Going Extremely Public

The Conference Board Review^® Article

Teams of press representatives are camped out under enormous satellite dishes just outside WorldCom headquarters in Clinton, Miss. As employees leave the building, reporters approach the exiting cars, microphones in hand, hoping someone will stop.

Watching the news one evening, I'm shocked to hear my name being mentioned on various shows by congressmen and commentators. They are calling me a whistleblower. "Why are they calling me a whistleblower?" I ask my husband. "I was just trying to do my job." Being labeled a "whistleblower" has never come into my thinking. I don't like it. To many, the term has a negative connotation. I even check to see how our dictionary defines it — "one who reveals wrongdoing within an organization to the public or to those in positions of authority."

At work, I soon receive a call from Brad Burns, WorldCom's vice president of public relations. He has unsettling news. "Cynthia, the press is calling and they want to speak to you."

I'm completely taken aback. I never contemplated being thrown into the public spotlight and am completely unprepared for it.

"I really don't want to talk to the press," I say firmly. "Can't you speak to them?"

"I can, but they want to talk with you, and I don't think that they're going anywhere fast." Brad tries to reassure me and says he'll do what he can to field press questions. I don't envy his position as the main company liaison to the media. The next year will be extremely difficult for him, and I can sense his exhaustion when we speak.

Reporters are soon walking my neighborhood and my parents' neighborhood asking if anyone knows anything about me, and calling members of my church, my high-school teachers, my former classmates. The phone is ringing off the hook with major networks asking for interviews. I receive a letter from Matt Lauer of The Today Show. Connie Chung sends a letter with her personal cell-phone number. A Nightline producer shows up at my front door with three satellite trucks, hoping for an interview. Even DreamWorks, the film company, will get in touch.

I decline any requests for interviews. Our new attorney advises Glyn Smith, the director of the internal audit department, and me to refer the press to WorldCom's public-relations department out of respect for the legal process. My parents decline requests, explaining that they don't feel it is their place to be making statements in the press. Shareholders, employees, and many others are suffering in the wake of the company's troubles — including CEO Bernie Ebbers' resignation, a $3.8 billion restatement of financials, seventeen thousand layoffs, and a stock price that hits $0.09 before the Nasdaq halts trading. The last thing I want is to be in the headlines. I'm comfortable living a private life and have a strong aversion to being a public figure. I much prefer to be the stagehand. Just months ago, my life was routine. I went to work each day to help support my family. My weekends were filled with church and family activities. I spent free time with my husband Lance and two daughters, who are 12 years old and 11 months.

Sitting alone one afternoon in our conference room, contemplating the disaster all around us, I put my head down on the table. I'm finally starting to struggle under all the pressure. It feels as if I'm mourning a death.

The heat from the press keeps up. One afternoon my husband calls the office: Neighbors are calling to tell him that reporters from across the country, including The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and The Washington Post are going door to door inquiring about me. "I've closed the blinds, and I'm not going to answer the door," he says.

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