The Charette Legacy

About The author

John Highsmith Adams is the pen name of an American licensed architect. He has practiced architecture in the USA for over 25 years, with firms in five states.

***~~~***

On the Cover

The 27 meter wall mural from the hemicycle of the Ecole des Beaux Arts in Paris adorns the cover. Begun in 1837 by Paul Delaroche, the painting represents seventy-five great artists of all ages seated and standing. Delaroche finished the work in 1841.

***~~~***

Author’s Note:

This is a work of fiction, written by an anonymous, licensed architect, with roughly 30 years experience in the USA’s design and construction industries. Some but not all aspects of the architectural profession’s regulatory affairs described in this novel are based on actual events.

The manual, graphic design portion of the professional licensing exam was a bastardized derivative of the centuries-old charette competitions utilized by the Ecole des Beaux Arts to award Prix de Rome scholarships. It existed for over a half-century, before being abolished approximately one decade ago. Notorious for having annual, national pass rates ranging between 25 and 40%, thousands of talented, professional aspirants with professional degrees simply gave up after multiple failures. A number of State Boards presided over pass rates routinely below 30%.

On November 13, 2001, a Presidential Military Order gave the President of the United States the power to detain those suspected of connection to terrorists or terrorism, as an unlawful, enemy combatant. As such, it was asserted that a person could be held indefinitely without charges being filed, a court hearing or entitlement to a legal consultant. Many legal and constitutional scholars contend that these provisions are in direct opposition to habeas corpus and the United States Bill of Rights.

The practice of apprehending persons, such as suspected terrorists, and transferring them to another nation without legal due process is called extraordinary rendition.

The United States, following the September 11, 2001 attacks, has been accused of extraordinary rendition of hundreds of people suspected by the government of being terrorists — or of aiding and abetting terrorist organizations. This practice, coupled with the USA's October, 2001 passage of the Patriot Act, has allegedly facilitated rendition to third-party states such as Egypt, Jordan, Syria, Morocco, and Uzbekistan. In some cases, these countries are purported to employ harsh interrogation techniques on such ghost detainees that rise to the level of torture.

It has also been alleged that the CIA has run a secret global abduction and internment operation of suspected terrorists, which since 2001 has captured about 3,000 people and transported them around the world, where torture has been employed with the knowledge or acquiescence of the Governments of the United States and the United Kingdom.

Following an investigation of the CIA program, a June 2006 report from the Council of Europe estimated one hundred people had been kidnapped by the United States' Central Intelligence Agency on EU territory (with the cooperation of Council of Europe members), and rendered to other countries, often after having passed through secret detention centers (black sites) used by the CIA. Within days of his inauguration, President Obama signed an Executive Order opposing rendition torture and establishing a task force to provide recommendations about processes to prevent rendition torture.

All names and characters described herein are fictitious, and any resemblance they may bear to actual individuals is coincidental.

In closing, I wish to thank those people whose support made this book possible. They include my family, especially my wife, who at times felt like a single parent while I chased my dream. My daughters have also sacrificed, whether their young minds realize it or not. There are others who I am deeply indebted to, including Dr. Robert Gibson, who was an invaluable early editor and sounding board, and Karen Ackerman, who performed in a similar capacity as the manuscript further-developed. My mother even got in the editorial act, providing valuable proofreading and editorial commentary.

**********

February 3, 1977 - Toronto

Khala McCormick smiled at her seven-year-old son, seated next to her in the Audi Fox. He was a bright, young fellow with wavy brown hair and shades of his mother’s light brown, Afghan complexion. Despite Toronto’s freezing temperatures and the heavy snow, the car was warm inside, and they shared an eager anticipation.

Your father’s going to be so proud of you, Matt. He’ll be surprised at how well you’re skating.

Do you think so?

I know so. He hasn’t seen your team play in over a month.

I hope I can score.

Me too. But he’ll be thrilled to see you skating around the rink.

I guess so, he replied sheepishly. I wish it wasn’t snowing so we could see his plane coming in.

As they continued through the blowing snow, Khala reminisced. Ten years ago, Khala Akrami had met Steven McCormick when he was a project engineer for a large office building in Toronto. Introduced by her brother, a gregarious testing engineer on the project, she’d quickly fallen for Steven, a tall, sandy-haired man with a quick smile.

For his part, Steven had been swept away by Khala’s sparkling soft brown eyes, flowing, dark hair and keen intellect.

They’d soon married, settled in Toronto and had a son. Steven continued to manage projects in the area, but last year he’d been offered a promotion too good to pass up.

Unfortunately it was in Texas. Khala hadn’t wanted to leave Toronto and her close-knit Afghan family. Her family had left Kabul for Canada in 1964, when her American-educated father had landed a job as a chemical engineer. The Akrami family had a lovely home in Scarborough and Matt was thriving in an excellent school. So they’d reached a compromise. Steven flew home every other weekend and stayed three days before returning to Texas. Hillman Construction paid for his travel and Dallas apartment. Steven agreed to resign, after a year, if the strain on Khala and the marriage became too much. If they could tolerate it for the two-year duration of the project, Steven’s marketability as a senior construction project manager would be well established, and he promised to stay in the Great Lakes region.

The snow fell even harder as Khala drove west on Lawrence Avenue.

Are we almost there Mom?

About two more miles, honey. We have to take it slow in this weather. It’s coming down faster than they can keep the roads clear.

Okay, he said, frowning as the faintly visible light ahead turned red.

She worried that the weather might delay the flight, but didn’t want to disappoint her son. Your dad’s jet is probably coming in over the lake right now.

Do you think he brought something for me?

I don’t know. She smiled at her son. We’ll have to wait and see.

Matt intently watched the stoplight until his vigilance yielded the intended results.

It’s green Mom!

The rear tires of a blue truck in the left lane spun out on the packed snow, while the Audi’s front wheel drive pulled the vehicle out into the intersection without hesitation. When she suddenly realized that an out-of-control, full-sized pickup was sliding into the intersection from her left, it was too late. She attempted to swerve out of its path, but the road was too slick and the truck seemed like a missile. As the barreling truck hit the Audi, it sent the smaller car spinning wildly across the intersection, crashing into the front end of a stopped vehicle.

The initial impact crushed the driver’s side and snapped several of Khala’s ribs. Ignoring her own condition, she’d turned to reach for her frantic son when the Audi crashed into the stationary vehicle. The force of the secondary collision was minor compared to the first, yet the combination was lethal. The impact of the steering wheel against her abdomen was just enough to send a splintered rib into the left atrium of her heart.

Minutes later, Matt knelt beside his mother, quivering as she lay on her back in the road, her dark brown hair in deep contrast to the snow gently falling atop her. The strangers who had stopped to assist stood speechless around them, awaiting the growing sound of distant sirens.

Mom! Are you okay?

She looked into his eyes. I love you. Then, with considerable effort, she said, Tell your father…I love him too.

Weeping in disbelief, Matt gazed into her tear-stained face, watching her eyes slowly freeze like the Toronto winter.

**********

February 8, 1991 – Austin

The sound of REM’s Losing my Religion was playing in the background, emanating from the boom box of one of Matt McCormick’s fellow architecture students. It was after eleven on a Friday night, and the design studio was still populated with a smattering of students developing their design presentations for the following week. The walls were festooned with architectural sketches, and crude building models lay scattered about the floor.

After four uninterrupted hours in the studio, the music sent Matt’s mind wandering afresh in the haunts of his youth. The religion that his grandparents had struggled in vain to indoctrinate had long since been lost, and like most anniversaries of his mother’s death, the day had been one of sad introspection. Memories now arose of his grandparent's dependence on their Islamic religion to soften the bitter loss of their daughter, and how they’d sought the same solace for their grandson.

Caught between the faith of his family and his Christian peers, Matt had opted-out of both. His brain’s DNA was just too rational to sail into the tranquil harbor of faith.

Scolding himself for allowing his thoughts to drift, he attempted to refocus on the second floor plan of the hypothetical history museum that his studio had been assigned. He was struggling with the fenestrations that would allow controlled natural light into the museum. He sought to harness sunlight to achieve an appropriate level of natural light, while protecting the artifacts from ultraviolet damage. It was tricky, as the proper technical solution would also directly impact the building’s exterior appearance, so achieving the right balance was challenging.

Five frustrating minutes later, he decided to stretch his long legs. Kathy, a tall, blonde student who sat across the aisle, turned to smile at him. He was an alluring figure, with thick, wavy brown hair and sparkling blue eyes.

His odd family culture, coupled with his all-boys, private high schooling, had rendered him awkward with girls. He demurely returned Kathy's smile, then ambled on. He soon found himself looking over the shoulder of John Mason, his roommate and closest friend in architecture school. As usual, John’s talent and dedication came through in his striking drawings.

Matt stepped in closer and admired the brilliant sketches and well-ordered plans.

That’s beautiful, John.

Thanks. I’m still struggling with the entry lobby, but I think the sequencing of the displays is starting to work. How’s it going with you?

I’m frustrated, Matt said. I think I’ve hit the wall.

You want to go get a beer? said John.

Sure. How about O’Malley’s?

Ten minutes later they were seated at the crowded bar with two steins. Formerly one of those turn-of-the-century mom and pop establishments, it had a high, pressed tin ceiling and brick walls adorned with artifacts. A talented young folk singer strummed his acoustic guitar in the corner, alternating between Bob Dylan and James Taylor tunes, as the mostly-collegiate patrons engaged in alcohol-enhanced banter and flirtation.

So have you heard from Caroline lately? John said.

Yeah, she’s coming down next weekend to visit. I hope you’re okay with that.

Of course. I admire your loyalty. I don’t think I could do it. I was actually thinking about going to San Antonio for the weekend, so you can have the whole apartment to yourselves.

Matt shot John a somber look. One-legged girls make you feel uncomfortable or something?

No, I mean, that’s not it. John struggled for the right words. It’s just that…I know it’s got to be tearing you apart inside. And you guys deserve some time alone. Besides, my dad is going to be there for some convention.

While the sounds of laughter and music filled the bar, an awkward silence passed between the two. John, a barrel-chested, amiable blond with a ruddy complexion, struggled to continue the conversation.

Do you mind me asking what her prognosis is, Matt?

Matt shook his head and sighed. I don’t know. It's kinda strange, but we don’t talk about it. It can’t be good. Neither one of us wants to think about it, I guess.

John started to say something, then stopped.

What were you going to say? prodded Matt.

It's just that, well…how can you not talk about her prognosis?

Matt took a deep breath and stroked his faintly-cleft chin responding. I dunno - maybe we're both in denial. After another awkward pause, he said, Sometimes in the design studio I just can’t summon an ounce of inspiration. You ever been deeply in love?

Not like that, said John. I can’t imagine your life. The college years are supposed to be special. And you’re a good looking guy, my friend.

Don’t give me that. You’re just trying to cheer me up.

No way, dude. Look around. This place is full of pretty girls. When we walked in half of them were looking at you.

Matt smiled. And the other half at you?

No, the other half just aren’t looking. I mean, look at you. What are you, about six-three, with broad shoulders and that perma-tan complexion.

Come on John, you don’t seem to have much trouble finding dates.

Nor did you, before you fell for Caroline.

I’ve had a couple. I’m lousy company, Matt said. You remember Angela?

That blonde you took to the basketball game a couple of months ago?

Yeah, she was pretty cute.

She was absolutely hot.

Yeah, and intelligent. We had a few glasses of Chardonnay and went back to her dorm room and got pretty worked up. The next morning I felt guilty as hell.

About Caroline I presume?

Of course about Caroline, only now I feel guilty about both of them. I ran into Angela last week and she wouldn’t speak to me. Gave me a look like a dagger. Anyway…let’s change the subject.

Okay, John said. I heard that Castellano is going to lead the crits.

Pietro Castellano was a tenured professor who stalked the halls of the Architecture building with arms crossed and furrowed brow. His flowing gray locks, the omnipresent bowtie and round Le Corbusier eyeglasses gave him a classic professorial image. While his Architectural History classes were fascinating, he was notorious for his overbearing presence on design juries, and scathing critiques of presentations by nervous young design students.

I’ve heard that he tends to ease up some in fifth year, especially if you spend the summer with him at the Florentine studio, continued John. But I feel sorry for the poor bastards he’s forced to change majors.

Yeah, by next year they say another third of us will be gone. I’ll probably be one, sighed Matt.

No way. You’re too talented for that and I won’t let you, John said.

**********

November 3, 1992

While millions of Americans were standing in lines across the country, preparing to elect the first Democratic president since Jimmy Carter, the fourth year architecture students of the University of Texas were filing into Professor Cleveland’s Architectural History class.

Matt already sat in the fourth row, daydreaming about how he’d survived the third year gauntlet. In the second semester he'd taken the advice of friends and family and endeavored to restore a more normal collegiate experience, which meant ending his tragic relationship with Caroline.

Knowing her sarcoma was likely fatal, and that seeing her made him miserable, he’d driven to Dallas to say goodbye. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done, and he struggled daily with the guilt. Afterwards, he lost himself in the classroom and design studio and was rewarded with high marks, but at night in bed he was engulfed in the darkness of doubt and remorse.

His reverie was interrupted by Cleveland's lecture.

"…the École des Beaux-Arts is the world’s oldest operating school of fine arts, existing on the Left Bank of Paris. The academy arose from a group of revolutionary young artists, determined to discard the yoke of the guild system. In 1648, these bold lads, impatient with the Medieval order’s exclusive apprenticeships under master painters, formed a union promoting the free exchange of artistic ideas, techniques and training.

Among the goals of these upstarts was to provide free instruction, making it possible for students of all socioeconomic backgrounds to attend. To further ensure fairness and social equality, the union employed a number of qualifying contests, allowing students to advance on merit alone.

Matt watched Cleveland as he strolled back and forth on the raised podium of the 200-seat, sloped lecture hall, stroking his immaculate goatee. Approaching sixty, the Harvard-educated professor had long since been tenured, serving the Architecture School for almost three decades. His short stature was offset by a thundering voice and commanding presence.

"The school survived the French revolution, merging with the Académie d’architecture shortly thereafter. It was then renamed the École des Beaux-Arts, remaining a government institution until 1863, when Napoléon III made it independent.

"By that time, it had educated such great American architects as Richard Morris Hunt and Henry Hobson Richardson, and greatly influenced American architectural design, philosophy and education. Hunt later founded the first formal training studio for aspiring architects in New York, and became the first president of the American Institute of Architects. Beaux-Arts Classicism remained the dominant style of American architecture from the last decades of the Nineteenth Century until well into the Twentieth.

Competition for entrance to the École was fierce, and many masters with independent ateliers trained young hopefuls seeking admittance to the school via the rigorous entrance exams. The institute was famous for its artistic exams, the most notable being the Prix de Rome. The winners of these contests, which were held every spring from 1663 until 1968, were provided a four-year, all-expense-paid scholarship to the Académie de France à Rome.

Exhausted from being in design studio all night, Matt struggled to pay attention. When he’d finally crawled into bed around two a.m., he’d been too wired to sleep. Glancing about the lecture hall, he noticed several of his classmates, including John Mason, nodding off. He kicked John's chair, awaking him with a start, thus sending his note pad flying off his desk.

Try to control your excitement, Mr. Mason, bellowed Cleveland, drawing laughter from the class.

John shot Matt an evil look, then refocused on Cleveland's stentorian, New England voice.

"The Prix de Rome contest in painting entailed a series of three grueling trials, starting with as many as one hundred students, and ultimately selecting one or two winners. The first trial, which typically eliminated most of the contestants, was a twelve hour event, with students locked in their studios until they’d completed their assignments. The contestants produced a sketch of a subject announced at the beginning of the day. The names of each student were placed on the back of the canvas, to preserve anonymity during the judging.

When the church bells tolled, announcing the twelfth hour, the professors pushed around the dreaded charette, or cart, upon which the harried contestants would reluctantly place their work. The tradition was perhaps more notable for its unsuccessful contestants than its winners. Among the losers were Delacroix, Moreau, Manet and Degas. Jacques Louis David, who did finally win a Prix de Rome, attempted suicide after his third failure…

"The student riots of 1968, which overtook the Latin Quarter for weeks, ended the contest. After three hundred years, both the Prix de Rome and the Ecole’s architecture program were eliminated.

"Although the original Prix de Rome was abolished, various forms of its reincarnation exist today, in several countries, replete with scholarships to Rome. In today’s design disciplines, including architecture, industrial, interior and graphic design, the word charette has become synonymous with an intense design session, with the goal of producing an end product in a relatively short time frame. Whether the process is group or individual in nature, it typically involves a highly-focused, frantic work session up to an imposed deadline -- and lots of caffeine.

Someday, perhaps after first sitting for the Design Exam, you will gain a fuller appreciation for the charette's legacy within the architecture profession….

As Matt exited the lecture hall, he was surprised to see Caroline’s close friend, Anne Fitzgerald, in the foyer. She approached him slowly.

Hi Anne. What brings you here?

I need to talk to you Matt―about Caroline.

*********

February 22, 2003 - Atlanta

A chilly breeze blew through the air, sending a few diehard pin oak leaves airborne. They danced about in the sunlit air before settling to the ground. Matt pulled the front of his brown tweed coat close, looking skyward in search of the telltale buds on the trees, signaling the approach of spring. Seeing none he took solace in the sun’s warming rays that still penetrated the barren trees. His eyes then returned to the solemn act of the coffin descending into the freshly dug hole.

For the third time in his thirty-years, someone very close had passed before their time. His thoughts drifted to the fuzzy memories of his mother’s funeral on that frigid day twenty-six years ago. Like then, this day was particularly heart-wrenching. The sudden, tragic and untimely nature of the death was eerily familiar.

Caroline’s death, on the other hand, had been expected. Yet it had hurt the most. Despite his foolish attempts to leave her and her problems behind, the tragedy had dogged him for years, and his remaining time at college had slowly played-out in drone-like fashion. When he’d finally earned his degree, he set out to begin his career, perhaps more eager to turn the page on the difficult collegiate days than to commence his life as an architect.

A few minutes later, as the small, graveside crowd dispersed, he made his way over to a solitary young woman in a full-length, dark wool coat. Christine was standing still and teary-eyed, looking reluctant to leave.

Hi Christine, he said, reaching to hug her. I’m so sorry.

Oh Matt, I feel so awful. I couldn’t even face John’s parents.

Why? You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.

I don’t know what’s worse, the grief or the guilt.

Believe me, I know how you must feel, but you can’t beat yourself up about it. You weren’t the cause of this. Want to take a stroll?

Sure. Thanks. They walked along the cemetery's graveled roadway, flanked by massive oak trees. I bet the Masons will never forgive me.

They do seem to be taking it hard, but they’ll get over it. Give it some time.

I hope you’re right, she said.

I was shocked to hear the news. It was like someone punched me in the gut.

I know you guys were really close friends.

I’ll never have another friend like him. We’ve both been so busy at work I suppose, and hadn’t spoken in several weeks.

The two strolled mutely about the grounds, surrounded by a sea of tombstones. For several minutes, neither seemed able to find the words to ease the pain.

Matt broke the silence. We went out last month for a drink to catch up on things. He was nervous about the Board exams. I sat it out this year. I've just been too busy and not prepared mentally to risk another failure. He seemed to be in decent spirits - under the circumstances. I didn't realize that he'd gotten his results back.

Those board exams are probably what killed him if you want to know the truth. He told me last year he didn’t think he could endure another failure, she said.

Matt shook his head, not knowing what to say. He and John, like so many intern architects, had struggled for years to pass the professional exam. He thought of Professor Cleveland’s prescient words linking the design exam to Eighteenth Century France’s Prix de Rome contest, and artist Jacques Louis David’s suicide attempt following his repeated failure to win.

The charette legacy, muttered Matt.

What? she replied.

Oh, it’s just an architecture thing. It’s a long story. I know it took a lot of courage for you to come today, Christine. Not that you have anything to be ashamed of, but parents seldom take the loss of their children well.

Part of the problem was that his family placed such high expectations on him, she said. He became so gloomy I couldn’t take it any longer. It seemed like he was constantly depressed, and I didn’t think I could be happily married to him if he couldn’t get it under control.

That’s understandable. What do you mean about his family’s expectations?

Oh, they were all such achievers. His sister was a valedictorian, and his brother graduated with honors from Cal Tech with an engineering degree. His father was a corporate CEO.

Yeah, I guess I’d forgotten about all that. John was an unusually bright and talented guy and worked harder than most in school. I was one of those guys that used to bail out of the design studio at midnight, but not John. I don’t know how he survived on so little sleep. His work was stellar though. We never worked at the same firm but I know some guys that always spoke highly of him. He would’ve made an exceptional architect. In reality he probably already was one.

Yeah, he had such potential, but he couldn’t seem to shake those demons dancing in his head.

They paced a few paces silently, as Matt thought to himself how much John had been transformed.

He called me the night before, said Christine. I had no idea he was about to take his own life. I mean, he was obviously down, but that was not unusual for him. I was probably too short with him. I’ve been trying to move on with my life. He was reaching out to me, and I turned away, she sobbed.

Matt wanted to be strong and comfort her, but struggled with his own emotions. He fumbled for something to say. Did he ever tell you about the time he talked me out of dropping out?

No, she sniffed.

It’s a very sad story in its own right. He hesitated before continuing. Could I buy you a cup of coffee? I’ll tell you all about it.

They walked slowly, arm in arm, towards the wrought iron gate of the cemetery.

**********

April 7, 2003

With eyes blindfolded and hands tightly bound behind his back, the nervous candidate was led down an eerie, circuitous passageway. His unknown guide, distinguished by a hauntingly familiar odor, offered only an occasional guttural utterance. They trudged on, the silence broken by the erratic sound of their footsteps on the steep, uneven ground.

The sound of dripping water became apparent, and it grew cooler as a mysterious mixture of smoke and musky earthen aroma greeted his nostrils. The faint sounds of male voices arose, growing in volume. In unison, the monotone voices solemnly chanted:

This is your moment of truth before the Sacred Council. As descendents of the Greek temple builders and medieval artisans, honed by the Renaissance and centuries of design evolution, we hereby examine your worthiness for admittance to this revered brotherhood.

The guide pressed him onto a bench, the loud, repetitive droning surrounding him.

It suddenly stopped. He sat waiting for a signal, only the sound of water dripping in the background.

The hands of his guide startled him, as they deftly loosened and dropped the blindfold. The aspirant first squinted, then his eyes grew wide, seeing the semicircular table on a raised podium surrounding him. Around it sat nine men in white robes, staring at him from identical masks.

The voluminous space was dimly illuminated by an array of large candles fanned out behind them, arranged on massive, Stonehenge-like pillars. The backlit faces displayed a grotesquely indiscernible yet common countenance, eliciting a bizarre feeling of déjà vu.

A low table with a large element on top, concealed by a draped, crimson cloth, lay between him and the mysterious group. A spotlight suddenly appeared from above, focusing on the fabric, emblazoned with a woven white Temple of Apollo.

A loud voice erupted. You have been brought before the Council for judgment of your worthiness for admittance to La Fratellanza di Architetti. Do you wish to proceed?

Yes, said the aspiring architect meekly, suddenly recognizing Pietro Castelano, his merciless former professor. The guide stepped forward and cut the bindings that pinched his wrist, causing his hands to throb in pain.

So be it, said the chieftain. These polished granite masses before you are precisely-crafted geometric shapes. You must prove yourself worthy of the Fratellanza by a synthesis of the elements into a logical, aesthetically-pleasing composition. You have five minutes to do so, starting now.

The applicant stared in disbelief.

He who hesitates is lost! boomed the Chieftain.

Quickly accepting his fate, he lurched forward, working feverishly to achieve an ordered and artful configuration.

In what seemed like no time at all, the Chieftain said, You have ten seconds.

Startled, he quickly placed the final pieces on top, a pair of spheres located atop flanking rectangular masses, with an undulating roof-like element between.

Stop. Your time is up! The candidate jerked back as one of the spheres fell to the floor.

Leave it! yelled the leader, halting the applicant’s awkward retrieval. Then, slowly raising his hand, the Leader said, The moment of truth has arrived. All those who judge this candidate to be unworthy of the Fratellanza so signify by raising your hand.

As the eight others slowly raised their hands in unison, the examinee pleaded. Wait, let me explain my concept!

Quiet. You know the punishment for failure. Take him away.

No, wait! he cried as the guide roughly bound his hands. Wait!

Matt jerked awake, awash in cold sweat. His strange nightmare had returned. He cursed under his breath and rolled over in his dampened bed.

**********

April 8, 2003

The mechanical hum of the air conditioning, programmed to begin at precisely seven-thirty a.m., announced that the official workday had started for the firm of Atkins and Associates. For Matt, it signaled that the day’s most productive work session was winding down. The other architects and interns would soon be marching in and the telephone would start ringing.

He paused from his computer work, resting his mind and eyes. Leaning his broad shoulders back in his chair, he surveyed his cubicle full of drawings, design specifications and product samples, all competing for his attention. He rose and headed for the coffee pot to get his second cup. A row of clerestory windows provided ample light, while preventing the staff from being distracted by outside activities. Old man Atkins had made sure that his production team stayed focused.

Matt returned to his task, calculating the net leasable space on his typical floor plan. He’d run the calculations twice now after reducing the elevator lobby a bit, and was satisfied with the efficiency rate. Hobson had been very specific that anything less than 78% efficiency was unacceptable to Apex Properties.

When Wes Froehling, the project structural engineer, had called last week to tell him that the column bay spacing had to be reduced, it had thrown him for a loop. The design development package was due in three weeks, and he was suddenly faced with major redesign of his floor plans. His carefully designed exterior elevations were toast.

Wes should have cleared the use of post-tensioned slabs with him before laying out his columns. While post-tensioning allowed longer spans, some owners didn’t allow it due to the difficulty in suspending piping and ductwork from it. It was just too easy to damage the tension cables with fasteners, compromising the structural integrity. It was especially a problem when dealing with future retrofit work. By that time, the workers hanging new cable trays or other devices didn’t have a clue where the tendons were buried in the concrete. They’d need to hire a testing firm to employ nuclear or x-ray devices, and counting on that level of responsibility from construction companies was just too risky.

Hobson was Vice President of Apex Properties, one of the largest real estate developers in the Southeast. In addition to slab reinforcing, he knew more about office buildings than most architects, thus Matt really had to be on his toes. The day that Win Atkins, the firm principal, called him into his office to tell him he was assigning the project to Matt, he made clear the importance of this project to the firm. Not only was Apex a new client, but they were potentially a huge one. Matt remembered his words precisely:

"Matt, we’ve got a new medical office building for Apex. It’s a thirty million dollar project, four stories with about 150,000 square feet, located near Westside Hospital. I want you to be Project Architect. This is a golden opportunity for us, and I know you won’t let us down. If we can continue to get one or two of Apex’s projects a year, we could increase our revenues by 50%. I’m told they’ve already gotten about half of it pre-leased, but that’s contingent on