Michael Crichton - Disclosure

He paused. There was a brief silence. Sanders hadn't intended to speak so strongly; it just came out. But Conley just nodded thoughtfully. "So you believe selling Austin would hurt the development unit."

"No question about it. In the end, manufacturing is a discipline."

Conley shifted in his seat. "How do you think Meredith Johnson feels on these issues?"

"I don't know."

"Because you see, all this raises a related question," Conley said. "Having to do with executive judgment. To be frank, I've heard some rumblings in the division about her appointment. In terms of whether she really has a good enough grasp of the issues to run a technical division."

Sanders spread his hands. "I don't feel I can say anything."

"I'm not asking you to," Conley said. "I gather she has Garvin's support."

"Yes, she does."

"And that's fine with us. But you know what I'm driving at," Conley said. "The classic problem in acquisitions is that the acquiring company doesn't really understand what they are buying, and they kill the goose that lays the golden egg. They don't intend to; but they do. They destroy the very thing they want to acquire. I'm concerned that Conley-White not make a mistake like that."

"Uh-huh."

`Just between us. If this issue comes up in the meeting tomorrow, would you take the position you just took?"

"Against Johnson?" Sanders shrugged. "That could be difficult." He was thinking that he probably wouldn't be at the meeting tomorrow. But he couldn't say that to Conley.

"Well." Conley extended his hand. "Thanks for your candor. I appreciate it." He turned to go. "One last thing. It'd be very helpful if we had a handle on the Twinkle drive problem by tomorrow."

"I know it," Sanders said. "Believe me, we're working on it."

Good."

Conley turned, and left. Cindy came in. "How are you today?"

Nervous."

"What do you need me to do?" "Pull the data on the Twinkle drives. I want copies of everything I took Meredith Monday night." "It's on your desk." He scooped up a stack of folders. On top was a small DAT cartridge. "What's this?" "That's your video link with Arthur from Monday." He shrugged, and dropped it in his briefcase. Cindy said, "Anything else?" "No." He glanced at his watch. "I'm late." "Good luck, Tom," she said. He thanked her and left the office.

Ariving in morning rush-hour traffic, Sanders realized that the only surprise in his encounter with Conley was how sharp the young lawyer was. As for Meredith, her behavior didn't surprise him at all. For years, Sanders had fought the B-school mentality that she exemplified. After watching these graduates come and go, Sanders had finally concluded that there was a fundamental flaw in their education. They had been trained to believe that they were equipped to manage anything. But there was no such thing as general managerial skills and tools. In the end, there were only specific problems, involving specific industries and specific workers. To apply general tools to specific problems was to fail. You needed to know the market, you needed to know the customers, you needed to know the limits of manufacturing and the limits of your own creative people. None of that was obvious. Meredith couldn't see that Don Cherry and Mark Lewyn needed a link to manufacturing. Yet time and again, Sanders had been shown a prototype and had asked the one significant question: It looks fine, but can you make it on a production line? Can you build it, reliably and quickly, for a price? Sometimes they could, and sometimes they couldn't. If you took away that question, you changed the entire organization. And not for the better.

Conley was smart enough to see that. And smart enough to keep his ear to the ground. Sanders wondered how much Conley knew of what he hadn't said in their meeting. Did he also know about the harassment suit? It was certainly possible.

Christ, Meredith wanted to sell Austin. Eddie had been right all along. He considered telling him, but he really couldn't. And in any case, he had more pressing things to worry about. He saw the sign for the Magnuson Mediation Center and turned right. Sanders tugged at the knot on his tie and pulled into a space in the parking lot.

The Magnuson Mediation Center was located just outside Seattle, on a hill overlooking the city. It consisted of three low buildings arranged around a central courtyard where water splashed in fountains and pools. The entire atmosphere was designed to be peaceful and relaxing, but Sanders was tense when he walked up from the parking lot and found Fernandez pacing.

"You see the paper today?" she said.

"Yeah, I saw it."

"Don't let it upset you. This is a very bad tactical move on their part," she said. "You know Connie Walsh?"

“No.”

"She's a bitch," Fernandez said briskly. "Very unpleasant and very capable. But I expect Judge Murphy to take a strong position on it in the sessions. Now, this is what I worked out with Phil Blackburn. We'll begin with your version of the events of Monday night. Then Johnson will tell hers."

"Wait a minute. Why should I go first?" Sanders said. "If I go first, she'll have the advantage of hearing-"

"You are the one bringing the claim so you are obligated to present your case first. I think it will be to our advantage," Fernandez said. "This way Johnson will testify last, before lunch." They started toward the center building. "Now, there are just two things you have to remember. First, always tell the truth. No matter what happens, just tell the truth. Exactly as you remember it even if you think it hurts your case. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Second, don't get mad. Her lawyer will try to make you angry and trap you. Don't fall for it. If you feel insulted or start to get mad, request a five-minute break to consult with me. You're entitled to that, whenever you want. We'll go outside and cool off. But whatever you do, keep cool, Mr. Sanders." "Okay."

"Good." She swung open the door. "Now let's go do it."

The mediation room was wood-paneled and spare. He saw a polished wooden table with a pitcher of water and glasses and some notepads; in the corner, a sideboard with coffee and a plate of pastries. Windows opened out on a small atrium with a fountain. He heard the sound of soft gurgling water.

The DigiCom legal team was already there, ranged along one side of the table. Phil Blackburn, Meredith Johnson, an attorney named Ben Heller, and two other grim-faced female attorneys. Each woman had an imposing stack of xeroxed papers before her on the table.

Fernandez introduced herself to Meredith Johnson, and the two women shook hands. Then Ben Heller shook hands with Sanders. Heller was a florid, beefy man with silver hair, and a deep voice. Well connected in Seattle, he reminded Sanders of a politician. Heller introduced the other women, but Sanders immediately forgot their names.

Meredith said, "Hello, Tom."

"Meredith."

He was struck by how beautiful she looked. She wore a blue suit with a cream-colored blouse. With her glasses and her blond hair pulled back, she looked like a lovely but studious schoolgirl. Heller patted her hand reassuringly, as if speaking to Sanders had been a terrible ordeal.

Sanders and Fernandez sat down opposite Johnson and Heller. Everybody got out papers and notes. Then there was an awkward silence, until Heller said to Fernandez, "How'd that King Power thing turn out?"

"We were pleased," Fernandez said.

"They fixed an award yet?"

"Next week, Ben."

"What are you asking?"

"Two million."

"Two million?"

"Sexual harassment's serious business, Ben. Awards are going up fast.

Right now the average verdict is over a million dollars. Especially when the company behaves that badly."

At the far end of the room, a door opened and a woman in her mid-fifties entered. She was brisk and erect, and wore a dark blue suit not very different from Meredith's.