by JF Freedman
“It’s also about history,” Pachinko says. “History, and trust. For over a decade and a half Unocal concealed their leakage up in Guadalupe, the fourth-largest spill in U.S. history—swept under the rug, in this very county. Eight and a half million gallons—double the size of the 1969 spill here; and we know the devastating effects that spill had on our lives down here on the south coast. Imagine if it had been twice as big. And that’s only one case.
“Let’s look back on all the promises the oil companies have made to the people of this county over the past few decades. They promised the county that they would consolidate their processing plants—yet Mobil now wants a separate onshore oil facility. Chevron promised us a pipeline—instead, we got tankering. The oil companies promised cooperation and partnership with the county—instead, we got multi-million-dollar lawsuits filed against the county by those companies. And yet, after all that, we’re supposed to trust big oil. If these actions prove anything—and there is a consistent pattern here—it’s that local government can’t trust the oil companies to keep their word. They’ve gone back on it, time after time after time. And that’s just here, in one county, in one state.
“Look at the global situation,” he continues. “The Exxon Valdez disaster has permanently ruined the ecology and economy of the entire southern part of Alaska. Not for a few years, or even decades—but forever.” He turns to glance at Miranda. “As Mrs. Sparks herself has just stated, we’ve seen damage in the Amazon basin that will permanently—permanently—cause widespread ruin in the largest and most important rain forest in the world. Damage that has wiped out entire Stone Age cultures, hundreds of species of birds. Not for decades, but forever. So that we, the industrialized, civilized countries of the world, can have a few weeks’ supply of oil. And just this year the world at large belatedly was informed of the massive pipeline failure in Siberia, which has already decimated as much land as the entire western portion of this country.”
He pauses to let the ramifications of his last statement sink in. “Think about that when you decide whether or not oil exploration is what you want in your backyard.”
Everyone is quiet, listening intently.
“Right now we have the upper hand in this county. After decades of fighting big oil we’re turning the tide. Their platforms are declining, they know the end is in sight. So they’re trying to find a new scheme to foist on us, a new batch of poison for us to swallow, and they want to convince us it’s in our best interests. Well, I don’t buy it. And I don’t think any reasonable man or woman who examines this in totality would buy it.
“We need oil in this country. No one is saying otherwise. The issue is where we get it from and how we get it. Oil is the tiger in the cage; a power that must be harnessed, kept under tight control. And we know from our own bitter experience that once we let the tiger out of his cage we can never get him back in—he’s too strong.
“We’ve seen oil spills, leaks, explosions. We’ve seen them with our own eyes and on television, from the four corners of the world. Well, folks, let me tell you something—if there was an explosion under the sea here because of an underwater pipeline erupting, the blast would be infinitely bigger and more intense than anything any of us can imagine. We could see an occurrence right before our eyes that not even God would have the guts to try.”
He glances at Miranda and Dorothy, who are both looking straight ahead, making no eye contact with anyone. Their faces are set, grim.
“There are certain parts of this world where development of this type should not be allowed,” Pachinko says, turning back to the podium as he winds up his argument. “Our coastline is one of them. It’s a natural treasure, not only for those of us who are lucky enough to live here, but for everyone. We are the guardians of this treasure, for ourselves and for the future.
“One thing I know—big oil looks after its own interests. That’s its only job. Our job is different, and we are not their partners, and we never should be, no matter how much they want us to be, no matter what so-called treasures they bestow on us. There is a famous saying, I’m sure you’ve all heard it: ‘Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.’ The treasure inside might not be what you bargained for. Thank you for your time.”
He turns and walks back to his seat. There is a moment’s silence; then one side of the room bursts into applause, clapping, whistling, cheering.
Redbuck gives them a few moments, then he gavels for silence.
“Mr. Hopkins,” he says, leaning over, “do you wish to answer any of these charges?”
“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” Hopkins says, rising. “I do—just a few.” He comes to the podium, adjusts the microphone.
“Everything this gentlemen said—and I must say, he spoke very eloquently—boils down to one issue: safety. He wants to be assured that this won’t blow up in his and everyone else’s face.” He leans forward, grasping the podium forcefully. “We can’t do that. I could lie to you and say this process is 100 percent safe, but I won’t. Nothing in this world that involves the extraction of minerals from the ground, whether it’s oil or coal or gold, is 100 percent safe. But neither is driving a car, or playing football, or even jogging in the hills. There is inherent risk in life, no matter how safe or sedentary. What I said before, perhaps not as eloquently as this gentleman did in stating his opposition to our project, is that you have to judge the risks against the rewards.
“There has never been an accident of any size comparable to those he mentioned in any slant-drilling project in the world. Ever. It’s much safer than offshore drilling. And the kind of accidents he mentioned—the Exxon Valdez and the broken pipeline in Russia—would not happen with this type of drilling. There won’t be any tankering. And as far as broken pipelines go, we already are using pipelines in this country. It’s what everyone wants; it’s what you want, you’ve voted time and again in this county to require the oil companies to transport by pipeline. And let me clear up another misunderstanding. Rainier’s oil rigs are healthy. They can go a long time, and will if this proposal is denied. And every day they’re out there, there’s a chance for an eruption. We want to lessen that possibility, not increase it.
“This proposal is safe. It will provide jobs—hundreds of local jobs for a long time. It’ll provide income to the county. And it will get the oil rigs out of your channel.”
He smiles a sincere smile. Then he takes his seat. There is a smattering of applause; before Redbuck can raise his gavel to quell it, it’s finished.
“I’m going to call one speaker out of turn,” Redbuck announces. “For two reasons—one, he’s one of the most distinguished people in the environmental movement, whose word carries tremendous weight on this issue, and two, because he’s flown three thousand miles to attend this meeting.” He turns his attention to John Wilkerson. “Mr. Wilkerson. Welcome.”
Wilkerson rises. He buttons his double-breasted navy pinstripe suit and walks to the speaker’s podium with the air of a man in command of all he surveys—which he usually is, and when he isn’t, he has the bearing and the experience to fake it. He smooths his hair across his forehead and smiles at Miranda Sparks.
“Thank you for allowing me to speak,” Wilkerson says, his sonorous voice filling the room. “For those of you who know who I am but not what I do, I am the president of The Friends Of The Sea, the fourth-largest environmental organization in this country. I have served on the boards of the Audubon Society, the Sierra Club, and numerous other environmental organizations.”
He pauses, one hand in his pants pocket a la JFK, with whom he shared a close friendship for many years, as well as a few women.
“We live in a world that is complex, shifting, and imperfect. And we have to learn to live with the imperfections; fight them when we must, bend them when we have to. In this situation, bending is preferable to fighting, because in the end, if you lose the fight, you lose everything.”
He turns and faces the environmentalists, who are staring at him with anger and disbelief.<
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“You know who I am,” he tells them. “You know I’ve been fighting the good fight all my life. So when I tell you, from my heart, that the benefits of this proposal outweigh the drawbacks, I hope you’ll not only listen, but hear me. And remember what the man from the oil company said earlier.
“This battle has already been fought. We lost. There are oil platforms in the channel out there that defile and threaten our coastline. That’s a fact and we can’t change it, unless the oil companies take them out. They are going to sit there for years and years, polluting the waters—and let me remind you, as they decline in effectiveness they increase in their potential to pollute and fail, which would be a disaster beyond your comprehension, believe me. I’ve been in Alaska, I’ve been in Brazil and Ecuador, I’ve seen the devastation in Russia—if anything like that happened here … it’s not possible to describe how it would ruin your lives.”
He turns back to the front.
“I never thought I’d see the day when I would support an oil company’s position,” he tells the supervisors. “But today, that is what I’m doing. That oceanography school is going to do a world of good, and on balance, I have concluded that replacing those derricks with drills on land will be better, also. I am reluctantly—because I hate, and I do mean hate, endorsing anything big oil is for—asking you to approve this proposal. As I said, the world we live in today is imperfect, and there are times, regrettably, that we must choose between the lesser of two imperfections. This is one of those times.”
He returns to his seat. Miranda leans in to him, her mouth to his ear. “That was wonderful,” she whispers.
“I meant it,” he whispers back.
Hopkins, observing this from his side of the aisle, smiles inwardly. What a piece of work this woman is, he thinks. Thank God we’re on the same team.
“How much did they pay you, Judas?” Marty Pachinko, standing on his seat, yells out from the back.
Others on his side of the aisle start yelling, too. Redbuck slams his gavel down.
“Shut up, Marty!” he bellows. “I warned you, don’t make this personal!”
“It is personal!” Pachinko hollers back. “How much are they paying you to be their whore?” he screams at Wilkerson.
Miranda literally leaps out of her seat. She runs to the podium.
“Can I have the floor?” she demands. Even before Redbuck nods she has snatched the microphone out of its holder and is facing the audience.
“If you want to attack me, Marty, go ahead. I’m fair game. But John Wilkerson is one of the most respected and revered people in your movement, and mine, too, I will not allow him to be tarred by your brush because you need a scapegoat. To imply that there’s anything underhanded about this man’s attitude is disgusting, and you owe him an apology.”
“Fine,” Pachinko answers with bitterness. “I’ll apologize to him. I’ll pose the question to you instead: how much are they paying you?”
She laughs. “Are you joking?”
“I’m deadly serious,” he responds.
The gavel comes down. “You don’t have to answer these idiotic allegations,” Redbuck tells Miranda.
“I want to,” she says. “We’ll get a royalty,” she informs everyone. “It isn’t much, because the mineral rights belong to the state, not to the property owner, which you know, Marty, better than me. And what we do receive we’ll be plowing back into the school. Our family won’t take a penny for ourselves, not one red cent.”
“You really expect us to believe that?” he asks her derisively.
“You think we need the money? You know that’s preposterous.”
“You’re holding back information from us,” he presses on doggedly, “all of us, the supervisors as well as us regular little people. You and this guy from the oil company—you’re concocting some backroom deal, and it’s not as clean as you’re making it out to be.”
Miranda throws up her hands. “You make this all sound so Machiavellian. You know what Freud said, don’t you, Marty?”
“What?” he answers, thrown off-balance.
“‘Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.’ There’s nothing below the tip of the iceberg, Marty, because there is no iceberg. What you’re seeing here is what you get. For God’s sake,” she says in exasperation, “I never even met Mr. Hopkins until the day he made Rainier’s offer to fund our project.”
In the back of the room, scrunched down in a seat in the last row, Kate, wearing a quickly improvised disguise of floppy hat and large sunglasses, listens to this bullshit. You’re a fucking liar, lady, you’ve known this man Hopkins longer than that. I’ve seen the two of you together, with my own eyes, from your neighbor Cecil Shugrue’s window. And if you’ll lie about that, which you just have, you’ll lie about anything.
Quietly, not attracting any attention, Kate gets up from her seat and leaves the room. Behind her, the supervisors are beginning to discuss Rainier Oil’s proposal. It’s obvious from the tenor of their remarks that a majority favor approving it.
The newspaper headlines were full of the double murder in Newport Beach, and it was on the tube as well. MAN AND WOMAN SLAIN IN ORANGE COUNTY. TIED INTO MARIJUANA ARREST. The police position was that it was the final payoff of a mob operation gone sour, and that the last participant, Wes Gillroy, had been taken out. Morgan had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, they concluded.
Kate’s stomach churned as she watched on Channel 3’s eleven o’clock news and read about it the next morning in the News-Press. A simple solution that cleans the books. That it was wrong was of no matter, except to the killer, or killers, whoever is behind it—and to her. Her big concern was whether the killer knew she was there or not.
She isn’t sure; but if she’s wrong this time she’ll err on the side of caution.
She goes into hiding. She takes the essentials out of her office and apartment and rents a motel room on upper State under a false name. She leaves the Rooster parked outside her office and rents a car from Hertz, paying in cash so there won’t be a paper trail. And she sleeps with her gun, loaded, under her pillow.
The most important thing she did was to call Saperstein the day after the murders were committed and give him the list of telephone numbers on Rusty’s bill that had 805 prefixes. Most likely they were calls to Bascomb; but there’s the off chance some were to the secret financier as well (although Frank was the go-between and Rusty wouldn’t normally have known who that person was). She also asked Saperstein to look into another specific bank account and see if there were any big deposits made around the time the dope deal had gone down. A real wild hare, but she has to check everything out. It’s her life on the line now, from the moment she crossed Wes and Morgan’s threshold.
Laura had called; hysterical, of course. The message had been on Kate’s service, one of the few she’d returned. Had Kate heard? Laura wanted to know. Did it mean anything?
First she had to calm Laura down. That took several minutes. After Laura got herself under control—more or less—Kate answered that the cops had been right, that Frank had been in partnership with some heavy organization, maybe the Mexican Mafia, maybe some other group, they had taken him out and secured their situation by killing Wes as well.
Laura went for it—eagerly. She was sick of the whole affair, too. So what if Frank hadn’t committed suicide? He had been a bastard, put her in jeopardy, almost got her killed. He’s dead, it’s over.
For you it’s over, Kate thought as she hung up the phone.
But not for me.
“Santa Barbara County Sheriffs Department. How can I help you?”
“This is Sergeant Lane Wilcox of Orange County Sheriffs, in Santa Ana, ID number B-3386. I’m investigating that double murder down here in Newport Beach. One of the decedents was on bail from your facility on a drug-trafficking charge, awaiting trial. I need some basic information regarding his arrest and booking.”
“One moment,” the operator says. “I’ll connect you to jail records
.”
Kate waits while the connection is made. She’s calling from the office of a client, one of the larger law firms in town. She doubts her call will be monitored; but just in case, she doesn’t want anyone to be able to directly trace it back to her.
“Jail Records, Officer Garcia. How can I help you?”
She repeats her request to him, hoping he won’t ask her to give him a number at the Orange County Sheriffs Office that he can call her back on. He doesn’t—her knowledge of procedure and professional tone gets her through.
“Hang on a minute,” he says. “I’ll punch it up.”
It doesn’t take long.
“Okay, I’ve got it,” he says. “What do you need?”
“Time and date of arrest,” she begins. “Officers who made the arrest. Who logged them in, the usual. The names of the officers who were in command that night, and who was responsible for assigning them to their cells—Bascomb and Gillroy. Watch commander, whatever. And if there was any unusual cell-transferring that night.”
“I can do that,” he answers. “Give me your fax number.”
“Let me give you a number in Santa Barbara,” she lies smoothly. “I’m on my way up now to interview Gillroy’s lawyer. Send it to me at his office, I’ll be there within an hour.” She crosses her fingers.
“His lawyer.” He hesitates. “Yeah, his lawyer would be entitled to this,” he decides.
“Thanks. Appreciate it.”
She hovers at the fax machine. The documents come out, a page at a time. She reads each as it emerges. One piece of information in particular catches her eye. She trembles as she reads it.
It’s what she was hoping for—and dreading, too.
19
ANY NEWS IS BAD NEWS
SAPERSTEIN HANDS KATE A thickly packed manila envelope. She tears it open and takes out the contents, quickly skims through them.
“Everything you wanted?” he asks.
“And more.” Jesus. “Thanks.”