The Biter Bit

Marty gets black-bagged

— Congratulations, JC, I hear you’ll be going to Tokyo?

— Thanks, Marty, but so far it’s just an application.

— I can’t think of a single reason why they wouldn’t accept you. This all seems very sudden.

— Not at all. I enquired about the move about a month ago. Peter was very supportive, so we started to talk to Rob a few weeks back.

— So Peter has known about this all along?

— Yes, I’m surprised he didn’t mention it to you. Maybe I should have checked with you first, but I didn’t want to say too much before I knew it would get senior management support.

— Well, as your immediate manager, I would have thought that I was senior enough for that purpose.

— You should be, Marty. And you’ve always been very helpful to me. But you know that it needs a Vice President to sign off on a transfer. And unfortunately, although you’ve got the title of Manager, you never did make the VP grade…So you see I had to go through Peter. I’m sorry…

— Wait a minute. What grade is this position you’ve applied for?

— I believe it’s Manager VP, in charge of Asian IT Audit.

— I see. Sounds great.

— And I’m sorry, but that’s why I couldn’t oblige your friend.

— My friend?

— The one who rang up to offer me the IT Security job. It didn’t sound like my cup of tea. More of a policeman role, not a lot of scope for originality.

— I see.

— Is that all you wanted?

— Er… yes, thanks, just for now.

— By the way, Marty…

— Yes?

An uncharacteristic smirk distorts JC’s face.

— Next time you’re online, you can give my regards to SugarDaddy.

Now the panic really sets in. As I go back to my office, my head is cluttered up with unhelpful phrases churning round and round repeatedly. “The wheels have come off. I’m up the creek without a paddle. Now I’m really screwed. Uh-oh, the wheels have come off…” Nothing I find when I’m back at my desk serves to calm me down.

The security privileges I enjoyed before the Madrid trip have been revoked. I can’t get to the files where I stored a record of JC’s online sessions. On the Internet, I am restricted from visiting chatrooms, get a violation message when I try to access the anonymiser websites and cannot even log on to webmail services. I am penned in to the tiny subset of the Internet which is sanctioned by the Firm.

The worst aspect of all is that I no longer have the security rights to go back and cover my tracks, to erase the audit trail of what I’ve been doing with JC. And with a horrified shock I remember my completely unsanctioned forays into Peter’s Internet activity.

Normal prudence would have made me delete all traces of where I had been snooping as soon as I had finished the exercise. But then the Madrid job intervened. Again, an awful realisation, as that trip suddenly becomes part of this stomach-churning pattern. Let me remember how it happened.

Peter came into my office a few days ago, looking highly agitated.

— Martin. Have you got your passport with you?

— Yes. Do I need to skip the country?

— We’ve had a problem crop up in Madrid. You speak the language, don’t you?

— Si.

— Well we need someone to go out straight away and you would be the obvious choice. Just to interview the guy and get him out of the door quietly. The new Compliance guy will be going along for the ride. He’s able to go tonight or tomorrow morning first thing. What’s your preference?

— I’m happy to go out tonight.

— Good.

— Provided you’ll sign off on the expenses. I can get a change of clothes and an overnight bag at the airport.

— You’re fine up to two hundred and fifty pounds. I’d rather have you safely out there tonight. If you head out right away you’ll make the seven o’clock Iberia flight. Here’s a briefing note you can read in the taxi.

My swollen head accepted without question that I was the logical choice for the job. I just switched off my PC and headed for the door. Now I am wondering why it was so essential to get me out of the way for the day. I ring up the IT Security manager to see what has been going on.

— Hi, Steve. Have you got a minute?

— Have to make it quick, I’m in the middle of something.

— Just wanted to know why my privileges have been removed. Is there a problem?

— Turns out you shouldn’t have had them in the first place. I got a bollocking yesterday from my boss, after he got an earful from your boss. They couldn’t understand why I bent the rules and skipped the normal procedure just because you asked me to.

— I had a signed letter of authority. I showed it to you.

— I told them that. He says that he never signed anything, that a signature is easy to forge and if you showed up waving a piece of paper with a squiggle on it, it should have rung alarm bells right away. The normal process is authorisation by email and I’ll be sticking to that in the future.

— I’m sorry you got caught in the crossfire, mate. This is just my boss trying to stitch me up.

— I don’t want to hear about it. And you really don’t want to be talking about stuff like that on a recorded line.

— My line isn’t recorded…

Silence.

— Since when has my line been recorded? I thought it was only the trading floor that had voice recording.

— I think you had better talk to your manager.

— Steve, can you just do me one favour?

— Sorry mate, no more favours or special deals. I can’t take the risk. It’s the wrong time of year…

He’s right of course. It’s now November. At the end of this month the year’s bonuses are decided. Suddenly there are a lot of people working very long hours, taking on extra work and generally being very visibly productive. Deadlines are being met all around the Firm, as people try to nudge up management’s perception of their worth.

And management is no less busy. By now they will have some idea of the size of the pot which they have available for distribution. They will be working out the optimum division, which will reward favourites, punish troublemakers and keep the rest just happy enough not to seek alternative employment as soon as the bonus cheque clears.

They also have a once a year chance to deal cost effectively with anyone they want to manoeuvre out of the Firm. Severance pay will seldom cost more than would the severed person’s bonus. So, as an alternative to paying the bonus, and at no extra cost, the target individual can be shown the door.

I’ve used the technique several times myself, with no great compunction about delivering such a blow just before Christmas. I can’t understand how, with so much knowledge of the way this industry works, I’ve left myself open to exactly the same stunt being pulled on me.

— Martin. Thank you for being prompt. I think you know Mr Donnolly from HR. He’s here to act as a formal witness to the proceedings.

— Do I need representation?

— In what way?

— Is this the sort of meeting where I need my lawyer present, or a work colleague?

— You started out in the Civil Service, didn’t you Martin?

— Yes.

— That may have coloured your expectations about how termination procedures are carried out.

— So that’s what this is, a termination meeting?

— I’m not going to beat around the bush, Martin. I’ve been concerned for some time about your performance.

— So why is this the first time that you’ve seen fit to mention it to me?

— Every employee is entitled to an annual performance appraisal. Your performance problem has only really come to light in the eleven months since your last appraisal. It would have been raised in a month’s time, in any case, but there are good reasons to bring that process forward

— To avoid having to pay me any bonus.

— More compelling reasons even than that.

— Why don’t you just tell me what you’ve got on me that makes you feel you can bypass the normal process?

— We intend to follow a strictly legal procedure.

— Will it stand up to an industrial tribunal?

— There’s a good reason why we pay our employment lawyers so handsomely. They repay their salaries over and over in the way they squash tribunal cases. When was the last time you heard of Durante Brothers suffering an adverse ruling?

— So, as I said, what have you got?

— You’ve given us a wide variety of transgressions to pick from. If we were feeling magnanimous, we could easily make the case that the Firm has had a tough year and Audit needs to slim down and your job is the one that has to go.

— A redundancy, in other words?

— Superficially attractive, but it’s expensive for the Firm because of the length of time you’ve been here and it ties my hands as far as hiring a replacement goes, if I’ve just said that your role is redundant.

— So you’re not going for that one?

— Next we could go the performance route. Since you really haven’t produced any tangible deliverables during all of this year, we could make the case that you aren’t pulling your weight and should be got rid of on performance grounds.

— You probably can’t be bothered with the paperwork

— Exactly right. To do it properly we would have to go through the whole raft of verbal and written warnings, give you every chance to improve, and so on. It also tends to shine a light on the fact that we haven’t managed your underperformance very well in the past.

— So you won’t go for that option?

— Correct.

— Leaving only the compromise agreement.

— Compromise agreements have their uses. Principally when someone is really in a position to dish the dirt, or rather where there is a mismatch between their ability to discredit the Firm and the Firm’s ability to discredit them. In your case, we feel that the mismatch is in our favour, so we don’t feel inclined to offer a compromise.

— Which leaves you with what?

— One month’s notice, pure and simple, effective immediately, with one month’s salary paid in lieu of the notice period.

— On what grounds?

— Gross misconduct.

— What are you referring to specifically?

— Good point, Martin, there are such a lot of examples we could cite. So let’s be more specific. Let’s start with violating the Use of Technology Policy by using anonymiser portals to access online gambling services.

Then there’s the violation of Data Protection legislation involved in your accessing my private files the day before you went to Madrid. The same story with regard to JC’s files.

Taking part in prohibited online chat services. Attempting to destroy the Firm’s audit trail of system accesses. Fraudulently persuading an IT security officer to give you administrative privileges. I think you get the picture

— You seem to be taking this all very personally, Peter.

— And with good reason, Martin. I saved the best until last. While we were investigating your other breaches, when you were in Madrid, we came across this little gem.

— What’s that?

— A short story, updated just a few days ago. About your boss Peter, how he persecutes you and how you plan and carry out his murder.

— No. That isn’t about you at all.

— How many other bosses do you have called Peter?

— That’s just coincidence. I tidied it up the other week, because I was sending it to my therapist. But I wrote the thing five years ago. If you must know, it was about your predecessor. I just changed the name and some of the details when I was writing the story.

— Is that supposed to make me feel better? That you’re not homicidal about bosses in general, just your previous one.

— And don’t run away with the idea that it’s a confession, either. I wrote it a full six months before Matthias’s suicide.

— Before what?

— Well, before his death, whether it was suicide, accident or whatever. And whatever it was, I wasn’t responsible.

— What are you babbling on about? Matthias Bruckner is as alive as you or me.

— He died five years ago. That’s why you took over.

— I took over when he moved to Smith Cohen. He’s still there. I had lunch with him just last week. You were one of the main topics we discussed.

— What?

— Don’t look so shocked. I don’t know what stunt you’re trying to pull Martin, but Matthias did warn me about your tendency to play the stress card when you’re in a fix.

— I’m not myself today. My wife just left me.

— Martin, I can’t really believe anything you say any more. I’m sorry if you have troubles at home, but that’s not really relevant to why we’re here today. Now unless Mr Donnolly has something to add, the gentleman outside will escort you back to your desk to clear out your personal belongings.

— No, I think you’ve covered it all Mr Franklin. I’ve heard quite enough.

— So, Martin, I would ask you not to try to access the Firm’s systems. Your user details have been suspended and you will be asked to hand in your security card at the exit. Please, for your own sake, don’t talk to your colleagues about the reasons for your dismissal. I will give them all the explanation they need.

— Don’t I need to hand over?

— Ha! What’s to hand over, Martin? You haven’t done anything for the past year.

— Don’t black bag me, Peter. I’ve been with the Firm ten years.

— You know the routine, Martin. I’m sorry it’s come to this.

Humiliated beyond bearing, my face flushed bright crimson and tears prickling the corners of my eyes, I follow the security guard, who is clutching a pair of black bin liners, back to my desk.

This is the most ignominious end anyone in this industry can suffer, short of being hauled off the trading floor in handcuffs.

And it has been widely trailed. Whereas normally at least half of the department would be out of the office visiting auditees, today everyone is at their desk pretending to work, as I get led in and made to empty my personal belongings into the bin bags.

My desk is full of nothing else but personal stuff, so all of my gambling systems and horse-racing statistics go in the bags. A tiny pile of work-relevant material is left which, after a moment’s thought, I throw in the bin under the desk, leaving my office looking as though I had never set foot in it, let alone spent the past ten years there.

Still refusing to spare my feelings, the guard leads me to the main entrance of Durante Brothers. Here he relieves me of my security card and leaves me standing there with my two huge bin bags, surrounded by gawping imbeciles, most of whom know the precise depth of my misery and are breathing secret sighs of relief that it’s not happening to them.

I head towards the taxi rank, then remember with a dead feeling inside that I no longer have cash in my pocket or ready access to cash, courtesy of my roulette binge yesterday. So the Central Line it has to be, wedged among the Christmas shoppers on their way to Oxford Street, feeling more than a little antipathy towards the encroaching season of goodwill to all men.

Ouch! Many thanks for reading.

This may be the last extract I post from the Obsession novel, but if you want to know what directly led to the above, you may appreciate these: