ARTHUR KAHN

Sanders stared at the screen. A man dying of sorcery? He couldn't begin to imagine what had really happened. The very idea seemed to belong to another world, not his. He heard Fernandez say, "I don't care, Harry, but Conrad has information relevant to the pattern, and somehow we have to get it out of them."

Sanders clicked to the final message.

YOU'RE CHECKING THE WRONG COMPANY.

AFRIEND

Sanders twisted the monitor around so Fernandez could see it. She frowned as she talked on the phone. "Harry, I got to go. Do what you can." She hung up. "What does it mean, we're checking the wrong company? How does this friend even know what we're doing? When did this come in?"

Sanders looked at the message headers. "One-twenty this afternoon."

Fernandez made a note on her legal pad. "That was about the time Alan was talking to Conrad. And Conrad called DigiCom, remember? So this message has to be coming from inside DigiCom."

"But it's on the Internet."

"Wherever it appears to be coming from, it's actually from somebody inside the company trying to help you."

His immediate thought, out of nowhere, was Max. But that didn't make any sense. Dorfman was tricky, but not in this way. Besides, Max wasn't knowledgeable about the minute-to-minute workings of the company.

No, this was somebody who wanted to help Sanders but who didn't want the help to be traced back.

"You're checking the wrong company . . ." he repeated aloud.

Could it be someone at Conley-White? Hell, he thought, it could be anybody.

"What does it mean, we're checking the wrong company?" he said. "We're checking all her past employers, and we're having a very difficult-,,

He stopped.

You're checking the wrong company.

"I must be an idiot," he said. He started typing at his computer.

"What is it?" Fernandez said.

"They've restricted my access, but I still should be able to get this," he said, typing quickly.

"Get what?" she said, puzzled.

"You say harassers have a pattern, right?"

"Right."

"It shows up again and again, right?"

"Right."

"And we're checking her past employers, to get information about past episodes of harassment."

"Right. And failing."

"Yes. But the thing is," Sanders said, "she's worked here for the last four years, Louise. We're checking the wrong company."

He watched as the computer terminal flashed:

SEARCHING DATABASE

And then, after a moment, he turned the screen so Fernandez could see:

Digital Communications Data Reference Search Report

DB 4: Human Resources (Sub 5/Employee Records)

Search Criteria:

1. Disposition: Terminated a/o Transferred a/o Resigned

2. Supervisor: Johnson, Meredith

3. Other Criteria: males only

Summary Search Results:

Michael Tate 5/9/89 Terminate Drug Use HR RefMed

Edwin Sheen 7/5/89 Resign Alt Employment D-Silicon

William Rogin 11/9/89 Transfer Own Request Austin

Frederic Cohen 4/2/90 Resign Alt Employment Squire Sx

Robert Ely 6/1/90 Transfer Own Request Seattle

Michael Backes 8/11/90 Transfer Own Request Malaysia

Peter Saltz 1/4/91 Resign Alt Employment Novell

Ross Wald 8/5/91 Transfer Own Request Cork

Richard Jackson 11/14/91 Resign Alt Employment Aldus

James French 2/2/92 Transfer Own Request Austin

Fernandez scanned the list. "Looks like working for Meredith Johnson can be hazardous to your job. You're looking at the classic pattern: people last only a few months, and then resign or ask to be transferred elsewhere. Everything voluntary. Nobody ever fired, because that might trigger a wrongful termination suit. Classic. You know any of these people?"

"No," Sanders said, shaking his head. "But three of them are in Seattle," he said.

"I only see one."

"No, Aldus is here. And Squire Systems is out in Bellevue. So Richard Jackson and Frederic Cohen are up here, too."

"You have any way to get details of termination packages on these people?" she said. "That would be helpful. Because if the company paid anybody off, then we have a de facto case."

"No." Sanders shook his head. "Financial data is beyond minimal access.

"Try anyway."

"But what's the point? The system won't let me."

"Do it," Fernandez said.

He frowned. "You think they're monitoring me?"

"I guarantee it."

"Okay." He typed in the parameters and pressed the search key. The answer came back:

FINANCIAL DATABASE SEARCH IS BEYOND

LEVEL (O) ACCESS

He shrugged. "Just as I thought. No cigar."

"But the point is, we asked the question," Fernandez said. "It'll wake them right up."

Sanders was heading toward the bank of elevators when he saw Meredith coming toward him with three Conley-White executives. He turned quickly, then went to the stairwell and started walking down the four flights to the street level. The stairwell was deserted.

One flight below, the door opened and Stephanie Kaplan appeared and started coming up the stairs. Sanders was reluctant to speak to her; Kaplan was, after all, the chief financial officer and close to both Garvin and Blackburn. In the end, he said casually, "How's it going, Stephanie."

"Hello, Tom." Her nod to him was cool, reserved.

Sanders continued past her, going down a few more steps, when he heard her say, "I'm sorry this is so difficult for you."

He paused. Kaplan was one flight above him, looking down. There was no one else in the stairwell.

He said, "I'm managing."

"I know you are. But still, it must be hard. So much going on at once, and nobody giving you information. It must be confusing to try to figure everything out."

Nobody giving you information?

"Well, yes," he said, speaking slowly. "It is hard to figure things out, Stephanie."

She nodded. "I remember when I first started out in business," she said. "I had a woman friend who got a very good job in a company that didn't usually hire women executives. In her new position, she had a lot of stress and crises. She was proud of the way she was dealing with the problems. But it turned out she'd only been hired because there was a financial scandal in her division, and from the beginning they were setting her up to take the fall. Her job was never about any of the things she thought it was. She was a patsy. And she was looking the wrong way when they fired her."

Sanders stared at her. Why was she telling him this? He said, "That's an interesting story."

Kaplan nodded. "I've never forgotten it," she said.

On the stairs above, a door clanged open, and they heard footsteps descending. Without another word, Kaplan turned and continued up.

Shaking his head, Sanders continued down.

In the newsroom of the Seattle Port-Intelligencer, Connie Walsh looked up from her computer terminal and said, "You've got to be kidding."

"No, I'm not," Eleanor Vries said, standing over her. "I'm killing this story." She dropped the printout back on Walsh's desk.

"But you know who my source is," Walsh said. "And you know Jake was listening in to the entire conversation. We have very good notes, Eleanor. Very complete notes."

"I know."

"So, given the source, how can the company possibly sue?" Walsh said. "Eleanor: I have the fucking story."

"You have a story. And the paper faces a substantial exposure already."

"Already? From what?"

"The Mr. Piggy column."

"Oh, for Christ's sake. There's no way to claim identification from that column."

Vries pulled out a xerox of the column. She had marked several passages in yellow highlighter. "Company X is said to be a high-tech company in Seattle that just named a woman to a high position. Mr. Piggy is said to be her subordinate. He is said to have brought a sexual harassment action. Mr. Piggy's wife is an attorney with young children. You say Mr. Piggy's charge is without merit, that he is a drunk and a womanizer. I think Sanders can absolutely claim identification and sue for defamation."

"But this is a column. An opinion piece."

"This column alleges facts. And it alleges them in a sarcastic and wildly overstated manner."

"lt's an opinion piece. Opinion is protected."

"I don't think that's certain in this case at all. I'm disturbed that I allowed this column to run in the first place. But the point is, we cannot claim to be absent malice if we allow further articles to go out."

Walsh said, "You have no guts."

"And you're very free with other people's guts," Vries said. "The story's killed and that's final. I'm putting it in writing, with copies to you, Marge, and Tom Donadio."

Fucking lawyers. What a world we live in. This story needs to be told."

"Don't screw around with this, Connie. I'm telling you. Don't."

And she walked away.

Walsh thumbed through the pages of the story. She had been working on it all afternoon, polishing it, refining it. Getting it exactly right. And now she wanted the story to run. She had no patience with legal thinking. This whole idea of protecting rights was just a convenient fiction. Because when you got right down to it, legal thinking was just narrow-minded, petty, self-protective-the kind of thinking that kept the power structure firmly in place. And in the end, fear served the power structure. Fear served men in power. And if there was anything that Connie Walsh believed to be true of herself, it was that she was not afraid.

After a long time, she picked up the phone and dialed a number. "KSEATV, good afternoon."

"Ms. Henley, please."

Jean Henley was a bright young reporter at Seattle's newest independent TV station. Walsh had spent many evenings with Henley, discussing the problems of working in the male-dominated mass media. Henley knew the value of a hot story in building a reporter's career.

This story, Walsh told herself, would be told. One way or another, it would be told.

Robert Ely looked up at Sanders nervously. "What do you want?" he asked. Ely was young, not more than twenty-six, a tense man with a blond mustache. He was wearing a tie and was in his shirtsleeves. He worked in one of the partitioned cubicles at the back of DigiCom's Accounting Department in the Gower Building.

"I want to talk about Meredith," Sanders said. Ely was one of the three Seattle residents on his list.

"Oh God," Ely said. He glanced around nervously. His Adam's apple bobbed. "I don't-I don't have anything to say."

"1 just want to talk," Sanders said.

"Not here," Ely said.

"Then let's go to the conference room," Sanders said. They walked down the hall to a small conference room, but a meeting was being held there. Sanders suggested they go to the little cafeteria in the corner of Accounting, but Ely told him that wouldn't be private. He was growing more nervous by the minute.

"Really, I have nothing to tell you," he kept saying. "There's nothing, really nothing."

Sanders knew he had better find a quiet place at once, before Ely bolted and ran. They ended up in the men's room-white tile, spotlessly clean. Ely leaned against a sink. "I don't know why you are talking to me. I don't have anything I can tell you."

"You worked for Meredith, in Cupertino."

"Yes."

"And you left there two years ago?"

"Yes."

"Why did you leave?"

"Why do you think?" Ely said, in a burst of anger. His voice echoed off the tiles. "You know why, for Christ's sake. Everybody knows why. She made my life hell."

"What happened?" Sanders asked.

"What happened." Ely shook his head, remembering. "Every day, every day. `Robert, would you stay late, we have some things to go over.' After a while, I tried to make excuses. Then she would say, `Robert, I'm not sure you're showing the proper dedication to this company.' And she would put little comments in my performance review. Subtle little negative things. Nothing that I could complain about. But they were there. Piling up. `Robert, I think you need my help here. Why don't you see me after work.' `Robert, why don't you drop by my apartment and we'll discuss it. I really think you should.' I was-it was terrible. The, uh, person I was living with did not, uh . . . I was in a real bind."

"Did you report her?"

Ely laughed harshly. "Are you kidding? She's practically a member of Garvin's family."

"So you just put up with it . . ."

Ely shrugged. "Finally, the person I was living with got another job. When he came up here, I transferred, too. I mean, of course I wanted to go. It just worked out all around."

"Would you make a statement about Meredith now?"

"Not a chance."

"You realize," Sanders said, "that the reason she gets away with it is that nobody reports her."

Ely pushed away from the sink. "I have enough problems in my life without going public on this." He went to the door, paused, and turned back. `Just so you're clear: I've got nothing to say on the subject of Meredith Johnson. If anybody asks, I'll say our working relationship was correct at all times. And I'll also say that I never met you."

Meredith Johnson? Of course I remember her," Richard Jackson said. "I worked for her for more than a year." Sanders was in Jackson's office on the second floor of the Aldus Building, on the south side of Pioneer Square. Jackson was a good-looking man of thirty, with the hearty manner of an ex-athlete. He was a marketing manager at Aldus; his office was friendly, cluttered with product boxes for graphics programs: Intellidraw, Freehand, SuperPaint, and Pagemaker.

"Beautiful and charming woman," Jackson said. "Very intelligent. Always a pleasure."

Sanders said, "I was wondering why you left."

"I was offered this job, that's why. And I've never regretted it. Wonderful job. Wonderful company. I've had a great experience here."

"Is that the only reason you left?"

Jackson laughed. "You mean, did Meredith Manmuncher come on to me?" he said. "Hey, is the Pope Catholic? Is Bill Gates rich? Of course she came on to me."

"Did that have anything to do with your leaving?"

"No, no,"Jackson said. "Meredith came on to everybody. She's sort of an equal opportunity employer, in that respect. She chased everybody. When I first started in Cupertino, she had this little gay guy she used to chase around the table. Terrorized the poor bastard. Little skinny nervous guy. Christ, she used to make him tremble."

"And you?"

Jackson shrugged. "I was a single guy, just starting out. She was beautiful. It was okay with me."

"You never had any difficulties?"

"Never. Meredith was fabulous. Shitty lay, of course. But you can't have everything. She's a very intelligent, very beautiful woman. Always dressed great. And she liked me, so she took me to all these functions. I met people, made contacts. It was great."

"So you saw nothing wrong?"

"Not a damn thing," Jackson said. "She could get a little bossy. That got old. There were a couple of other women I was seeing, but I always had to be on call for her. Even at the last minute. That could be irritating sometimes. You begin to think your life is not your own. And she's got a mean temper sometimes. But what the hell. You do what you have to do. Now I'm assistant manager here at thirty. I'm doing great. Great company. Great town. Great future. And I owe it to her. She's great."

Sanders said, "You were an employee of the company at the time that you were having your relationship, isn't that right?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Isn't she required by company policy to report any relationship with an employee? Did she report her relationship with you?"

"Christ, no,"Jackson said. He leaned across his desk. "Let's get one thing straight, just between you and me. I think Meredith is great. If you have a problem with her, it's your problem. I don't know what it could be. You used to live with her, for Christ's sake. So there can't be any surprises. Meredith likes to fuck guys. She likes to tell them to do this, do that. She likes to order them around. That's who she is. And I don't see anything wrong with it."

Sanders said, "I don't suppose you'd-"

"Make a statement?" Jackson said. "Get serious. Listen, there's a lot of bullshit around now. I hear things like, `You can't go out with the people you work with.' Christ, if I couldn't go out with the people I worked with, I'd still be a virgin. That's all anybody can go out with the people you work with. That's the only people you get to know. And sometimes those people are your superiors. Big deal. Women screw men and get ahead. Men screw women and get ahead. Everybody's going to screw everybody else anyway, if they can. Because they want to. I mean, women are just as hot as men. They want it just like we do. That's real life. But you get some people who are pissed off, so they file a complaint, and say, `Oh no, you can't do that to me.' I'm telling you, it's all bullshit. Like these sensitivity training seminars we all have to go to. Everybody sits there with their hands in their laps like a fucking Red Guard meeting, learning the correct way to address your fellow workers. But afterward everybody goes out and fucks around, the same as they always did. The assistants go, `Oh, Mr. Jackson, have you been to the gym? You look so .strong.' Batting their eyelashes. So what am I supposed to do? You can't make rules about this. People get hungry, they eat. Doesn't matter how many meetings they attend. This is all a gigantic jerk off. And anybody who buys into it is an asshole."

"I guess you answered my question," Sanders said. He got up to leave. Obviously, Jackson wasn't going to help him.

"Look," Jackson said. "I'm sorry you've got a problem here. But everyone's too damned sensitive these days. I see people now, kids right out of college, and they really think they should never experience an unpleasant moment. Nobody should ever say anything they don't like, or tell a joke they don't like. But the thing is, nobody can make the world be the way they want it to be all the time. Things always happen that embarrass you or piss you off. That's life. I hear women telling jokes about men every day. Offensive jokes. Dirty jokes. I don't get bent out of shape. Life is great. Who has time for this crap? Not me."

Sanders came out of the Aldus Building at five o'clock. Tired and discouraged, he trudged back toward the Hazzard Building. The streets were wet, but the rain had stopped, and the afternoon sunlight was trying to break through the clouds.

He was back in his office ten minutes later. Cindy was not at her desk, and Fernandez was gone. He felt deserted and alone and hopeless. He sat down and dialed the final number on his list.

"Squire Electronic Data Systems, good evening."

Sanders said, "Frederic Cohen's office, please."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cohen has gone for the day."

"Do you know how I could reach him?"

"I'm afraid I don't. Do you want to leave voice mail?"

Damn, he thought. What was the point? But he said, "Yes, please." There was a click. Then, "Hi, this is Fred Cohen. Leave a message at the tone. If it's after hours, you can try me on my car phone at 502-8804 or my home at 505-9943."

Sanders jotted the numbers down. He dialed the car phone first. He heard a crackle of static, then:

"I know, honey, I'm sorry I'm late, but I'm on my way. I just got tied up.),

"Mr. Cohen?"

"Oh." A pause. "Yes. This is Fred Cohen."

"My name is Tom Sanders. I work over at DigiCom, and-"

"I know who you are." The voice sounded tense.

"I understand you used to work for Meredith Johnson."

"Yes. I did."

"I wonder if I could talk to you."

"What about?"

"About your experiences. Working for her."

There was a long pause. Finally, Cohen said, "What would be the point of that?"

"Well, I'm in a sort of a dispute with Meredith now, and-"

"I know you are."

"Yes, and you see, I would like to-"

"Look. Tom. I left DigiCom two years ago. Whatever happened is ancient history now."

"Well, actually," Sanders said, "it's not, because I'm trying to establish a pattern of behavior and-"

"I know what you're trying to do. But this is very touchy stuff, Tom. I don't want to get into it."

"If we could just talk," Sanders said. "Just for a few minutes."

"Tom." Cohen's voice was flat. "Tom, I'm married now. I have a wife. She's pregnant. I don't have anything to say about Meredith Johnson. Nothing at all."

"But "

"I'm sorry. I've got to go."

Click.

Cindy came back in as he was hanging up the phone. She pushed a cup of coffee in front of him. "Everything okay?"

"No," he said. "Everything is terrible." He was reluctant to admit, even to himself, that he had no more moves left. He had approached three men, and they had each refused to establish a pattern of behavior for him. He doubted that the other men on the list would behave differently. He found himself thinking of what his wife, Susan, had said two days before. You have no moves. Now, after all this effort, it turned out to be true. He was finished. "Where's Fernandez?"

"She's meeting with Blackburn."

"What?"

Cindy nodded. "In the small conference room. They've been there about fifteen minutes now."

"Oh, Christ."

He got up from his desk and went down the hall. He saw Fernandez sitting with Blackburn in the conference room. Fernandez was making notes on her legal pad, head bent deferentially. Blackburn was running his hands down his lapels and looking upward as he spoke. He seemed to be dictating to her.

Then Blackburn saw him, and waved him over. Sanders went into the conference room. "Tom," Blackburn said, with a smile. "I was just coming to see you. Good news: I think we've been able to resolve this situation. I mean, really resolve it. Once and for all."

"Uh-huh," Sanders said. He didn't believe a word of it. He turned to Fernandez.

Fernandez looked up from her legal pad slowly. She appeared dazed. "That's the way it looks."

Blackburn stood and faced Sanders. "I can't tell you how pleased I am, Tom. I've been working on Bob all afternoon. And he's finally come to face reality. The plain fact is, the company has a problem, Tom. And we owe you a debt of gratitude for bringing it so clearly to our attention. This can't go on. Bob knows he has to deal with it. And he will."

Sanders just stared. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. But there was Fernandez, nodding and smiling.

Blackburn smoothed his tie. "But as Frank Lloyd Wright once said, `God is in the details.' You know, Tom, we have one small immediate problem, a political problem, having to do with the merger. We're asking your help with the briefing tomorrow for Marden, Conley's CEO. But after that . . . well, you've been badly wronged, Tom. This company has wronged you. And we recognize that we have an obligation to make it up to you, whatever way we can."

Still disbelieving it, Sanders said harshly, "What exactly are we talking about?"

Blackburn's voice was soothing. "Well, Tom, at this point, that's really up to you," he said. "I've given Louise the parameters of a potential deal, and all the options that we would agree to. You can discuss it with her and get back to us. We'll sign any interim papers you require, of course. All that we ask in return is that you attend the meeting tomorrow and help us to get through the merger. Fair enough?"

Blackburn extended his hand and held it there.

Sanders stared.

"From the bottom of my heart, Tom, I'm sorry for all that has happened."

Sanders shook his hand.

"Thank you, Tom," Blackburn said. "Thank you for your patience, and thank you on behalf of this company. Now, sit down and talk with Louise, and let us know what you decide."

And Blackburn left the room, closing the door softly behind him. He turned to Fernandez. "What the hell is this all about?" Fernandez gave a long sigh. "It's called capitulation," she said. "Total and complete capitulation. DigiCom just folded."