We had no idea who was behind this, and to this day I’m not sure. Of course, there are many potential suspects, although I have no reason to suspect one more than another. Competitors, for example, might well have wanted to ruin us. It’s a lot of fun to watch your enemy crash and burn. Perhaps short-sellers had started the rumor that we’d committed some major federal crime. Our stock started at 10, rose to 17, and plummeted to 4 before this whole nightmare was over. A short-seller who knew that our value was collapsing could have made a fortune, a sure thing. Could there have been a renegade attorney general in some far-off state with an ax to grind against us? I racked my brains for an answer, but never could get the whole story. Could the PI firm itself have invented the rumor out of whole cloth just so they could show they’d earned their fee? I may never know. The bottom line was that nobody would underwrite us as long as this rumor was out. We were screwed. Big-time.

I called Maria. Maria knew everything about the company. The numbers, the prospects, the monthly cash burn.

“What am I going to do now?” I asked. “What options are available to me?”

Maria was my friend. She was always looking out for our best interest. Whatever story I told her, she was always figuring out how to put a positive spin on it. Like a good doctor who treats athletes or actors, she was always working to see that we appeared our best in front of the crowd, which in our case was Wall Street. But like a trusted family member, she was the one you knew would always give you the lowdown when everyone else was pussyfooting around.

Today, the doctor was somber. “I don’t see you have any choice but to sell the company.”

That was it. Sell the company. Doctor says we’re finished. Inoperable cancer. No chance for recovery. Just try to sell off your possessions before you go so there’ll be something left for the kids.

Sell the company? No way! So many years. So many dreams. So many people. All still working. All coming to work optimistic, signing accounts, providing service, unaware of the prognosis. Looking completely healthy. Must be the doctor’s wrong.

I was in a panic. I consulted secretly with Howie and Jim. “We gotta get to the heart of this rumor quick, and disprove it.”

If I had to go down shooting like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, there was no team I’d want around more me than the one I had now. And there was probably nobody in a better position to help than Jim. But first the two of us had to talk.