Insightful leaders inspiring change.”
“What’s that?” I asked as I racked my brain, trying to remember where I had heard that line before.
“How can I help you reach that next level?” she replied.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but which number did I call?”
“This is ColorNalysis,” she answered.
I quickly checked the phone records I’d gotten from the murdered woman’s husband. I had assigned various highlighters to the regular numbers on the bill and colored them in. The bill quickly resembled a landscape watercolor. Julie’s baby blue entries were of such large proportion they made the sky seem endless. There was a little green that was as rare as the calls were short—those were to her husband. And then there were these sporadic but lengthy rows of orange that indicated calls to ColorNalysis, Power of One’s rival consulting firm.
I told the woman on the phone I was interested in coming in and meeting with them to talk about what they had to offer. The bubbly voice confidently announced they had the solution to my problem, even though I never said what the problem was or that I had one in the first place. I was given an appointment for later that morning.
Their office was a three-room space in the downtown section of Culver City. The small lobby sported a nice view of the old hotel and movie theater. As could be expected with outfits like these, they projected a young, hip image with their interior design of clean lines and almost monastic décor. Consultants were in a relentless pursuit of relevance and nothing undermined that more than that euphemism for old age, stodgy.
For that reason I was momentarily perplexed by the physical representation of the effervescent voice I’d spoken to that morning. While she was clearly under thirty, there was something slightly anachronistic about her ensemble: a gray suit, conservative black shoes, and dark hair pulled tightly into a barrette. It was overly old-fashioned and didn’t seem to fit, but once I met her boss I fully understood her role at the firm—to contrast with the “youth” of the founder.
Bronson Thibideux sat somewhere around the half-century mark but did everything he could to defy his age. You could say it was the clothes—jeans and flip-flops—or his casual demeanor—always a “hey man” and often a few curse words—but there was also something deeper inside him that just made you feel old in his presence. As I watched him from across the acrylic conference table, I couldn’t help but think Power of One didn’t stand a chance.
“What an insane development,” he said, referencing the events of the last week. “Blew our minds when we heard the news.”
The collective pronoun reflected the firm, not necessarily the old-young woman sitting next to him, although she nodded in agreement.
“Do you know Julie St. Jean personally?” I asked.
“We go way back,” he replied. “A good egg if there ever was one.” I reflected that she had to be a little rotten, wanted as she was for two murders. “I don’t even know how we can talk business after all that’s gone down,” he intoned, but then proceeded to do just that. “Thanks for reaching out. You guys have been on our radar for years as a company that could benefit from a partnership with ColorNalysis.”
At least Bronson had more decorum than some of his counterparts in the industry. He allowed a short grace period before aggressively calling for my business. Others weren’t so respectful; I had gotten three requests to meet from other consultants in the last two days. Blood was in the water surrounding Power of One, and the feeding frenzy to carve up their client base was about to begin. This worked for me, as Bronson believed I was there to learn about his services, when what I really wanted to know was why he had so many conversations with Lois Hearns in the days leading up to her murder.
Bronson caught me looking at the laminated copies of their Chroma-Maps perched on mini-easels on the table.
“This is powerful stuff,” he told me, holding the color card. “It saved my marriage.”
Your third one, I wanted to clarify, but bit my tongue.
“Chuck, it’s about embracing the individual,” he explained, and I nodded for no real reason. “We tend to put people into categories—the do-gooder, the procrastinator, the hard-charger—but the reality is, and something that has been borne out in science, mind you, is that this is all a human fabrication. We are not just one kind of person. We are many kinds of infinite combinations. And once you acknowledge that, embrace it, even, then you will see the power of mindful interactions. That’s what these are for,” he said, pointing to the card with blobs of colors on it. “It’s about giving full transparency to who we are as individuals so that as a team we can better operate in the collective unit.”
During his spiel, I realized the woman by his side had another role besides making her boss look younger. It was to listen to Bronson as if he was unveiling some truth that had for centuries been hidden in a shroud of secrecy. She had this annoying habit of periodically pulling her gaze from her boss so she could stare at me with a look that shouted, “Amazing, right?”
But none of it was amazing. It was the same pablum dished out by all these types of consultants. They latched onto some “fresh” idea and constructed a belief system around it that would somehow elevate team dynamics, collaboration, productivity…whatever was the buzzword of the day.
I didn’t begrudge them their desire to make a buck—they could spew nonsense to their heart’s content—but that didn’t mean I had to be impressed by it. After the third time the young woman turned to me to confirm my awe, I crossed my arms over my chest and shook my head like a disgruntled Soviet commissar.
“How does your program differentiate itself from Power of One?” I asked, breaking into the monologue to explore a topic in which I was more interested.
“Look, they’ve done some amazing things,” he said. The past tense was intentional and didn’t go unnoticed.
“But they’ve lost a step?” I filled in for him.
“It’s not for me to comment,” he said, laughing. “Especially given the current circumstances. But you could say they are…entering a necessary period of innovation.”
It was the most serious of accusations: Power of One had grown stale.
“They’ve been using a new member, a sort of Visioning Artist who captures the mood of brainstorming sessions,” I said. “It’s highly effective.”
“I’ve heard of others doing that,” he said dismissively.
“She’s real good,” I continued. “Lois something. Lois Hearns? You know her?”
Bronson shook his head, while still appearing to scour his memory for some recollection of the name.
“Tragically, she was the one murdered in Julie’s home,” I added, trying to help dust off some of those convenient cobwebs.
“Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.” He turned to his lackey. “Have you…?”
“No,” she spouted. “I’m not really familiar with that name.”
“Let me ask you something,” Bronson said to me. “Are you happy with the outcomes you are getting with Power of One?”
“If I knew what they were actually trying to achieve then maybe I could answer your question.”
Bronson leaned back in his chair and studied me with a wry look, then turned to the young woman.
“He’s so cyan,” he said to her.
“I know, right?” she agreed, all smiles.
Bronson gave a self-satisfied chuckle and his flunkey laughed a lot harder once she saw the boss had deemed it appropriate. That’s when I noticed they had another set of Chroma-Maps in front of them—an identical pair that I assumed charted my “unique” personality.
Many years back when their firm was bidding for a contract with mine, they demonstrated their system with live reads on me and a few others who were evaluating their capabilities. Seeing they still had my map was like discovering your Stasi file after the Wall came down. I felt oddly exposed but also angry. And the fact that they were now structuring their discussion with insights from my map only further infuriated me.
“What exactly does cyan mean?” I asked.
Having taken the bait, Bronson effortlessly transitioned into the pitch.
“It’s your dominant color,” he explained. Cyan encompassed the qualities of someone who took a singular focus in life, who got validation from tangible accomplishments, and who grew frustrated with ambiguity. Those who used this quality well were most likely highly effective leaders of diverse groups of individuals. Their value was not always fully recognized but their influence was substantial.
As he rattled on like this for several minutes, I found myself nodding because I could see myself in his description of cyan. I was a good leader. I was effective. And goddammit, I deserved that recognition! It took another “amazing, right?” look from the acolyte to bring me back to reality. I then rode out the rest of his speech in a slightly sickened state from having temporarily fallen for it. I always took pride in being able to see through the nonsense, but here I had briefly fallen for Bronson’s flavor of it.
The Chroma-Map was simply a more elaborate version of the cards a fortune teller uses to see into your soul. They worked because you made them work. You filled in the holes, you validated the vague declarations. The “science” of the brain mapping that supposedly led to those discoveries was no different than the incense in the card reader’s room—it was layered on to make it feel legitimate.
The Chroma-Map’s power was in convincing someone they were unique. And despite Bronson’s claim that we are all individuals, the part he overlooked was that in at least one way we are all very much the same—we all want to believe in something.
I told Bronson that I was interested in learning more about a potential future partnership. Naturally, I had no interest in his claptrap program but I was interested in why he lied about knowing Lois. I felt I could string him along with the promise of a big payday while I figured it out. I threw him a bone and mentioned that some of our employees were familiar with his work and spoke highly of it, including someone in my HR group.
“I know Paul well,” he said, smiling. “You’ve got a good one there.” As measured by the amount of money he funneled into ColorNalysis, I assumed. “We pair up well. Very compatible colors. If I may suggest, why don’t Paul and I team up on this? We’ll be able to do some good work together.”
“I’m sure you would,” I said, “but I’d prefer you and I work on this together as we explore how ‘compatible’ our colors are.”
That seemed to take a little of the air out of the room.
“I look forward to it,” Bronson muttered, his own color suddenly turning a little gray.