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ОглавлениеCHAPTER X
Years at Taft Stettinius & Hollister
AFTER MY DISCHARGE from the Army in February of 1959, I rejoined Taft Stettinius & Hollister in Cincinnati. We bought our first house for eighteen thousand dollars in a modest but very nice neighborhood and settled into “civilian life.” I became a partner in the firm in 1965 and remained there until the winter of 1967. During those eight- plus years I had a fascinating and interesting career with clients such as Taft Broadcasting Company, the Cincinnati Reds, the Cincinnati Bengals, and Play-Doh, to mention only a few.
There had been a very significant change in the law firm since I went into the Army. A major upheaval had occurred in the Cincinnati legal world when the senior partner of another prominent firm had a disagreement with his partners and left his firm to join Taft Stettinius & Hollister. He brought with him a number of large clients, and the firm had almost doubled in size when I returned.
There was a humorous aspect to this. When I went into the service in 1956, I was the first person to enter the military from the firm since World War II. The custom in World War II when somebody joined the service was to put an asterisk by his name on the letterhead with a note indicating “In Military Service.” The firm, quite understandably, decided to do the same thing with me. The amusing part was the unintended consequence of getting my name on the letterhead and then the sharp increase in the number of attorneys in the firm. In short, I was moving up on the letterhead rapidly without even being there! Some of my colleagues-to-be must have wondered about this absent figure who was making such rapid progress.
Taft Stettinius & Hollister letterhead when I joined the firm in 1955. I was number twenty! There are now more than three hundred lawyers in the firm.
I remained at the firm until late 1967. These were busy years, to say the least. There was a strong work ethic, not to mention strong demands, and all of us worked very hard. It was common to work several nights a week until 9:00 or 10:00 p.m. and most of the day on Saturday. I have often reminisced about the dress code in those days, particularly in light of today’s casual dress. In the “old days” a suit and tie were expected on weekdays, but things were “dramatically” relaxed on Saturdays, when only a sport coat and tie were required. Sunday morning work was also not uncommon, especially by those of us working in the Corporate Department, since the head of the department worked every Sunday morning. One of my most amusing memories is of a Sunday morning when I was at home and the phone rang. Marilyn answered and it was my boss who said, “Is Charlie there? It’s awfully lonely down here.” Marilyn handed me the phone and, covering the receiver, told me who it was and what he had said. Then she said, “If you go down to the office this morning it will become very lonely around here—permanently!” Naturally, I stayed home!
AFTER A FEW years, three of my colleagues and I were made partners in the firm, and our responsibilities correspondingly increased. The friendships I made and the professional development that I experienced have been extremely important parts of my life.
These were busy and exciting years. My work with the Reds, including a highly publicized and controversial transfer of ownership from the longtime owners (the Crosley family) to baseball executive Bill DeWitt was exciting, especially to a baseball fan like me. Anyone from Cincinnati will be interested (and amazed) to know that the price Bill paid for the Reds in 1962 was $4.625 million. The most recent sale of the club to a group headed by Bob Castinelli was $270 million. Talk about an increase in value! Even at the price DeWitt paid, the sale was challenged in court. There were claims that higher offers had been made and rejected by the Crosley Foundation, the charitable foundation that held 90 percent of the stock in the ball club. The litigation was settled with DeWitt confirmed as owner after making some concessions, particularly agreeing to keep the club in Cincinnati for an extended time.
Bill was a life-long baseball man, and his son Bill Jr. has continued the tradition and is now the principal owner and the managing partner of the St. Louis Cardinals. Bill Sr. was very good to me, and I very much enjoyed working with him. One of the things that I enjoyed the most was the couple of occasions that I went with him to the meeting of the National League owners. These meetings were almost always held in New York City, and all of the owners attended. While I don’t remember much about the business that was discussed at the meetings, I remember vividly some of the participants. Most particularly I remember Walter O’Malley, Horace Stoneham, Gussie Busch, and Judge Hofheinz. O’Malley, of course, was the man who moved the Brooklyn Dodgers to Los Angeles in an unprecedented act that shook the baseball world. He was smart, shrewd, and dominated the National League. He was clearly the most powerful force at the league meetings that I attended. Horace Stoneham was well known for following O’Malley’s lead by moving the New York Giants from the Polo Grounds in New York City to San Francisco. Gussie Busch was the patriarch of the Busch family and owned the St. Louis Cardinals. He was a small man but very impressive. He was obviously used to control and leadership. I also remember two odd things about him. One was that, probably to help him stop smoking, he carried a plastic replica of a cigarette, complete with filter and ash, that he would hold in his hand and occasionally “smoke.” I also remember that he always had near his seat a pail of ice that contained some cold beer, undoubtedly Budweiser. And, finally, Judge Hofheinz, who was the great showman from Houston who built the Astrodome and put the Astros in it. He was one of the greatest promoters in the history of the sport and was a huge character in every way. These were giants in the baseball world, but they were also colorful and fascinating characters and made a lasting impression on this young lawyer.
EQUALLY EXCITING WAS the opportunity to represent the group of Ohioans who persuaded the legendary Paul Brown to come back to Cincinnati and start the new National Football League franchise, the Cincinnati Bengals.
My relationship with Paul began when, as a young lawyer, I was asked by a group of Cincinnati and Columbus businessmen to represent them in their attempt to get the next professional football franchise to be awarded by the National Football League to go to Cincinnati. The then Commissioner, Pete Rozelle, had made it clear that his respect for Paul Brown was such that if Paul wanted to come back into professional football, the franchise was his. I say “come back” into professional football because a few years before, Paul had been unceremoniously fired by Art Modell, owner of the Cleveland Browns. It is a controversial story with both Brown and Modell having their point of view and their supporters, but one fact was crystal clear—Paul Brown was angry and very anxious to return to professional football and prove that Modell had made a mistake.
Two of my dearest friends together—Paul Brown and Neil Armstrong.
I went with a couple of representatives of the ownership group to La Jolla, California, where Paul was then living with his wife, Katie. He was being compensated by the Browns in a separation agreement that required him only to file a few scouting reports each year to guarantee the payment of the agreed-upon amount. (I used to kid Paul that his forced isolation in La Jolla reminded me of that of a deposed banana republic dictator.) But this wasn’t what Paul Brown wanted. He wanted back into football!
After three days of intense negotiations, we finally arrived at an agreement by which Paul would come back to Cincinnati and form a professional team. That team was the Cincinnati Bengals, and the similarities to the Cleveland Browns were eerie. Perhaps Paul didn’t even realize some of the similarities. For example, the initials “CB.” The colors of the Bengals were orange and black—the Cleveland Browns’ colors were orange and dark brown. But, what mattered was that Paul built, more quickly than anyone dreamed, a very successful team, and his first victory over the Cleveland Browns must have been the biggest victory of his life.
The incredible story of Paul Brown is one that many people don’t know. Oh, yes, he is certainly regarded as one of the greatest coaches in the history of professional football, but many people don’t know that before he formed and coached the Cleveland Browns, he had coached national championship teams at the high school level (Massillon, Ohio) and at the college level (Ohio State University). Moreover, during the Second World War he coached at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center and during that time signed to prospective contracts a number of the players who went on to be greats with the Cleveland Browns.
Beyond his extraordinary record as a coach, Paul accomplished many things that are not as well known as they should be. For example, he pioneered the early version of the modern playbook that all teams use routinely today; he started the practice of sending signals in to the huddle by substituting guards virtually every play. Perhaps what might surprise most people is that he invented the early version of the modern face mask and got a patent on it. He once told me, with a wry smile, that he had made more money from royalties on that patent than he had ever made in coaching.
I HAVE SO many stories to tell about Paul that I could fill the rest of this book, but I’ll try to choose a few to illustrate a side of this extraordinary man that most people never saw. The first story took place during our negotiations to bring Paul back to Cincinnati. As I indicated earlier, the negotiations were tough. Paul wanted very much to return to the game, but he made it clear that he would not do so if there was any chance that, as he put it, “what happened to me in Cleveland could ever happen to me again.” We wrestled with this and a number of other problems for several days, but finally worked out an arrangement where all of the other owners would agree to put their stock into a voting trust with Paul as the voting trustee. This was the price that needed to be paid to get Paul. It was a price I recommended to my clients, and it was a price they were quite willing to pay. When the negotiations had concluded on a successful note, Paul invited us to his home for drinks and dinner. He and Katie had a beautiful home overlooking the Pacific Ocean from up high on a hill. During cocktails he and I ended up sitting alone on a couch staring out at the sun dipping into the Pacific Ocean, an absolutely breathtaking sight. I turned to Paul and very seriously said, “Paul, I know you think you’ve been pretty clever in these negotiations, but you should know—and I feel obliged to tell you—that we can dismiss you anytime we wish.” He looked at me dumbstruck, those strong piercing eyes boring right through my head, and said, “What are you talking about?” I said, “Paul, there is a provision in our agreement with you, which is standard in virtually every employment agreement I have ever seen, that says we can dismiss you at any time if it can be proven that you are physically or mentally incompetent.” “Well, of course,” he said, “I understand that, but what does that have to do with what you said?” I said, “Paul, look out the window.” He said, “Why?” I said, “Anyone who would leave this scene to come back to Cincinnati, Ohio, and start a brand-new football team is demonstrably mentally incompetent!” We both had a good laugh and another drink.
Paul’s most intense passion, after football, was clearly golf. He loved the game and everything about it. Not long after we made our deal to bring Paul to Cincinnati, he invited me to play golf at La Costa, a great course near San Diego. I had never played golf with Paul before, and it turned out that he and I viewed the game somewhat differently. He was a total stickler for the rules, and I have always felt the players should have fun and enjoy themselves and not worry about some of the arcane, inexplicable rules. Of course, my view only applies in friendly games and not in formal competition, where USGA Rules are in effect. But I regarded my game with him that day as a casual one between friends. Was I ever wrong!
On the first tee, I hit my drive out of bounds to the left. Paul was standing seven or eight yards behind me, and I heard him say in a stage-whisper voice* that reached my ears, “You’re hitting three.” I turned around, thinking that he might be joking—everyone I ever played with gave a mulligan on the first tee—but it was clear that he wasn’t. I hit my second drive fairly well down the middle of the fairway, and together we walked toward our balls. When I reached my ball, it was squarely in the middle of a divot. Normally, my buddies and I would roll the ball out of the divot and never give it another thought, but having been called by Paul on the first tee for my out-of-bounds shot, I thought I should at least ask his permission to roll the ball free. He was standing about fifteen or twenty yards away from me, about to address his own ball, and I called over and said, “Paul, can I roll this ball out of this divot mark?” The answer almost broke me up, but he was dead serious. He said, “Is there water in it?” I said, “What are you talking about?” And he said, “If there’s water, it’s casual water; otherwise, play it as it lies!” I played a lot of golf with PB over the ensuing years, and he never changed his approach to the game. I embraced it completely (if not enthusiastically) when he and I were playing together.
For a number of years, Marilyn and I hosted an outing around the Fourth of July at Muirfield Village Golf Club in Dublin, Ohio. Our guests every year were Paul and his wife, Neil Armstrong and his wife, and George Rieveschl (the inventor of Benadryl) and his wife. This outing, I genuinely believe, was one of the high points of Paul’s year—at least off the football field. We drove up from Cincinnati early in the morning, played golf, had dinner, and drove back. Paul had a vintage Cadillac, a big, roomy, powerful car. He always drove to Columbus but insisted that I drive home. This might seem, at first blush, like an equal trade, but it was far from it. Driving up was fairly simple. It was broad daylight, usually around 8:00 a.m., and everyone was rested. The drive back was something else again. We had played a round of golf on that magnificent and difficult golf course; it was usually hot and humid; and we finished the day with drinks and dinner in the clubhouse. By the time the drive back began, it was usually about 10:00 p.m., and my eyelids were about to close before we even got in the car. To his credit, Paul always sat up front in the passenger seat, and, though his eyes may have closed from time to time, he made sure that mine did not!
Of the many funny things that happened during our golf rounds, perhaps the most memorable (which Neil Armstrong and I have laughed about over and over again) came on a day when, before we had teed off, there was a light rain that left the golf course slick, but not by any stretch unplayable. We teed off and everyone was in reasonably good shape after his drive. Now, you must understand this central fact: Paul was a very good golfer. He was consistently in the fairway and almost always on the green in regulation (or close) without great difficulty. By that time in his life, he wasn’t particularly long, but he was very accurate. In any event, his second shot slid off a little bit to the right (almost certainly because of the wetness of the ground and the ball) and skidded into a bunker to the right of the first green. My guess is that Paul Brown had not been in a bunker for many years, but he walked into this one and took his first shot. The ball hit the lip and came right back to where it started. Another shot produced the same result. Paul said, “Well, at least I don’t have to move my feet.” His next shot skidded across the green and rolled down into a bunker on precisely the other side of the green. By this time, he is lying about seven and by the time he finally got out and holed the putt, he had made a twelve. Now remember, this is on the very first hole of the match! That sets a rather dismal tone for the rest of the day.
We walked somberly to the next tee. No one said a word. We played number two, number three, and number four without a single word uttered by anyone. We didn’t know what to say and we felt that we shouldn’t say anything until Paul did. At long last, walking down the fifth fairway, Paul turned and said, “I think that was the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me in my entire life!” We all laughed, put our arms around him, and said, “Shake it off; you’ll beat us anyway.” And away we went.
AS THE YEARS went by I was becoming more and more involved with another of my clients, Taft Broadcasting Company. We took the company public in the summer of 1959 and followed that with the listing of the company shares on the New York Stock Exchange. I was named secretary of the company and later served on its board. I liked everything about this client. Little did I know that I would one day be part of it. Much more on this shortly.
AS I LOOK back after so many years, I truly believe that I learned more from my clients and the matters I handled for them than they ever learned from me. Let me give you a few examples.
The first story concerns a company called Rainbow Crafts and its founder Joe McVicker. Rainbow Crafts owned and manufactured Play-Doh, the incredibly successful children’s molding compound. Joe McVicker was a very impressive fellow, and he and I became good friends. I once asked him how he had come up with Play-Doh, and the story he told absolutely amazed me. Joe’s brother-in-law ran a company, Kutol Products, that made wallpaper cleaner; Joe was also involved in this business. Most of those under fifty reading this book probably don’t know what wallpaper cleaner was; it was a spongy-type substance containing a cleaning agent that was used to brighten dirty or dusty wallpaper. Joe’s sister ran a nursery school in the Washington, D. C., area, and she observed that if the wallpaper cleaner made by Kutol didn’t have a cleaning agent in it, it would make a wonderful thing for the children in her nursery school to play with. Joe—and I assume his brother-in-law—figured out how to remove any harsh or toxic substances from the wallpaper cleaner and—it became Play-Doh! I’m sure it wasn’t as simple as it sounds but many great ideas look simple in retrospect. As a kid I helped my mother and dad more than once clean the wallpaper using wallpaper cleaner. If I had only known the potential for the stuff I was holding in my hands! What I learned from Joe’s story is that the essence of entrepreneurship—at least the American variety—is “think outside the box” (my friend W. R. Howell, former CEO of J. C. Penney, calls it “thinking the unthinkable”) and always try to envision the greatest possible potential no matter how mundane the beginning may be.
Joe McVicker obviously was the classic example of American entrepreneurship at its best. Having said that, I want to say a word about the finest entrepreneur and business builder I think I have ever known—my good friend Dick Farmer of the Cintas Corporation. Dick’s grandfather was actually a circus clown. In his off time he apparently was a “rag picker” who gathered up rags, cleaned them, and sold them. His son, Dick’s father, took this humble beginning and started Cintas, a company that laundered and cleaned uniforms used by companies of all sorts. It was this company that Dick joined right out of Miami University. Through his personality, intelligence, and drive, he has built Cintas into a dominant force in the industry and one of the most respected corporations in the country. He also happens to be the greatest salesman I think I have ever met. I know it’s an old joke to describe someone as a person who could “sell ice cubes to Eskimos,” but I honestly think Dick could do it.
I am proud to say that Dick and I share the same alma mater—Miami University. Dick and his charming wife, Joyce, are among Miami University’s major benefactors, and the business school, the Farmer School of Business, is named for Dick—as it should be.
THE SECOND STORY makes me smile every time I think of it—and I think you will see why. I represented a young man who was brilliant and hard driving, but he was one of the most unpleasant people I have ever known. He was constantly criticizing my work and berating me for not accomplishing more on his behalf. I always fought back and argued, and we had some pretty strong sessions. One day he called me and was particularly irate about something. I was suffering from some kind of bug that had settled in my throat and, during the ugly telephone conversation, I suddenly became unable to speak a single word or make any sound whatever! He would carry on and then pause waiting for a response, but I made none because I was unable to even utter a squawk. Finally, after several attempts to provoke me he finally said, “I guess you’re just tired of arguing with me, aren’t you?” Again I could say nothing. He said that he was sorry for the way he had dealt with me and hoped that I would continue to be his lawyer. Again no response. Finally, he said, “You must be really angry with me; we’ll talk tomorrow.” And he hung up. It is amazing, but I never had trouble with him again because he thought that I was so angry as to be speechless, and he decided to calm down. I never explained to him the reason for my complete silence, but, again, I learned something from the experience: When a situation becomes excessively unpleasant, it sometimes proves that the less said the better.
A YOUNG GERMAN immigrant named Ewald Pawsat came to the United States and settled first in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, and then in Maysville, Kentucky. He started a bicycle repair shop and called it Wald. Over the years, he built the company into the largest supplier of bicycle parts made in the United States, selling to all the big bicycle manufacturers. Our firm represented Mr. Pawsat, and I was asked to work on his estate plan. After many meetings, his will was finally ready for signature. I met him at his office in Maysville to take care of the signing. But before that, I told him that I wanted to be sure that he had disclosed all matters of significance regarding his holdings, because if he had not I could not be sure that the will was what it should be. Mr. Pawsat by this time was in his seventies and was a man of enormous integrity. He said to me, “Well, there is one thing that I have not told you about.” When I asked what he meant, he explained that he was keeping some cash in the safe in his office that he had not mentioned to me. I assumed he was talking about a few thousand dollars. So I said, “Well, I don’t see that as a problem—how much are we talking about?” He paused and said, “Around $300,000.” This was in the mid-1960s! I swallowed hard and said, “Sir, I really think that’s too much money to be keeping in your safe. You should have it working for you at a bank or whatever.” At this point his voice got stronger and he said, “Let me explain something to you, young man. There was a time during the Great Depression that the banks closed and I was unable to raise enough cash to pay my employees, and that lasted for a whole two-week pay period. That was the most embarrassing thing that I had ever experienced, and I vowed that I would never let it happen again. That $300,000 is the amount I would need to meet a payday, and there is nothing that you or anybody else can say to make me take it out of that safe.”
That comment has never really left my mind. Another lesson learned: Those who went through the Great Depression, including my own father, never really recovered from it in terms of their trust in the stability of our system. It led that generation to be watchful and careful and probably led to building more great businesses and organizations than anyone will ever know.
PERHAPS THE STRANGEST matter that I ever was involved in as a lawyer was being caught up in the great Northeastern blackout of 1965. Our firm represented the First National Bank of Cincinnati. One of its senior loan officers, Rolf Brooks, received a subpoena to appear before a grand jury at the District Attorney’s office for the Southern District of New York at Foley Square in downtown Manhattan. I don’t remember the purpose of the subpoena, but one never takes that sort of thing lightly. I do remember Rolf being concerned and anxious to appear and testify. We flew to New York on the night before we were to appear at the District Attorney’s office. Midway into the flight the pilot came on the intercom and said that we had an emergency, namely that there was a massive blackout covering the whole New York City area and that, of course, all of the airports were closed. He said we would land in Philadelphia, and the airline would arrange bus transportation to the New York Port Authority Bus Terminal in Manhattan. We got off the plane and onto the bus and began the journey to Manhattan. But first I called the old Statler Hotel in New York City, where we had room reservations, and asked them to please hold our rooms, that we were on our way. Somewhat surprisingly they agreed to do so. We arrived at the bus terminal, and when we walked outside the building it was an eerie sight, to say the least. The only light came from automobile headlights and several people using newspaper torches to try and direct traffic. New Yorkers can always be expected to move into action quickly in times of emergency, and they were certainly doing so that night.
We struggled but succeeded in getting a cab. It was not cheap, proving that the law of supply and demand was alive and well! I had called the Statler several more times, and they assured me that our rooms were available. When we finally got to the Statler, we found a chaotic scene. Candles were burning throughout the lobby, and hundreds of people were sleeping on couches, chairs, and anywhere they could lie down. We went to the desk and learned that one of our rooms was still available but that they had felt it necessary to sell the second room. This was not a problem for us—we were surprised and delighted to have any room at all. I’ll never forget the clerk looking up and saying, “Gentlemen, you will, of course, need to walk up the stairs to your room because the elevators aren’t working. So, here are two candles to help you find your way.” I can’t remember now what floor our room was on, but I think it was the eighth or ninth. In any case, as we started walking up the stairs, we again found people sleeping everywhere, many of whom asked if they could please share our room. We declined, pointing out that we were already sharing! We finally got to our room and fell into bed around 1:00 a.m. At around 4:00 or 5:00 a.m. all the lights came back on and wakened us even though we’d only had a few hours of sleep. We rested for another couple of hours and then got up, dressed, and went down to confront the day.
Things were still chaotic. There was little if any food for breakfast, and taxi cabs were nowhere to be found. The cab drivers had obviously made a fortune during the night and had gone home to bed. We finally managed to get a hard-boiled egg, toast, and coffee and began to make our way downtown to Foley Square. We took two or three different buses and finally arrived at the District Attorney’s office at around 8:30 or 8:45 a.m.
Golfing with Coach Paul Brown and Jim Brown, regarded by many as the greatest running back in the history of the National Football League.
The District Attorney, somewhat surprisingly, was in his office, and when we entered and introduced ourselves he was noticeably shocked. “How in the world did you two get here from Cincinnati, Ohio?” he asked. We explained and noted that we were in total compliance with the subpoena. He agreed but told us that he doubted if he would be able to get a quorum of the grand jury that morning because New York’s communication and transportation systems were chaotic to say the least. He asked if we would be willing to postpone our appearance. I pointed out that we had gone beyond any reasonable effort to comply with the subpoena, and we were not disposed to postpone our appearance. I pointed out that Rolf was prepared to testify and expected to do so.
The District Attorney excused himself, conferred with a couple of his aides, rejoined us, and said that if Rolf would give a brief affidavit describing his knowledge of the matter the grand jury was investigating, he would consider us in compliance with the subpoena and dismiss Rolf from any further involvement in the case. We accepted his deal, provided a brief affidavit, and headed for home!
Funny how this momentous tragedy worked out to our distinct advantage.
WHEN I WAS a young lawyer I was assigned to an antitrust case that a small manufacturer of roofing materials in Meridian, Mississippi, brought against seven or eight of the largest roofing-material manufacturers in the country, charging an antitrust violation. We were legal counsel to one of these companies. The plaintiff argued that these companies were attempting to force him out of the business through conspiracy and predatory pricing practices. I spent a great amount of time in Meridian and in Jackson, Mississippi, working on the case. The deeper we got into it, the more troubling it became, and we began to take the case more seriously.
The case, as I recall, was filed in a federal court in Tennessee. We did some homework and came to the conclusion that we didn’t want the case in that particular court. So we filed a motion for a change of venue, hoping to have the case removed to a friendlier tribunal. The motion was set for oral argument in the Tennessee federal court. Because of the importance of the matter, each of the defendants sent in its general counsel as well as its local counsel. When we walked into the courtroom there were fifteen or twenty defendants’ lawyers lined up in the first couple of rows.
We had met previously and agreed that our case should be argued by a gentleman named Porter Chandler, who was with a large New York firm and was widely regarded as one of the finest trial lawyers in America. When our case was called, the judge said something like this: “I have reviewed this matter carefully, and I am convinced that the change of venue should not be granted. If, however, you wish to comment or make any statement, you may do so at this time.” Porter Chandler, who was about six four and a very impressive gentleman, rose, walked to the front of the courtroom, and addressed the judge. “Your honor, we of course regret your decision, but we will not argue the matter further. I would, however, like to make a brief statement. I am compelled to observe, to paraphrase Winston Churchill, that never have so many come so far, been paid so much, and done so little.”* We all (including the judge) had a good laugh, and we all went on our way.
ONE DAY I was called into the office of the firm’s senior partner, Charles Sawyer, who was related to the Gamble family of Procter & Gamble fame. He told me that one of the granddaughters of James Gamble (one of the original founders of that great company along with William Procter) had passed away and that our firm was handling her estate. He wanted me to work with him on the estate, and the most immediate thing I needed to do was go to the bank and meet the tax official who would be making the customary visit to the deceased’s safe deposit box, make an inventory, and then seal the box pending appropriate probate procedures.
I could not have been more “green” inasmuch as I had never done anything like this. However, I went bravely to the bank, met the tax official, and then proceeded to the safe depository area. I identified myself to the gentleman in charge of the depository and tried to sound poised and confident and said, “We are here to inventory Miss Elizabeth Gamble’s safe deposit box.” The gentleman pulled himself to his full height and with an unmistakable air of condescension said to me, “Young man, Miss Gamble did not have a safe deposit box; she had her own vault!” I honestly don’t remember what my response was, but it couldn’t have been very sophisticated because I was very embarrassed. In any case, we proceeded to the vault. We learned that a substantial portion of Miss Gamble’s estate was in coupon bonds, each of which was bulky because of the unclipped coupons. As I recall, it took us a whole day to simply do the inventory of the bonds.
It was just one more learning experience, but I must confess that never again in any estate I was ever involved with was I exposed to a complete vault!
One last story of my days as a young lawyer—one that I will certainly never forget. I was asked to do some work for one of our major clients, a large insurance company. They were doing a deal with another large insurance company headquartered in Columbus, Ohio, whose CEO was a good friend of my dad’s. His name was Fred Jones and he was a formidable presence—tough, smart, and very outspoken. When we first met, the first thing that he said to me went like this: “Charles, I’m glad to meet you. I intend to watch your work very closely because your dad is a good friend of mine and I simply want to see whether or not he ‘bred up.’” I swallowed hard and then remembered that Mr. Jones owned a lot of horses and had been very successful in the horse business. So I understand his reference and, believe me, I worked even harder after that.
PHASE TWO OF my “three-phase life” was about to begin, and it would go on for more than twenty years. But, I want to say one final word about my days at Taft Stettinius & Hollister. In virtually every way, it formed the foundation for the rest of my life. I was associated with first-class people, and the friendships I made remain among the strongest in my life. Beyond that, my mind was constantly challenged by intelligent people and complex issues. Although the rest of my career was more visible and in some ways more “exciting,” I wouldn’t trade those nine years at Taft Stettinius & Hollister for anything! Happily, my Taft Stettinius & Hollister connection continues in a way. When I retired as board chairman of Convergys Corporation and was preparing to move out of my office there, the then managing partner of Taft Stettinius & Hollister, Tom Heekin, called and invited me to take an office at TS&H. I was delighted and use the office whenever I go back to Cincinnati. Not only is it a very comfortable office, but it is next door to my old and dear friend Charlie Lindberg, whom I have known since we were at Yale Law School together.
