Starbuck, Nantucket Redemption, page 6
“Well, we know that the divisional accounts are correct. The issues happened when we used the software to consolidate those numbers into the corporate books. So, we can complete that process manually. It’s going to be time and labor-intensive, but then we know it will be right.”
“Ok. What do you need from me to make that happen?” Peter asked.
“Just your approval on the approach. We’ll need to hire some accounting temps, but our incremental spend will be pretty low, and I can cover that within my operating budget.”
“Great. Let’s get that started. How long do you think until we’re ready to restate the numbers?”
“If we get started Monday, and we can find the temps we need, I’m thinking at most a few days. That includes a little wiggle room in case we need additional time to address things.”
“Ok. Please keep me apprised on your progress.”
Peter turned to his VP of Operations, Sally Wurth. “Ok, step two. I know Steve only had a dotted line to you, but I hold you partially responsible for this fuckup. You need to put a plan together on how this is going to be fixed. I’d like your recommendation on my desk first thing Monday morning.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sally. She pulled out her phone and immediately started texting the team that they were needed at the offices for the rest of the weekend.
Peter turned back to Don, “Anything else we need to discuss?”
Don pulled his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Clearly, he hadn’t had much sleep over the past few days, and the stress of the situation had taken its toll. “Unfortunately, yes. Since we released inaccurate results, we’re technically in violation of our bank covenants. We need you to talk with the bank and advise them of the issues and that we will have corrected numbers to them shortly.”
“Sure, I can manage that. I play golf with our loan officer, and we’ve got a great relationship. In fact...” Peter picked up his phone, “let me see if he’s available to play tomorrow.” Peter typed out a text and sent it.
The CFO continued, “I’ve already informed the SEC of the situation, so no real concerns there. But I’d recommend that we put out a press release so that our shareholders know what’s going on and get the facts directly from us. Although we didn’t do anything intentional or illegal, I don’t want anyone to think this is another Enron type of situation.”
“Totally agree,” said Peter. He looked down the table, searching for Paul Lord, his chief marketing officer. “Paul, how quickly can you get a release drafted and on my desk?”
The CMO looked at his watch; it was a little past one. “I’ll need to connect with the agency but should have something for you to react to by 5:00.”
Peter nodded, “Make sure you emphasize that this was a result of a systems failure and not an intentional act to overstate revenue. I’d also suggest you make it clear that the people responsible have been terminated, and the plans are in place to restate the numbers quickly.”
Paul was taking notes on a legal pad in front of him. He looked back when Peter finished and said, “Absolutely. We can spin this in a positive light, and I’ve no issues whatsoever with throwing Steve under the bus for this entire fiasco.”
“Perfect,” said Peter. He turned his attention back to the assembled team and pointed his finger one by one at the faces around the table. “I expect that addressing this issue will be your number one priority and the most important thing in your life for the next two weeks. I don’t care if you have a vacation planned, if your kid is getting married or if you have to go to your parent’s funeral, I expect you to be here, whatever it takes, to get our books right.” Peter stood up and walked out of the conference room and headed to his office.
The rest of his day was spent reviewing the original financials to fully understand the implications of the revenue issues and develop talking points that he could use with the loan officer as well as with any stakeholders that sought him out for comment. And the more he looked at it, the more upset he got. At one point, he slammed his notes on his desk when he realized that this issue was going to be a problem for him for months, if not years. Even if it was an honest mistake, many would think it was indeed an intentional act and that they, Shimmo Plastics, had gotten caught cooking the books, just like so many other companies in the news lately.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Peter shouted at the ceiling.
He swiveled his office chair to look out the large, floor-to-ceiling windows of his office. The light outside had taken on the golden hue of an approaching sunset. Glancing at his watch, he realized he hadn’t connected with Charlotte since saying goodbye this morning. That omission certainly wasn’t going to help him improve things with her, but he hoped she’d understand. He quickly fired off a text to her to let her know he was alive and would call later with the ugly details of his day.
Peter grabbed his backpack, stuffed his notes in the back pocket, and walked out of his office, turning off the lights as he went. He did a quick circle of the offices to see who was still there and noted with some satisfaction that the IT director’s office was dark and the door locked. “Fucking asshole,” he muttered to himself.
His car service took him back to their Connecticut estate, Sheldon House, a classic 18th century New England colonial sitting on over four acres of prime Weston, Connecticut land. They had purchased it after the IPO of Shimmo, when they had become truly rich, and spent several hundred thousand in renovations. They had maintained the historical charm of the old house but had made needed updates in the kitchen, bathrooms, and most of the living spaces.
Part of the renovation project had also included an outdoor living space with a large bluestone patio, outdoor kitchen, and a saltwater pool. The car dropped Peter off at the foot of his driveway, and he strolled directly to the terrace and grabbed a beer from the outdoor refrigerator. He pulled out his iPhone and made a call to his favorite local eatery and arranged to have dinner delivered. He hung up with the restaurant and then dialed Charlotte. It went straight to voicemail. He left a message with some details of the day and asked for her to call him back when she could. He disconnected the call and then headed up to the house. After disarming the security system, he dropped his backpack in the kitchen and went upstairs to change. Although he spent a lot of time here alone, the house still felt eerily quiet and empty. He missed Charlotte and the kids.
Dinner arrived as promised, which he enjoyed while watching the end of a Yankees game. They were visiting the Red Sox, and unfortunately, his beloved Yankees were trailing their Fenway rivals. A tendril of memory invaded his thoughts and took him back to his friend Jack, a diehard Red Sox fan. The two of them had many spirited discussions about who had the better team. Many a beer was bet although neither really minded losing as the winnings were always shared with each other. Peter felt a sudden deep sadness at the thought of Jack and again wondered how his life would be different if he still had his dear friend in it.
He turned off the television, and beer in hand went back out on the patio to clear his head. So many conflicting and confusing emotions were going through him. The fuckup at the company, his strained relationship with Charlotte, his feeling of being disconnected from Sophie and Spencer, and a sense of loss and guilt about Jack. He gazed up at the sky and could not help thinking that his life was at a turning point. He just wasn’t sure if it was going to turn for the good or the bad.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Peter spent Sunday morning at the offices and didn’t really have an agenda other than to track who was working and the progress being made. Thinking he had been a bit rough on the team Saturday, he arranged for a breakfast of fresh bagels, doughnuts, and coffee to be delivered first thing. He also made a point to speak with each person of his team during the morning to offer support and his appreciation for their efforts and made a mental note to take everyone out for a happy hour and dinner after the new results were released. He wanted them to think he was at least partly human.
His afternoon was spent at the golf course playing with his loan officer. Peter had also invited a couple of club friends to join them, and they had a pleasant day on the links. It was between holes ten and eleven, and after a couple of beers that Peter broke the news about their inaccurate financials. He also managed to get in the fact that some people were totally incompetent, but you didn’t always find out until they completely and totally screwed the pooch. That got a hearty chuckle from the loan officer, and by the time they teed off on thirteen, it was all water under the bridge. They had a few more drinks at the nineteenth hole but no more discussions about Shimmo or the financials. It had been a successful outing.
Peter picked up some take-out on the way home and tried to call Charlotte. Again it went straight to her voicemail, which got him wondering if she had blocked his number or more likely that her phone had died and she had forgotten to charge it. He felt a bit anxious when he didn’t get an answer on the house line but was reassured when Charlotte texted him with apologies that they had been at the beach and as he expected her phone had died. Seizing the opportunity, he called up her number on his iPhone and was finally able to connect. It turned into a halfway pleasant thirty minutes hearing about their events of the past day and a half, their time at the beach, and a stray cat who was apparently trying to take up residence in the carriage house. Spencer and Sophie had their turns as well, and hearing their voices made Peter smile and wish that he were with them.
They said their goodbyes with a promise that they would talk again on Monday. Peter disconnected and sat quietly for a few minutes and wondered if perhaps the turning was for the better.
* * *
He was at the office early Monday morning and started the day with a quick staff meeting to be updated on the progress, and if Don had secured the necessary temps he needed to get things rolling. He ended the session and headed for his office, where he was intercepted by his admin, Aleta Paddington. “Mr. Bois?”
“Yes, what is it?” Peter responded a little shortly. His admin was a lovely lady, but sometimes her timing was not always the best.
“There is a gentleman here to see you. A Mr. Jasper Norrington,” she said hesitantly.
“Who? I don’t recall having any appointments today,” replied Peter.
“No, sir, he does not have an appointment. But he says it’s quite urgent and could have a major impact on the company,” said Aleta.
“Hmm. That must be something regarding the financials. Is he with the press?”
“I don’t know, sir. He just said it was urgent and that you would want to talk with him.”
“Okay. Send him in.”
Peter was at his desk reviewing email when Jasper Norrington walked into his office. He was slender and tall, a shade over six feet with dark hair, brown eyes and a thin but handsome face. Peter stood and offered his hand, “Good morning. I don’t think we’ve met, but I’m Peter Bois.”
“Yes, Peter. I know who you are. I’m Jasper Norrington, the acting CEO for Clean Seas Forever, and I wanted to talk with you about your company and the damage you’re doing to the world’s oceans.”
“What!” said Peter loudly. “How the fuck did you get in here? Get the hell out of my office right now!” He called out to Aleta, whose desk sat just outside his door. “Aleta! Get security! Have them come to my office immediately.”
Jasper looked at Peter with pleading eyes. “Mr. Bois. Please wait. I’m not here to attack you or your company. In fact, I was hoping we could have a collaborative discussion on how we could start working together.”
Peter stood up. “A collaborative discussion? Working together? What the fuck have you been smoking? You assholes have picketed my offices. Why the hell should I listen to a damn thing you say? Aleta!”
“Sir, please. I apologize for barging in without an appointment, but now that I’m here, just give me five minutes. I promise that you’ll find it beneficial, and in fact, you might even find it profitable.”
Peter was angry and feeling unsettled from this sneak attack. “Profitable? I’d love to hear how you’re going to make that happen.”
The security guard appeared at the door. “Everything okay, Mr. Bois?”
Jasper looked at Peter with pleading eyes. “Please. Five minutes. That’s all I need. And if I don’t manage to sell you on this, then I will leave quietly and with a promise to never picket your offices again.”
Peter thought about it briefly and relented. “Okay. Five minutes. But then you’re out of here.” Turning to the guard, he said, “We are fine. But don’t go too far.” He settled back into his chair.
“Thank you.” Jasper reached into his briefcase and pulled out an empty water bottle that was heavily damaged and discolored. “This is one of your products, is it not?”
Peter picked up the empty bottle and surveyed it. Finding the company mark on the bottom, he looked up at Jasper. “Yes, it is. It’s hard to read the date code, but I suspect it was made in the last year or so.” He put the bottle back down on the desk. “So?”
“So, this bottle was removed from the stomach of a dead humpback whale. It had beached itself on Cape Cod, and a thorough necropsy was completed by the marine biology team at UMass. In addition to this bottle, they found a number of other plastics in its GI tract as well as severe lacerations around the fluke from discarded netting.”
Peter stared at him, dispassionately. “I’ll say it again. So?”
“Our organization is dedicated to helping to eliminate plastics from the world’s oceans and work with industry leaders such as yourself to put in place measures that would help prevent future plastics pollution,” said Jasper. “With that goal in mind, we have two requests for you.”
“You have two requests for me? I have one for you - get the fuck out of my office!”
“Mr. Bois, please. I think you’ll find these requests rather straightforward.”
Peter turned away and stared out the window briefly before responding. “Okay. I’m listening. Doubtful, but listening.”
“Number one is that we would like Shimmo Plastics to join our industry roundtable. This group is comprised of other plastic producers like Shimmo and meets quarterly to identify problems, develop processes and solutions, and workshop new products that longer-term could help eliminate plastics altogether. At least those that have the potential of entering the world’s oceans.”
Peter turned back and said tauntingly, “Funny you say that, my wife suggested the same thing just the other day. And I’ll say to you what I said to her. Transitioning out of plastics would cost us hundreds of millions per year in revenue!” Peter smacked his desk with his palm. “I thought you said our discussion was going to be profitable.”
“Mr. Bois, we’ve done our research, and we know that consumer sentiment is building against the widespread use of plastics. We also know that Shimmo provides bottles and containers to a number of the world’s premium food and beverage brands.”
“True,” he confirmed. “And we make them to the exact customer specification.”
“I understand that,” said Jasper. “We also know that these brands have images they need to maintain. They spend hundreds of millions, if not billions each year, nurturing those brands. Do you think they want their logo on a piece of plastic that kills a whale or a dolphin?”
Peter sat back in his chair, absorbing the claims Jasper was making. He hadn’t really thought of it from the brand’s perspective. But it’s not exactly like they had come running to him either. It was probably just a bunch of liberal, sentimental bullshit. “So, what was the second thing?”
“We want you to license your new resin technology, the one made from natural materials that break down quickly in saltwater,” said Jasper.
“How the fuck do you know about that?” said Peter angrily.
“Your chief scientist gave a presentation on it last year at the Asian plastics conference,” Jasper smiled wryly. “And one of my associates found it when she was doing some online research.” Jasper paused to pull out a single sheet of paper and placed it on Peter’s desk. “This is our preliminary estimate as to potential licensing deals and subsequent royalties you would earn.”
Peter picked up the sheet and reviewed the numbers. Most of his primary competitors were listed as were several others that produced for adjacent industries. The volume estimates were significant, as were the potential licensing fees. He looked up at Jasper. “Why would I agree to this? Why would I share our proprietary technology when we could have the global exclusive for years?”
Jasper stood quietly and carefully selected his words. “Because you have the opportunity to not only do a very good thing for the world but also earn a tremendous amount of money for your company.”
“Bullshit,” said Peter. “This is just tree-hugging bullshit, and I don’t believe a single company on your sheet would agree to this.”
“But Mr. Bois...”
“Enough! I told you I’d give you five minutes, and you’ve taken closer to twenty,” said Peter angrily. “Now, please get the hell out of my office and let me get back to work.”
Jasper turned and walked toward the door. He slowed and looked back at Peter. “What do you know of whaling, particularly in the 18th and 19th centuries?”
Peter decided to play along. “A little, I guess. I’ve been to the Nantucket Whaling Museum. I’ve read Moby Dick and Heart of the Sea. Is that what you mean?”
“Mr. Bois, in the 18th and 19th centuries, hundreds of thousands of whales were killed to supply oil for industry and for light. But what a lot of people don’t know is that they were also killed for baleen, which some called whalebone.”
Peter stared at him without responding.
“Baleen is often referred to as the plastic of the 19th century as it was flexible, light and strong and used in everything from women’s corsets to buggy whips, canes, and even brushes.”
“And your point?”
