I never trust an executive who tends to pass the buck. Nor would

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the city glazed in a thin film of silver light. The neon signs flickered outside a small corporate café, their reflections trembling on the wet glass. Inside, the hum of late-night conversations mingled with the clinking of cups and the low buzz of an espresso machine.
Jack sat by the window, his suit jacket draped over the chair, his tie loosened, eyes fixed on the steam curling from his coffee. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her notebook open, her fingers tracing a half-finished sentence. There was a quiet tension, the kind that comes when principles meet the real world.

Jeeny: “You know, I read something today that stuck with me — James Cash Penney once said, ‘I never trust an executive who tends to pass the buck. Nor would I want to deal with him as a customer or a supplier.’”
She looked up, her eyes glimmering with a mix of admiration and sadness. “I think that kind of integrity is almost extinct, Jack.”

Jack: (smirking slightly) “Integrity’s a luxury these days, Jeeny. In the real world, people pass the buck because it’s safer. You make one bad call, you’re out. The ones who survive? They’re the ones who know how to deflect blame.”

Host: A gust of wind brushed against the window, carrying the sound of distant traffic. The light overhead flickered once, then steadied, bathing their faces in pale amber.

Jeeny: “So you’re saying cowardice is a business strategy now?”
Jack: “I’m saying self-preservation is. You think CEOs climb to the top by taking every bullet themselves? No, they delegate — and sometimes, that means passing the buck.”

Jeeny: “Delegation is not blame-shifting, Jack. They’re not the same thing. Delegation is trust — passing responsibility with faith in another’s ability. But when you shift blame, you destroy that trust.”

Jack: “Trust?” (he let out a dry laugh) “That’s the most fragile currency in business. You remember Enron? Everyone trusted someone else to be honest. Everyone delegated. But when it collapsed, the whole house of cards fell — and no one took the blame.”

Host: The steam from their cups rose, twisting like small ghosts between them. Outside, a delivery truck passed, its headlights cutting through the mist, throwing a flash of light across their faces — one cold, one warm.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the point, Jack. If someone — anyone — had stood up and said, ‘This was my failure, my responsibility,’ maybe the company wouldn’t have imploded the way it did. People lost their savings, their homes, their dignity. Leaders who can’t own their mistakes shouldn’t be called leaders.”

Jack: “And yet, those same leaders often come back. Different companies, same story. Because people don’t care about responsibility, Jeeny — they care about results. As long as the numbers look good, nobody asks who took the fall.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the sickness of it all? That we’ve made success more important than honesty? That we worship results but forget about the souls crushed beneath them?”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, but not with fear — with fire. Jack looked at her, his grey eyes narrowing, as if her words had struck a nerve he thought long buried.

Jack: “You think you can run a company with idealism? That kind of thinking belongs in poetry, not profit reports. If you hesitate to protect yourself, you’ll get eaten alive. You want an example? Look at the whistleblowers — the ones who tell the truth. They lose their jobs, their families, sometimes even their lives.”

Jeeny: “And yet, they’re the ones who change the world. Erin Brockovich. Sherron Watkins at Enron. They stood for something, Jack. They carried the burden instead of pushing it onto someone else. That’s the kind of executive Penney was talking about — the kind who owns not just their success, but their mistakes.”

Host: A brief silence settled between them. The rain began again, softly, tapping against the glass like hesitant applause. Jack leaned back, exhaling, his jaw tightening.

Jack: “You know what happens to those people, Jeeny? They get forgotten. Or worse — they get punished. Meanwhile, the smooth talkers, the buck-passers, they move up. That’s the reality. You call it cowardice. I call it adaptation.”

Jeeny: “Then what are we adapting to, Jack? A world where we fear being accountable? Where everyone’s just covering their own tracks while the truth drowns in paperwork?”

Jack: “Maybe that’s just how the system works. Maybe integrity isn’t about always taking the hit. Maybe it’s about surviving long enough to make a difference.”

Jeeny: “No. Survival without honor isn’t living, it’s just enduring. The moment you start passing the buck, you stop being a leader and start being a shadow. People feel it — even if they don’t say it. You can sense when someone’s carrying weight or just pretending.”

Host: Jack’s hand moved to his cup, but he didn’t drink. His reflection in the window looked older suddenly, as though her words had peeled away something — the armor he’d worn for years. Jeeny waited, the sound of rain filling the space where his voice should have been.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never passed the buck yourself.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “I have. Once. And it still haunts me. I saw a junior analyst take the blame for an error I missed. She was let go. I stayed silent. That silence cost me more than any mistake ever could.”

Host: Her voice broke slightly, but her gaze held firm. Jack’s eyes softened, his posture easing as though the confession had broken a hidden tension between them.

Jack: “You’re not the only one haunted. When I was in my first management role, I let a team take heat for a missed deadline. It wasn’t their fault — I’d miscalculated. I told myself it was just part of the game. But sometimes, when I see their faces… I wonder if I’d have respected myself more if I’d just taken the hit.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we both understand what Penney meant. It’s not just about trusting others — it’s about being someone worthy of trust. Someone who can stand in the storm and say, ‘This was mine.’”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Yeah. Maybe it’s not about survival after all. Maybe it’s about what’s left of you when you’re done surviving.”

Host: The rain eased into a gentle drizzle, and the city lights shimmered through the mist like faint stars. Jeeny closed her notebook, her fingers lingering on its cover. Jack finally took a sip of his coffee, now cold, but somehow still comforting.

Jeeny: “Do you think people can change, Jack? Can a leader who’s spent years passing the buck learn to carry it instead?”
Jack: “If he wants to. If he remembers what it felt like to be the one carrying someone else’s mistake.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked softly, marking the final moments of their conversation. The rain had stopped completely now. A faint beam of moonlight broke through the clouds, falling across the table between them — illuminating both their faces in quiet, equal light.

Jeeny: “Then maybe there’s still hope — for all of us.”
Jack: “Maybe. But only if we stop pretending we’re just doing our jobs and start admitting we’re shaping other people’s lives.”

Host: They sat in silence, the city breathing beyond the window, its lights flickering like tiny truths waiting to be owned. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn echoed — a reminder that the world kept moving, with or without their confessions.
But for this moment, in that small café, two souls had chosen accountability over comfort. And that, perhaps, was the truest kind of leadership.