“I know Betsey—we’ve become, uh, friends. It could’ve been personal.”
“But it wasn’t personal?” He cocks his head at me as if seeing me for the first time. I’ve never been one to cause trouble. Frankly,there is rarely any trouble to be had. Our culture is one of judicious professionalism. The things that go on overtly at other Wall Street firms are hidden here.
“No, not personal. So, I’m leaving it with you.”
He stares at the envelope as if it might be a bomb.
14
OUR CEO’S FACE REDDENSas he stands and knocks his fist onto the polished black table. “This conversation has gone on too long. I’m not going to let some”—Phil glances at Hardwin sitting to his right—“some woman blackmail her way back into this firm. What are our other options?”
Hardwin straightens and reiterates that the numbers in the file look authentic. That Betsey Comarsh has apparently been calling and visiting some friendly advisors to gather their sales information. These offices went on record to indicate they were trading in the new ETFs. The theory is that she was able to marry that data with overall sales data and create a remarkably accurate sales inventory. By having this data, she holds power. Not only is this valuable to us, but our competitors would definitely benefit.
As Hardwin continues talking with more legalese than substance, the table learns nothing new. He is simply rehashing what we’ve already discussed.
“What makes us think she wants back into the firm?” A voice from a chair positioned along the brocade-papered wall cuts in.
The ten of us at the table glance over at the well-upholstered young man in a suit a couple sizes too big in the shoulders. He’s the same associate who told me about the trashing of my office. I now know he works for Terrence in Compliance, not Legal.
“I mean, if it is her, she’s not asking for anything, right? She just handed it over. Why?”
Phil’s bushy eyebrows twitch. The wall seats are for observers only, and most of them are empty for this meeting. The young man was invited to answer questions about his initial review of the data, not to ask questions of his own.
I roll my shoulders back and rehearse responses in case I’m asked to address his annoyingly astute questions. Perhaps Betsey didn’t compile it and is simply trying to warn us that the data exists. Or perhaps she wants to demonstrate her proficiency, in case anyone is willing to offer her a post–restraining order recommendation. Both of these answers are complete rubbish, but I’ve backed myself into a corner with what I can tell them.
“I think the solution is obvious.” Dave ignores the posed questions. “Hardwin tells this Betsey to cease and desist. It doesn’t matter what she’s done here with the sales data or what she wants. We’ve wasted too much time on this already.”
This stirs up commentary around the table, with factions shaping up around either going after her legally to shut her up or bringing her in to see how she compiled so much data so accurately. I’m not in either camp. I like Betsey. A mix of sugar and vinegar, she has a way with clients, enabling her to achieve remarkable sales. But lately, with her behavior so erratic, even threatening? Not a hill I’ll die on.
“Second thing.” Dave speaks over the ruckus. “Betsey needs to becharged with stealing company property. She should not have this proprietary data.”
I might want to claim my hill after all. Someone needs to talk to Betsey before authorities are called. How would involving law enforcement, again, serve the company or anyone around the table? Especially me?
A few questions fly at Hardwin, who stutters through legal definitions and older precedent cases. It appears he is stalling until he can huddle with his team about what they really can do.
Finally, Terrence coughs. “Beyond what Ms. Comarsh can be charged with, what are you, Dave, as head of sales for the firm, going to do with the information we’ve been given?”
“I assume you’ll tell me.” Dave lifts his chin. There is a visible tension in the way they’re speaking to each other. So different from the camaraderie on the balcony. Maybe they’re not the strongest alliance around the table.
The wall dweller speaks up again. “Why don’t we have this kind of data? Dave, you have sales data like this for the mutual funds. Why have we elected not to purchase from the largest wires or an intermediary?”
Dave’s eyes skitter over the men around him and land on the table in front of his clenched hands. “It was decided based on cost—”
“But the ETFs have been so successful. Did you not at some point consider it?” The young man looks completely unaffected, but the awkwardness of this exchange prompts the guy across from me to sputter into his tight fist. His cheeks quiver, likely constraining a giggle that would be perilous to release.
To disarm the attention he is gathering, I cough gingerly into my shoulder.
Dave swings his body toward me but doesn’t make eye contact. “There’s one more person we haven’t addressed.”
My skin goes cold.
Phil rhythmically clicks the top of his pen.
“I offer the floor to our portfolio manager to explain what she knows about how this sales data came to be. Perhaps she has insights into Betsey’s motivation, how she came by this data, or what she truly wants to get out of handing it over to us.”
The clicking stops. No one says a word.
Phil trains his eyes on me. “Meredith, is there anything else you haven’t shared?”
