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fundamentals. Quality began to suffer. Corners were cut. Launch dates were missed. Vehicle designs began to slip. However, as long as the company was making record profits, few were willing to challenge the pugnacious Nasser.
    But it had all become too much for Bill Ford.
    Like most members of the Ford family, he had intense pride inthe company that bore his name. The Fords were keenly aware that theirs was the last great industrial dynasty in the United States. They were the custodians of Old Henry’s vision. Like him, they had genuine concern for the people who depended on the company for their livelihoods. A month after Bill Ford took over as chairman, a massive explosion ripped through the powerhouse at the Rouge, killing seven workers and injuring many more. Ford rushed to the scene before the fires were even out, followed the wounded to area hospitals, and spent hours consoling grieving family members. He spent the next several days attending the funerals. This was what made Ford different from all the other automakers. It was why many workers still said they worked at Ford’s, not Ford.
    The idea of Ford employees suing the company hurt Bill Ford deeply. So did the angry letters he was getting from dealers, many of whom he knew personally. He feared that the rapid-fire changes Nasser was making were beginning to do real damage—not only to the company, but to the Ford name as well. He decided to do something to stop it before it was too late.

    I n 2000, Irv Hockaday was nearing the end of his distinguished career as the president and CEO of another family-owned company, Hallmark Cards. The bespectacled, white-haired executive with a thick midwestern accent was elected to the automaker’s board in 1987 and had been mentoring Bill Ford ever since he joined a year later. Now he listened quietly as his young protégé outlined his concerns about Nasser. Hockaday agreed that the flamboyant CEO was moving faster than many of the directors would have liked, but Hockaday had rarely worried about how the company was being run under the buttoned-down leadership of men like Petersen and Trotman. He was not sure he should begin to now.
    “Well, Bill, you know Jac has a world of experience. He’s an aggressive guy. He’s kind of thinking out of the box,” Hockaday said after hearing Ford out. “Relative to his level of experience, you’re still kind of wet behind the ears. I wouldn’t make a big deal out of it now.”
    He suggested that they watch and wait. Reluctantly, Ford agreed.
    Then the wheels came off. Literally.
    In early 2000, the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration began investigating reports of fatal accidents involving Ford Explorers equipped with Firestone tires. The tires were prone to suffering catastrophic failures when driven at high speed in hot weather, causing the vehicle to roll over. That was Ford’s take at least. Japan’s Bridgestone, which had purchased Firestone in 1988, claimed Ford’s SUV was the real culprit. Consumer advocates blamed both companies and also accused them of covering up the problem.
    The U.S. government ordered Firestone to recall 6.5 million tires. In an effort to restore consumer confidence, Ford decided to recall 13 million more at a cost of $2.1 billion. As the number of deaths blamed on the problem climbed past 140, both companies became the targets of major class-action lawsuits. They severed their century-long relationship, at least in the United States, and began tearing each other apart in court. All of this litigation would ultimately cost Ford hundreds of millions of dollars. But it would do far greater damage to its brand image.
    Meanwhile, America was entering another recession. Ford’s sales dropped dramatically—partly as a result of the economy, partly because consumers were starting to notice that its products were slipping. Earnings were down by more than 50 percent at the end of 2000, and 2001 was looking much, much worse. As recalls and