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O
n November 18, as Mulally headed for the nation’s capital, Ford demonstrated just how dire the situation in Detroit had become, announcing that it was selling most of its stake in Mazda for $538 million. For that price, it hardly seemed worth it. But Ford was desperate.

Mulally had always thought Ford was using the Japanese automaker as a crutch. He had wanted to get rid of it from the start, but Derrick Kuzak had talked him out of it. Ford’s product development chief believed the two companies complemented each other. Ford’s new small cars would be based on platforms jointly developed by both automakers, and they had already begun working on even more advanced architectures. Kuzak argued that Mazda gave Ford a valuable window into the world of Japanese manufacturing and automotive engineering—one that Ford shut at its own peril. Mazda alums like Mark Fields and Lewis Booth had also made powerful arguments for maintaining Ford’s controlling stake in the Hiroshima company. But Don Leclair had lobbied hard for selling Mazda before he left Ford, contending that Ford’s need for cash trumped all of these concerns. Almost all of Ford’s other assets had been pledged as collateral. Ford
could sell them, but there were restrictions on how it could use the proceeds. Mazda was one of the few assets that could still be turned into cash. And Ford now needed all the cash it could get.

As usual, Mulally did not force the issue. He allowed a consensus to develop organically. The team agreed on a compromise: instead of selling all of its shares, Ford would retain 13 percent of Mazda.
^*
Both companies hoped that would be enough to guarantee future collaboration. With characteristic pluck, Mazda chose to view Ford’s decision as an endorsement of the progress it had made since Mulally-san’s first visit to Hiroshima back in 2007. But Japanese analysts were skeptical of its ability to stand on its own.

L
ater that afternoon, Mulally and his entourage arrived at the Dirksen Senate Office Building, an imposing 1950s edifice across the street from the U.S. Capitol. Ojakli was confident his boss was about to deliver another great performance. He and other members of Ford’s government affairs team had spent days preparing Mulally for his testimony before the two congressional committees. They had worked their sources on Capitol Hill to find out what sort of information the legislators were looking for, then spent hours closeted with Mulally inside Ford’s Washington office going over the various personalities on each committee and putting him through a regular murder board until he could manage the toughest questions with ease. They role-played every conceivable scenario and threw out tough questions, trying to trip him up. But Mulally handled everything they threw at him with characteristic aplomb.

He’s going to be fabulous
, Ojakli thought as Mulally—wearing his customary blue blazer, button-down blue shirt, and red tie—strode through the door and smiled confidently at the phalanx of cameramen and photographers who had crammed themselves into Room 538. Senator Dodd took one look at the crowd and joked that he
should have held the hearing at nearby RFK Stadium. Mulally took his place between Nardelli and Gettelfinger at the long witness table in front of the raised dais where the senators sat, and then read a succinct opening statement that focused on the progress Ford had already made on its own turnaround plan.

“Much of the recent commentary has suggested that our companies need a new business model. I completely agree. In fact, we at Ford are well on our way to transforming our company and building a new Ford that I believe has a very bright future,” he said, pointing out that Ford had already closed seventeen factories, reduced its workforce by 51,000 employees in North America, negotiated a game-changing contract with the UAW, sold off foreign brands, and begun the process of remaking its entire vehicle lineup to break its dependency on big trucks and SUVs. “The speed and the breadth of our transformation is evident by actions just this week alone. Tomorrow at the Los Angeles Auto Show, we will introduce two all-new hybrids. Our new Ford Fusion Hybrid beats the Toyota Camry Hybrid by at least six miles per gallon. Today, we are submitting our application for direct loans, authorized by Congress last year, to help us speed advanced technologies and vehicles to the market. On Friday, we end large SUV production at our Michigan Truck Plant and we begin converting to fuel-efficient small car production.”

As crouching photographers snapped away by his feet, Mulally pointed out that Ford had returned to profitability before the economy imploded and was still trying to deal with the unprecedented industry downturn on its own.

“We believe we must join our competitors today in asking for your support to gain access to an industry bridge loan that will help us navigate through this difficult economic crisis,” he said. “We at Ford are hopeful that we have enough liquidity. But we also must prepare ourselves for the prospect of further deteriorating economic conditions in 2009. In addition, the collapse of one of our competitors would have a severe impact on Ford and our transformation plan, because the domestic auto industry is highly interdependent. It would also have devastating ripple effects across the entire U.S. economy.”

The message was clear: We are not in trouble, but the other guys
at this table are. And if they go down, we could, too—unless you help us out. But it soon became clear that few on the committee were inclined to do that, at least not until they made the three CEOs and their colleague from the UAW pay for their sins.

“Why should we believe that your firms are capable of restructuring now when you were unable to do so under better conditions—more benign conditions?” drawled Senator Richard Shelby, a Republican from Alabama, home to more foreign automobile factories than any other state. “A lot of people think you’ve already failed, that your model has failed, that you’re here to get life support. You’ve burned billions collectively—the three of you—you’ve burned billions and billions and billions of dollars trying to turn around your industry.”

Shelby’s face contorted into a grimace of disgust as he addressed the three CEOs. He looked like a man surveying a pile of rotting corpses.

“I’m sure if you got twenty-five billion [dollars] you’d want twenty-five or thirty or forty more,” he sneered.

Even the supposedly sympathetic committee chairman got in a few licks.

“I support efforts to assist the industry,” Dodd said. “[But] their boardrooms and executive suites have been famously devoid of vision.”

The sharpest criticism was leveled at General Motors and Chrysler. A few senators came right out and said they thought that Ford had done more to address its faults than GM and Chrysler had. But Mulally was clearly taken aback by the sheer venom of the senators’ attacks. He did his best to respond to the committee’s often pointed questions amicably, but he was not his usual eloquent self. By the time Dodd gaveled the hearing to a close, Mulally was exhausted. He hoped the next day’s House hearing would go better. But it would prove far worse.

On November 19, America awoke to the news that all three CEOs had traveled to the nation’s capital on private corporate jets. From the reaction that sparked, one would have thought they had been carried there on the backs of Bangladeshi children.

“The CEOs of GM, Ford, and Chrysler will be back before Congress
today to ask for twenty-five
billion
dollars they say they need or will go out of business. Yet, that hasn’t stopped them from traveling in style. Even
first class
isn’t good enough for those three,” declared an ABC News reporter on
Good Morning America
, shaking his head in disdain before cutting to a hazy shot of Rick Wagoner boarding a GM Gulfstream, followed by shaky footage of Mulally leaving the Senate hearing the day before, apparently ignoring the questions being shouted at him by the reporter. It was Fields in Florida all over again. Only this time, there was a long line of grandstanding politicians waiting to pile on, too.

“There’s a delicious irony in seeing private luxury jets flying into Washington, D.C., and people coming off of them with tin cups in their hands,” observed Representative Gary Ackerman, a Democrat from New York, during the House hearing later that day. “It’s almost like seeing a guy show up at the soup kitchen in high hat and tuxedo. It kind of makes you a little bit suspicious as to whether or not, as Mr. Mulally said, ‘We’ve seen the future.’ And it causes at least some of us to think, ‘Have we seen the future?’ I mean, there’s a message there. I mean, couldn’t you all have downgraded to first class or jet-pooled or something to get here?”

Ackerman had not felt the need to ask the Wall Street bankers who precipitated the economic crisis how they traveled when he voted for their $700 billion bailout a month earlier. But at least he was civil. Other representatives actually shouted at Mulally and the other two CEOs, launching verbal assaults that made the previous day’s questioning seem genteel.

“We’re not sure we trust you!” bellowed Michael Capuano, a Democrat from Massachusetts. “My fear is, you’re going to take this money and continue the same stupid decisions you’ve made for twenty-five years!”

Once again, most of their fury was directed at Wagoner and Nardelli, but Mulally took his share of abuse, too. It got to him—particularly the endless jabs about the jets. He kept reminding himself that the lawmakers had a right to be angry at the American automobile industry, but his answers started to take on an arrogant edge.

When Democrat Emanuel Cleaver of Missouri asked how much
of the $25 billion Ford needed, Mulally simply said Ford would take whatever was left after GM and Chrysler took what they needed.

“ ‘Whatever’s left, I’ll take?’ ” asked the congressman, shaking his head. “This is loosey-goosey.”

It got worse when Representative Peter Roskam, an Illinois Republican, asked the three CEOs if they would be willing to work for one dollar a year, as Chrysler CEO Lee Iacocca famously had after negotiating a government bailout back in 1980. Nardelli said he would. Wagoner said he had already cut his own salary in half, but would not rule it out. Roskam gestured toward Mulally.

“We have eliminated our bonuses also, and any salary increases,” said Ford’s CEO.

“Okay. Are you willing to go down to the dollar?”

“I understand your point about the symbol and clearly the intent of what you’re asking,” Mulally replied wearily. “But we’re trying to field a skilled and motivated team also. And it’s just so important that, as we do this plan, we have the team that we need. So, I understand the intent, but I think where we are is okay.”

“Okay. Just so I’m clear, I’m not asking about the
team;
I’m just asking about
you
,” Roskam said, glaring at Mulally over his glasses.

“I understand.”

“And the answer is no?”

“Uh, I think I’m okay where I am.”

Ojakli, who was sitting behind his boss, cringed.

A
fter spending most of that fall saving Wall Street from itself, Congress had lost its appetite for helping the private sector. Many lawmakers were already getting an earful about “corporate welfare” from angry constituents. Congress went home for the Thanksgiving holiday without acting on the automakers’ request, but it did offer them the consolation prize of a second chance. Pelosi and Reid would summon their colleagues back for a lame-duck session and hold a second round of hearings in December. But this time, each of the companies would be required to submit a “credible restructuring plan.”

There would be no Thanksgiving recess at Ford.

Mulally flew back to Michigan on the Ford Gulfstream, still reeling from the drubbing that he and the other two CEOs had taken at the hands of Congress. He understood why lawmakers were disappointed in the American automobile industry. He understood why they were reluctant to help. But he resented the way so many of them lumped Ford together with General Motors and Chrysler. Under his leadership, Ford had acknowledged its problems and was well on its way to fixing them when the economy fell apart. GM and Chrysler had stubbornly insisted that they knew better until it was too late. Ford was a sober alcoholic. They were two stumbling drunks. But all Congress saw was three winos.