or two.
I felt a little ashamed that I had known this woman for nearly twenty years and had only now taken the time to actually regard her with even the slightest interest. Julie’s gravitational pull was just too strong, I thought. When you see Jupiter, who thinks to gaze at the nameless moons orbiting it?
The hallway banked away from the ocean and now there were rooms on each side of us. Rebecca humbly pointed out her office on the left—half the size of Julie’s on the opposite side and lacking the key feature of the house: any kind of view. We passed through a set of doors and entered the far southern wing. The décor changed dramatically from a pale, seaside color palette to something much more exotic.
It looked like a smorgasbord of Buddhist, Hindu, Babylonian, Turkish, and whatever other living and dead cultures and religions sat under the very wide umbrella category of “the East.” Museum-quality artifacts lined the walls, and looming statuary stood guard in the corners. You could almost see the fingerprints of the looters who had “rescued” these antiquities from their tombs. Someone had overdone it on the frankincense air freshener, because it reeked of resin and made it difficult to breathe.
Rebecca stood proudly off to the side to let me take it all in. I had entered what executives far above my pay grade referred to as “the Dojo.” This was where Power of One held its individualized coaching to work out specific challenges. These sessions were legendary among the C-suite members for their three-day antics and vows of secrecy regarding what went on. Over the years scraps had leaked out and rumors built them into an entire narrative that was probably only partly true. It was all part of the gimmick to make them “exclusive.” And as obvious as it was, I still resented that I had never been asked to participate. I was deemed worthy enough to teach their nonsense to the masses at the firm, but I didn’t warrant an invite into this sacred room.
And it pissed me off.
The annoyance that had been bubbling in me all morning was about to boil to the surface. I was annoyed that I had to work on the weekend, annoyed that I had to do so on the other side of the city on a cold Sunday, and annoyed that the person who put me in this situation didn’t feel it necessary to grace us with her presence.
Rebecca unlatched the carved wooden doors to the official part of the Dojo. Beside the entrance was a stand holding a ceremonial rin gong singing bowl. I took up the mallet and struck the bell hard, too hard, and announced an entrance worthy of royalty.
“Entering!” I shouted.
Rebecca shot me a look that chastened me enough to regret the childish outburst. I grabbed the bowl in an attempt to silence it but the vibrations only made my hand numb and the bell continued its sickly tone.
Rebecca’s glare went from me to an object in the dimly lit room. She took one step forward then two steps back. I entered the small room, which was covered in stone and sparsely decorated with a few low benches. At the center was another found object of some supposed religious significance, but on closer inspection I realized this one wasn’t very ancient at all.
Her body was curled up like that of an exhausted child, her thumb extended toward her mouth where, if no one was watching, she’d find the soothing comfort to lull herself to sleep. Her head was cast in a halo of crimson, her long, blond hair now caught up in a matted mess in the sticky puddle.
I stared at the blood and my breath seemed to escape me. I found myself on one knee in a pose of exaggerated genuflection. I placed two fingers onto the cold stone, solemnly bowed my head, and vomited all over the floor.