The Chiat Mutiny

An excerpt from an Adweek book by Andy Law Would you risk everything on a dream? Andy Law, former managing director of Chiat/Day's London office, did. Rebeling against the Chiat/Day and TBWA merger, he left his lucrative, well-respected position in 1995 to co-found St. Luke's, a London ad agency that prides itself on versatility, fun and a radical organizational structure. In Creative Company, Law writes candidly about trying to break the agency model and going where no agency has gone before. Four years ago, St. Luke's, which Fast Company magazine now calls "the ad agency to end all ad agencies," persuaded some talented people in the ad business to give up their enviable salaries and perks and participate in a great experiment. These daring staffers, people who loved advertising but hated the traditional workplace, set out to create nothing less than a new kind of agency. Their gamble paid off. In three memorable years, the agency's annual billings grew to more than $90 million, and St. Luke's owners and employees alike discovered new sources of satisfaction, hidden talents and even new careers for themselves. Law's success story, complete with revealing tales of ad legends such as Jay Chiat, Bill Tragos and Frank Lowe, is at the heart of Creative Company, a fascinating tell-all tour of the advertising industry. It also challenges the conventional corporate structure, relaying St. Luke's innovative attempts to create a more user-friendly workplace. Creative Company details Law's philosophy, which he says is an attempt to "furiously seek a new, better, more fulfilling and fairer role for business in the lives of its employees." Creative Company, the story of agency founder Andy Law, his risk-taking colleagues and St. Luke's, their agency brainchild, challenges perceptions and expectations of the ad industry. THE PHONE CALL So this is what happened. In 1995, I was the Managing Director of the advertising agency Chiat/Day in London, a subsidiary of a large and famous American advertising agency with offices in Los Angeles, New York and Toronto. At 7:00 a.m. on the morning of Monday, 30 January, 1995, I received a phone call from Jay Chiat, Chairman of the agency. I'll describe Jay to you in more detail later, but all you need to know at this stage is that he was in Vancouver, so he must have been calling late--I guess it was 11:00 at night. Later it occurred to me that he must have spent that weekend making all sorts of phone calls, to all sorts of people around the world, and that I must have been one of the last he would have made. His call to me went like this. "Hi, Andy, it's Jay. You know we've been talking about the sale of the company. Well, we've sold it, and I'm telling you in person because I know you disagreed with it when we talked about it before Christmas and I know you'll be unhappy." "Unhappy?" I said. "I'm in shock." "Of course, you're in shock, I told you you'd be unhappy." (Jay had this great way of reconfirming back to you what you had just said.) "Well, it's happened," he went on, "we're selling to Omnicom; it's strategic. We're merging with TBWA. Your job is to meet with the guys straightaway and work out with them the best way of joining forces. They're so happy it's you guys, by the way, they think you're fantastic we're not selling out, it's strategic it's to do with Nissan stick with it, you are personally in a great position. You'll make stacks out of a very preferential senior stock option. Mind you, Andy, this is confidential. We're tied up in crap legal tape. You gotta know this is a big deal, and lawyers and accountants are crawling all over it. So don't speak to anyone about it, except the guys at TBWA I told you about." Jay went on, never pausing, never letting me get in with a counter-comment. I felt then that he was embarrassed about the conversation. In fact, I felt he was more unhappy than I was and steamrollering it through me was some kind of defense mechanism. As the conversation drew to a close, it was clear that the essence of my brief from him was to take the maximum amount of business with the minimum amount of people. This was Madison Avenue at work. No, it was more; it was so obvious, conventional, well, ordinary in fact. It was big business making a big-business maneuver. We've all read about it or seen it on TV. It was, no doubt, one of many similar big-business decisions taken that January day around the world. Decisions made by a few people that affect many others. Decisions that make people like you and me redundant. Decisions that treat people like you and me as names on a telephone list. They are decisions often taken by one person and then, maybe, endorsed by a few more. But it was actually happening to me, and Jay was right. I was very unhappy. And for good reason. My colleagues and I had spent two years rebuilding a crumbling business in London after a series of senior-management hirings and firings. I'll tell you the full story. I have to. It's full of clues as to why we did what we did. It demonstrates how, although we didn't realize it at the time, Life Before the Phone Call was to have been a rehearsal for something much more significant. I'll tell you about how I and others came into Chiat/Day and what a crazy time we had, then you'll understand why what happened at ten-past-seven that January morning, immediately after I'd talked it through with my wife, had to happen. (Law and his colleagues decided not to participate in the merger and instead wage what they called a "mutiny." Now Law had to tell Jay Chiat.) WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD Jay went ballistic. Of course he did. He hadn't for a moment thought his pet manager in London would contradict him in such a specific way. "You're just upset," he advised me. "We covered that already, yesterday. Of course, I'm upset." "Don't do anything rash. Don't talk to anyone. Don't talk to the media," Jay further advised. Whoops. "Look, Jay, we just don't think it's right. You didn't do this deal for us in London, you did it for you guys in the U.S. and for Nissan. In fact, we've got all sorts of business conflicts over here. TBWA has Direct Line Insurance and we have First Direct. Did anyone stop to think about that?" Jay persisted: "I'm coming over. ASAP. Just calm down and think about things. What are you going to do? You gonna raise money? You gonna steal the business? I mean, what are you gonna do? I'm coming over. Soon as I can." I joined the rest of the agency; everyone was still there. The mood was exhilarating. I thought, "Mad. This is mad. This is a group that was fired en masse a few hours ago. Now look at them!" Bob Kuperman called. He spoke to David Abraham. "Hi. I hear you're unhappy. Chill out. Don't panic, give it time. You're all great guys. I know Jay fluffed the London bit, but don't take it personally." David explained the situation to Bob in detail. "Oh," said Bob, "you're right. There is a problem. I think Jay's coming over." By midnight, people started drifting home. It seemed like the phone calls had died down. Drunk on the atmosphere and, OK, on not a little Tuborg, we were exhausted. The fax machine whirred just as the last man was about to put out the lights. It was a fax from TBWA Sweden: "Welcome to the wonderful world of TBWA. We look forward to meeting you soon." The next day, the agency warmed up quickly after a somewhat drowsy-headed start. We met at lunchtime at The Iceberg. "We'll meet every day here, at lunchtime or in the evening," I said. "As this plays out, I'm going to tell you all everything. As it happens. We're all in this together, so we must all know what lies ahead and what decisions are being made. If there looks to be a tough call on anything, we'll all take a vote." We agreed that David Abraham and I would deal with the Americans, while everyone else serviced their clients above and beyond the call of duty. None of us will ever forget the cold reality that we experienced firsthand of what a service business is. It's about the relationships you build up with your customers and the trust they place in you to deliver what you promise. Sounds simple enough, I know, but when you could lose all your business, you wonder if you have lived up to those sort of implicit agreements. The agency went on to work harder and better than ever before. The creative directors, Dave and Naresh, formed a day-to-day operational team with John Grant and Charlotte and ensured that the highest possible standards were maintained. David and I focused on Madison Avenue and the wrath of Jay and Bill Tragos and Bob Kuperman and Tom Patty and you name it. The CEO of TBWA London called me in the early afternoon. He'd had an early morning call from his superiors in New York. "Hi, Andy. I hear the troops are restless. I thought I'd pop over this evening and address them. Thought I might be able to calm things down." "Um, not a good idea," I responded. (To be honest, I thought he'd be lynched.) Before I left the office that evening, I called Stephano Hatfield at Campaign and updated him. "Got everything you need?" I inquired. "Yep," he said. "Got everything I need." The next day, David and I honored a meeting we had arranged with Peter Simpson, who had now moved from Midland Bank to First Direct. We wanted to make sure it was business as usual. The meeting was in the north of England, and we left too early to receive our Thursday morning copy of Campaign. Rachel Plant called me on my mobile and read out the headline on the front page: TBWA Deal with Chiat/Day Triggers London Revolt "TBWA, the Omnicom-owned network, merged with Chiat/Day this week to create a $2 billion global operation--but the deal instantly ran into trouble in London." Our mutiny was made public. The article went on to explain that Jay was stepping down from active management in the two merged operations and that the deal was done to cement the two agencies' relationship with Nissan. It also referred to a "clash of cultures" in London. Tragos, however, called it a "perfect marriage" and Alasdair Ritchie, Chairman and CEO of TBWA London, was quoted as saying: "If there is a culture that is most like ours, it's theirs--open, creative and challenging." For my part, I wanted it recorded that we were opposed to the deal. My main argument at that time was that there were too many client clashes--they had Nivea, for example, and we had Boots Cosmetics. But the truth was that there was a culture clash. We had all worked hard to reconfigure how we would interrelate and contribute to a more contemporary service proposition. In the process, we had created a company in which each human was an integral part, a discrete cog with a specific role. To break us up, or merge us with anyone else, it didn't matter that it was TBWA, would have been as cataclysmic as breaking up a watch into small pieces and fitting the parts back into a large clock. TBWA and Chiat/Day were right to be angry with us and were right to assert the importance of due diligence and company governance. Having put the deal together, they obviously relished its benefits. We were a small, annoying grit in the ointment. On the way back from the meeting, later that afternoon, Isabel Bird called me, "You'll need a lawyer," she said. "Good point." "Go to Roger Alexander at Lewis Silken, he's the best." FRED I arranged to meet Roger the following morning. Roger Alexander was a softly spoken, polite man with the looks of a Greek philosopher and the wisdom to go with it. Not only a first-class lawyer but also highly competent in accountancy, he was to prove to be one of our major assets in a fight that would go all 15 rounds and which would take a staggering 10 months to complete. "Ten months?" Roger said to me recently. "That was fast." Roger began to plan all our next moves. We discussed the fact that Jay was coming over and we talked about the possible routes to independence that we could take. He asked me what my ultimate goal was and I replied that at this stage I didn't have an ultimate goal, but I had something better. Something the ancient Romans called a casus belli. It was a reason for falling into a fight. A purpose. A mission. Our mission was to continue the work we had started, which sought to create a more harmonious, effective and profitable working environment. Nothing should get in the way of that. And to be treated so casually by the Americans only added fuel to our fire. "Right," said Roger. "By the way, I'd better meet up with your financial director." "Our financial director?" I asked, somewhat surprised. "Yes, you do have one, don't you?' "Er, no, we don't." "It would be a rather good idea if you had one, don't you think?" "Good point." When I returned to the office, there was much commotion. Before I could walk into the reception area, I was hijacked by David Abraham. "There's a guy in reception. He says he's from Omnicom. He wants to know if you've got a minute." "Who is he?" I asked. "Don't really know," David replied. "Says his name is Fred Meyer. I think he's American, but he's got an accent that sounds German. He's been here for half an hour." (Fred Meyer was Swiss born, in fact, but had lived most of his life in Manhattan. Like so many ƒmigrƒs, he never let "Americanese" intrude on his native voice.) And what a half hour it had been. It was Friday lunchtime. All the key meetings of the week had come to a close. The energy in the agency was transparent. Since yesterday morning, the phones had never stopped ringing as friends and family called in to find out what was happening firsthand. The receptionists were laughing and giggling; there were games everywhere, donated by our client Nickelodeon, the kid's TV channel, which included slime-throwing and fart-noise machines. Two people were playing on a Sega Mega Drive rigged up in open view. It felt like a kids' Christmas party. And someone had put a whoopee cushion on the guest seats in reception. "Mr. Meyer?" I inquired. "Hello, yes, pleezed to meet you. Lively company you haf hier." He sounded like a German spy who was trying to infiltrate the English, but with an unconvincing accent. And he was big. Huge, actually. Well over six foot and a touch portly. He had gray thinning hair and sharp eyes. He must have been 60. I took him to The Wedge, our largest and smartest conference room, fitted out with an enormous wedge-shaped steel table. Dutifully, the agency calmed down somewhat as the meeting went under way. "Allow me to introduce myself, I am Fred Meyer. I am zee Chief Financial Officer of Omnicom Worldwide." I gulped. I hoped he didn't notice. We had just kept this Worldwide top financial honcho and No. 2 of Omnicom waiting in a children's playground for half an hour, He went on: "I just happened to be in London reviewing zum of our concerns over here. I heard there vas some trouble and wondered if I could help?" This man was a class act, and I felt he needed to be treated with some respect. Which doesn't explain why I rattled out fast and furiously a 12-point list of fundamental reasons why we were unable to join in the merger, like a soapbox agitator trying to stir a crowd. When I finished he looked at me and David very closely. "I see. Yes. Zer is a problem here. But I'm sure I can be of help." With that he flourished a business card and swept out. Roger was right; we were going to be in need of a financial director. And quick. There are people around the world who have worked for Fred Meyer for many years and never met him. Some of them would tremble if they knew he was coming to review their performance. The fact that we had met him and that he was to become our main point of contact throughout all the negotiations was testament to the fact that little Chiat/Day in London was a much more fundamental part of the deal than we had envisaged at the beginning. Our refusal to join in was not so much a grit in the ointment as a real pain in the arse for Omnicom. It was fortunate that he and I, from that day on, struck up a wonderful relationship. It transpired that he was honest to a fault, amiable and supportive."'If you're going to be taken over by someone," I thought, thinking of my pals in Chiat/Day America, "you could do worse than Fred Meyer." Calls came in thick and fast from the U.S. Tom Patty, who was in charge of the Nissan account, tried to persuade me to change my mind. I stuck to my resolve. At the end of our conversations, he said, "I guess you just don't want to go in the direction I want to go." Bill Tragos rang. He rang a few times. He was palpably upset that we had rejected his company. He was the "T" in TBWA, and I know he took it personally that we rejected his London office. He was a very different man from Jay. I left conversations with Jay feeling exhilarated. I left conversations with Tragos feeling, well, almost threatened. He was a tough Greek success story in New York who had worked hard to build his successful network. Worms like me didn't compute with his growth plan. I told him: "With the best will in the world, I don't think you have anything over here. None of the clients and none of the staff want to do your deal. Therefore, you have nothing to negotiate with over here. Nothing." "You don't think they're so mad they'd do anything dangerous, do you?" Amanda my wife asked me at this time, semi in jest. There had been long phone calls to my house from New York and L.A. late at night and into the early morning. They were tough calls, hard, anguished, with people I knew and sometimes with people I had only ever spoken to over the phone, whose faces and demeanor I would vividly imagine as they pressed their case for me and the office to "stay within the system." I knew what she meant. The events of the past few days and the ones that were to follow could have come straight from a John Grisham novel. I dreamt one night that a large black Mercedes had pulled up outside my son's school and whisked him off. "We have Tom," a Slavic voice said. "Sign the deal and merge, or else!" The following week, as the news of our revolt settled into the London and New York markets, we were inundated with calls from all sorts of people offering financial help and advice. Someone would telephone David: "Do you want a white knight" Someone else would call and say, "Merge your agency with ours. Lock, stock and barrel. We'll take you all." "Even our creative directors?" I would say. "Er, no, we've got our own; but I'm sure they could work well enough under them." "No thanks." Midweek, Jay flew in. He had booked into Claridges, where he always stays, but he had flown in such a hurry from L.A. that he packed only jeans and T-shirts. Claridges welcomed him as usual, but were compelled to confine him to his room because, driven by their quaint English penchant for custom and routine, they demanded a high standard of dress etiquette--certainly jacket and tie; certainly not jeans and a T-shirt. Jay was only staying a few hours, so it seemed crazy to buy a whole new wardrobe. When I arrived, I found him holed up in his bedroom. Jay's position became clear from the outset. He did not want to be cast as the villain. He was avuncular, in good humor and thinking positively (although downright annoyed at being cooped up in his room). Jay had always supported me personally and had been a strong sponsor of the London office despite fierce criticism from some of his senior U.S. executives. We ordered lunch, and two solitary croque monsieurs appeared in under 10 minutes. He raided his mini-bar and found two export beers. "What do you want to do?" he asked. "Well, look, Jay. Think of it this way. Imagine you're 38 years old and this happens to you. You've got a whole gang of people with you. Everyone's focused, and the clients are totally supportive. What would you do?" "I'd break away," he said. From that moment, Jay had given us his moral approval. It was critical to have him on our side, not least because we wanted him to know that we had always been loyal to him. I was also acutely aware that we had to behave decently from now on. In the papers every day was another breakaway story. It involved Maurice and Charles Saatchi being ejected from the company they founded by disgruntled shareholders and it was messy, bitter and fraught with High Court writs. If we were going to construct something akin to the kind of company we had envisioned in the Chrysalis project, the Saatchi model was not the way to behave. (In 1992, a task force of advertising professionals, dubbed the Chrysalis Committee, was charged with constructing an ethical model of what the ad agency of the future might look like.) Everyone we were to ultimately deal with would be a stakeholder. They had to be treated with respect and honesty. With Jay supporting us and Fred Meyer prepared to do business with us, we knew a deal was possible. Although we still had no idea what kind of a deal. A week later, on Wednesday, 15 February, David and I were in New York. We were due to meet Fred Meyer the next day at 10:00 a.m. and wanted a night's rest and composure. We met up with Finance Director Jerry Wales who was in the unenviable position of emotionally supporting us but professionally obliged to back the deal. He joined us for dinner that night with Richard Warren, who had heard about our revolt. Richard was working in an up-and-coming New York ad agency. Both of them told us that the mood in New York was not favorable to the deal. The Chiat/Day employees, so recently installed in Gaetano Pesce's extraordinary offices, felt unable to raise any enthusiasm for the deal. Jerry asked us about the plan of attack. "Good cop, bad cop," I said. Jerry looked confused. "I'm going to play the nice guy and David's going to appear unhappy throughout. He'll try to destabilize them by typing into his portable computer every time anyone says something that sounds significant." "Yeah, but what's the plan?" "We haven't got a plan yet." The next morning, David and I took a cab to 437 Madison Avenue, the worldwide headquarters of Omnicom. It was a skyscraper like any other skyscraper, but positioned charmingly close to New York's impressive Roman Catholic cathedral. It looked remarkably like the one in The Godfather that witnessed the massacres on that infamous christening day. Ominous, I thought. Corporate modesty was not at all present. The skyscraper had about a hundred floors. All were listed and named. All were Omnicom offices. As we entered the car-park-sized entrance hall, three lifts faced us. Each went to different floors. Scanning the information board, we discovered we were due on Floor 9. The second lift would take us there. We emerged on Floor 9 to find ourselves in a battle-gray reception. A lone receptionist sat in an odd space that resembled a pulpit. There were no magazines and no flowers. There were a row of identical chairs. We started to laugh quietly. "What are we doing here?" giggled David. "I've no idea," I replied. "May I help you, gentlemen?" asked the receptionist, barely looking up from her desk. "We're here to meet with Fred Meyer." That made her jump. Within minutes, a big, beaming Fred appeared. "Come, gentlemen, vee are going to zee boardroom." Fred led us into the lift we had arrived in. He pressed "G" for ground. "We're going to another building?" I inquired. "No. We are going to another floor." At the ground level, we got out of the lift and immediately got into the one next to it. It took us all the way to the top. We got out and walked into the largest meeting room I have ever seen. In it was the largest boardroom table I had ever seen. A flock of men in dark suits emerged from nowhere; who they were I'll never know, because Fred realized our negotiating team consisted only of me and David. They were waved silently away, although Fred had two other people with him. One was Adelaide Horton. Adelaide was Chief of Operations at Chiat/Day and always became involved when complex legal or financial issues were at stake. She was a middle-aged lady, bespectacled and with a conservative hairstyle. She had a slight Southern drawl. She was a serious player in Chiat/Day, and her presence in meetings always meant the agenda was meaty and potentially explosive. The other was David Weiner. He was close to Jay and had advised Chiat/Day on its various share distributions and share buy-backs. He was not employed by the agency directly, but his impact was very direct indeed. All three of them were seasoned experts in the art of buying and selling companies. David and I stared across the giant boardroom table at them. Fred spoke. And David started typing. Had Fred looked over David's shoulder, he would have realized something significant. David couldn't type. The three corporate executives began by asking what we wanted. We said we wanted to take over the company and that we had been offered funds to buy it (not quite true, but hey, this was gamesmanship). Fred thought about it and said he wondered if an earn-out wasn't a better way. "It might be," we said. (We didn't know what an earn-out was.) Fred sketched out an idea whereby we would buy the company for one dollar (so far so good, I thought) and then pay Omnicom a royalty on our income for seven years. At any stage, we could buy the company outright for 2 million pounds. He suggested how the figures would all work out, and we studiously wrote everything down. "What do you think?" he asked. "We will have to consult with our advisers before we can agree on anything." They were aghast. They had fully expected us to agree on things there and then. This was the deal. What was there to discuss. "You can't do this, you've got to agree now." Adelaide took me aside: "You don't talk to Omnicom like that." "The way I look at it," said David, "you either have something or nothing.'" They looked at us. They understood what we meant. If we wanted, we could all go and work from my living room and service the clients from there. We had income, we had access to all kinds of help. Jay knew we wouldn't do this. The big questions was, had he told them we were keen to leave with a deal? Evidently not. Fred was not flustered. "Fair enough. How long do you need?" "We'll get back to you at four this afternoon." "Good. I'll meet you in the Chiat/Day offices at four, after you've consulted with your advisers. Bruce Crawford will be there; he's giving his inaugural speech to the agency. By the way, Bruce would like to meet you." Tragos was big. Myers was bigger. But Crawford was the biggest. He was a legendary figure in the advertising world. Even Adelaide got nervous. We left the giant boardroom and went to the lift. Fred pressed "G," and we raced to the ground in seconds. Out we hopped and in we went to the adjacent lift. Up to 9 again. We were ushered into Bruce Crawford's inner sanctum. The shag-pile carpet was so thick my trouser bottoms brushed the surface. After a minute, Bruce walked in. He walked very slowly. He was a small man, impeccably dressed and in his mid-60s. He sported an uncomfortably large head of white hair above his petite face, which also bore extra-large glasses. His feet seemed too small for him to stand up in, but his shoes looked handmade. In fact, he looked like the kind of guy who would put on a new pair of thousand-dollar shoes every day. "Hello, Bruce," I said, as soon as I saw him. "I expect you'd like to know why we're being such a pain in the arse." I thought Adelaide was going to faint. No one speaks to Bruce that brusquely, let alone use such a common profanity. He smiled. "That would be nice." I proceeded to explain what we had been doing in London. He nodded throughout. David explained the work he had been doing for Chiat/Day and the huge benefits of employing some of the thinking from the Chrysalis project. "I think you guys know what you're doing. At Omnicom, though, remember that we like to keep tabs on exciting companies. That's why Fred's deal at least means you'll talk to us once a year." Keep tabs? He was about to leave, when David interjected with a question. "What's your five-year plan for Omnicom, Bruce?" he asked. Bruce looked startled. "What do you mean?" he replied. The room fell silent, and everyone but me and David stiffened in corporate salute. "I mean, what is the strategic purpose of Omnicom--what is its purpose in the world?" Silence still reigned. He sat down and sank into his generous armchair. "The strategic intent of Omnicom is to increase shareholder value. We buy agencies and merge them with existing ones." "Is that it?" David replied. Crawford looked nonplussed. Fred and his team looked alarmed. "I wish you luck with your new venture," said Crawford and a secretary appeared like magic to whisk us away. SALE OF THE CENTURY David and I went off to consult our advisers. What advisers? There were none, of course. We wandered down to the harbor at Battery Park and bought a beer and a hot dog. It was 11:30 a.m. and the bars and restaurants were bracing themselves for the Wall Street lunchers who would come pouring in an hour from now. We wondered what our "advisers" would be telling us and decided we still had nothing to lose by pushing the deal much further in our direction. We agreed we were going to halve the 2 million pounds figure that Fred had offered. In addition, we would refuse to take the 10-year lease on the very expensive designer offices on Shaftesbury Avenue. It would be good to move, to start afresh. And anyway, rents in London had tumbled to a fraction of what they were when Jay took out the lease in 1990. Then we burst into hysterical laughter. Who did we think we were? We arrived at the Chiat/Day offices at 4:00 p.m. There was a sense of anticipation in the air. The great Bruce Crawford was coming at six to talk to everyone. People behaved like you do at home in the minutes before your parents come to visit. There was too much tidying and too ordered a row of glasses ready to take the champagne toast. Fred, Adelaide and David Weiner arrived, and we resumed our negotiations. We had just started when Jay walked in. The mood of the meeting changed instantly. Jay had that effect. Everybody, including us, felt slightly uncomfortable. It seemed odd to have him there. His protƒgƒs were dealing with his paymasters, what was his role? Jay sensed the awkwardness. "Relax. Thought I'd just make sure everything was going smoothly for everyone." I told Fred that after much consultation and deliberation we felt 1 million pounds to be nearer the mark. His jaw dropped. "Don't push it," Adelaide warned. Before anyone else could speak, David said, "And we don't want the building." There was silence. No one looked at Jay. Least of all me. The money was one thing, but wishing to vacate his designer palace was another. It seemed like a direct snub, although it wasn't meant that way. Meyer broke the silence, and spoke slowly and deliberately. "Gentlemen, I can bend, but if you push me any further I vill snap. I'm going uptown for a drink with some nice people and I don't vant zis meeting to cast a shadow over my evening. Vy don't vee settle on 1.2 million pounds and, OK, zee lease is fine." "Agreed," I said. "It's a pleasure doing business with you." "Likewise," said Meyer. "Is that right?" I asked half-jokingly. "Can we both have got a good deal?" "Sure," said Meyer, "that's how all good negotiations end. By zee vay, the Securities and Exchange Commission is going through its regular checks on this deal. You can't do anything until vee have their permission to proceed with the purchase. That could take up to six months. So calm down, and don't speak negatively to the press. As of now, you are still to be purchased by us and you can break from us some time at zee end of zee summer. In zee meantime, you retain an independent status in London.' I shook Fred's hand. There was nothing in writing. A handshake seemed appropriate for Fred. I knew he was not someone who would renege on a deal. The room began to empty. As I left, Adelaide grabbed my elbow. "You two are lucky to have survived with your manhood intact," she drawled. We milled around the office waiting for Bruce's Big Announcement and caught up on the gossip with Marty Cook. "I don't know where I stand yet," he confided in us. "The TBWA guys are backing their creative director; he's a different sort of person from me. Very different. So I'm all up in the air. Hey, you guys, are you really breaking away? That's great." We told him everything we had been up to and took time to point out that he should be proud of the legacy he left in London. Tragos saw me chatting and called me over. He beckoned me into a room. Ira Marathia, the CEO of the New York office, was nearby. "Ira, you join us," he barked. He turned to me. "OK, so you've got a deal. But I don't want you badmouthing our office. Understood?" I didn't have time to reply. He swept out of the room as fast as he swept in. Ira looked at me as if to say, "What was I needed for?" We smiled at each other and joined the people gathering for Bruce's announcement. When it came, it wasn't what he said that made the biggest impact. It was the theater of the event. Jay introduced Bruce and then stood back. As Bruce spoke about his delight at having Chiat/Day "in the family of Omnicom," it dawned on everybody that from this moment on it was no longer Jay's company. In that single moment, the spirit of Chiat/Day emptied out of the hearts of every employee as if it was disappearing down a plug hole. The pirates had been captured and were going to have to toe the line. "Any questions?" Bruce asked. There were a couple. They were procedural: When will the TBWA guys be moving in? Will they need more space? But there was such an overwhelming mood of disappointment that few could be bothered to ask anything. Then Tragos piped up: "I just want to say that, from my point of view, selling TBWA out to Omnicom a few years ago was the best thing we ever did. I don't regret it for an instant." I thought to myself, that seems like rather over-egging the pudding and I glanced at Jay. He murmured something inaudible under his breath. David and I were booked on the 10:00 p.m. flight out of JFK back to London and would have left straight after the talk if Jay hadn't collared us. "Fancy a quick bite?" In the Cuban restaurant, the three of us chatted about how the negotiations had gone. Jay was in a strange mood. Throughout the dinner he seemed like someone who had just said goodbye to a girlfriend. He wasn't his usual sparky self. We couldn't stay long and soon we were hailing a cab to the airport. Jay stood on the pavement. "Looks like you guys got the sale of the century. Go home. Good luck." On the red eye going home, we were too excited to sleep. We drew up a prototype plan that would allow us to create an extraordinary company and were meticulous in our efforts to ensure that it was based on the central ethical platform we had talked about in the Chrysalis meetings. We went into fine detail and costed out as much as we could. We even started to think about the layout of the offices. "One day we'll frame this piece of paper," said David, as the plane flew in to land at Heathrow. It wasn't until we had cleared customs that we had realized we had left it on the plane, tucked neatly behind the sick bag in the compartment of the seat in front. For the second time that day, we burst into uncontrollable laughter.

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The Chiat Mutiny

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