By the time my meeting with Finance ended, I had nearly succeeded in putting the airplane incident aside. The work demanded too much attention for personal distractions. Budget revisions needed approval, two projects required additional staffing, and several managers wanted immediate decisions about resources that had been delayed during the leadership transition. I listened, asked questions, and resisted the temptation to promise quick solutions before understanding the consequences. Yet beneath the ordinary demands of the morning, one concern kept returning: the department led by the man from the flight had experienced unusually high turnover, and his explanation had offered little insight into why.
Lauren entered my office shortly before lunch carrying a folder and a cup of coffee. She set both on my desk, then waited while I finished a note.
"Is there anything else you need?" she asked.
I looked at the folder. "These are the employee concern summaries?"
"Yes. Human resources sent the most recent reports. There's also a record of previous discussions with department management."
"Thank you."
She hesitated, then added, "I hope the morning hasn't been too overwhelming."
"It's been busy, but useful."
Lauren nodded. Her gaze moved briefly toward the folder.
"About that department…"
I looked up. "Go on."
"I don't want to influence your judgment unfairly. But several people have been hoping the new regional director would take a closer look."
"What specifically are they concerned about?"
She folded her hands in front of her. "Mostly the way employees are spoken to. Some feel that mistakes are treated as personal failures. Others say they aren't comfortable raising problems because they expect to be dismissed."
I thought immediately of the man's response when I asked him to remove his foot. The parallel was uncomfortable, but I reminded myself that one incident could not establish a complete picture of his management. I needed evidence, not assumptions.
"Have those concerns been documented?"
"Some have."
"Then I'll review them carefully."
Lauren appeared relieved. "I think people will appreciate that."
After she left, I opened the folder. The first few pages contained statistics: turnover rates, absenteeism, internal transfers, and the results of employee satisfaction surveys. The figures were not catastrophic, but they differed enough from the other departments to justify closer examination.
The written comments were more revealing.
One employee described being interrupted during meetings whenever she attempted to explain a problem. Another reported that suggestions from junior staff were routinely dismissed without discussion. A third said that raising concerns often resulted in public criticism rather than constructive feedback.
I read each comment twice.
The language varied, but a recurring pattern emerged. Employees did not necessarily object to demanding work or high expectations. Many appeared willing to accept both. What troubled them was the feeling that their dignity depended on whether the manager considered their opinions valuable.
I closed the folder briefly and looked out the window. The city moved beneath a pale afternoon sky, traffic inching along the roads between office towers. Somewhere beyond those streets, ordinary employees were returning from lunch, preparing reports, and trying to complete their work. Their concerns deserved careful attention, particularly because some had already chosen to leave rather than continue under the same conditions.
The airplane incident could not be allowed to determine the outcome of an employment review. I knew that. It would be unfair to make professional decisions based on a personal confrontation, especially one in which I had also behaved inappropriately. But I could not ignore the possibility that the flight had exposed a habit rather than an isolated lapse.
I returned to the documents.
Several summaries described the manager as technically competent, quick to identify errors, and knowledgeable about department operations. Others noted that he often achieved his targets. The concerns centered on how those results were obtained. Staff reported feeling reluctant to question decisions, even when they believed problems could have been avoided.
The distinction mattered. A person could be capable in one area and harmful in another. Strong figures did not automatically excuse the way people were treated.
At one o'clock, I met with the human resources representative responsible for the department. Her name was Patricia, and she had worked at the regional office for several years. She arrived carrying her own notes and appeared pleased that I had already reviewed the records.
"I want to understand the department fairly," I told her. "That includes the manager's strengths and the concerns people have raised."
Patricia nodded. "That's the approach we've been hoping for."
"Has anyone alleged conduct that requires immediate action?"
"Nothing in these reports suggests an emergency. But there is a pattern of dismissive communication, and we've tried to address it."
"What happened when you raised the concerns with him?"
She paused. "He generally argues that employees are too sensitive or that performance expectations have been misunderstood."
I made a note. "Has he participated in management training?"
"Yes. He completed a program last year."
"Did it lead to measurable changes?"
"Not sustained ones."
Her answer was restrained, but I understood its significance. Training could provide tools, yet it could not force someone to use them. If a manager believed the underlying problem belonged entirely to other people, improvement would be difficult.
I asked Patricia about the employees who had left. She explained that some had accepted better opportunities elsewhere, while others had cited the department's working atmosphere as a major factor. We discussed the limitations of the available records and the importance of hearing directly from current employees before reaching conclusions.
Throughout the conversation, I avoided mentioning the flight. It was tempting to tell Patricia what had happened, if only to explain why certain descriptions sounded familiar. But I did not want my personal experience to influence the evidence she presented.
By the time she left, I had a clearer plan. I would conduct individual conversations with team members, review performance records, and give the manager a fair opportunity to explain his approach. Any changes would be based on documented workplace conduct and the department's needs.
The decision steadied me. I had accepted the regional role because I believed leadership required consistency. It would be easy to punish someone who had embarrassed himself in front of me. It would be much harder, and much more important, to evaluate him according to standards that would apply equally to someone I liked.
At three o'clock, the man entered my office for our scheduled discussion.
He knocked first, a courtesy he had not shown when interrupting my personal space on the airplane. His expression was controlled, and he carried a folder containing his department's quarterly results.
"Good afternoon," he said.
"Please sit down."
He lowered himself into the chair opposite my desk and placed his folder carefully on his knees. I noticed that his shoes were different from the pair he had worn that morning. Whether he had changed them for comfort or because the earlier pair reminded him of yesterday, I had no idea.
I began with his department's strengths. We discussed project completion rates, staffing requirements, and several process improvements he had successfully introduced. He became noticeably more confident when speaking about technical work. His explanations were precise, and he clearly took pride in the department's achievements.
Then I turned to employee retention.
"I've reviewed the recent reports," I said. "There are concerns about communication and staff morale that we need to address."
His expression tightened.
"People complain in every department."
"Of course. The question is whether the complaints reveal problems we can improve."
He shifted in his chair. "My team is under pressure. We can't spend all day making everyone comfortable."
"I don't expect you to eliminate pressure. I expect you to manage it responsibly."
He looked down at his folder. "The work gets done."
"Some of it does. But experienced employees are leaving, and that creates additional costs and instability."
He gave a small shrug. "There will always be people who can't handle expectations."
I recognized the dismissive tone immediately. It was not as openly contemptuous as his response on the airplane, but the underlying assumption was similar: when someone objected, the objection itself was treated as evidence of weakness.
I kept my voice calm. "Have you considered that some employees may understand the expectations perfectly well but disagree with how they're being treated?"
He looked at me sharply.
"Is this about yesterday?"
"No. This is about documented workplace concerns."
He leaned back. "Because I get the feeling you've already made up your mind."
"I haven't. That's why we're having this conversation."
He remained silent.
I opened the folder and referred to several specific issues. I did not identify employees who had requested confidentiality, but I explained the recurring concerns and asked how he believed they could be addressed.
At first, he dismissed each one. Employees misunderstood his intentions. People took criticism personally. Junior staff lacked experience. He had high standards, and high standards were unpopular.
I listened, then asked, "What part of the responsibility do you believe belongs to you?"
He frowned.
"I don't understand."
"If several employees independently describe similar problems, what might you change in your own approach?"
He considered the question for a long moment.
Finally, he said, "I suppose I could explain decisions more clearly."
It was a small admission, but I decided not to dismiss it.
"That would be a start."
He looked relieved, as though he believed the difficult part of the discussion had ended. I continued, however, outlining the steps I intended to take: structured employee conversations, clearer feedback procedures, and a review of how concerns were handled within the department.
His expression became guarded again.
"Are you putting me under investigation?"
"I'm reviewing the department's management practices. That includes your responsibilities, but it also includes the systems around you."
He folded his arms. "I don't think that's necessary."
"I believe it is."
The words were quiet, but final.
For the first time during the meeting, he seemed to understand that he could not simply argue until the subject changed. I was not asking him to agree that the concerns existed. The records already demonstrated that employees had raised them. I was asking him to participate in understanding and addressing them.
He looked toward the window, then back at me.
"You're going to make my life difficult over this."
I felt a brief surge of frustration. I had spent hours separating my personal feelings from the professional evidence, yet he still appeared determined to interpret every challenge as retaliation.
"This isn't punishment for the flight," I said. "If I had never met you before today, the reports would still require attention."
He studied me, searching for some sign that I was being dishonest.
"I don't know whether I believe that."
"You're entitled to your doubts. You're also responsible for your conduct."
Silence settled between us.
Then I added, "You asked me this morning whether your position would be judged fairly. I'm giving you that opportunity. Fairness means recognizing your achievements, listening to your explanations, and holding you accountable for the standards expected of every manager."
His shoulders lowered slightly. For a moment, the defensive expression on his face gave way to something more uncertain.
I wondered whether he had ever been required to examine his own behavior without being able to end the conversation through irritation or authority.
He looked down at his hands.
"Yesterday," he said slowly, "I really didn't know who you were."
"I know."
He drew a breath.
"And I suppose that's the point, isn't it?"
I waited.
He lifted his eyes. "You shouldn't have had to be anyone important for me to move my foot."
The admission was so unexpected that I did not answer immediately.
Then I nodded.
"That's exactly the point."
He sat quietly for several seconds. I could not tell whether the words reflected genuine understanding or merely the beginnings of an effort to preserve his position. Either way, they were different from anything he had said since our first encounter.
I closed the folder.
"We'll begin the department review next week. Patricia will coordinate the employee conversations, and I'll meet with you afterward to discuss the findings. I expect your cooperation."
"You'll have it," he replied.
When he stood to leave, he paused near the door.
"Rebecca, I haven't apologized properly."
I looked at him.
"No," I said. "You haven't."
He swallowed.
"I'm sorry for how I behaved on the plane. I was rude, and I made things uncomfortable for you. I should have moved my foot when you asked."
The apology was simple, without a joke or an excuse attached to it.
"Thank you," I replied. "And I'm sorry I painted your nails without permission. I should have handled the situation differently."
He gave a small, embarrassed smile.
"For what it's worth, the color was impossible to remove completely before this morning."
I couldn't help smiling in return. "Megan has excellent taste."
"Your daughter?"
"Yes. The polish came from her birthday present."
His expression shifted toward genuine surprise.
"You used your daughter's birthday present?"
"Part of it."
He looked down at his shoes.
"Well," he said, "I suppose I deserved to feel embarrassed. But I hope she wasn't upset."
"She found the story very funny. She also reminded me that I shouldn't paint people without asking."
He gave a short laugh, the first unguarded sound I had heard from him.
"Smart girl."
"She is."
He reached for the door handle, then stopped again.
"Rebecca?"
"Yes?"
"I'll cooperate with the review. Properly."
"I appreciate that."
After he left, I remained seated, looking at the closed door.
I had expected anger, resistance, and perhaps an attempt to undermine the process. I had not expected even a partial acknowledgment of his behavior. Yet one apology, however sincere, could not erase the concerns raised by his employees. The real measure of change would come from what he did when nobody important was watching.
I turned to the department files and began preparing questions for the next week's interviews.
The strangest flight of my life had brought an unexpected professional problem into sharper focus. But the outcome was still uncertain, and I knew better than to mistake a promising conversation for a completed transformation.
Outside my office, employees were finishing their workday.
Behind the closed door of his department, the man who had once refused to move his foot would soon have to decide whether he was willing to change the way he treated the people around him.
