Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry(38)
Junior in many ways was the opposite of his father. The Founder was a born salesman. Sr. rarely took a group of advertisers to a “smokes and drinks” lunch without securing their commitment to devote an extra chunk of their budget to REL. His desk was always piled high with papers. It was nothing short of miraculous that he would somehow manage to find the document he was looking for. Dress for him was an afterthought. He often had to be reminded by his secretary to close his top button or straighten his mismatched tie before rushing to his next meeting.
While affable in his own way, Junior was far more formal. He had gone to prep school at Exeter. Sr. had been so proud that his son had graduated from an Ivy League school, Cornell, a far cry from his father, who had finished just two years at SUNY, Binghamton. Junior was liked by many but loved by none. He was meticulous about his appearance. Shirts and ties were carefully chosen to bring out the best in his Paul Stuart suits. Even on the windiest of days it was rare to see him with a hair out of place.
Sr. would have insisted that they sit at the conference table in the corner, Myers thought. Junior remained seated behind his desk, happy to gaze down on the CFO.
“So, Ed, what’s so important you felt you had to get me a cup of coffee before telling me about it?” he asked with a forced smile.
“Fred, if I were more articulate, I’d do a better job explaining the circumstances that brought me here today. I’m not, so I’m just going to say it straight. I screwed up.”
For the next ten minutes, Myers recounted the meeting in Sherman’s office, the wiring of the money, and the potentially fraudulent tax filings. As he spoke the CFO tried to gauge Carlyle’s reaction. It was pointless. Junior remained poker-faced throughout. He interrupted only once. “This Carter & Associates who received the money, do you have any idea who they are?”
“None.”
“Have you made an effort to find out?”
Myers sighed, not liking how the questioning was going. “No, I haven’t. I thought about it, but I was concerned that knowing more would only get me in deeper. Whatever I learned about Carter, how would I use it, would it be actionable?”
Junior sat back in his chair and folded his hands on his desk. For the second time in not even a month Myers thought he was about to lose his job. A frightening thought flickered in his mind: If he fires me and I get in trouble for what I did, will REL pay my legal bills, or will I be on the hook for them?
When Junior spoke, his voice was methodical, almost devoid of emotion. “Ed, you did the right thing by coming to me. I probably shouldn’t share this with you, but you have a right to know. For several years I’ve suspected that Dick Sherman has been enriching himself at company expense. This latest incident confirms my suspicions.”
Myers was dumbfounded. “Oh God, Mr. Carlyle, it’s my job to watch the company’s money. If I’ve missed something, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
Junior waved him off. “It’s nothing you could have known about. As you’re aware, in addition to being the anchor of the REL evening news program, Brad Matthews is editor in chief. He has the final say on what stories are covered and the tone of the broadcast. Companies’ stocks have been known to rise and fall the day after receiving coverage on his program.
“Sherman spotted an opportunity and recruited Matthews. Through a dummy company they established, the two of them have been purchasing shares of companies in advance of REL News doing favorable stories about those companies. They’ve even made money from companies in exchange for favorable coverage. I’m surprised the SEC hasn’t caught on yet.”
“If I may ask, Fred, how do you know about this?”
Junior looked around, as if uncertain about how to continue. “I’m not sure I should tell you more, but it’s hard to carry this alone. One of the companies must have assumed my father was in on the scheme. Their CEO called my father at home and complained to him that they had paid the money but REL News had not kept its end of the bargain.”
“Your father told you this?”
“No, he wouldn’t have wanted me to get involved. I believe my father knew that toward the end of his working days his memory was slipping. He began recording his calls so that he could refresh himself on what was discussed. I’ve got the CEO of Statewide Oil on tape.”
“Wow! I don’t know what to say,” Myers exclaimed.
“Ed, I’ve taken you into my confidence. Don’t say anything to anyone. I’m quietly conducting an investigation. The only thing I need you to do is to let me know immediately if Sherman demands more money for Carter or for any reason that doesn’t pass the smell test.”
“I give you my word.”
“And Ed, sending money to Carter & Associates was a lapse in judgment on your part. But it’s understandable under the circumstances and can be put right.”
“Thanks, Fred,” he said, a huge feeling of relief washing over him.
As Myers got up to leave, he realized he had not taken a single sip of his coffee.
41
Over his second cup of coffee, brewed in the new Keurig machine he had purchased for his office, Michael Carter finished scanning the New York Times Real Estate section. He had circled several possibilities on the Upper East Side. Far beyond his financial reach only a month ago, under his new arrangement he felt confident he could make them work. All of these buildings, whether they were condominiums or cooperatives, had boards that heavily scrutinized would-be purchasers. They had their eye out for tenants they felt might be disruptive or, even worse, fail to pay their monthly fees on time. With New York City’s notoriously tenant-friendly laws, it was time-consuming and expensive to dislodge deadbeats.