The Labyrinth Campaign Page 2

“Wow, Jack, you are getting old,” Shea said. “You were the star of the game this afternoon, and tonight, instead of reliving that play a hundred and fifty times like you would have last year, you’re discussing the world’s problems.”

  Jack looked at her and grinned.

  Later, as Jack and Shea lay in bed, Jack realized he still had serious thoughts running through his mind. Drugs … nuclear threats. “I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid, Shea. I’ve done coke lots of times, when I know it has the potential to kill me at any moment.”

  “Jack, everyone is doing it, and I haven’t heard of anyone dying in Boulder from too much coke.”

  “That’s not the point, Shea. All it takes is one person, even an athlete with a heart problem, and bam! The heart explodes. And you know what that means.”

  “Yeah, it means you’re being overly dramatic,” Shea said. They both laughed.

  “But seriously, Shea—”

  “Hey, Jack. Can we stop saving the world and go to sleep? Or better yet, fool around?”

  “Now that’s an issue we can both agree on.” She giggled and turned out the light.

  The next morning, as they lay asleep in each other’s arms, Jack’s bedside phone rang. He sleepily fumbled to pick up the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Jack, it’s Dave.” Dave was Charlie’s roommate at the Delta Phi house.

  “No, Dave, I can’t pick you guys up for breakfast; I’ve got plans,” Jack said as he stroked Shea’s long, brown hair.

  “That’s not why I’m calling, man. I’ve got some bad news. Charlie died last night, Jack.”

  Jack bolted upright in bed as if he’d been touched by a hot cattle prod.

  “He overdosed on cocaine, Jack. We found him this morning. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. I know how close you two were.”

  Jack silently hung up the phone, and his head fell into his hands. He was too stunned to cry. But his course was set, he realized. The thoughts he had the night before suddenly crystallized into a hardened resolve: Drugs and the people who dealt them were the enemy that would bring this country to its knees.

  Then the grief came: heavy sobs from deep down in his belly.

  “God, Charlie, I miss you already.”

  three

  [Twenty years later]

  The two men squared off, ready for battle, the student and the instructor. This particular student provided a rare challenge for the aging Tae Kwon Do instructor. As the two sparred, it was apparent that the student had keenly developed his skills. Quick, well-placed blows to his face and body quickly had the instructor retreating. The crowd of students seated around the ring watched in awe and envy as Jack McCarthy continued his relentless pursuit of the martial arts instructor who had pummeled him so many times. Following an exchange of blows that Jack had clearly won, the instructor raised both arms in the air, signaling the end of the match. Jack was elated. He’d never had so much success against such a worthy opponent.

  As the instructor gathered the class for his final words of wisdom before dismissing them, he said, “I have a special announcement today. Jack McCarthy is ready for the next step. I am hereby awarding him a black belt.”

  Jack was stunned by the announcement. The rest of the class erupted in a loud cacophony of applause and screams. Jack, however, was silent. He never had any intention of being a black belt. He began his martial arts training to stay in shape; his knees were too battered from football to continue a heavy schedule of running, and a friend at work had turned him on to the mental and physical attributes of martial arts. This was truly a special moment for him.

  After a long receiving line of handshakes and hugs from his fellow students, Jack hit the locker room for a shower and a shave before he called his girlfriend, Carrie, to invite her out for a celebration. When he finally left the martial arts studio, he stepped out into the evening air. The wall of heat hit him, reminding him that September is still summer in Dallas, Texas. As Jack drove down Greenville Avenue, his mind wandered from black belt to girlfriend to work and finally back to that warm feeling of accomplishment.

  It was Friday night. Though it was still early, the bars and restaurants along Greenville Avenue were already filling up. This part of Lower Greenville was an interesting section of town. The gingerbread houses of the “M” streets were the location of choice for Dallas’s young professionals. Close to downtown and within walking distance of a number of trendy bars and restaurants, the neighborhood was an ideal location. Jack was now older than the average M-street inhabitant, but he loved his house on Mercedes Street and continued to tell himself there was no reason to move until he got married. His office had always been downtown, and he could get there in less than fifteen minutes. His favorite restaurant was The Grape, and he could get there in less than five. What was not to like?

  As Jack pulled his two-year-old Saab convertible into the driveway, his cell phone rang. “Hi,” cooed Carrie, his new and very sexy girlfriend.

  “Hey,” Jack said. “Come over right now; we have some celebrating to do.”

  “Really? What’s the occasion?”

  “I just got my black belt, and I want to take you out for dinner.” “Oooh, sounds great. I can be there in about an hour. I just need to stop home and change real quick.”

  “Are you still at the office?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah, check your voicemail and you’ll know why. See you in a bit.”

  Jack wandered into his house, thinking about Carrie. She was awesome. Beautiful, smart, fun. If she only liked sports more, she would be perfect! But then again, no one was perfect.

  Jack had four voicemail messages. The first was from Ross: tee time at 8:00 a.m., Saturday morning.

  “Yes!” Jack hadn’t played golf in weeks.

  The next two messages were uneventful, but the final message explained what Carrie was talking about. It was from Allen Hamilton, the CEO of Will, Page, and Clark, the advertising agency where Jack and Carrie worked. WPC had just been notified that they had made it to the final round of the GenSquare new-business pitch, and Allen was calling an 8:00 meeting for Saturday morning. GenSquare, a next-generation software company, was the fastest growing company in Texas, owned by the Hawkins family, the richest and most powerful in the state.

  Jack reacted with mixed emotions. The pitch was the biggest in the agency’s history, but as silly as it sounded, he was really looking forward to playing golf. Anyway, business came first, not to mention the added bonus that William, the eldest son of the Hawkins family, was a powerful Texas senator with presidential aspirations. This would not normally be of much interest to Jack, but the senator and Jack had very similar views on Jack’s two most passionate political topics: drugs and the environment.

  Jack made a quick call to Ross to bail on golf and jumped into the shower. After getting dressed, he was startled by a noise in the kitchen. As he rounded the corner to investigate, he bumped squarely into Carrie. She was dressed impeccably, and the sight of her took his breath away.

  “You look great! And I’m suddenly looking a little underdressed,” he stated as he looked down at his jeans, starched, button-down shirt, and loafers.

  “You look fine,” Carrie replied. “I just got a little carried away, thinking about my black-belt boyfriend.”

  With that, she threw her arms around Jack and gave him a long, passionate kiss. Just as Jack began to respond, she pulled away and said, “Oh, no you don’t! We’ve got dinner plans.”

  Jack feigned disappointment, grabbed his keys, and said, “Let’s go. We’re already looking at an hour wait at this time on a Friday night.”

  As the couple drove down Mercedes Street with the top down, the warm wind blowing through their hair, Carrie asked, “Did you get Allen’s voicemail?”

  “Yeah, can you believe we made the finals?”

  The instant he said it, he wished he could take it back. Carrie was the new-business director at WPC, and his comment, while just intended as conversation, probably hit her like
a slap in the face. “Hey,” Jack said, “that didn’t sound like I meant it to. You’re the best new-business person in town, and I actually would have been shocked if we hadn’t made it to the finals.”

  Carrie smiled and stroked Jack’s hair. “Thanks, I needed that.”

  As Jack and Carrie drove down Greenville Avenue heading for The Grape, traffic began to slow. Lines were already out the door at many of the restaurants and bars.

  As Jack wheeled into the valet alley at The Grape, Jeff, the regular attendant, called out, “Jack! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  Jeff opened the door for Carrie, walked to the front of the car, and high-fived the parking stub into Jack’s hand.

  The couple entered the restaurant. It was like stepping into a bistro in Paris: wine bar on the right, small, intimate dining room on the left. Mark, the manager, greeted Jack with a hearty handshake and Carrie with a hug.

  Mark said, “I’ll do my best, but it’s probably going to be a half an hour.”

  “No problem, man,” Jack responded. “We’ll be at the bar.” They found two seats at the end of the five-seat bar and settled in. When their drinks came, Carrie proposed a toast. “To the night of the black belt.”

  Jack responded with, “To winning GenSquare.”

  They both smiled and drank. When Mark wandered by, Jack told him that they had decided to eat at the bar. After they ordered, a discussion regarding GenSquare began.

  “If we win the account, Allen is going to assign you as managing partner,” Carrie said.

  “I know. And normally I’d view a new account of this size the same way I’d view a prison sentence. But this one’s different,” Jack confided. “First of all, I think their vision for a new software delivery system is brilliant. And, while I’m not overly political, the opportunity to work with the Hawkins family and the chance to meet Senator Will Hawkins is intriguing.”

  “Really? What’s so intriguing about a rich, playboy, third-generation Democrat who bought his way into the Senate?”

  Jack laughed. “Boy, aren’t our Republican feathers ruffled!”

  “No, really, Jack. What’s so intriguing about Will Hawkins?”

  Jack launched into a five-minute monologue. He told Carrie in detail about the night in college when he lost his best friend, Charlie, and told her how on that fateful night, his views on drugs and all things environmental were forever established. Carrie had never seen passion like this from Jack. But at that moment, she felt connected to him. In fact, she realized she was in love with him.

  When they went back to Jack’s place that evening, they made passionate love. They had celebrated their successes together; they had shared intimate details of their lives with each other, and their feelings for each other were cemented. They knew this relationship was something very deep and very special.

  four

  The next morning Jack and Carrie drove into the office together. Though they hadn’t gotten much sleep, they were energized by the feelings that had grown between them last night, as well as the challenge of the GenSquare pitch ahead of them. As they pulled into the parking lot of the opulent building that housed WPC corporate headquarters, it felt like any other workday. But it was Saturday, and there were few cars in the parking lot.

  On rare occasions like this, Jack felt amazed that he had made it this far in the world of advertising. It hadn’t been his career choice until his senior year of college. Prior to that, he had majored in football, beer, and girls—not necessarily in that order. Now he was on the team that would be pitching the single largest account in Texas advertising history. And if they won, he’d be running the account.

  As the elevator doors opened, Carrie and Jack entered the posh lobby of WPC. Hardwood floors, a magnificent reception desk, leather furniture, and a wall of creative awards communicated that WPC was a force in the world of advertising. When they entered the boardroom at 8:10, the rest of the new-business team was already assembled.

  “Glad you two decided you could make it,” Allen Hamilton, the CEO, remarked.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Jack responded, immediately knowing he’d just stuck his foot in his mouth. By implying that he and Carrie had arrived together, all previous efforts to hide their relationship had just been nullified. Carrie let out a nervous laugh as they took their seats at opposite ends of the massive boardroom table.

  Allen spoke authoritatively. “Let’s get started. As you all know, it’s down to us and the Daniels Group for the biggest win in our agency’s history. I want this account more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life. Each of you must understand that the next few weeks are going to be grueling. This room will be our war room; we’re going to live here. We will spare no expense. We are going to win the GenSquare Software account.”

  As Hamilton, the youngest agency president in Dallas history, gazed around the room, the best and brightest his agency had to offer were nodding in affirmation: Cindy Noble, chief creative officer, with twenty years of experience on Madison Avenue; Scott Parks, senior vice president for strategic planning—and company clown; Sharon Campbell, senior vice president of digital marketing and media; and Carrie and Jack. This was the team he had assembled to take on the monumental task of landing the GenSquare account.

  Hamilton continued, “Not only is GenSquare the biggest opportunity in WPC history, but who knows what other doors a win with the Hawkins family might open.” With that, Allen began the new-business briefing. GenSquare was the next generation of computer software, he told them. A customer would not actually purchase a software application and install it on a computer, nor would a company purchase multiple copies of a specific software application and install it on multiple machines in the same organization. Instead, GenSquare Software had identified an entirely new delivery system using existing network technology.

  “Beginning next month, with significant Wall Street fanfare and capital, GenSquare will begin delivery of both proprietary and existing software to customers using previously installed broadband cable systems,” Hamilton said. “Customers will pay a monthly access fee as well as usage charges. This has analysts predicting a revolution in the software industry.

  “That, ladies and gentlemen, is the concept in a nutshell. We’ve been waiting for a new-business opportunity like this for ten years. And I’ll be damned—no, let me rephrase that—we’ll be damned if we’re going to let this big fucking fish off the hook. Any questions?”

  As the intensity of the moment settled in, no one said a word.

  “Hey, don’t go quiet on me now,” Hamilton said. “This is the chance we’ve wanted for years. Reel this one in, and our futures and the future of our organization are set. You guys get what this means, right?”

  As if a winning goal had just been scored, the room erupted in a loud exchange of yells, whistles, and high fives. When the noise subsided, Allen asked again, “So now, are there any questions?”

  For the next ninety minutes the group discussed the strategic possibilities offered by such a distinct point of difference in the software industry. The conceptual juices that were flowing this Saturday morning would be the envy of any other advertising agency in America, Hamilton thought as he watched his team work. He had once again proven why WPC, under his guidance, had become one of the most successful agency resources in the US. He smiled to himself as he watched this talented group feed off each other and generate idea after idea.

  Jack McCarthy hadn’t felt this type of adrenaline rush since college football—the chance to impact the marketing world on a global scale, and the chance to work with the family of the front-runner for the next presidency of the United States.

  five

  The Hawkins family mansion in the upscale Dallas neighborhood of Highland Park was one of the most opulent compounds in all of Texas. The main house was over 35,000 square feet, with a pool and guesthouse that added another 7,000 square feet. The main house fronted Beverly Drive, one of the most desired residential streets in the city. With
a formal dining room that seated thirty-six, a kitchen that rivaled most fine restaurants, and a parlor that was larger than the average American home, the Hawkins estate was designed and built for high-class entertaining.

  On this Saturday evening, however, there were no parties. In the family library—its collection the envy of many small colleges—Sen. William S. “Will” Hawkins and his father, William “Bo” Hawkins, were discussing the initial stages of Will’s announcement of his intention to seek the Democratic nomination for president of the United States.

  Some pundits thought the family’s political affiliation odd, since most Texans with the wealth and stature of the Hawkins family were prominent, active members of the Republican Party. But not Bo and his family. He considered the Hawkins clan “true Texans” who had been loyal Democrats since long before the reign of Lyndon B. Johnson.

  “Will, it’s time to identify the key players who will help us get you elected,” Bo Hawkins said to his son. “I’m dead set on John Rollins as your chief of staff. He’s been our lead banker for twenty-five years, and he’s extremely loyal to the family.”

  “What about Metroplex Bank? Will they release him from the presidency?”

  “I’m sure the board of directors would be happy to let him go if we promise our account loyalty in his absence. We are the single largest account Metroplex has, after all. I also think it’s time to find our key strategist.”

  Will cringed at the way his father continuously talked about his campaign with words like “we,” “our,” and “us,” but his father’s strength and imposing presence precluded him from speaking his mind—as they had for as long as Will could remember.

  “Dad, Pete Robinson is my chief strategist. We’ve been friends since our undergrad days at college, and I know I can trust him.”

  “Pete’s great, and we’ll retain him, but he’s been in politics his entire career,” Bo said. “We need a marketer, someone who understands the motivations and mind-set of voters. Someone who treats you like a product, and voters like consumers.”