48: The Lady or the Tiger
On June 9, 2014 I entered the Supreme Court of the United States. Several officers I had become acquainted with over the preceding seven months gave me well-wishes and words of encouragement. The lead background investigator led me to a small conference room where she introduced me to a lieutenant and a sergeant in the department.
We shook hands and I sat down.
“Tell us briefly about your professional background and your long-term goals.” The lieutenant said matter-of-factly.
I smattered-out an alphabet soup: “Well, after I graduated college, I moved to Amman, Jordan. I found a job at Konrad Adenauer, writing reports and doing project management and stuff like that. And then I started working for the German development corporation, called GIZ, doing stuff for their visibility campaign. Yeah. After that I found a job at Talal Abu-Ghazaleh Organization doing things like speech-writing and project management and things like that…”
“Hold on — I said briefly. You’ve just told us a bunch of stuff.” the lieutenant said.
“Ok, I’m sorry.” I said.
“What are your long term career goals?” The sergeant asked.
“To help craft or implement national security policy.”
“What are your short term goals?” he said.
“To work here.” Have to be candid, right?
The two stone-faced men then asked me a volley of questions. “Why do you want to work here?” “What was your greatest challenge?” “What will you bring to the team here?” “What is your greatest weakness?”
“How do you treat your superiors and those with authority?”
“With respect,” I said, hoping that wouldn’t come back to bite me.
They both wrote my two-word response in their notebooks.
After a few more questions, the lieutenant dropped his pen and looked at me.
“That concludes the interview,” the lieutenant said.
Well, back to the drawing board. They didn’t ask me about Jordan, what I was doing there. I didn’t get to show them that I was a total Cowboy Adventure Guy.
“Do you have any questions for us.”
“Yes, I do.” If I didn’t come up with a way to save my interview, I was going to fail.
“I’m curious to know how both of you ended up in the positions you’re in and how you find your work at the Supreme Court.”
The lieutenant spoke first. “Well, after I graduated high school, I enlisted in the United States Army. I retired after 25 years of service with the military police and wanted to continue my service to my country. I came to the Supreme Court to ensure the safety of nine of the most important people in our republic and of course this historic building. I became the two things I said I never would: a soldier and a police officer, but that’s the way things go sometimes.”
The sergeant spoke next.
“I also started in the military. I served in the navy and after my contract was up I found work in the federal service doing deliveries for the Supreme Court. I found that I loved working in government and that once you’re in the system you can sort of move around. If it suits you, it’s a very rewarding career which provides you with the opportunity to give back.”
“Your responses are ubiquitous to what I’ve heard from many of the officers here. I mean, not verbatim of course, but everyone here seems to have a strong sense of patriotism and duty and that’s definitely what appealed to me in the first place,” I said.
The two officers nodded as I stood up. “Thank you for your time,” I said, shaking each of their hands. The sergeant then escorted me out the room, into a hallway, and led me to a solitary chair.
“Just wait here for a minute, I’ll come back and get you,” the sergeant said.
I sat in the chair and twiddled my thumbs.
A few moments later, he re-appeared from the interview room. “Congratulations,” the sergeant said, as he walked toward me — “you passed the interview.”
“Thank you, sir!” I said. I stood up to shake his hand.
“Someone from personnel will be here in a minute. Congratulations again.”
I was informed that I would be short-listed as a viable candidate, but that due to the higher ranking of several veterans (obviously and appropriately so) I may not make the cut this round of hiring. There were two vacancies in the department and I was one of at least 100 qualified candidates from across the country.
I left the Supreme Court and called Murad to tell him I was ready to learn more about his business, asking for a few book recommendations. Murad overnighted three books on commercial real estate to me and I read them cover-to-cover by the time of my interview two weeks later in Los Angeles.
***
The year was 2004 and I was 17 years old.
At 8:15 on a Monday morning, my uncle pulled into my parent’s driveway in a Mercedes AMG. I had no idea my uncle even owned this car — typical of his understated approach. My uncle was going to take me to his commercial real estate firm in Downtown Los Angeles where I would spend a couple days that week shadowing several people in the firm. I toured job sites, sat in on budget meetings, and silently observed contract negotiations.
One of those days, I attended a construction management meeting with Steve, the firm’s director of construction. Steve was of slight build with a salt and pepper beard and stoic’s eyes. I remember the early-gen Bluetooth earpiece he would answer throughout our day together. At one point we were scheduled to meet with an architect and client in Playa Del Rey. During the hour-long drive from the office to the meeting site, Steve answered at least ten incoming calls and made ten of his own, problem solving all the way.
When we arrived at the meeting site, I shook hands with everyone, sat opposite our counterparts and feigned interest in the conversation, trying to follow along. What’s a parapet? Why is everything priced in ‘per-square-foot’? When’s lunch? It took 15 minutes before I felt my eyes begin to droop. I felt the warmth in my face as my 17-year-old brain began to shut down. Don’t fall asleep, you’ll look like an idiot.
An indeterminate time later, I snapped awake. The meeting had come to a conclusion, Steve was standing to shake hands with the client and the architect. I sheepishly shook hands with our counterparts.
No one mentioned the fact that I had goofed real bad, least of all Steve.
***
Two weeks after the interview with the Supreme Court Police, I landed at LAX at 1:00 am on a Monday. I only had a few days off work and had to take the cheapest red-eye flight I could find. Six hours later, my uncle pulled into my parent’s driveway in that same Mercedes AMG. The last time we’d spent time together was in Lebanon, where he and my aunt graciously bankrolled my stay. Now I was his tagalong to the office as a candidate for employment.
As we drove toward Downtown Los Angeles, I asked him his thoughts on me joining the company and he candidly stated, “I’m not a fan of nepotism. So I’m staying out of this. For all intents and purposes, Murad is your patron.” I couldn’t argue with his logic. He was a Harvard MBA and I was a sleepy-head. And for my uncle, this wasn’t some low-risk proposition. This was a business unlike Talal Abu-Ghazaleh’s. If someone on his team made a bad calculation or missed a provision in a contract, the consequences were real. The firm’s clients were prominent: Amazon, Boeing, Trader Joe’s, Unified Grocers, pension funds and high net worth individuals.
Throughout the week, I met several people of varying expertise: developers, leasing brokers, sales brokers, construction managers, corporate service analysts. I sat through a handful of meetings with industrial and office developers and didn’t have a single word of value to contribute. And every minute, I couldn’t shake the memory of my week in real estate ten years prior. I had spent my entire life avoiding what I’d perceived to be the mundanity of corporate America.
Of course, somehow I believed I was the one with something to offer — as a grocery store clerk whose only other prospect was as a bottom-tier candidate to be a glorified security guard. Damnit, I thought I was supposed to be chasing adventures and be compensated for that. (A quick shout-out to my three paid subscribers (K M & J) — you’re the real heroes of this story).
I spent some time that week with Geoff, one of the firm’s industrial brokers. Geoff was about ten years older than me and came from a family of real estate brokers. While politically-savvy people went to DC for internships in Congressional offices or think-tanks, he went to work for CoStar in Virginia — the most well-known business intelligence program for commercial real estate developers and brokers. After working for CoStar, he came back to LA and went into brokerage. Right before the 2008 crash, Geoff was on a sales team which sold three million square feet of real estate in a year — that’s, like, a lot. This business was in his blood.
Geoff was able to make the industry, which I had approached with tepid angst, appear genuinely interesting. He explained to me the synthesis of logisticians, real estate developers, manufacturers; all hyper dependent on a global supply chain system which works tirelessly to deliver the things we want, when we want them. It was the fresh perspective I needed.
The night before I returned to DC, Lindsay and I talked it over. She was making good money as a contractor for her old company, but neither of us were in a place we wanted to be in DC. If I were to be offered a position in LA, we would be closing the door on federal service. If we stayed in DC, we might never get out of our basement apartment.
Hours before my return flight to DC, Murad laid before me the keys to the castle. I was offered a full-time salaried position, with almost unlimited upward potential. I could join one of the most premier boutique developers in Southern California or I could return to Never-Never Land.
The choice was mine.