The Fighting CMO

Less than a month after being downsized, I was pleasantly surprised to be contacted by a recruiting firm that had been contracted to fill a marketing manager position at a midsized, midtown law firm not far from my last employer’s location. This is going to be easy, thought I.  The first interview, a telephone screening with the law firm’s HR dept, went well and a second telephone conversation with the hiring manager was scheduled. That too went well, and we scheduled an appointment for a face-to-face meeting. That first meeting turned out to be a pleasant, friendly conversation during which the hiring manager and I hit it off in terms of personality and working styles, while my skills and experience were evidently spot-on for the position. We genuinely liked each other. I was happy. The hiring manager said she would schedule a second meeting, during which I would meet with her again and perhaps some other members of the department and, finally, the Chief Marketing Officer. The first hour of the second meeting—with the hiring manager and two members of her department present in person, and another 2 who were offsite, via conference call—reinforced my confidence that this was a match made in heaven. How lucky was I to have this opportunity, in this job market, after less than a month out of work?

Then the CMO entered and a palpable change rippled through the conference room, as if the atmospheric pressure was struggling to achieve equilibrium. I attributed what I can only describe as “tension” to the usual mundane issues and crises marketing departments grapple with on a daily basis. With a glance from the CMO as she stood in the doorway, the conference call was disconnected and the room emptied.

The CMO and I sat alone for about another hour, covering the same territory I had just covered with the group a few minutes ago, but the tenor of this conversation was different. This time, the questions listed decidedly toward the negative (“describe the worst job you ever had”) and were phrased more like challenges (“why didn’t you take it upon yourself to make it more interesting?”), with my responses frequently interrupted with demands to “be more specific.” I did my best to comply while noticing there was very little eye contact between us as the CMO focused her attention on a sheaf of papers on the table in front of her.  For a few seconds, I tussled with an internal question: is it my imagination or this conversation becoming confrontational? Nah; couldn’t be. So I gave her the benefit of a doubt by convincing myself that this was just her “style.” I immediately crafted an imaginary profile of her that would allow me to respond with civility and grace: that of an efficient, no-nonsense manager who has no time for BS and who gets more valuable decision-making information from bad experiences than from good ones. OK, I can live with that. I was too kind.

We parted amicably but I knew she was not impressed, at least not positively so. I also did not know if the weight of the decision rested with the hiring manager to whom the position reported or the CMO. If the former, I was in like Flint; if the latter, I was dead in the water.

A third meeting was scheduled. On arrival, I was warmly greeted by the hiring manager’s secretary, who by now treated me like an old friend. She ushered me into the same conference room but to my surprise, the videoconference monitor had been fired up and currently displayed six little boxes, three over three, each containing a different image of an empty office or conference room. The secretary explained that a few people would be participating by videoconference and that everyone should begin arriving in a few minutes. One by one, the six videoconference participants appeared in their respective little boxes, followed by 4 flesh-and-blood people in the room, including the CMO. I had either met or spoke with most of them, but truth be told, I could not keep them all straight.

The CMO opened the meeting by announcing that everyone in the room, both in person and by videoconference, was my “fan” – except her. She would allow the fans to ask their questions and then she would ask her’s. (Uh-oh.)

The series of questions posed from the fans, though not exactly puff balls, were clearly intended to allow me to shine: “Describe your most successful project” and similar, positively phrased, open-ended questions. When the fans had milked this opportunity for all it was worth, the CMO announced it was now her turn.

Her opening salvo sounded innocuous enough: “Describe a project that failed utterly, why it failed, and what you should have done differently.” Good question, I thought and I told her so. The problem was, I could not in all honesty think of a single project for which I was responsible that “failed utterly.” This is not braggadoccio; just a simple fact.  I have repeatedly pondered the question since then and cannot come up with a single example of an utter failure.

I prefaced my reply by explaining my inability to recall any such projects that I had owned. I said that, instead, I would describe a project headed by a director of my former marketing department. I would offer my perspective on the reasons for the failure and describe what she could have—and what I might have—done differently. I launched into my description, trying to be as specific and concise as I could.

Her follow-up question lit the fireworks: “Well, why didn’t you do that?” The conversation then went something like this:

Me: “Because it was not my project. I did not own it. I was responsible for executing a strategy under the direction of the project’s manager-slash-owner, who was, as I said, a director. I was a senior manager. I could and did offer suggestions but, ultimately, all final decisions were made by the project owner.”

CMO, looking directly at me for the first time: “So you failed to ensure the project succeeded.”

Me: “Umm, no, not exactly. I did everything in my power to ensure the project succeeded but I had no control over the strategic direction. My job was to execute the strategy devel…”

CMO, now visibly agitated: “You should have stepped in and taken control! Because you refused take the reins of this project, the project failed, therefore, you are responsible for the failure.” Or something to that effect.

Stunned, I felt I needed few seconds to craft an appropriate response to this. As I did, I became aware of a cacophony of voices emanating from the videoconference audio and from within the room itself. The fans were speaking out, rising to my defense and they were all talking at once. “She just said it was not her project!” “How does one forcibly take the reins of a project?” and similar protests.   I could not tell who was saying what but all mouths appeared to be moving and all 9 faces were twisted into angry grimaces.

I sat back in the chair and listened in astonishment as the argument escalated. One CMO arguing that I was, by definition, a saboteur, against what might have been her entire departmental staff of 9.  (Hey! I’m sitting right here.)  Before long, I was pretty sure the CMO was presenting her case that me and my ilk were responsible for every failure everywhere in the world, as far back as and including the Hindenburg. Obviously, there was no point participating in this discussion, so I remained silent. I sat and waited, daydreaming about taking some time off, maybe cleaning out the closets, taking language lessons—that sort of thing. Because I’d stopped paying attention, the argument ended somehow and the room became quiet. I was thanked for my time. I replied, “You’re welcome” and promptly left the building.

When I called the executive recruiter to describe what had happened, I thought he’d be as dumbstruck as I was, but he replied: “I know. You’re the 3^rd person to tell me this.”

One year later, almost to the day, the same executive recruiter called to tell me the position at this firm was still open. The CMO had been “asked to leave” just the week prior and the folks I met with the first go-round wanted to see me again if I was still available. I said I was and so long as that particular CMO was out of the picture, I’d be happy to meet with them again. He called back the next day to say they had changed the job description and that I no longer qualified.

Lesson learned: Some things never change. See also: Rogues Gallery of Whacko Bosses