Con Law

by Mark Gimenez

  ‘Doesn’t sound smart.’

  ‘What about politics is?’

  ‘You said first potential for contamination. What’s the second?’

  ‘Migration. Even if the frack fluid goes down the hole without leakage, most of it stays in the reservoir. Over time it might migrate up through the rock and contaminate the aquifers from below.’

  ‘What’s the likelihood?’

  ‘Shale gas formations are two or three miles below the aquifers, so migration through the rock is highly unlikely, at least that’s what the geologists say. But they’ve been wrong before. And now they’re “super fracking,” using more powerful explosives to make even deeper cracks in the shale rock, which offers more migration paths. Problem is, migration contamination would be worse because the fracking process releases arsenic, underground shale gases like radon, radium two-two-six, methane, benzene, and what they call “NORM,” naturally occurring radioactive material—’

  ‘I see why they use an acronym.’

  ‘—all of which is picked up by the fluid and transported up. That stuff gets into the drinking water, we’re in a world of hurt.’

  ‘Is there a third potential?’

  ‘Flow-back. That portion of the frack fluid that’s pushed up the hole by the gas. It’s highly toxic after the fracking process, so you can’t just dump the stuff into surface waters, rivers and lakes. You can recycle and reuse the flow-back, which is the best solution because we’d also cut down on the total water usage in fracking. But recycling is expensive. A few of the majors are recycling some of their frack fluid, but the independents like Billy Bob, they can’t afford to. So they inject it down Class Two disposal wells. Should be Class One wells for hazardous wastes, but the industry got oil and gas waste exempted under the Resource Conservation and Recovery Act, so flow-back is deemed nonhazardous no matter what’s in it.’

  ‘Why’d they want flow-back exempted?’

  ‘Cheaper to dispose in Class Two wells. We’ve got a hundred forty thousand of those wells, only five hundred Class Ones. We’re putting every waste imaginable down those wells.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’ve got to put it somewhere. Problem is, the industry disposes of a trillion gallons of flow-back every year, so Class Two disposal is getting more expensive. Supply and demand. Some operators push too much down the hole under too much pressure, and that’s caused the reservoir walls to crack and the flow-back to migrate and contaminate nearby water wells. The Railroad Commission is supposed to regulate that sort of thing, but they’ve always been puppets of the industry. When you’re in the industry, you like that. When you’re out, you wish to hell they’d do their job.’

  ‘Jobs.’

  ‘Lots of jobs. Fracking employs fifty thousand workers in the Eagle Ford in South Texas, a hundred thousand in the Barnett, maybe three hundred thousand if the Marcellus is developed. And those jobs pay well—roughnecks can make a hundred thousand—and that’s money to buy homes and cars, food and clothes, pay taxes. And gas powers factories, so cheaper gas makes the U.S. more competitive in the global economy. Which means more manufacturing jobs, more income, more prosperity. Which in turn creates more jobs in the service and retail industries. The economy grows. Cheap energy is good for America. Good for the world. And shale gas is cheap energy. For a long time.’

  ‘Last thing: tell me about the geopolitics of shale gas.’

  ‘It’s a game-changer. If shale wins, the West wins and Russia and Iran lose big-time. If shale loses, they win and we lose. Energy equals political and economic power. It’s that simple.’

  ‘That’s what Billy Bob said.’

  ‘He’s right about that.’

  ‘So Billy Bob Barnett’s not just a dumb-ass Aggie?’

  ‘That “I’m just a dumb ol’ Aggie” routine is a role he plays. Figures it’s better to have people underestimate him. But don’t you make that mistake. He’s not stupid. He knows the business. He knows how to find oil and gas and how to make money. He’s rich, and he’s made a lot of important Aggies in Texas rich. Not me, but other Aggies.’

  Henry paused.

  ‘I’m applying to the new Aggie law school. Next time you see Billy Bob, ask him to put a good word in for me.’ He laughed. ‘Just kidding. Look, Billy Bob Barnett’s a driller. He knows how to punch holes in the earth. He’s fracked maybe a thousand wells over the last decade—he was fracking before fracking was fashionable. He knows the environmentalists are gunning for fracking, praying a fracker contaminates an aquifer so they can shut it all down. He’s not dumb enough to kill his golden goose. Fracking is a money machine for him. He’s not going to blow it all by intentionally contaminating groundwater. You don’t get rich in the oil business by being a dumb-ass.’

  ‘So what’s your advice, counselor?’

  ‘Get the lawyer’s proof.’

  ‘I’ve shown his letter all over town, trying to get a bite. No takers. I’ve talked to everyone who might know anything about that proof, but no one does. Nathan didn’t show his proof to his wife, his best friend, or the environmentalist he was working with.’

  ‘Okay, Book, let’s take an objective look at the facts: first, the lawyer said he had proof, but no one’s seen it and you can’t find it. Second, the sheriff said there was no evidence of foul play. All facts point to an accidental death. Third, Billy Bob’s too rich and too smart to shoot himself in the foot. He doesn’t need to cheat to make money. And fourth, you’re suffering a serious sense of guilt about this intern, so you’re searching for something that’s not there. All of which leads me to conclude that there is no proof. And no murder. It was just an accident.’

  Henry paused.

  ‘Sometimes, Book, there is no mystery. Sometimes things are exactly what they seem to be.’

  Chapter 17

  ‘Nothing in this movie is what it seems to be.’

  Book had again found his intern in the Giant museum watching the movie. She held a large coffee cup with one hand—‘I found that Frama’s’—and pointed at the screen with the other.

  ‘The big Reata ranch house, it was just a façade. There was no inside or back to it. They only built the front, made it look like a mansion.’

  ‘The magic of movies.’

  ‘Bick Benedict’s this macho cattleman and Jett Rink’s a surly ranch hand turned ruthless oil tycoon, but in real life Rock Hudson and James Dean were both gay.’

  ‘Back then, if the world knew they were gay, their acting careers would’ve been over. So the studios kept up their heterosexual images, had them appear with starlets around Hollywood. They had to keep their true lives secret. They lived façade lives, like the ranch house.’

  ‘Like Nathan Jones.’

  Book watched the movie, Rock Hudson and James Dean in the big fight scene on the front porch of the ranch house, all pretending to be something they weren’t. All just acting out roles in Marfa, Texas. Had Nathan Jones pretended to be someone he wasn’t? Had he just acted a role in Marfa, Texas? If Nadine were right, Nathan had lived a hard life out here, hiding himself from his wife and his friends. That thought made Book sad for his intern. But it didn’t make Nathan’s death anything more than just a tragic accident.

  He had found Nathan Jones’s truth.

  His truth—the truth—was that he had died in a horrible accident. The sheriff was right: there was no evidence of foul play. No evidence of murder. No proof of contamination. Nadine was right: Book was emotionally invested in Nathan’s death. He had not remained objective. He had searched for a murder instead of the truth. For something that wasn’t there. There was no murder. It was time to close this case and return to the law school. Henry was right: sometimes things are exactly what they seem to be.

  ‘I’m just like Rock and James and Nathan,’ Nadine said.

  ‘Gay?’

  ‘A pretender. They were gays pretending to be straight. I’m a chef pretending to be a law student.’

  ‘Perhaps you are, Ms. Honeywell. So I sugg
est we see what chefs do here in Marfa, try out one of those fancy restaurants tonight. Before we leave town tomorrow morning.’

  Nadine’s mouth gaped, and her eyes got big.

  ‘Well, shut the front door.’

  The red front door of Maiya’s contrasted with the white adobe of the Brite Building where the restaurant occupied a ground-floor space. Marfa gathered at Maiya’s for drinks and dinner each night Wednesday through Saturday. They walked in and saw the mayor at a table, apparently selling the Marfa concept to his dining companions. He waved at Book, and Book waved back. At one end of the bar was Border Patrol Agent Angel Acosta with a young woman; he was not dressed in a green uniform but in all black. He waved, and Book waved back. At the other end of the bar was a group of young males in hipster attire, no doubt artists. Talking to them as if lecturing a class were Carla Kent and a young man dressed in a suit without a tie. She saw Book and came over with the man in the suit.

  ‘Professor,’ Carla said, ‘this is Fred Phillips. He’s an environmental lawyer from Santa Fe.’

  Book shook hands with Fred and introduced him to Nadine.

  ‘Professor, it’s an honor. I’ve read all your books and watched you on TV. I really appreciate your point of view.’

  ‘So what brings you to Marfa?’

  ‘Carla got me down here, to represent landowners in condemnation suits brought by Barnett Oil and Gas.’

  ‘Tough cases given the law in Texas.’

  ‘We can’t win, but we can drag it out, slow him down, make it very expensive.’

  ‘Well, good luck.’

  ‘Thank you, Professor.’

  Fred returned to the bar. Carla took a step closer to Book.

  ‘Saw you out running this morning,’ she said. ‘While I was showering. At the El Cosmico.’

  ‘Must’ve been cold.’

  ‘Water was hot.’

  ‘Ms. Kent, we’re leaving in the morning.’

  She took a step back.

  ‘Nathan Jones was murdered,’ she said.

  Book showed her the funeral photo with the circled faces.

  ‘Ms. Kent, I’ve interviewed everyone in Marfa who had a connection with Nathan—his wife and best friend, his senior partner, his secretary, his co-workers, his client, the sheriff, the mayor … no one took the bait.’

  ‘What bait?’

  ‘His letter. I found no evidence of murder and no proof of contamination. His death was an accident.’

  ‘Same day he mailed the letter to you?’

  ‘Just a coincidence.’

  She pointed a finger in his face. ‘You’re wrong, Professor.’

  She returned to her place at the bar but gave him a long stern look. She seemed a very intense woman. His prior experience with such women proved to be too intense to last; the relationships burned hot, then quickly burned out. But he had to confess, such relationships were exciting while they lasted—which could explain his attraction to such women. That or the fact that he would never marry, and such women never entertained marriage.

  ‘Told you,’ his intern said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There would be romance.’

  ‘No time for romance. We’re leaving in the morning.’

  ‘What about Nathan’s wife?’

  ‘We’ll talk to Brenda on our way out of town.’

  They were led to a table by their waiter; he was an artist. Maiya’s was elegant and expensive with white tablecloths and a $150 price tag for two, but that did not dissuade Nadine from wiping down the silverware and table accessories and then her hands.

  ‘What did Professor Lawson say about fracking?’

  ‘That Billy Bob didn’t tell the whole truth—’

  ‘Like law professors.’

  ‘—but that what he said was basically true.’

  ‘So what’s the truth about fracking?’

  ‘The truth? That’s a hard thing to know, Ms. Honeywell. What do the words of the Constitution mean? Which politician is correct about fixing the economy? Is global warming real? Was Oswald the lone gunman? Should Roger Clemens be in the Hall of Fame? Is fracking good or bad? I don’t have any answers. Maybe there’s no such thing as the truth. Maybe it’s all just a point of view, like the mayor and Ms. Garza said.’

  ‘Irma?’

  Book nodded.

  ‘She scares me sometimes, she’s so committed. Like that Carla girl.’

  Maiya’s smelled of food and sounded of life. Patrons talked and laughed. Judd’s boxes and Maiya’s food; Marfa was growing on Book. He had the spinach lasagna; Nadine had the grilled rib eye steak with Gorgonzola butter, red-skinned mashed potatoes, and pistachio ice cream with dark Belgian chocolate. She finished off the last bite then sat back and sighed as if utterly satisfied.

  ‘That was an incredible dinner.’

  It was.

  ‘This is my dream.’

  ‘To eat pistachio ice cream?’

  ‘To own a restaurant like this. To create dishes like these.’

  ‘A law student who wants to be a chef.’

  ‘And a law professor who wants to be a hero.’ She regarded him. ‘Who needs to be a hero.’

  His intern was getting too close to the truth for his comfort.

  ‘How old are you?’

  She smiled and sipped her coffee. She seemed at home, as Book was on the Harley.

  ‘I want to cook all day and make people happy,’ she said.

  ‘You want to make people happy so you went to law school?’

  ‘I went to law school to make my dad happy.’

  ‘That’s his dream, Ms. Honeywell. Chase your own dream. Live your own life.’

  ‘I’m too afraid.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Everything. Germs. Heights. Mosquitoes. Melanoma. Cavities. Gum disease. Failure. My dad.’

  ‘You want to live life with a net.’

  ‘What net?’

  ‘Like acrobats in a circus. They have a net beneath them, so they don’t get hurt if they fall.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing … if you’re in a circus. In life, it’s fatal.’

  ‘But I won’t get hurt.’

  ‘You won’t live. Life hurts, Ms. Honeywell. That’s the price of admission.’

  ‘You’re not afraid of getting hurt?’

  ‘I’m living without a net.’

  ‘That’s dangerous.’

  ‘I don’t live with fear—of failing, getting hurt, dying. I live every day as if it’s my last, because it might be.’

  ‘You’re not afraid of dying?’

  ‘I’m afraid of not living.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Not living is worse than dying. Death is inevitable. So I’m going out on my own terms, while I can still make the choice. But I can’t accept not doing something with my life. With the time I have. I’m going to matter. Not just be matter.’

  ‘My therapist says I’m afraid of life because my sister died, and I don’t want to die.’ She studied her coffee. ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘Why you don’t want to die?’

  ‘Why you need to be a hero.’

  ‘I don’t have a therapist.’

  ‘What do you have?’

  ‘Regrets.’

  John Bookman had always wanted to be a cop like his dad. Wear the uniform. Carry a gun. Ben Bookman had left home that morning in his blue uniform with his holster on his waist and his gun on his hip. He wore a bulletproof vest that protected him against a gunshot to the chest.

  But not to his head.

  Book rode his bike to school that day, as he did every day. And he rode it home, past Mary Elizabeth’s house; she was practicing her cheers in her front yard, so he stopped and flirted a bit. She was cute and perky and acted interested in him. He felt manly when he pedaled away. He didn’t know that he was about to become a man in the worst way possible. He turned the corner onto his street and saw the police cars out front of his house. He s
aw the officers at the front door talking to his mother. He saw her hands go to her face. He saw her collapse on the porch.

  He was fourteen years old, and life as he knew it ended that day.

  ‘Professor?’

  Book returned to the moment.

  ‘My dad was a cop. He died in the line of duty. Shot in the head by the man he was trying to help.’

  ‘OMG. How old were you?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘Not fair.’

  ‘No. Not fair at all. As you well know.’

  They pondered their losses—his father, her sister—for a quiet moment in the elegant restaurant in Marfa, Texas. Book knew from her expression that she was wondering what her life would have been like if her sister had survived the cancer, just as he always wondered what his life would have been like if his father had survived the bullet. The moment ended, and their eyes met.

  ‘So you’re helping people because he can’t?’

  ‘He made me proud, being a cop. I want to make him proud, being a lawyer.’

  ‘Professor, your dad would be proud of you.’

  Book fought back his emotions and stuck a finger in the air to attract their waiter’s attention. When he arrived, Book asked for the bill.

  ‘Your bill’s already been paid, sir.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Him.’

  The waiter nodded toward the back of the restaurant. Book turned in his chair and saw Billy Bob smiling and holding up a beer bottle as if saluting Book. A young woman kept him company. Book gave Billy Bob Barnett a gesture of thanks; as he turned back, he noticed Carla at the bar. She had observed his interplay with Billy Bob; she shook her head with utter disgust, as if Book had betrayed her.

  He turned back to his intern. Nadine Honeywell’s eyes drifted down to her dessert plate. She ran her index finger through the remains of the Belgian chocolate then licked her finger as if she would never again taste chocolate. She spoke softly, as if to herself.

  ‘Living without a net.’

  Chapter 18

  ‘The Fourth Amendment to the Constitution states that, quote, “The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.”’