Many of the physical traits that were noted at the inquest by reporters, including his masklike face and speech difficulties (dysarthria), alternating tremors, and stooped posture, were attributed to the nervous system disorder of Parkinson’s disease, but the deeper, less obvious symptoms of depression and acute anxiety that had enveloped him was described to Van Norman by Dr. Raymond Taylor as “plain old shell shock.”
Anxiety-neurosis had been observed in soldiers in World War I, but once a soldier was removed from the stress of combat, symptoms generally disappeared. For Mulholland, however, still in the heat of battle, the tragedy proved to be a continuing source of anxiety. As tension increased, Mulholland found himself not only unable to rest or concentrate, but also experiencing heart palpitations, severe migraines, weakness of the limbs, and heightened irritability. Confiding in Van Norman, who related the information to Taylor, he also admitted to feelings of uneasiness, fear, dread, and panic.
In the immediate aftermath of the flood, Mulholland largely directed his energies to the immense details of the rescue operations, disassociating himself from his enormous sense of personal responsibility for the tragedy. He told Taylor that the horrific scenes of destruction during those first days had seemed unreal and remote, a pyschological defense not uncommon in persons confronted with unexpected tragedy. But on those rare nights when he was able to drop off to steep, he would suddenly awaken in a cold sweat from the nightmare that had been haunting him since the disaster: In the pitch black night, with lightning flashing ferociously above and raging waters ripping away huge chunks of concrete below, the great remaining center piece of the dam loomed up in his dreams as a giant tombstone, names of the flood victims etched on it in a never-ending list.
In reality, the last standing remnant of the dam was to be buried in a five-ton blast by the Department of Water and Power not long after the disaster. Amid a shower of debris and a rain of stone, the huge derelict, over ninety million pounds of concrete, came tumbling down, forever eradicating the last tangible image and hideous eyesore of the once-magnificent St. Francis Dam.
During the final days of the inquest, Mulholland was the first man seated in the Coroner’s courtroom. He would wave his hand somberly to the scores of reporters and photographers upon arrival; then sitting quietly, he would begin each day by absorbing himself in the details of the interrogation. But by day’s end, his melancholy gaze would drift to his hands or to the scenes of life out the window.
On the morning of March 23, after the dramatic testimonies of laborers Bennett and Matthews, and under strict instructions by coroner Nance to discuss the case with no one but themselves, the jurors traveled by bus to the dam site for a firsthand look. Twenty four hours earlier, a heavy rain had saturated the ground, activating the pungent smell of the decomposed matter, causing some jurors to clasp handkerchiefs to their noses as they slogged through the ankle, deep mud to the center piece. There they looked out at the valley below and saw the devastation wrought by the “tide of doom,” as the Los Angeles Times had called it, then scrambled down to the floor of the canyon and along the adjacent hillsides, pecking here and there with miner’s picks and hammers, taking samples of rock and concrete fragments to be analyzed in Los Angeles later. The staccato “rap-rap” of their small hammers and the echo of their muted conversations could be overheard by the still-patrolling guards and the ever-present press corps restricted to observing them from a nearby ridge.
First, the jurors obtained samples of the questionable shale or “schist” at what was the west wing of the dam, stuffing them into the pockets of their baggy, city-issue coveralls, and then cautiously moved across the precarious, mud-caked ridge that had supported the dam’s foundations and around the great center piece to the crest of the east wall, and there took more samples. The inspection lasted four hours, and during the ride back to Los Angeles the jurors viewed for the last time the path of destruction as it had roared through the valley.
Back in Los Angeles, using the latest core-cutting devices and modern scientific instruments to test crushing strength, it was ascertained that the quality of the concrete could be eliminated as a cause of the failure. The concrete was “clean, of good quality and adequate for the job,” stated the consensus report of the jurors, adding that after sixteen years, Mulholland’s aqueduct was still standing and functioning with precision, and he had used the same concrete mix in the construction of the St. Francis. Having settled the concrete question, the jurors turned to the problem of determining which side of the dam fell first.
With the absence of any evidence or testimony corroborating the dynamite theory that both sides were blasted simultaneously, the jurors were split into two camps—those believing the initial break occurred on the dam’s eastern side and those believing it occurred on or near an old earthquake fault line running on the west side. Reconstructing the events, the pro-east jurors speculated the water working against the soft, quartz mica schist on the west canyon wall finally eroded its support. Once the west wing went, the east wing, anchored into much denser material, collapsed in three places, toppling slightly inward as the escaping water undermined the foundation weighing on the canyon floor. Concrete dam fragments from the west wing had been discovered far downstream in the canyon, whereas huge concrete slabs from the east wing were piled in a heap close to the remaining center piece. Those who believed the east side fell first speculated unseen water percolating under its foundation resting on the old fault line caused the same action to occur.
Both theories were flawed. A Stevens gauge, an instrument that measured water flow into and out of the dam, was recovered from the control tower located in the center piece immediately after the break. It indicated the reservoir had lost as much as twenty-two hundred cubic feet per second in the time frame just before the failure. However, since the gauge—later seized from the Department of Water and Power by the district attorney’s office—could not accurately pinpoint the exact time of the loss, it could be used by seepage or sabotage theorists alike.
If the gauge’s water-loss readings were accurate, then leakage into the canyon prior to the dam’s failure would have been enormous, warning dam attendants on duty of impending danger. However, dam employees like Ray Rising had testified that they saw nothing unusual to arouse suspicion prior to the dam’s collapse. One of the dam keepers was seen on the parapet of the dam calmly smoking a cigarette only one hour before the failure. He had given no indication of alarm. The dam keepers had all perished in the flood, and as far as was known, there were no living witnesses of the dam’s collapse.
Additional conflicting testimony further baffled jurors. Many witnesses said they had lost faith in the dam’s safety, but admitted that they did not consider themselves in such immediate jeopardy to warrant leaving the area. Too, they did not voice their concerns to water department employees or to the dam’s engineers, though these officials were readily available.
Quick-thinking Keyes recognized that the contradictory testimony could work to his advantage. Credible testimony about seepage locations would tend to support his west-wing collapse theory. As long as he directed the attention of the jurors to a west-wing versus east-wing failure, the “dynamite factor” could be safely ignored.
To add to the jurors’ confusion, E. H. Thomas, a rancher asleep at his home one mile below the dam on the night of the break, told jurors that an earthquake may have caused the break. Thomas’s mother, an insomniac, awakened him when the electricity suddenly went out at about 12:05 A.M. The house was trembling on its foundation and continued to shake for almost ten minutes. Thomas slipped on his trousers and went outside to see what was going on. He was greeted by a loud roar and looked toward the direction of the dam to see the black head of the water “ninety-nine feet high above the bed of the San Francisquito Canyon sweeping away every damn thing in its path.”
One wild-eyed would-be witness, who had to be restrained by sheriffs deputies, broke into the jury room shouting a garbled theory tha
t the Ides of March had caused the catastrophe, hoping to give credence to Mulholland’s widely reported hoodoo testimony.
And, momentarily, Asa Keyes was unsuccessful in keeping the word “dynamite” outside the courtroom. Called to testify on leakage, gruff-mannered maintenance engineer J. H. Bouey shocked Keyes and the court when he stated matter-of-factly that he personally knew 625 pounds of high-powered dynamite had been intentionally set off by Tony Harnischfeger three hundred feet below the dam’s west wing on the Tuesday preceding the break to start grading a new road behind the western dike wall. However, Bouey went on to explain that no new leaks had sprung, and there had been no unexpected earth or rock movement due to the blasting. “As far as I’m concerned, sir, there was never any indication to cause fear that the dam would go out.”
Keyes attempted to get Bouey to admit that it was severe leakage that caused the need for the road work in the first place, that the road had become so saturated by continuous seepage as to be in bad shape.
Privately Van Norman told Mulholland that the leakage testimonies of Keyes’s “would-be engineers wouldn’t hold water,” the unconscious pun drawing a chortle from the usually somber-faced Mulholland. “The ones who stated they knew the dam would burst are liars or criminals,” Van Norman continued, outraged. “If they’re lying they should be muzzled. If they actually knew that the dam was weak or that it was constructed negligently, they’re criminals because they failed to tell the proper authorities. The parties spreading this propaganda should be made to answer.”
ALTHOUGH MULHOLLAND LISTENED keenly to the bolstering logic of his young ally and agreed with it, it offered little in way of consolation. While the jury debated the varying issues, news reports continued to surface about the misery of the flood victims. A gaunt, eighty-two-year-old man caught in the flood wandered dazed and disoriented into the town of Hanford, miles north of the Santa Clara Valley. Bewildered, the man said he had been wandering since the dam went out fourteen days ago. He was unaware that his wife, also caught in the floodwaters, had drowned. That same evening, the bodies of two more victims, both male, were washed up by the tides on San Diego beaches, 120 miles south of Los Angeles.
The flood had scarcely spent itself into the Pacific Ocean when scores of fast-talking lawyers swooped into the Santa Clara Valley to sign up grieving and angry clients on a contingency basis, promising high-dollar negligence claims against the city. Branding them vultures, Ventura District Attorney James Hollinsworth executed disbarment proceedings against any attorneys deemed engaged in ambulance- chasing in the flood-stricken zone.
The question of repaying the huge losses became a critical and sensitive issue for city leaders and the Board of Control. The multi-million-dollar disaster could not have occurred at a more inappropriate time, in that the Boulder Dam bill now before Congress was critical to the commercial interests of Los Angeles. Recognizing immediately that a spirit of cooperation and fair play would serve everyone’s best interest, and in the end prove to be less expensive than unending legal wrangling and litigation, the Chamber of Commerce and the edgy Board of Water and Power Commissioners pressed through local newspapers for the city to pay immediate out-of-court reparations.
Mayor Cryer was an early advocate of the idea, despite argument from City Attorney Jess Stevens that until legal liability was fixed, no payments could be made. Stevens maintained the city should be liable for full damage only if carelessness or neglect were established, factors, of course, which were now before the jurors of the coroner’s inquest. “If this proves to be what is called an ‘act of God,’ or if the mishap was beyond human responsibility, the city cannot be liable.”
Despite Stevens’s position, the City Council released $1.5 million to begin restoration. To any dissenters, the costly Owens Valley water wars only had to be mentioned. From a public relations viewpoint, Los Angeles could not afford another long, protracted battle with angry valley residents. “The city will take care of all property damage,” Cryer stated firmly.
Despite Mulholland’s fall from grace, he was still the Chief of the city’s Department of Water and Power and cleanup of the Santa Clara Valley was the Department’s number-one priority. Men, mule teams, and machinery were assembled along a thirty-mile front from Santa Paula to Piru as the month-long, million-dollar reconstruction and mop-up program began. A thousand laborers and skilled contractors from Los Angeles were recruited to initiate the unprecedented, fast-paced campaign. Under the aegis of the department, Van Norman was selected to head up the efforts.
Seeing firsthand the total scope of the damage, Van Norman was appalled. But later, telephoning Mulholland and boosting his spirits, he said how surprised he was that much of the valley had been spared the flood’s wrath. Van Norman, as opposed to the taciturn Mulholland, was the eternal optimist. Only one-twentieth, about ten thousand acres, of the cultivated region from Castaic to Saticoy was touched by the flood. Bungalows and cabins near the river were obliterated, but the business and residential sections, except for the community of Santa Paula, had completely escaped. Van Norman told a relieved Mulholland he believed it was a miracle.
Nonetheless, much laborious and heartbreaking work lay ahead. There were countless heaps of debris spread across the devastated area that had to be disposed of, adding to the severe unsanitary conditions; and the hundreds of tractors sent by the city of Los Angeles were working around the clock removing the masses of wreckage.
Grieving Santa Paula residents feared the debris might contain bodies of missing victims, and when the charred body of a baby was found after one pile of debris had been set on fire by mop-up workers, they went wild. To calm their concerns, Van Norman supervised teams of shell dredgers who vigilantly monitored the tractors. One man was stationed at each dredger to make sure no more bodies were uncovered before disposing of the debris. Only 297 of the missing bodies had been recovered and many more were feared buried in the debris. Ventura Coroner Olive Reardon issued a warning to those handling the bodies to wear rubber gloves and protective clothing to prevent the danger of infection.
Every care was taken to make positive identification of each corpse. Photographs were taken and distributed for family members to view, jewelry, clothing, and teeth were examined for any evidence as to a deceased’s identity. There were so many unidentifiable corpses recovered that the coroner and department officials had to use 3 X 5 cards inscribed with notes to identify each cadaver. Phrases like “brunette,” “cesarean section,” “bald,” “missing teeth,” were scratched on the cards in hopes that it could aid in the identification process. As the number of cards grew, Van Norman and Reardon had the painful duty of making the match. Death certificates normally sent to the next of kin were stapled on the cards of unclaimed bodies, as there were no known individuals to whom the certificates could be sent.
The mangled body of a little girl was found beneath one of the piles of debris on what used to be the Stark Ranch. Her height was three feet, ten inches, and her hair was dark brown. Such was the force of the flood that her teeth were cleaved to the gums, and her naked body was clothed only by one shoe with the laces untied. The sight of the little girl affected Van Norman, who had seven brothers and sisters, but was himself childless, more than any of the other bodies recovered.
True to Cryer’s word, the city took full responsibility for the catastrophe and quickly paid most of the claims without contest. In all, over 1,000 claims were filed, including 336 death claims totaling $4,864,006.77. Nearly $1 million was paid for real property claims, and another $1.7 million was paid in land reparations. Hundreds of homes and businesses in the flood district were rebuilt, utilities repaired, county buildings and services restored, orchards replanted, and ranch lands rehabilitated. Eventually, cleanup of the Santa Clara Valley cost the city of Los Angeles over $7 million. For far less, Mulholland could have bought the Long Valley site from Fred Eaton, even at Eaton’s highest price, and built the critical storage reservoir as well, a thought that only added to Mu
lholland’s grief.
The swift resolution of money claims and Van Norman’s conscientious direction of the restoration avoided further embarrassment to the city, protected the Department of Water and Power from any severe recriminations from the Santa Clara Valley, and safeguarded the essential passage of the Boulder Dam legislation.
THE INQUEST, now in its next-to-last day, had all of Los Angeles anticipating a final swing of executioner Asa Keyes’s sword that, as he had boasted weeks before, would deliver them Mulholland’s head.
To establish Mulholland’s responsibility as chief engineer of the Department of Water and Power and to substantiate the popular criticism that he was a dictator in the water affairs for the city, heeding no one’s advice but his own, Van Norman was again called to the stand. Asked who had the final decision on selecting the site, Van Norman admitted that it was Mulholland’s sole decision, although he had discussed it in conferences with other engineers in the Department.
“And of course you and these engineers voiced your own opinions on the selection of the site in these conferences?” Keyes asked.
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