The company's competitive strategy was built on Mitchell's belief in teamwork through communication. Typically, building a custom project devolved into a finger-pointing contest between the architect and the builder, with each assuring the owner that the other was responsible for going over budget. But at Mad Dog, Mitchell insisted on working with architects and meeting with them regularly. He also sat down with the client once a week. "Everybody was on the same team, as opposed to the mentality of 'I'll make money out of every one of your screwups," Mitchell explains.
Within the company -- which grew to 75 employees and revenues of just under $10 million by the mid-1980s -- everybody gathered each Friday afternoon at 2 o'clock to talk about the past week and plan for the week ahead. Though Mitchell recognized that "the land co-op operated with more of a consensus than a business can," he wanted to replicate the feel of the co-op meetings, at which members had mulled over such matters as, say, the shape of the swimming pool. At the co-op all those who owned land -- even those who didn't live on it -- received a newsletter keeping them abreast of "the decision-making process," Mitchell says. Upon arriving at GTO, Mitchell installed a mosaic of meetings designed to promote communication between different levels and departments.
Mitchell firmly believed that it was not his job to coax people into working but rather to "make them comfortable" so they'd feel "we'll take care of you if you give us your best effort." In moves he would later duplicate at GTO, Mitchell offered Mad Dog employees disability insurance, and he gave many of them a personal stake in the form of company stock. Because he sought an "intelligent and committed workforce," Mitchell also encouraged carpenters to add new skills so they could earn their contractor's licenses. At last count 22 former Mad Dog employees had started their own contracting businesses. "I think it's neat," Mitchell says. "Of course, I don't think it's as neat when they take jobs from us." But, he adds, "you do the right thing, and that gets you stuff down the road."
And down that road Mitchell savors the view, surrounded by "dreams we had made into reality for people," as he puts it. One of those dreams, a few miles north on Highway 319, is Water Oak Plantation, an 80-acre site with a 7,500-square-foot home. It was 1979 when a Wall Street refugee came to Mitchell and his Mad Dog partner, the younger Laurie Dozier, and hired them to restore the place. He insisted on joining the crew himself, stripping shingles and digging ditches. There he was every day, loudly deciding and redeciding how he wanted that wall framed, or what color paint he liked. "Laying out a long-term plan and following that plan was never his strong suit," says Mitchell.
Even Mitchell's own lifelong plan -- which called for living in a swamp and managing "a business I loved" called Mad Dog -- would not survive his relationship with that man.
His name, of course, was Lester Tabb.
* * *
The Mitchell brothers were on their annual golf weekend when John Mitchell took the call. So groggy and unconvinced was he that he asked the caller to phone back and tell him again. The second time, it began to sink in: Lester had been struck by a heart attack while horseback riding. They had tried their best to revive him. "Chuck and I drove home in a weird, eerie silence," recalls John.
Five months later, in December 1993, Mitchell stepped in to run GTO.
By the time he did, he knew he had to come up with a new mission for the company -- not that he saw any need for a mission statement. "If you write it down, you feel you've dealt with it," explains Mitchell. "A mission is something you live and breathe everyday."
Certainly, he had a clear set of goals. Even before negotiating a salary with GTO's board, he insisted that it agree to put aside 5% of net profits in a profit-sharing plan. "But wait," protested accountant and board member Benson Skelton, "what if we make $1 million? That will come to a lot of money." Yes, it will, replied Mitchell, who got his way. Though he threatened otherwise, Mitchell admits, "I never even thought about not taking the job. This was a triage situation, and I was the handiest doctor standing around. Besides, they all looked at me like, 'You got us into this sucker. Now you get us out."
With his good name, he knew he could secure a $300,000 line of credit for GTO from the bank -- though he did not hesitate to tell folks that he had personally guaranteed it, believing that "people work off of guilt real well" -- and get a letter of credit, which would make suppliers more likely to deliver and would mean employees would waste less time getting checks cut. He could toughen up on collection by setting policies and hiring someone to follow them. A year ago 50% of accounts receivable were past due. Now that figure is down to below 30%. He could further improve the financials (see "By the Numbers: A Company Turnaround," page 7) by restructuring the company's building lease, paying off some high-interest bank notes, and purchasing in volume. He also raised prices, after beefing up the customer-service department.
Still, "any company in which there isn't trust is a company with one hand tied behind its back," Mitchell maintains. Not that he was na've about it. At Mad Dog he was horrified when a bookkeeper swiped $1,000 from the company. "My employees could personally hurt me because I trust them," he says. "But to have that kind of trust, you need to make yourself vulnerable."
That was, oddly enough, the exact opposite of founder Tabb's credo: "Once we hit the jackpot," he'd say, "I'm going to make it all up to you." "Until you start treating people well, you are not going to make big money," Mitchell contends. "We had good people who weren't being asked the right questions."
Immediately after taking over, Mitchell began asking them. One by one he trotted employees into his office for chats that ran as long as an hour. "What aspects of our organization and structure prevent you from being able to do your job better?" he'd ask, consulting one of his formidable lists. He asked about the company and its future, and he appealed to them for any advice or suggestions.
