Starting Over

When the planes slammed into the World Trade Center on Sept. 11, few companies were as hard-hit as a small, close-knit firm called Sandler O'Neill. Of the 83 people in the office that morning, only 17 got out alive. Employees lost mentors, assistants lost bosses, friends lost friends. This is the story of what happened next.

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Ground Zero
On the morning of Sept. 11, Karen Fishman arrived late to work. It was 8:45. She'd been at the office well past 11 the night before, running some numbers for a very important deal the firm was putting together. It was going to be the largest transaction in Sandler O'Neill's history, a $700 million bond offering involving 54 clients and three types of securities. By the time Fishman got to her desk, the place was already buzzing. Sandler's bond salesmen were schmoozing up their clients. James Colbert, a junior research assistant, was standing at the copy machine making copies for his boss, Chris Orgielewicz. Herman Sandler was in Chris Quackenbush's office, commiserating, likely as not, about the Yankees rainout the night before. Quackenbush had tickets to the game, and if it had been played, he probably would not have come in to work so early.

It was, as we all now know, a brilliant morning. The window in Quackenbush's office offered a spectacular New York panorama, from lower Manhattan all the way to Harlem. It also had a clear view of World Trade Tower One, next door.

A minute later, Fishman heard an explosion. It was the first tower. She didn't feel panic or fear, but her body began to shake. She stepped out into the hallway to see what was going on. Quackenbush and Sandler came rushing into the hall and headed toward the trading floor. As they passed her, Fishman heard one of them say, "A plane hit the other building."

In the hallway, Fishman ran into two Sandler executives. They were putting on their jackets. "We're getting the hell out of here," one of them said, heading for the stairwell. Fishman followed. "I don't know why I left," she says now. "I don't know that it was a conscious decision. It was instinct." She adds, "So much depended on who you saw right at that moment."

Colbert, at the copier, didn't hear the explosion, just a commotion on the trading floor. When he stepped out into the hallway, he saw John Kline, a senior analyst. "Let's get out of here," said Kline, who had seen a huge fireball burning on the roof of one of the smaller buildings below. As Colbert and Kline headed for the stairs, they took three other people with them. There were 83 Sandler people in the office that morning. Only 17 left in time.

Between 8:46 and 9:02, no one panicked. The people who stayed behind spent those moments calling their families, friends, and clients to let them know they were all right. A trader who had been on the squawk box started describing what was happening for the out-of-town employees listening in on the morning call. Quackenbush talked to his best friend's wife. "We're okay," he told Susan Dunne. Herman Sandler searched for the telephone number of the building's fire marshal. He also called his wife, Suki. "It was terrorists," he told her.

Why didn't everyone at Sandler O'Neill run when they had the chance? Because they had been through something like this before--and that time, running had been the wrong thing to do. In February 1993 a bomb went off in the basement of the World Trade Center, just four days after Sandler O'Neill had moved into its new headquarters on the 104th floor. After the bomb exploded, those who tried to go down the stairs were engulfed in smoke. Those who escaped to the roof sat freezing for hours, waiting to be rescued. But those who stayed put were barely inconvenienced. "I think the safest place to be is right here," Sandler told one of the firm's investment bankers after the first plane hit. Still, a partner named Jace Day recalls hearing Sandler telling people, "Whoever wants to leave can leave." Day, who stepped onto a down elevator at 8:53, was the last survivor to see Sandler alive.

Karen Fishman was on the 64th floor when the fire marshal announced that it was safe to go back upstairs. She considered turning around, but the stairs were too crowded, so she kept walking down. She was on the 62nd floor when the second plane hit. The building swayed; the stairwell doors buckled. When Fishman finally got outside, the scene was terrible. Large chunks of metal were in flames. Shattered glass, burned paper, and body parts were strewn across the concourse. The smell of death was everywhere.

We'll never know exactly what happened up on the 104th floor after the second plane hit. There are only fragments now, moments embedded in the memories of those who heard them. An assistant was on the phone with her husband when the plane hit. "Oh, my God," were her last words. A trader called his wife: "There is smoke everywhere. People are dying all around me."

Out on the concourse, Fishman started running north. Mark Fitzgibbon, who was with her, said, "Look. The top of our building is gone." But she didn't look back.

Jimmy Dunne was on the sixth hole of the Bedford Golf and Tennis Club in Westchester, N.Y., when the planes hit. He was trying to qualify for the U.S. Mid-Amateur Championship golf tournament. What was Dunne doing on the golf course on a workday? In his 20-plus years on Wall Street, he had achieved everything he'd ever hoped for. Now he was on "the back nine," as he liked to put it.

Dunne raced back to the pro shop in time to see the WTC buildings collapse. He called his wife, Susan, but she was too upset to speak to him; a family friend who was keeping her company got on the phone. "Who was in there?" Dunne asked. "Chris? Herman? Tommy? Ken?" He reeled off the names of his partners and closest friends. All of them had been inside. He spent the next few hours on the phone, and then got on a train and began making his way back to New York City.

Dunne got into Grand Central Station a little after 5 p.m. Still in his golf clothes, he began running the six blocks to 48th Street, where Sandler had a small office--and where employees had been gathering all day. When Dunne got to 46th Street, though, he starting walking. "I thought, I can't run in there all crazed. I needed to arrive with a sense of calmness. I knew people were going to look to me," he recalls.

Later, Sandler O'Neill employees would remember Dunne declaring from the start that the firm would rebuild. His conviction gave them strength. "He made us feel like, 'I'll show you the path through the trees,' " says one young investment banker. But Dunne can't remember anything he said that day. Here's what he remembers. He got home around 4 a.m. He kissed his wife. He called his sister. He looked in on his three children. He took a shower and shaved. Then he put on a suit and headed back to 48th Street. Jimmy Dunne had always hated wearing suits; he'd argued for years in favor of casual dress, something Herman Sandler abhorred. But everything was different now.

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