out as a
paper pusher, one of thousands. Within five years, Merritt had
climbed a corporate ladder that most scaled over fifteen. No one
saw him coming, and some resented him.
Merritt's only acknowledged contention with
his bosses came from his perceived “lack of loyalty.” Though Walt
Johnson would have preferred otherwise, Merritt was no respecter of
persons. Whether Merritt had a meeting with the CEO or the mail
room boy, Merritt gave both equal time and interest. His fairness
often irritated his superiors even as they praised his magnanimity.
“Merritt,” he imitated his CEO one day as he replayed a story for
Tessa. “While we respect your desire to be equitable, we need you
to be aware of a policy of company loyalty we expect from our upper
management.”
What Merritt had ascertained from the
conversation was that the mail room boy really didn't matter to
Pericorp. Merritt should consider most of his underlings as grist
for the mill, useful only to perpetuate the company's benefit. Of
course, to Merritt, this corporate attitude became his biggest
challenge ever – his ultimate opportunity to play the shining
knight.
“Show him in,” Merritt had responded to his
assistant, Paula, in answer to a request one day. Paula opened the
heavy, wooden door to allow a small, mousy man, so stereotypical of
an accountant or clerk that Merritt stifled a chuckle. John
Mitchell had come to Pericorp as a “data entry specialist,”
basically a step up from receptionist, and now he sat in front of
Merritt with some lower level dilemma.
“Um, hi, Mr. Wilson,” John had stuttered,
obviously nervous. Tessa had often seen this reaction to Merritt
among his underlings.
“Hey, Mr. Mitchell,” Merritt had crowed
casually, trying his hardest to alleviate John's apprehension.
“Um, Mr. Wilson, I hope you'll forgive me for
coming to you so brazenly. I'm afraid it's a little presumptuous of
me.” The man had come, no doubt, because of Merritt's reputation
for equanimity.
“Please, go ahead Mr. Mitchell.”
“Oh, just call me John,” he pleaded, a bit
abashed at Merritt's respectful formality.
“Okay, John. Go ahead.”
“Thanks,” John grinned. “Um, I have a bit of
a situation with one of my upper management team, uh, changing some
numbers?” his assertion came out like a question in response to his
nerves.
“Changing numbers, John?” Merritt scrutinized
John's face.
John dropped his eyes to the floor,
apparently intimidated by Merritt's forcefulness. John Mitchell had
seemed uncertain, as if afraid that he had been wrong about
Merritt. The “data entry specialist” seemed to search the lines in
the tiled floors for his next words. “Well, um, I know I don't
understand all of the complexities of Pericorp finances, but money
has been...” John paused, again hesitant.
“Go on, John,” Merritt encouraged.
“I'm sorry. I don't mean to be cynical, but I
need to be assured that what I tell you is in confidence, that you
won't link my name to this information. I really need this
job.”
Merritt leaned forward and looked John in the
eye saying, “You have my word.”
A smile had lit John's face, a trusting smile
that Tessa could picture perfectly. “Thank you,
Mr. Wilson. I know you keep your word. Uh, I
can give you the exact report numbers, but it's, it's coming out of
the Manhattan division.”
“Manhattan? So, Peter Finley's group.”
“I don't really want to name any names, Mr.
Wilson. Um, I just wanted to share with you the little bit of
irrefutable information that I do have. I'm not making any
accusations. Just, uh, just check it out for me if you get a
chance. I don't even care if you never tell me what happens. I
trust you will do what's right.”
“Thank you, John,” Merritt had replied with
sincerity. No one appreciated being trusted like Merritt. He had
always valued his character above almost anything else. “I won't
disappoint you.”
John had laughed, again abashed at
paper pusher, one of thousands. Within five years, Merritt had
climbed a corporate ladder that most scaled over fifteen. No one
saw him coming, and some resented him.
Merritt's only acknowledged contention with
his bosses came from his perceived “lack of loyalty.” Though Walt
Johnson would have preferred otherwise, Merritt was no respecter of
persons. Whether Merritt had a meeting with the CEO or the mail
room boy, Merritt gave both equal time and interest. His fairness
often irritated his superiors even as they praised his magnanimity.
“Merritt,” he imitated his CEO one day as he replayed a story for
Tessa. “While we respect your desire to be equitable, we need you
to be aware of a policy of company loyalty we expect from our upper
management.”
What Merritt had ascertained from the
conversation was that the mail room boy really didn't matter to
Pericorp. Merritt should consider most of his underlings as grist
for the mill, useful only to perpetuate the company's benefit. Of
course, to Merritt, this corporate attitude became his biggest
challenge ever – his ultimate opportunity to play the shining
knight.
“Show him in,” Merritt had responded to his
assistant, Paula, in answer to a request one day. Paula opened the
heavy, wooden door to allow a small, mousy man, so stereotypical of
an accountant or clerk that Merritt stifled a chuckle. John
Mitchell had come to Pericorp as a “data entry specialist,”
basically a step up from receptionist, and now he sat in front of
Merritt with some lower level dilemma.
“Um, hi, Mr. Wilson,” John had stuttered,
obviously nervous. Tessa had often seen this reaction to Merritt
among his underlings.
“Hey, Mr. Mitchell,” Merritt had crowed
casually, trying his hardest to alleviate John's apprehension.
“Um, Mr. Wilson, I hope you'll forgive me for
coming to you so brazenly. I'm afraid it's a little presumptuous of
me.” The man had come, no doubt, because of Merritt's reputation
for equanimity.
“Please, go ahead Mr. Mitchell.”
“Oh, just call me John,” he pleaded, a bit
abashed at Merritt's respectful formality.
“Okay, John. Go ahead.”
“Thanks,” John grinned. “Um, I have a bit of
a situation with one of my upper management team, uh, changing some
numbers?” his assertion came out like a question in response to his
nerves.
“Changing numbers, John?” Merritt scrutinized
John's face.
John dropped his eyes to the floor,
apparently intimidated by Merritt's forcefulness. John Mitchell had
seemed uncertain, as if afraid that he had been wrong about
Merritt. The “data entry specialist” seemed to search the lines in
the tiled floors for his next words. “Well, um, I know I don't
understand all of the complexities of Pericorp finances, but money
has been...” John paused, again hesitant.
“Go on, John,” Merritt encouraged.
“I'm sorry. I don't mean to be cynical, but I
need to be assured that what I tell you is in confidence, that you
won't link my name to this information. I really need this
job.”
Merritt leaned forward and looked John in the
eye saying, “You have my word.”
A smile had lit John's face, a trusting smile
that Tessa could picture perfectly. “Thank you,
Mr. Wilson. I know you keep your word. Uh, I
can give you the exact report numbers, but it's, it's coming out of
the Manhattan division.”
“Manhattan? So, Peter Finley's group.”
“I don't really want to name any names, Mr.
Wilson. Um, I just wanted to share with you the little bit of
irrefutable information that I do have. I'm not making any
accusations. Just, uh, just check it out for me if you get a
chance. I don't even care if you never tell me what happens. I
trust you will do what's right.”
“Thank you, John,” Merritt had replied with
sincerity. No one appreciated being trusted like Merritt. He had
always valued his character above almost anything else. “I won't
disappoint you.”
John had laughed, again abashed at
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