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I glanced nervously at the wall clock behind Jacob, as words slithered out between his thin lips, one coiled phrase after another.
He’d cast himself in the character of Dark Messiah, that much was evident in the words he used, the condescending politeness, the pained expression when someone disagreed. Mere civilians might cringe mid-apocalypse, but he’d stay on the horse, semiautomatic rifle in one hand, the burden of seeing the world for its shit-bucket self curled up in the scarred palm of the other. The baddies would quake, the babies would live, and if there was collateral damage of the slow-moving who couldn’t get out of the way, whoever said life was fair was a loser anyway.
Jacob Ray owned a successful crisis management firm, BFA, that made problems go away for people rich enough to buy salvation. He’d been recruited as board director of the Worldwide Toronto Film Festival the previous year because his client base brimmed with political leaders and sponsorship-rich corporations. Many of WTFF’smulti-year funding commitments were due to expire in the near term; cultivating powerful decision-makers of the kind who owed Jacob a favor, the reasoning went, would have significant upside for the festival.
I’d had little functional connection with him until six months earlier, when Paul DelGrotto, WTFF’sformer CEO, was suspended amid allegations of sexual wrongdoing and the board chair abruptly resigned. Suddenly, I pole-vaulted from artistic director to acting CEO, and Jacob became my board chair….
“Everyone knows Samantha is fomenting civil war among the staff,” I said. “I ask her to stop verbally attacking the veracity of the women involved. The next day she files a HR complaint against me. Doesn’t it seem likely that those two things are connected?”
“No need to be defensive, Jane,” Jacob said softly, forcing me to lean in to hear him.
“Samantha was Paul’s assistant for twenty years. She resents his firing —.”
“He’s on administrative leave. We won’t be hasty in our judgments.”
“He sent photoshopped images of his penis to female staff,” I said, in exasperation. “From his own email account. There’s not a lot of room for ambiguity.”
After Lina Garcia, WTFF’shead of marketing and public relations, had gone to the human resources department with her complaint, the board originally chose to believe DelGrotto’s story of a consensual affair gone wrong, a disgruntled employee looking for revenge. They suspended Lina with pay and a gag order. Two days later, the photos of Paul’s genitalia appeared on TMZ, and four more women stepped forward with their own complaints.
Jacob’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t know for sure that it’s his body part.” He paused to stare at me pointedly. “Or who leaked the photos to the media. Regardless, Paul’s now at home pending investigation, and you’ve landed yourself in the top job. Temporarily, at least.”
The Dark Messiah is not above implicit threats.