Simon Westeros's attempt to join Motorola's board had not only left his representative cooling his heels in Chicago for three days; on Christmas Day the chairman had gift-wrapped him a public slap. The story had been the talk of the holidays.
Too many people simply couldn't stomach a kid who'd gotten rich overnight charging around the capital markets and trying to muscle in on power that had always belonged to others.
While Westeros stayed silent over Christmas, Wall Street, the North American press, and every tech company in its portfolio speculated about what Simon Westeros would do next.
Monday, December 28.
The first workday after the holidays.
Westeros Company's response was blunt and brutal.
First thing in the morning, the exact same page of The New York Times that had carried Robert Galvin's statement the previous week now ran Westeros's point-by-point rebuttal.
"Westerosos Company regrets the October crash, but every profit we earned was obtained strictly within the bounds of commercial law and without any attempt to manipulate the market. Moreover, our massive purchases after the crash provided critical support to the entire technology sector, benefiting countless emerging companies."
"We categorically reject Chairman Robert Galvin's accusations."
"Our efforts to join the boards of companies in which we hold significant stakes are intended both to protect our rights as major shareholders and to offer appropriate guidance and support for their development."
"To demonstrate that Westeros Company has no speculative intent, we will continue acquiring shares in the remaining twenty-five companies (excluding Motorola) until our stakes exceed 5%, placing us under full public scrutiny."
"Westerosos Company publicly commits: for any company that accepts our board representation, we will not reduce our holdings for at least three years. For those that refuse (again excluding Motorola), we will maintain our positions for a minimum of one year."
"And finally."
"In response to Motorola's malicious neglect of our shareholder representative and its chairman's inappropriate public remarks, Westeros Company will divest its entire Motorola position."
The moment the statement hit, media and Wall Street instantly decoded the core message: Simon Westeros was going to dump several hundred million dollars' worth of Motorola stock while continuing to buy the rest of the tech sector.
That was exactly why Simon had published it first.
An investor of Westeros's size unloading Motorola without warning would have triggered panic across every tech name it touched, starting a cascade.
By announcing that the attack was limited to Motorola alone—and that he would keep buying everything else and hold long-term—Simon ensured the sell-off would stay contained.
Then came the hammer.
At 9:30 a.m., the very second the New York Stock Exchange opened, a single block of one million Motorola shares was slammed into the market. The sheer brutality of it punched a visible downside gap straight through the entire index.
Only when the news spread did investors realize the crash wasn't coming back. They calmed down.
But once Westeros started the stampede, the market happily joined in. By the 4:00 p.m. close, Motorola had fallen from last Thursday's $75.50 to $62—a 17.9% drop.
In six and a half hours, $1.28 billion of Motorola's market value had simply evaporated.
At the same time, the evening papers carried news that Westeros had filed Schedule 13D amendments with the SEC for the other twenty-five companies, pushing each stake just over the 5% reporting threshold.
Total additional outlay: less than $13 million.
Before today, only five companies had agreed to board seats. By close of trading, the number was eleven—and—and the phones were ringing off the hook from the rest.
Motorola, facing a $1.28 billion hole in its market cap, could no longer play tough.
They had still sounded defiant after the morning statement. By noon their tone had collapsed. Calls were deflected all afternoon with the excuse that Simon was in meetings.
He really was.
After two days of talks over the weekend, James Rebould had officially come aboard as president of Westeros Company—previously he had only been outside counsel.
Monday morning, Simon sat with James and the Rebould law-firm team hammering out the acquisition plan for New World Entertainment. Going forward, the firm would be run by Jennifer's mother, Carol Rebould.
Midtown, 51st Street. The meeting ran until five o'clock.
The moment Simon stepped out of the building with the group, he nearly collided with a furious older man flanked by several aides. Sixty-something, face like thunder—and the moment he spotted Simon, the rage ratcheted higher.
Robert William q"Bob" Galvin, chairman of Motorola.
Under crushing pressure from major shareholders and his own board after the indiscriminate dumping, any thought of vacation had vanished. Phones unanswered, he had flown up from Miami and come straight here to camp the door.
No greeting. Galvin reined in his anger just enough to glare at Simon and bark, "Westeros—stop the selling. I'll let your man on the board."
Simon shook his head without hesitation. "Mr. Galvin, you overestimate how much a Motorola board seat interests me. And since I've already announced we're exiting the stock, I'm not the sort of person who goes back on his word."
Galvin's cheek twitched. "Fine. Motorola will buy back whatever you still hold. Name your price."
Simon turned to Jennifer at his side. "Jen, how many shares do we have left?"
"4,130,000 million-shares," she answered instantly.
Simon faced Galvin again—whose face had darkened another shade at the number—and said, "Four-point-one-three million shares. Last Thursday's close was seventy-five fifty. Knock off the change and three hundred million even gets you the lot."
Galvin stared. "That's extortion."
Simon shrugged. "Or you can try buying them in the open market. I promise the price will be much friendlier."
Galvin's anger flared again.
If he could buy the shares openly he wouldn't be standing here.
Exchange matching was automatic; you couldn't target specific sellers. All Westeros had to do was hang its offers a few cents above the bids and Motorola's attempts would chase ghosts.
Today's volume had topped 6%—5.7 million shares traded. Westeros had fired off three separate million-share sell orders at different levels and still only managed to unload about 570,000 of its 4.7 million total. Exactly for that reason.
And that half-million shares alone had cratered the price nearly 18%. Galvin couldn't begin to imagine where it would land if the rest hit the tape.
Now.
Galvin finally understood: Simon Westeros had been waiting for him to come begging.
He ground his teeth for a long moment before spitting out, "Sixty dollars. That's the absolute highest I'll go."
Simon repeated tonelessly, "$75.50"
Galvin's fists clenched. Thirty years younger and he would have decked the kid. Instead he snarled under his breath, "You wouldn't even dream of it, Westeros. You're nothing but a punk, a nouveau-riche destroyer. You have no idea how hard real adults work to build something. All you know how to do is smash other people's companies like a spoiled child."
Simon narrowed his eyes. "You're wrong, Mr. Galvin. I know exactly how hard it is to build a company. That's precisely why I know how much it will hurt when I smash every bottle and jar you spent your life filling. This could have been settled peacefully. You made it this way. And you've taught me something: since all of you insist on treating Westeros like some kid not worth taking seriously, fine—I'll show you what a kid can do. You won't give me respect? Then you'll get fear. Simple as that. If Motorola's stock keeps falling, I promise the chairman who cost shareholders billions won't last the month."
Galvin jabbed a trembling finger at him. "You caused this!"
Simon nodded. "Exactly. But they'll blame you."
Galvin shook with rage, silent for several seconds. Then: "$65."
Simon eased off just enough to keep the deal alive. "Fine. $70. But Motorola wires the money within one week. As a good-faith deposit, $30 Million must hits our account before the open tomorrow. If you default, we keep it."
Galvin tried to bargain. "$70 is still too high—$67, and I need at least a month." [TL/N: 67 67 67]
Simon didn't budge. "Seventy. One week. Mr. Galvin, I don't haggle. You have no other option."
Galvin made one last stand. "Westeros, if I walk away this hurts everyone—including you. You'll lose hundreds of millions too."
Simon gave a careless shake of the head. "I can afford the loss. You can't. After the crash the market's going to stay in the dumps for years. I dropped you from $75.50 to $62 in one day. Getting back will take you a year. So if you say no, tomorrow I'll make the stock fall another whole year."
Galvin's face flickered through storm shades for several seconds.
Finally he spat, "$70. Done."
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