Ben shook hands with the gentleman, who sported a bushy snow-white beard. Ben guessed him to be in his mid-fifties, considerably older than the rest of the group.
“I’d like to think people whose only goal is preserving forests wouldn’t need a medic,” Doc said. He had an open, avuncular manner that Ben liked immediately. “But experience has proven that we do. This is the seventh Green Rage team I’ve been part of.”
“It must be exciting work,” Christina said.
“Yes, it’s exciting.” He glanced at his compatriots. “Sometimes it’s a wee bit too exciting. You may have heard about the incident in Oregon a few years back. Loggers came in the night, grabbed some environmentalists, dragged them out of their tents. Beat them up pretty badly. And by the time they got to a hospital, one of them had bled to death. Since then, we’ve always had a medic with every away team.”
“Sounds like what you need is a pack of thugs or attack dogs.”
“Don’t think we haven’t considered it,” Rick said. “Unfortunately, we couldn’t keep dogs out here. And Slade has all the thugs.” He took another step down the line. “Let me make a couple more introductions, then we’ll give you a rest. This is the lovely Molly Evans.”
Ben thought Rick’s manner altered as he came into Molly’s presence, although he would be pressed to explain just how. Molly had short bobbed brown hair and a clean honest look. Which pleased him since, if he recalled correctly, she was going to be his ace alibi witness. “You were out in the forest with Zak the night of the murder.”
Molly’s round brown eyes glanced quickly at Rick, then back to Ben. “That’s right. I was with him. We were … um, talking.”
“That’s fine,” Ben said, smiling. No need to embarrass her now. They could get into the details later. “And you’re willing to testify?”
“Can’t say that I’m looking forward to it,” she said honestly enough, “but I feel I have an obligation to Zak.”
“I understand,” Ben answered. “And I appreciate it.”
Rick nudged Ben to the end of the line. “This is our resident radical, Al Billings.”
Ben shook hands with the robust man sporting the red beard and earring. “I thought Zak was the resident radical.”
Rick laughed. “Zak believes in monkeywrenching logging equipment. Al here favors targeted nuclear bombing.”
“That is radical.”
Al grinned, toothy and earnest. Ben had the impression he had heard Rick’s teasing before and had learned to be good-natured about it. “Rick exaggerates a bit. But the fact is, WLE and Slade and the Cabal aren’t pulling any punches, so why should we?”
“If you try anything too extreme, public sentiment will turn against you,” Ben said.
“Hasn’t that already happened? All our tactics to date have been kindergarten stuff, just pranks—but we’ve already been painted black as night by the loggers and the media. I say it’s time we did something to deserve our reputation.”
“Al is a little high-strung,” Rick explained, “but he makes dynamite gumbo, which is the real reason we keep him around.”
“Have I met all the leaders of the group?” Ben asked.
“Just about,” Rick answered. “All but—” Rick stopped short. Ben saw Maureen shoot him a stern look. “I mean, that’s all.”
“Rick,” Ben said, “you guys are going to have to level with me.”
“You have met all the current leaders,” Maureen explained. “What Rick is stumbling around is that one of our leaders left, just a few days ago. Her name was Kelly. Kelly Cartwright.”
“Why did she leave?”
“Oh, it’s too complicated to explain. And it’s all political. Nothing to do with this case.”
Is that right? Ben wondered. Then why didn’t you want Rick to tell me about her? “Where is she now?”
“I don’t know exactly. I heard she joined some kind of camp in Oregon. I could probably track down an address if it’s really important to you.”
Al interrupted. “Rick, we need to talk.” He glanced at Maureen. “About the woman. She’s here. I’ve got her in a tent.”
“Later.” Rick guided Ben and Christina toward the campfire. He pointed toward the nearest boulder and suggested that Ben sit down. Not exactly a recliner, Ben thought, but he could probably get used to it.
The rest of the group joined him around the campfire. Maureen took the lead in the conversation. “As most of you already know, the new kid in town is Ben Kincaid. He’s a lawyer, a right-minded activist, not to mention a distinguished published author, and he’s agreed to represent Zak in this upcoming trial. He’s represented Zak before; they have some history. He’s also considering doing some writing about our group and the efforts we’re making to prevent this whole forest from being leveled. I want every one of you to give him your utmost cooperation. Anything he needs, he gets.”
“Is he one of us?” The question came from Al, who was seated on the other side of the campfire.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Has he joined Green Rage? Is he standing with us or is he on the outside looking in?”
“I haven’t joined Green Rage,” Ben answered. “I’m sympathetic to the cause. But that’s really irrelevant to my work as a lawyer. I don’t have to agree with everything my client believes to represent him.”
Al threw down his cowboy hat. “Man, that’s just not good enough.”
Maureen cut in. “Al, listen for a minute.”
“I’m listening, Maureen, but I don’t like what I hear. There’s no way I’m going to spill my soul to someone I don’t know who isn’t even in the group. For all I know, he could be a Cabal plant. Or a Freddie.”
Ben glanced up at Maureen. “Freddie?”
“Forest ranger. It’s a nickname.” She glanced over at Al, who was on his feet and pacing. “Not a very flattering one.”
“Aren’t the rangers on your side?” Ben asked.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But no, the rangers side with the loggers almost every time. They’re part of the establishment. Do you realize that fifty percent of the clear-cutting in this country is taking place on national park land? True. The government is selling the country out from under us. And the rangers are being paid to go along with the sellout.” She looked back at Al. “Look, it’s this simple. Do you want Zak to go to prison? Or worse?”
Al pursed his lips together. “No.”
“Then cooperate with Ben. We’ve checked him out, and we think we’re damn lucky to have him. More important, we think he’s just about Zak’s only hope of beating this trumped-up charge. We have to do everything we can to help him.”
“You can do whatever you want to do,” Al said. “It ain’t gonna help.”
“And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, Zak’s got his dick in a ringer and he ain’t never gonna get it out.” There was a chorus of groans and disapproval. “You clowns are just kidding yourself. We all know what’s really going down here. Why are we afraid to say it?”
“I’d like to know,” Ben interjected. “What’s really going down here?”
“It’s the Cabal, man. They set this whole thing up. They’d do anything to get us out of the forest. They killed that logger and they framed Zak.”
Ben arched an eyebrow. “I see. It’s all a conspiracy.”
“Don’t patronize me, man. I don’t have to put up with that.” He took a step toward Ben, but a sharp look from Maureen stopped him in his tracks. “I’m not talking about alien abductions here. But it is a fact that the logging companies have poured a ton of money into stopping us and other groups like us. The Cabal has more operating cash than they know what to do with. Framing Zak would be a piece of cake for them. Put some money in the right hands, plant a little false evidence, and presto! Zak’s on his way to Death Row.”
Christina edged into the conversation. “But why would they go after Zak?”
“He’s been the driving force
of this group since he joined, and they know that. Cut off the head, and the body withers.” He paused for breath. “Same reason the Mob killed Jack Kennedy.”
“Sit down, Al.” Maureen’s directive was echoed by several other groans and oh, mans. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“I’d like to talk to each of you,” Ben said. “I’d like to know everything you know, everything there is to know about Zak. Who was with him the day of the murder, who saw him where. Did he ever talk about the loggers, the victim, planting explosives.”
“Zak talked about explosives every day of his life,” Doc said. “It’s what he did. More than once I had to treat him for a burn because he spilled some chemical or another on himself.”
“Of course,” Deirdre suggested, “that could be exactly why the Cabal would use that M.O. to kill the logger. The use of a bomb guaranteed the cops would come looking for Zak.”
“All this speculation is getting us nowhere,” Ben said. “I need to know the facts. Who knew Zak best?”
Ben noticed several false starts before Maureen finally spoke. “We all knew him, Ben. Intimately.”
Al swallowed a smile. “Yeah. Especially the women.”
Molly shot him a killing look.
Doc chimed in. “What about you, Deirdre? You knew Zak rather well, didn’t you?”
Deirdre flushed. “Zak and I spent a lot of time … talking.”
Ben saw Al cover his mouth, as if he was about to burst out laughing.
“I don’t know if you know this yet,” Deirdre continued, “but Zak has an enormous brain. He was always asking questions, helping me date trees, trying to learn something new. He was very interested in my work.”
Al’s laughter finally burst out explosively. “The only thing he was interested in was getting into your pants!”
“Al!” Maureen’s eyes were like lasers cutting across the camp. “If you can’t be helpful, maybe you should go for a walk. Preferably over a cliff.”
“All right, all right.” He waved his hand at her. “I know when I ain’t wanted, man.” He ambled over into the forest and in a matter of moments had disappeared.
“Zak isn’t the only subject I need to know about,” Ben explained. “I want to know everything there is to know—everything that’s factual—about this so-called Cabal you all seem so paranoid about.”
“The Cabal is hell on wheels,” Rick muttered. “And its leader, Slade, is the fuckin’ Prince of Darkness.”
That again. “Did you get that, Christina? Prince of Darkness.”
She nodded. “Do we have subpoena power over a foreign potentate?”
Ben smiled. “If you people want me to believe there’s some gigantic high-powered conspiracy out to get you, you’re going to have to work a lot harder. Why would anyone want to do this?”
Maureen looked at Ben squarely. “In a word, money.”
“The conspiracy you’re describing sounds like it would be expensive, not profitable.”
“You have to understand the big picture. Ben, what do you think is the main purpose of our monkeywrenching activities?”
He shrugged. “I assume you’re trying to scare people off. Threaten the loggers with their lives.”
“Wrong. That’s the way the media plays it, that’s the line the logging conglomerates feed them, but that isn’t the truth. We take every possible precaution to make sure no one is hurt by our activities, and so far we’ve been successful. Monkeywrenching is about money.”
“I’m afraid I don’t get it.”
“Let’s take tree spiking, for example. Tree spiking is not about trying to hurt loggers. Tree spiking is something we do when we hear that another expanse of old-growth forest is about to be sold for logging. Basically, we hammer a nail or some other large piece of metal into a tree. We then warn the Forest Service or the timber company bidding on the sale or both. At that point, if the Forest Service still wants to sell the forest, they have to send a crew out with metal detectors and crowbars to remove the spikes. It’s a lot of trouble and expensive. In many cases, the Forest Service simply cancels the sale. If they do proceed, many logging companies will not bid, because they know that if a spike runs through their lumbermill, it could damage the blade of the saw and cost them thousands of dollars. Toss in some sabotaged tree cutters or haul trucks, and before long the profit margins start shrinking. And since profits are the raison d’être of big corporations, the trees don’t get cut. Not because the loggers have decided to perform a service for humanity, but because our efforts have simply made it too expensive.”
“But tree spiking still creates a danger that someone will be hurt.”
“We always discourage spiking trees at low levels, where it could strike a chain saw and hurt a logger. We spike up higher than they can reach.”
“Wait a minute,” Christina said. “I remember hearing about some logger who got hurt by a spiked tree.”
“But do you know what actually happened?”
“Well …”
“Here’s the facts. In 1987, a band saw in a Cloverdale, California, mill struck an eleven-inch spike and shattered, sending pieces of blade flying across the room. One section hit a logger named George Alexander and broke his jaw. Instantly, the media jumped on the bandwagon denouncing eco-terrorists without doing the least investigation of the bill of goods they were being sold by the logging corporation. The truth is, that band saw shouldn’t have shattered like that just because it hit a spike. It was cracked, wobbly, and due for replacement, but it hadn’t been replaced because the company didn’t want to spend the money. Alexander himself said he almost didn’t go to work that day—because he was concerned about the dangerous condition of the band saw, which he had been complaining about for weeks.”
“Still, if the environmentalists hadn’t spiked the tree—”
“But did they? The spike was not in an old-growth tree. It came from a nonwilderness tract. There were no environmental groups protesting the harvesting of those trees. The protest came from local area residents, who were concerned about the noise, truck traffic, and erosion damage the logging was causing. Weeks after the incident, the police admitted their chief suspect was a local conservative Republican in his mid-fifties who owned property near the logging site. And the logging company later admitted they had received warnings and threats—from local residents. Of course, none of that was reported in the press.”
“It’s hard to imagine someone other than an eco-group spiking trees,” Christina said.
“Excuse me,” Rick said, jumping in, “but who do you think invented tree spiking? Loggers, that’s who. Loggers invented it around the turn of the century during the labor wars with the big logging companies here in the Pacific Northwest. We just borrowed a trick from their toolbox.” He paused. “Look, I wish we could get our work done with hugs and kisses, too, but at some point you’ve gotta face facts. It’s like B. Traven said: ‘This is the real world, muchachos, and you are in it.’ ”
“We’re getting off the subject again,” Ben said. “If anyone knows of anything that might help Zak or might possibly be relevant to the trial, please come tell me.”
“We will,” Maureen said, speaking for all of them. “Anything else we can do for you?”
“Yes. Stay out of trouble.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know. No spiking, exploding, or any other illegal activities until this trial is over.”
“Are you saying we should turn the forest over to the loggers? Maybe just roll out a red carpet?”
“I’m saying that jurors are influenced by pretrial publicity, okay? Even the most fair-minded soul can’t help knowing what he knows. If there’s a lot of bad press about Green Rage, it won’t help Zak at trial.”
Rick looked aggravated. “We can’t just sit on our hands!”
“I didn’t ask you to give up. I asked you not to do anything illegal. Magic Valley is already in turmoil. It’s the worst possible setting for
the trial of an environmental activist accused of murdering a logger, and my chances of getting a change of venue are slim. Any aggressive activity by Green Rage will only make the situation worse.”
“Sorry,” Rick said. “We can’t afford to lay low. They could level this whole forest before the case goes to trial.”
Doc nodded. “I agree.”
“People, be reasonable!” Christina pleaded. “Do you want to see Zak convicted?” She appealed to Deirdre. “Deirdre, you’re a scientist. You’re used to thinking logically. Talk to them.”
She shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry. I agree with them. If we lay low, this forest will disappear.”
“Then you’ll plant new trees.”
“You can plant new trees,” Deirdre said, “but you can’t plant a forest.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s been proven scientifically a dozen times over. Once a forest is gone, it’s gone. Trees may be a renewable resource, but forests are not. Replacement trees, set out in rows, all the same size and species, are less able to resist the drought and cold, insects and diseases, because they grow in simplified strands, not in the vigorous, complex ecosystems that evolved naturally over eons.”
“Trees are trees—”
“Scientists have performed several studies in the aftermath of clear-cutting, focusing on the herbaceous layer—the shrubs and plants that are sheltered by forest trees—the forest life forms most sensitive to disturbances. Their conclusions are uniform. The forest doesn’t—won’t—grow back. You see, the loggers engage in monoculture; they see the forest as nothing but trees to be harvested. In truth, the forest is a complex organism filled with varied but interdependent life. Once that organism is disturbed, it becomes vulnerable to disease and extinction. In areas where clear-cutting occurred decades ago, species and foliage have drastically declined. On average, less than half of the species returned, and only a third of the plant life. The conclusion is inescapable—forests don’t grow back.”
“It’s true,” Rick said. “I grew up in Vermont. It used to be almost entirely covered with trees—till the forests were clear-cut almost a century ago. We used to have white pines reaching two hundred feet in height. Black walnut trunks five and six feet through the middle. Chestnuts spread two hundred feet from one branch tip to the next. And what do we have now? A forest of sticks.”
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