For instance, don’t take it personally that I haven’t posted here in over two months. There were…issues, the same you were dealing with. Elections and attempted murder during attempted coups right inside our very own Capitol. And all of the signs (see, e.g., Texas) that we’re living in a third world country (with apologies to third world countries). It’s all been really depressing.
Also, my back is screwed. I have a rare joy called epidural lipomatosis, which means, embarrassingly, that my spine has fat in or around it or somewhere. There’s no cure and surgery isn’t recommended; either that or the surgeons are too scared.
The bottom line is that I can’t walk more than seven minutes without pain which rapidly turns into excruciating pain. I’m still searching…After five doctors, two second opinions, and a visit to a nontraditional sort of MD who just screamed at me that I had to quit eating any food that caused inflammation, I’m beginning to lose hope, except this is really my life, so I can’t give up hope. Next: acupuncture and a cane. Please, no suggestions. I’m too old to be told things.
I can’t promise that I’ll start posting more frequently, if anyone cares. Spring is coming, anyway. Baseball.
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I was, as often occurred, on the phone to Senior Vice President Tony Galioto, my nemesis. If you haven’t read the earlier posts, including the one where Tony told my boss that he didn’t want to work with me no more, this was during my time at AIG.
I had a great relationship with Tony, and he’d tell you the same. Once I explained to him that if I told him that he couldn’t do something, and then he did it, as a lawyer I was ethically required to resign my job. He leaned back in his chair, raised his eyebrows, and nodded.
I don’t know if he was thinking, damn, that’s a healthy bunch of ethics those poor bastards have, or, more likely, sounds like a pretty good idea!
I said, “I’m sorry, Tony, but the regulations are really clear. You simply can’t do this. It’s a kickback. The advertising would tip off the regulators. Everyone else has tried this too.”
“What do the regulations say?” he asked; his voice was steady but threatening, maybe a note of deviousness with an aftertaste of venom, whatever that tastes like.
“Well, OK, I’ll summarize them. First, there’s a general prohibition that—”
“No wait,” he said, and suddenly his voice was pleasant and easy, not a good sign. “Why don’t you just send me the regs and I’ll read them?”
I didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t a lawyer; in my opinion, he wasn’t even a particularly bright businessman.
Later, he would resign his job, complaining to my boss, “I’m supposed to make $500 million, but I also have to follow the law. It’s not possible to do both.”
And now he was asking to put himself in my place. HE was going to read the regs. I had a sudden inspiration. “OK, Tony, I’ll have a copy made and put them in the courier.” I was in Wilmington, DE, and Tony was at the corner of Pine and Pearl, in New York City’s downtown. We had an overnight courier between the two offices. There really was no reason for us to be in Wilmington; we lawyers serviced only a very insignificant business group there.
“Thanks” he said, “I’ll look for it first thing,” he threatened, and then he hung up.
In only two contexts do people hang up without saying goodbye: television shows and AIG.
I rose from my chair, smiling, and went out to my assistant, though in those days we called them secretaries. Angela was a hoot, with big brown eyes, enormous lips, and breasts that inevitably drew the eyes of the worst misogynist on the floor, which only pleased her. We later had to fire her for stuffing copies of new regulations into the bottom of her desk instead of filing them in the library. Oh, Angela.
I went to her side board, which held the books of regulations that I had to consult most frequently. I grabbed the first volume and turned by habit to the section that ruled Tony’s business group. It started with something generic, like “This section governs…” and probably ended, 200 pages later, with the date that the regulations would become effective. Small print, small pages, thin paper: would it bleed through when copied?
“Hey Angela, I’m sorry,” I said. “Tony wants a copy of all of this. I’m sorry, but he insisted. The whole thing.” Angela raised her big brown eyes in a look of complete disbelief. “Really, I’m sorry, but this is Tony’s idea. I tried to talk him out of it. I mean, I’m the guy who’s supposed to tell him what it means.” In sudden inspiration, I offered, “I’ll go get you your favorite coffee from Brew Haha.”
Author’s note now that a Wilmington resident is in the White House. The city is known as the northern-most southern city. When I was there, anyway, the central downtown business section’s main avenue was a pedestrian walk, filled with shops and restaurants. Some of them were a little dodgy (thrift shops, missions), but anyone could walk its length at lunch time and have quite a pleasant time of it. Brew Haha was a coffee shop on that avenue and five minutes from our building. You could squint and think you were in Raleigh.
As I was out getting Angela’s large mocha latte with whipped cream, I let myself think about Tony. Really, wasn’t it an insult to ask me to send him the regs? I was the lawyer, and it was my job to read and interpret the laws by which Tony had to run his business. Who was he to demand that I send the laws for him to interpret?
When I returned, I gave Angela her coffee and noted that she hadn’t begun the copying. “Hey, I’m sorry if I didn’t mention this, but Tony wants this tomorrow so we have to put it in the courier tonight.” She glanced up and nodded and didn’t thank me for the coffee. OK, she was allowed her insubordination flavored with righteous anger: who was she to make copies? Well, actually, who else, Angela? Geez.
My anger at Tony further inflamed by Angela, I stomped down the hallway to my boss’s office. Robert was never good to vent to, so why did I try? It was instinct that drew me, like a dog who has to dig. Often I urgently vented to colleagues who rightly had no interest in what I had to say. But everyone complained to everyone else; otherwise, we’d have had to engage in break room talk, and we didn’t actually like each other enough for that.
He looked up as I stood in his doorway; he gestured me in with his pen. I love Robert to this day. The most infuriating boss I’ve ever had, he was also the kindest, smartest, and most emotionally intelligent. I told him what Tony had demanded.
Robert gave his huge Italian-tailored shrug. “Eh, don’t worry about it. Don’t take it personally. It’s just business.”
“Robert,” I started, thinking hard, warming to my theme, “how isn’t it personal? He wants to read the regs. It’s my job to read the regs and tell him what they mean. His asking to see them so he can read them on his own is a clear message: he doesn’t think I’m competent to read them, so he’s going to. How is that not personal?” I’m afraid that I had raised my voice just a little bit, and I had hit a register somewhat higher than my wife’s.
Robert shrugged, infuriating me. “It’s just business. I wouldn’t take it personal.”
Robert wouldn’t be any help. Why did I ever expect sympathy? Robert never took anything personally. But I do remember one time when he wanted to make what amounted to a business decision, and the business people wanted to go their way.
Robert had dug in behind his desk and went into a veritable fit: over and over he shrugged, shrugged, and shrugged, and simultaneously raised and lowered his eyebrows, over and over: he was saying, OK, you do what you want to do, but I strenuously disagree, and I’m mad that you won’t take my business advice.
At that moment I so wanted to say, “Don’t take it personal, Robert,” but I kept my mouth shut. He looked a little too angry to grasp the irony.
OK, this is a problem for lawyers as smart as Robert. Unfortunately, quite often, the lawyer is the smartest person in the room, and sometimes he wants to involve himself beyond what is his proper role: giving legal advice. He’s smart enough to see a bad deal in the offing, and he can’t keep his fucking mouth shut. I would advise every lawyer never to say a word; otherwise you will be hung with the blame when things go horribly viciously wrong. Our precious, precious deniability: never abjure it.
So now I gave up and went back to my office, far down the hall. Robert had given me a bigger office down there in the beginning, saying, “I don’t want to know what you let Tony get away with. Just don’t tell me.” I had said, “Don’t worry, Robert, I’ll take a bullet for you.”
Angela had somehow magically completed the copying and readied the pages in an envelope for the courier. I thanked her as jovially as possible and told her she could go home now. She grudgingly allowed this minor recognition of her accomplishment, raising her black eyebrows wordlessly as she left.
Tony never commented on the regulations again, and the program he wanted to begin in violation of them never materialized. He still exists; I’ve Googled him. I should call him and ask him if he ever read them. Except he wouldn’t remember me, and I know the answer.
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