Page 10 of Julian

“If people are ignored,” she says slowly, “the volume gets louder. It’s a basic precept that in customer service, if you can’t fix the problem immediately, you must at least acknowledge first.” Her eyes come back to mine in the reflection for just a quick second. “Quickly. Personally. If you assign a small team to respond in real time—not copy-paste statements, but actual replies—with a clear step-by-step solution, it changes the tone. People want to know someone’s listening. Refund timelines. A direct email. A name attached to the message.”

On the phone, Jimmy issues a slight cough, maybe to remind me he’s still there.

“Anything else?” I ask the driver.

She nods. “Issue a small credit toward future games—anything tangible—which now reframes it from inconvenience to goodwill. It costs less than losing trust. Once you lose trust, it’s nearly impossible to regain it. I’d imagine sports fans are as ruthless as any customer base.”

Acknowledge first. Respond personally. Attach a name. Offer a concrete response. It isn’t corporate spin and it’s the right answer.

“I agree with that, Julian,” Jimmy says hurriedly.

I stare at the woman who is now staring resolutely at the traffic before her.

“I’ll call you back, Jimmy,” I say.

“Julian—” he says but I’m already disconnecting the call.

“I apologize, sir,” the driver says, her voice controlled but uncertain. “That wasn’t my place.”

I don’t respond because I’m thinking about how many executives sat in a room this morning trying to solve a reputational problem with spreadsheets—and the most practical solution came from the woman behind the wheel.

It wasn’t flashy but seemingly grounded in experience. And it might just save us millions.

The silence stretches, thickened by the low hum of the engine and the distant chorus of Manhattan traffic pressing in from every direction. In the front seat, I see the subtle shift in her posture—the way her shoulders square a little tighter, how her hands adjust on the steering wheel as though she can physically steer herself back into neutrality.

“That was some pretty savvy advice,” I say finally.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she says again, more subdued now. “Again, that wasn’t my place.”

Before I can answer, I hear the soft mechanical glide of the partition beginning to rise, the tinted glass sliding upward between us in a smooth, practiced motion designed to restore distance—employer and employee, back seat and front.

She’s retreating, trying to shut me out, but I still have so much more to discuss with her.

I press the control on my side without hesitation to stop the glass from rising. “How do you know so much about customer service?” I ask, removing my hand from the button and leaning slightly forward.

To my surprise, the partition starts rising again, indicating her finger is back on the control. “Again, not my place, sir,” she replies, disappearing from sight as the smoked glass lifts.

I jab at the button again, stopping the divider’s ascent and leaving a three-inch gap between us. “Indulge me, please,” I reply, leveraging my most commanding tone. The one I use in boardrooms.

Her grip tightens on the steering wheel, and I can see the corner of that delicate jaw, locked stubbornly. “My apologies. I should never have interrupted.”

“You offered a solution,” I reply, forcing gentleness into my words. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

She doesn’t respond, and I can see in the rearview mirror that she’s chosen composure over curiosity, expression professional and carefully blank. I use the opening to hit the button again, forcing the glass down all the way. I keep my finger on it so it stays open between us.

Most people in my world fight for access. They angle for proximity, for influence, for the illusion of being indispensable. She, on the other hand, tried to erase herself right after she realized she’d spoken out of turn.

That alone tells me more than the advice did. “How do you know so much about customer service?” I insist.

There’s the slightest hesitation before she answers, as though she’s deciding how much of herself is appropriate to disclose in a Town Car on a weekday morning. “I work in it,” she says finally. “Or I did.”

“You did?”

“Yes, sir.”

Her voice is steady, though not defensive. Just factual. “For how long?”

“A few years.” Her words are clipped and I can tell she doesn’t want to engage.