Hung Out to Die
I thought the best way to introduce you to the cannabis company CEO and, well, the other thing, would be to share an opening excerpt from the book. I hope you enjoy it.
Hung out to Die: Excerpt
Prologue
It has been estimated that anywhere from four to twelve percent of chief executive officers are psychopaths.
I am one of them.
Chapter 1
I’m Riel Brava, chief executive officer of the Canadian Cannabis Corp. It’s my job to corral, calm, and commandeer the six other members of my company’s executive team who will soon fill the chairs in this room. I do it well, primarily because I do it with detachment.
My MBA from Stanford and my law degree from Yale have honed my detachment skills. Being a diagnosed psychopath, however, is the firm foundation on which these skills are founded. I respect both: what I know and who I am.
The quiet time foreshadowing a meeting is planning time (thanks, Ivy league) and settling-in time (thanks, Dr. Roberta Coney, therapist). It is my alone time. I can breathe deeply, survey my domain, and steel my nerves. My files are alphabetized; the triple-spaced agenda is paper clipped to the top folder. I’m feeling in control. I’m content.
And then I’m not.
And he wants to chat. Dear Lord.
Why do people feel this need to fill empty space, my empty space, with inconsequential tidbits about the weather, their health, or the latest on-the-job hiccup. Norm does not read me well. Despite my turned back, fingers rifling through files, and my complete lack of interest in the caterer’s latest pastry, Norm persists.
“Gonna be a scorcher, eh, Riel?”
Truly, Norm, I don’t give a shit. And what is a scorcher? I grew up in Santa Barbara, California. The record-breaking 22 degrees Celsius forecast for today in Elmsdale, Nova Scotia, where our cannabis production plant is located, means little to me. Literally. I must convert the damn Celsius to Fahrenheit (22 x 1.8 + 32). That’s two seconds of my life I won’t get back.
But I’ve learned how to play nicely, thanks to the Ivy League and Dr. Coney. “I do like it when the autumn thermostat tops 70 degrees,” I say to Norm, a subtle reminder I am a come from away and proud of it. I smile and take my seat, pointedly glancing at my notes and not at Norm, who is devouring his third pastry. How is that possible?
I’m not sure if Norm will persist regardless of my averted eyes, but new opportunities have arisen. Susan Warrington, our director of human resources, has arrived and greets Norm like a long-lost friend, then reaches toward a danish. Instead, she stretches for the plate. Apparently, it’s crooked.
Good grief.
I lookup. Is this feigned interest or genuine? I’m always on the lookout for tips and techniques to fit in.
I understand the anticipation a long holiday weekend can engender, even if I don’t feel it personally. Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving the second Monday of October, roughly six weeks before Americans. It’s not as big an occasion as in the U.S., but it does serve as a harbinger of the long winter that invariably lies ahead, which makes the celebration more meaningful. Canadians serve up turkey, keep family close, and watch the Saskatchewan Roughriders trounce the Hamilton Tiger-Cats. Don’t ask. It’s Canadian football. There are only three downs for frig’s sake.
Norm and Susan remain huddled in their pre-holiday conversation, and I’m hopeful I can block out their chitchat and focus on my opening remarks, a bit of banter delivered in a down-to-business tone. Those hopes are dashed with the early arrival of Lucy Chen, our chief compliance officer. A trim, no-nonsense woman with dark hair and eyes to match, Lucy stands apart from the rest of the team. Her job requires her to be arm’s length, devil’s advocate, and moral compass. She takes that role seriously. I’ve never heard Lucy giggle. She is the epitome of professional politeness though, and I can learn from this.
What I have learned today is that my pre-meeting plans go to hell when pastry is on the agenda.
Lucy smiles at her two colleagues, asks
about their upcoming long weekend, and reaches for the last danish.
Chapter 2
It’s an hour and 20 minutes before the sun is slated to appear over Grand Lake. With a hint of twilight in the air, the first frost of the season quietly nudges the horizon, and the Stanfield International Airport lights wink in the distance like an inside joke.
I’m showered, caffeinated, and ready to start the day. Early, of course, as the need for control is my second nature. As I climb out of the car, I tuck a cashmere scarf into my coat.
The Canadian Cannabis Corp. (which everyone calls CCC) runs 24/7. Someone from security and grow ops is always onsite in case of a calamity or as a precaution against calamity. I’m not familiar with the night shift. Fact is, I don’t know many of the frontline workers, regardless of when they work. Not my job. My HR director would disagree with that, I’m sure, but I’ve learned the road to leadership is not contingent on knowing everyone’s name, rank, and serial number. Often a smile and a nod will do. I’m good at both. I’ve had years of practice.
In a cannabis-production facility like ours, security is paramount. We have one million square feet of plants under production, pot after pot, row after row, and room after room. You don’t want anyone walking out with your product at any stage of growth. Nor do you want unauthorized individuals to access your infrastructure, design, or facilities. So, if security is so important, why the hell am I looking at a friendly green light welcoming me inside without any preamble? Where the hell is the red light that forewarns the uninvited to the threat of motion detectors, alarm bells, and infrared sensors?
I breathe in for a count of four, hold for seven, and breathe out for a count of eight. It’s a meditative technique that triggers the parasympathetic nervous system to activate the rest-and-digest response instead of the fight-or-flight reaction that is my natural tendency.
At our plant, there is one main gate through which all employees gain initial access by swiping a badge. The embedded code is read offsite by cloud-based security software that matches the data to an instantly uploaded photo of the person at the gate. Digital facial recognition immediately determines if there is at least a 98.7 percent match, and only then does someone gain access inside or outside the plant.
It takes three seconds.
At the moment, it takes even less. All you need to do is push on the door because it’s open.
The passcode system is armed and waiting for me to enter a 13-letter-and-number sequence.
I’m in, and I am pissed. It’s now 6:46 a.m.
The plant will be in full swing in 44 minutes, but right now, it is in darkness
except for the grow-op lights installed to benefit round-the-clock plant
profusion. My three-storey admin building is also wrapped in darkness, at least
from this angle, which raises the question: How long has the damn security
system been down?
I’m reaching for the hallway switch when I notice a light three doors down. That’s Norm Bedwell’s office. And that’s unusual. Our comptroller is typically among the last to arrive. Only a fresh honey cruller from Tim Hortons has ever changed his timeline.
It must be Norm’s fault, which may mean the system has only been down for minutes if he just arrived. It’s a question I’m tossing at our comptroller even before I’ve stepped inside his office.
Norm doesn’t answer.
Dammit. I’m a suspect.
“I’m in the administrative office of the Canadian Cannabis Corp., and my comptroller appears to have hanged himself. He is dangling from a noose and turning blue.”
“Sir, I have radioed for police; they are on their way,” she says, inhaling to continue with her script.
I cut her off. “Look, I know I shouldn’t disturb anything, but Norm may be alive. I’m going to grab his legs, so the noose doesn’t cut into his windpipe.”
Great, now she knows I understand how hanging kills someone.
It doesn’t matter. I’m going to reduce the pressure around Norm’s neck. His feet are tucked into the crease in my left arm, his testicles on par with my bottom lip. I’m not a small man, 6’2”, and I work out regularly, so I can maintain this, albeit a distasteful posture, for quite some time.
“I’m going to get someone to open the gate for the police,” I tell her. “That means I’ll have to hang up. I’m on the third floor of the admin building, inside the only office with a light on. My name is Riel Brava. I’m the CEO.”
I end the call, rapidly going through the list of 47 employees that work for the company to find those I know. Only senior managers are apt to be in this building, and Michael Graves, head of our legal department (indeed, he makes up the entire legal department), is likely to be at his desk. He’s ambitious, comes from private practice where 60-hour weeks are the norm, and has a baby daughter who gets up at 5 a.m. with a distinctive and lengthy wail. I’m told nothing will drive you to the office faster.
I dial his extension.
Michael answers.
“Michael, I don’t have time to explain, but the police are on their way. Please meet them at the front gate and bring them to Norm Bedwell’s office. And hurry.”
The next thing I remember is someone tapping my shoulder.
“Sir, you can let go,” a uniformed officer says. He looks like a high school student who should be in a t-shirt and jeans, sneaking beer into a dance. Surely, too young for law enforcement and certainly too young to be in charge. I loosen my grip, and Norm’s testicles inch closer to my lower lip.
“I’ve got him,” the officer says, then pries Norm loose from my elbow socket. He sounds thoughtful or compassionate, and I am uncertain why.
Of course. Norm is dead.
* * *
I’m back at my office doorway, attempting to find some order in
the chaos that has become my morning. I take solace in the familiar
surroundings. The Yawkey reversible desk in tempered glass and white gloss
reassures me. The spiral-shaped desk lamp reaffirms that what goes around comes
around. The small, neat stack of file folders is where it belongs to the right
of the laptop. I breathe easily here.
Stephen King, Anne Rice, Alfred Hitchcock, and their literary ilk portray psychopaths, also often called sociopaths, as evil, demented, and violent. Yawn. We are indifferent to many human emotions unless they benefit us directly. But for most of us – and there are a lot of us – we prefer to be left alone to earn our way, enjoy our own company, and embrace anything but the human condition. We’re pretty good at letting you think we’re one of you when we’re nothing like you at all.
When shit hits the fan, or someone throws a rope over a beam and dangles at the end of it, the stakes go up. Way up. The margin for error increases significantly. I can get through most days with relative ease. I’ve learned to read faces, voice cues, and body language. I know when I’m on terra firma and about to step into quicksand. Norm’s death is undoubtedly a quagmire. I have few reference points and no clear understanding of the process or what steps to take next. I do not appreciate getting hung out to die.
“Sorry to interrupt,” says the police officer.
He is not one of the quartet from Norm’s
office. This man is older, maybe early 40s, carrying a small notebook. I can’t
believe they still use paper. Then I’m shocked I can think about something so
inane as paper.
“Please come in.” I gesture in what I hope is a warm yet distracted manner toward the chair in front of my desk. As long as I focus, I should be fine.
“I have a few questions about,” he glances at his notepad, “Mr. Bedwell.”
“I’d like to help,” I respond, “but Norm and I weren’t close.” Hopefully, that gives me distance from what happened and any expectations that I can be helpful, even though I lean forward to demonstrate my willingness to assist.
The officer asks me about Norm’s job at Canadian Cannabis, his home life (like I know) and, as he puts it, “the events of this morning.” I walk the officer through my morning, starting at 6:46 until the extrication of Norm’s testicles from the vicinity of my mouth.
I catch the look on the officer’s face. It’s unclear what I’ve done wrong. His smile is almost friendly. “You arrived at 6:46. That’s pretty specific.”
Ahh, this I can explain. “I will admit I’m anal,” I say, grinning somewhat, “but in this case, I specifically noted the time because the security alarm wasn’t on. That’s information we’ll need for our review.”
I have jolted the officer, and he’s not hiding it. He looks up quickly from his notepad. “The alarm was off?”
I confirm the green “unarmed” light was on and the door was open. “Do you think Norm was so upset he forgot to lock it behind him?” I’m thinking out loud now, something I make a point not to do, but I’m off-guard.
Dammit Norm. Suicide, really? Clearly my astonishment is on display for the world to see.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the officer says. “I
understand this is distressing.”
If Norm were alive, I’d kill him myself.
This is not a comfortable spot for me: winging it. I take my time. “It’s the
word ‘suicide.’ I haven’t said it, even to myself, until now.”
“Not to worry, sir.” The officer rises out
of his chair. “Suicides often hide their intent from everyone.”
* * *
As CEO, I understand what is expected of me when something unexpected hits the fan. I don’t shy away from difficult situations or conversations. I’m aiming, someday soon, to run for a political office, perhaps the highest political office in the U.S., and making tough decisions comes with the territory. I roll up my sleeves, literally, and reach for the phone.
My first call is to David Clements, our contact at the Department of Justice, the federal regulator for cannabis production. I get a voicemail. I leave a nuanced message asking David to get in touch with me as soon as possible. I’m very good at nuance.
My second call is to our HR director, Susan Warrington. She is in my office within two minutes.
She must have sprinted.
***
Susan is dependable and looks it with her bob-cut
hair that is functional not fashionable. She invariably wears a suit in one of
her two favorite colors: grey or slate. Her shoes have a small heel, which is
practical and professional. As her job title would indicate, Susan is a good
listener and takes all things HR very seriously.
“This is dreadful,” she says, sounding like she means it.
It’s certainly inconvenient, I think, and it will require a mountain of paperwork, but “dreadful?” Not so much. Then I realize she thinks it’s dreadful because Norm is dead. I nod sympathetically, a slight movement of the head, eyes downcast.
Susan continues going on about how awful this whole situation is. Frankly, I’m a little bewildered. The 5’4” silver-haired woman who seemingly runs HR with a wave of her hand did not strike me as someone who would wobble at the death of a colleague, especially Norm. As far as I knew, they were not close. But perhaps this is what suicide does to people. I’ll watch others in the office to monitor their responses. And I must remember to call it a “tragedy.”
Within 10 minutes, Susan and I devise a plan
to inform the staff and investors. We’ll develop preliminary Q&As in case of
media calls. These also will come in handy for any internal or external
discussion of what happened, even with the police.
By the time we’re through, it’s decided Susan will meet with Lucy Chen, our chief compliance officer, to go over the game plan, and legal will prepare a summary of potential issues, pressing or otherwise. It occurs to me Norm’s family could sue us. For what? I don’t know. That will be up to legal to determine. I add to my to-do list, “find out if Norm has a family.”
Clearly, I’ve disconcerted Susan again with the mention of family. Tough.
I’m CEO of the largest cannabis production
facility in Atlantic Canada. I’ll be expected to act sympathetic and yet, available.
“I’ll get that to you,” says Susan. “This will be so hard on his son, Bran.”
“Like the ‘muffin?’” I wonder, then realize I’ve wondered aloud.
“No,” Susan says, “like Bran Stark.”
Bran Stark from Game of Thrones. Norm, you are full of surprises today.
* * *
Oh dear. Senator John Williams is the majority owner of Canadian Cannabis, although you won’t find any obvious paper trail documenting that ownership. John is far too business savvy for that. He’s also too politically savvy to get involved in the day-to-day operations of a marijuana company based in another country. I’m assuming suicide falls outside day-to-day operations.
John doesn’t waste time on small talk. “What the hell is going on up there?”
“To be honest, that isn’t a question I have an answer to now,” I say. Truthfully. “There’s been a death on the premises. Apparent suicide. The police are conducting their investigation.”
“Did you know this fellow?” John’s usually well-modulated voice is now closer to a bark, and I can sense his annoyance and maybe a touch of fear. Anything that can potentially derail the senator’s political ambitions quickly takes the edge off his charm.
“Norm Bedwell is our comptroller… was our comptroller,” I say, instinctively correcting my grammar. “I saw him every day in the office, but I didn’t know him well.”
Before John can make another guttural sound, I assure him it’s business as usual, and I have reached out to the regulator to affirm there is no cause for concern.
“Have you contacted the family?” the senator asks a little more calmly.
I hesitate. It’s almost like I can feel John tensing on the other end of the line.
“You call that family now. Tonight, you get your ass over there.”
It’s advice I’ll heed. John Williams knows how to win friends and influence people. It’s a political necessity, and I need to be adept at it if I’m going to be president of the United States someday. And I am.
Before I can respond, John hangs up. His final words are, “Tell Tiffany I love her.”
Tiffany is John’s daughter and my wife. John
does love her. I, naturally, don’t.
* * *
Marcia informs me the police have officially contacted Norm’s family, and I can reach out whenever I want.
As I’m slowly dialing the 10 digits, I’m also slowly mapping out my game plan or trying to. Sure, I’ve been to hospitals and funerals before. I know the standard behavior protocols for such grievous occasions. But I have never taken center stage at these events.
The phone rings then a woman answers. She sounds okay.
“I’m looking for Faye Bedwell,” I say. “It’s Riel Brava. I’m CEO of Canadian Cannabis.”
There is the briefest pause, and a soft voice says, “I’m Faye’s sister-in-law, Samantha. Let me get her for you.”
The woman who comes back on the line does not sound okay. Her voice is shaky and fragile. I envision a woman escorted to the phone and then reaching tentatively for the receiver.
“Faye, this is Riel.” I’m sure we’ve met on previous occasions, although I cannot picture this woman for the life of me. I should have checked out her photo more closely before I dialed.
“Thank you for calling.”
God, Canadians are polite, and Nova Scotians may be the politest of them all. But I can also do polite. “Faye, please accept my heartfelt sympathy. Norm was a special man, and he holds a special place in our hearts,” I say, somewhat proud of myself.
I looked up condolence notes on the internet while waiting for Faye to come to the phone. This was the second note on the list. I like it.
So does Faye. “Thank you for that. It’s nice to hear.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” I continue reading from my script. “We are all here for you and Bran. Please, if there is anything I can do, let me know.”
The tears are flowing now. Faye mumbles something as the line goes dead in my hand.
I smile. Obviously, I handled that well.
* * *
David concurs. “Sorry, you are all having to go through this.”
I believe he means it.
“Be aware the media may call,” he cautions. “Keep me posted if they do.”
And that was that. Compliance completed. Justice served.
The idea of media involvement is a bit disconcerting, but suicides are not usually covered on the six o’clock news. I remain hopeful the trend is not about to reverse itself.
* * *
She could be a model. In fact, she has been.
When I met her, she modeled for IMG and made a name for herself. It turned out,
a name she didn’t want.
Tiffany knows she is stunning; she just doesn’t care. Fame is not what she craves. Family is.
“You okay?” Tiffany asks as I hang up my
coat.
“I’m reeling,” I say, maybe even meaning it.
Tiffany hands me a gin and tonic, already poured and at the ready. She must have heard me pull into the garage. “Of course, you’re reeling. These situations are hard for anyone, but especially for you.”
I look up, eyebrows raised, on edge now. Where’s Tiffany going with her last comment?
Evidently a day of curiosities. Who knew Tiffany had this in her: observational skills and behavioral analysis? God, I hope this is a one-off. Even as I think this, somewhat snarkily (it has been a trying day), I know I am being unfair to Tiffany, the daughter of a firmly entrenched, always-re-elected U.S. senator. She has been on display since wiggling out of her mother’s womb. She knows how to read a room and how to read a face. Been reading mine for 10 years, and I rely on her insight and acumen when it comes to doing and saying the right thing.
I married Tiffany because she is the daughter of Senator John Williams. Like her name – why would anyone do that to a child? Might as well have called her “Lamp” – Tiffany is light, airy. Biblically “Tiffany” means “manifestation of god.” Today, the name given to thousands of white girls with blond hair and blue eyes means “manifestation of whimsy.”
My wife asks for little. She knows my political aspirations and the role of the political wife. She signed on for both when we married. Even so, she expects a relationship, including intimacy. Lord, spare me.
Tonight, I’m given a reprieve. I’m grieving. Tiffany takes my silence for confirmation of her concern and assumes my stare is one of admiration and love. And we’re back to familiar ground.
“Do you want to change?”
My confusion shows. Again.
“We have to go to the Bedwells.”
Crap, she has talked to her father. A shower would give me time to think and plan. It would also give me time to fret. I opt to ruminate in the car on the way over.
* * *
Tiffany leans in and hugs her. “We are here for you.” The widow weeps. I closely continue to watch how my wife does this. I am always amazed at the ease and naturalness with which Tiffany draws people to her and makes them feel comfortable.
From a bag I didn’t even realize Tiffany had in her hand, she removes a lasagna she purchased from our favorite Italian restaurant. “A little comfort food,” she says, leaning in again. I suspect the touching is likely to go on for a while.
Another woman enters the fray, takes the lasagna, and leads us into the living room. Several people are there, including a child I assume must be Muffin. Dammit, Bran.
I sit down uncomfortably and realize everybody is looking just as uncomfortable. I relax. Tiffany mingles, doing it well. People are responding to her. Perhaps she should run for president. Ha, who knew I had a sense of humor.
I don’t know who these people are, but they all seem to know their surroundings and the Bedwell family. I assume they are relatives and neighbors. I’ll confirm that with Tiffany.
I glance at my watch in what I hope is a nonchalant move. This is a perfunctory visit; I’m hoping we’re in and out in under 30 minutes.
As I look up, I realize Muffin is looking
directly at me. Dammit. Bran. I’m hoping he didn’t see my sidelong glance. I
smile. It’s a mixture of warmth and sadness. I get a quivery smile in return. This
is good. The kid must not know what looking at a watch indicates. I’m in the
clear.
Tiffany catches my eye and motions me toward the kitchen. As always, protocol is her forte. I rise and follow her to the adjoining room. It’s warm from the oven and stove, brightly lit, and HGTV comfortable. I struggle to picture Norm here eating, doing dishes, or sipping coffee. I fail. The fact is, I don’t even know if Norm drank coffee. All I seem to know for certain is his fondness for pastry.
Samantha, Norm’s sister, sets our lasagna on a table laden with more lasagna, rolls, salads, soups, and sandwiches. She sees me staring. “People have been kind.”
“As they should. How is Bran doing?” I realize it’s a stupid question, but commonly asked in situations like this.
“He’s shaken. And confused.” Samantha turns, a little uncertainly, I think. Now she looks me in the eye.
Oh, god.
“Can I ask you something?”
I want to point out that she already has asked me something, but I know that would not be appropriate. I nod.
“Did you know Norm well?”
The real answer is, “Well enough to keep him at arm’s length and out of my life.” The suitable answer is more nuanced. Hesitation works well in these situations, I’ve discovered.
Psychologists and shrinks like to use indicators like this to demonstrate the presence of psychopathy or sociopathy. It doesn’t always. A delay is acceptable and anticipated for real people grappling to find the appropriate words.
My history with Norm is short. Canadian Cannabis opened in 2015, producing medical marijuana for a global market of patients suffering everything from depression to fibromyalgia to cancer. I arrived 18 months later to prepare the company for the domestic recreational cannabis market as Canada became only the second country in the world to legalize marijuana.
Norm was already in place when I assumed the helm. I got the feeling he would have liked to have been friends, which is the last thing I ever wanted. Distance is a safety valve for me. Get too close, and you are more likely to trip up. In Norm’s case, it was also chemistry. I don’t have friends, but I understand the concept. You must have common ground, mutual respect, and a shared fondness for each other. We didn’t have that. More accurately, I didn’t have that.
I look up at Samantha. “I’ve known Norm since I moved here three years ago. I saw him almost every day. We worked well together, but we were not close.” It’s an honest answer. Shit. Where did that come from?
“Did you expect this?” Samantha asks.
More confusion on my part.
“That he killed himself,” she explains somewhat cautiously.
It’s a great question. The obvious answer is “Yes.” I dig a little deeper. The answer is the same: “Yes.” That’s what I tell Samantha.
“Me too.” Norm’s sister twists a dish towel in her hands tighter and tighter. “I keep going over it in my head. It just doesn’t make sense.”
I remain silent. I’ve learned people will fill the silence, doing the work for me.
“I’m down from Sydney because Norm and Faye were supposed to be going to Cuba for a week’s vacation, a romantic getaway. I was staying with Bran. They had non-refundable tickets. They had plans.”
I agree it doesn’t make sense.
“Do you think he killed himself?”
My bewilderment is obvious even to me. I feel the shockwaves in my bones. “What else could it be?” I simply did not see this question coming even in the long list of possibilities I reviewed on the drive over.
“I don’t know,” Samantha says, looking me directly in the eye. “But I don’t believe my brother killed himself.”
It turns out Samantha’s disbelief was well-founded.
***
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Thanks for sharing this excerpt. Very intriguing.
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