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Authors: Duff Mcdonald
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way. “He was abrasive and could make you crazy,” recalls Magner. “But there was always something endearing about him.” Dimon, for example, had no compunction about voicing his Democratic political views in a boardroom full of Republicans—which included former President Gerald Ford. Compulsively chewing the ends of ballpoint pens, Dimon was a most unusual hybrid, the accounting nerd who had expansive views on public policy.
He was also capable of the occasional outright power play. Sandy Weill had sensed during the IPO road show that Dimon considered Greg Fitz-Gerald an obstacle, and it was not long before the obstacle was removed. In the earliest days of forming the company, the team had a white board in a conference room showing the company’s lines of reporting. One day, as a number of executives sat around the table, Dimon walked into the room, wiped out all the names under Fitz-Gerald, rewrote them all underneath his own name, and walked out. “Nobody dared change it, of course,” says one executive. “It was the kind of move I never would have believed if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.” Shortly thereafter, Fitz-Gerald left the company.
Young as he was, Dimon built his own coterie of disciples at Commercial Credit. One was Charlie Scharf, a graduate of Johns Hopkins with a cocky streak akin to Dimon’s. Scharf’s father had been a broker at Shearson under Weill, and sent his son articles about Weill’s continuing adventures in Baltimore. Scharf initially replied that he hated Baltimore, and that his father should get it out of his head that his son might actually work there after graduating; but he later asked if his father could line up an interview.
The two men hit it off. While still in college, Scharf began working for Dimon part-time, and by the end of the year he was Dimon’s assistant. Life with Dimon was anything but boring. After just a few weeks on the job, Scharf was in Dimon’s office when Sandy Weill walked in. Scharf stopped speaking—Weill made most employees a little nervous—but Weill insisted that Scharf continue. Before long, the young man was stammering, so Dimon took over answering Weill’s questions. Before long, he and Weill were at each other’s throat. Scharf was petrified. “Is Jamie going to get fired?” he thought to himself. “What the hell is going on here?” And then as quickly as it had started, the argument came to a close. Dimon had made one final point, to which Weill merely said, “Oh, OK, I get it,” and turned and left the office.
Dimon’s combustible relationship with Weill set the tone for how he dealt with colleagues in the early part of his career. Because he could be that way with Weill, he was that way with everyone. And this had both positive and negative effects. On the positive side, Dimon never felt the need to dance around an issue; he got straight to the point. On the negative side, he failed to hone his interpersonal office skills—because he didn’t have to.
(That’s not to say Dimon was unfair. In fact, to this day it is his obsession with fairness that is largely responsible for the loyalty he elicits from most people who work for him. He can and will fire people who don’t measure up, but it is rare for senior executives working for him to quit of their own accord.)
“Sandy and Jamie were in a constant state of battle over their intellectual capacities,” remembers Bob Lipp. “They also bet on little things. Sometimes we took the train to Baltimore, and they’d be standing on the platform, betting who would be closer to the door when the train stopped. They’d bet about anything.” Once, when Weill claimed that the sun rose 30 minutes later in Baltimore than it did in New York, Dimon countered that there was only a 10-minute difference. They bet on it, and in this case, Dimon won. Their hypercompetitiveness seemed to draw them together rather than push them apart, at least for a while. A decade later, the
He was also capable of the occasional outright power play. Sandy Weill had sensed during the IPO road show that Dimon considered Greg Fitz-Gerald an obstacle, and it was not long before the obstacle was removed. In the earliest days of forming the company, the team had a white board in a conference room showing the company’s lines of reporting. One day, as a number of executives sat around the table, Dimon walked into the room, wiped out all the names under Fitz-Gerald, rewrote them all underneath his own name, and walked out. “Nobody dared change it, of course,” says one executive. “It was the kind of move I never would have believed if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.” Shortly thereafter, Fitz-Gerald left the company.
Young as he was, Dimon built his own coterie of disciples at Commercial Credit. One was Charlie Scharf, a graduate of Johns Hopkins with a cocky streak akin to Dimon’s. Scharf’s father had been a broker at Shearson under Weill, and sent his son articles about Weill’s continuing adventures in Baltimore. Scharf initially replied that he hated Baltimore, and that his father should get it out of his head that his son might actually work there after graduating; but he later asked if his father could line up an interview.
The two men hit it off. While still in college, Scharf began working for Dimon part-time, and by the end of the year he was Dimon’s assistant. Life with Dimon was anything but boring. After just a few weeks on the job, Scharf was in Dimon’s office when Sandy Weill walked in. Scharf stopped speaking—Weill made most employees a little nervous—but Weill insisted that Scharf continue. Before long, the young man was stammering, so Dimon took over answering Weill’s questions. Before long, he and Weill were at each other’s throat. Scharf was petrified. “Is Jamie going to get fired?” he thought to himself. “What the hell is going on here?” And then as quickly as it had started, the argument came to a close. Dimon had made one final point, to which Weill merely said, “Oh, OK, I get it,” and turned and left the office.
Dimon’s combustible relationship with Weill set the tone for how he dealt with colleagues in the early part of his career. Because he could be that way with Weill, he was that way with everyone. And this had both positive and negative effects. On the positive side, Dimon never felt the need to dance around an issue; he got straight to the point. On the negative side, he failed to hone his interpersonal office skills—because he didn’t have to.
(That’s not to say Dimon was unfair. In fact, to this day it is his obsession with fairness that is largely responsible for the loyalty he elicits from most people who work for him. He can and will fire people who don’t measure up, but it is rare for senior executives working for him to quit of their own accord.)
“Sandy and Jamie were in a constant state of battle over their intellectual capacities,” remembers Bob Lipp. “They also bet on little things. Sometimes we took the train to Baltimore, and they’d be standing on the platform, betting who would be closer to the door when the train stopped. They’d bet about anything.” Once, when Weill claimed that the sun rose 30 minutes later in Baltimore than it did in New York, Dimon countered that there was only a 10-minute difference. They bet on it, and in this case, Dimon won. Their hypercompetitiveness seemed to draw them together rather than push them apart, at least for a while. A decade later, the
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