The senator tapped his cigar on an ashtray, shook his head, and let go a nominal laugh empty of humor. “Jesus, when those poor country folks see what the Mexican trade agreement’s going to do to their little hopes and dreams of attracting industry, they’ll crap bricks. The Mexicans’ll work for nothing or close to it, and the agreement’ll just pound those little shitburgs out west deeper into the ground with a croquet mallet, but they’re dying anyway, and that’s an altogether separate problem.”
The others up and down the table nodded their assent.
“What is it Cal Akers says?” Senator Wheems paused, looking up at the ceiling where the smoke from his cigar drifted through the bangles of a crystal chandelier. “American technology used by Mex labor to make products we’ll sell to the Japanese and Europeans. He calls it the Rio Grande Initiative. Good title.”
Jill Remington, gazellelike and head canted, was on time-share, listening to the senator and nodding while the trucker talked to her, counting on her breasts to provide filler for the well-practiced, innocuous words she said back to him. Tonight she was an object and knew it, disliking the role and yet glad at the same time she didn’t live out in that high plains area the senator called West Jesus and assorted other names.
“Ever been to Toledo, Jill?” The trucker leered, and the red flag in her brain, with “Question Has Been Asked!” printed on it, flipped to attention. Jack Wheems was looking over at her.
“No, I never have. Is it nice?” That, she figured, would be good for another ten minutes of mindless rambling by the trucker. She glanced at the senator; he puffed on his cigar and winked at her.
The trucker looked at her breasts, reloaded, and continued. “Little lady, we’re just going to have to get you out there and show you . . .”
While he talked, Mexicana flight 32 bumped onto the runway at Dulles with Cal Akers, executive director of the United States Chamber of Commerce, on board.
THE DAY after Jill Remington’s education on the pleasures of Toledo, Ohio, and with the dregs of his travel fatigue swept away by the Christian Businessmen’s Breakfast he had just attended, Cal Akers briskly entered his offices on Capitol Hill. The Mexicans were coming around on the trade agreement, and he could already visualize shoals of factories lining the border. Let the supercilious Europeans and the buzzing little Jappos suck on that prospect.
“Good morning, Jill.”
“Good morning, Mr. Akers. Welcome back. How was the trip?”
“Super, Jill. Just super. What’s the message board look like?”
In Cal Akers’s world, everything was always super in spite of one failed marriage, a second headed in that direction, and a possible bankruptcy flowing from investments he had made in a chain of jewelry stores. Over the last six years of working for Cal, Jill had come to hate the word super.
“I’ve stacked them on your desk in the order they arrived, Mr. Akers. Mr. Flanigan at the High Plains Development Corporation has called several times. Also, Senator Wheems called and needs to talk with you right away.”
“Raise him for me. Then we’ll try Flanigan.”
The senator was riding his big horse, lathered up and rolling. A night on Jill Remington consistently did that for him. “Cal,” he roared, “get your buddy Bill Flanigan out there in West Fuckup to talk with this Ray Dargen, whoever he is, and get the son of a bitch calmed down before he wrecks this entire project. Harlan—you know, Senator Sterk from out there—tells me Dargen got a bunch of people together and they’ve secretly been buying land along the proposed route prior to the announcement last week. Been doing it for the last year or so, from what Harlan tells me. Christ, I knew it was a mistake for Flanigan to show him the route this early even if Dargen is a state highway commissioner.”
Akers flinched at the senator’s vocabulary, which echoed the way he used to talk before he stopped smoking and committed to Christ. “Who is Ray Dargen? Never heard of him except for the one time Flanigan mentioned him on a phone message he left for me on my answering machine.”
“Ray Dargen’s a real bad person, Cal,” Jack Wheems replied. “According to Sterk, Dargen skates around on his own private grease rink, one of the old-line guys who hasn’t figured out the world is changing. He’s not all that bright overall, but he’s shrewd-smart, and he’s so mean that he bullies people into doing what he wants. Nobody likes to confront him ’cause he’s got no conscience and no qualms about doing anything, no matter how nasty it is. While ago he got a Falls City woman who was running against Harlan tossed out of the primaries by printing up an anonymous flyer alleging she used dope and was screwing a Puerto Rican guitar player while letting her husband watch.
“It was all lies, but nobody could trace it to him. Dargen also contributes a lot of money to Harlan’s campaign pot, and you know Harlan’s a good friend of mine. I also happen to know that Dargen owns a big chunk of land out near a place called Wolf Butte. He bought it about fifteen years ago, so Harlan says. Something to do with trace elements of gold found in a stream near there. How that all fits into this I’m not sure.”
“Okay, Senator. I’ll call Flanigan right away and check on it.” Cal Akers hung up and asked Jill to get Bill Flanigan on the line.
“HIGH PLAINS Development Corporation, Mrs. Andrews speaking.”
“Mr. Akers at the United States Chamber of Commerce is calling for Mr. Flanigan.” Jill wondered if Mrs. Andrews, whoever she was, had ever been balled by a senator.
Mrs. Andrews had not been balled by a senator, though she’d seen several of them on television. Aside from one careless and fumbling moment after the senior prom, there had been only her husband, and he had lost interest ten years ago.
Margaret Andrews was drooping. She had spent the previous night helping her daughter deal with the baby’s croup while her son-in-law watched a football game on television. She had known it was a mistake when Marilee dropped out of cosmetology school and got married to a certifiable loser. Somehow, though, with the faith of mothers everywhere, she had hoped it might work out, still did.
“Mr. Flanigan is on another line. Would you like to leave a callback?”
“When he’s free, please have him call Mr. Akers.”
“I’ll give him the message.”
“Thank you. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Jill buzzed Cal Akers. “Mr. Flanigan is busy right now. I left a callback.”
“Thanks, Jill.” Cal Akers rapped his pen on the desk blotter. Geez Louise, you could never get anybody anywhere anymore.
In ten minutes, Bill Flanigan returned the call. Akers picked up the phone, pulling up his best smiley voice as he did it. “Bill, how are you? I’m sorry to be so slow about getting back to you. I’ve been over on the Hill and down in Mexico City for a week, working on what we’re calling the Rio Grande Initiative. It’s moving along, even though the liberals are all fussed up about cheap labor and environmental stuff.
“Anyway, I just wanted to fill you in on the highway project and check how it’s going on your end. Things are moving fast here, faster than I thought they would. The good senator’s swinging a meat ax on this one, calling in his chits, beating the crap out of anyone getting in his way. The Canadians are on board now, and New Orleans has helped form a national coalition of oilmen and truckers.
“We had some problems with the federal planners and engineers. The planners have been whining that they don’t have enough money to maintain existing interstates, let alone build a new one. The engineers are a separate case. They don’t like the big swing in the road to include Falls City and Livermore. The senator himself went over and talked to them two days ago. Told them if they expected any more money for concrete in the next ten years, they’d better get their minds straight on this project. That seemed to do it. There’s still some bitching, but they’re getting in harness.”
“Any chance of the road coming through Salamander?”
“None. We gave it a shot, like you asked, but the engineers really scre
amed on that one, so I let it drop. Anyway, we both know that little pond’s drying up, and a road won’t help it. Right now it looks like we’re staying with the proposed route, which will miss Salamander by about six miles, coming cross-country northwest from Livermore and then cutting over Forty-two and on up a dirt road to the north, same as we talked about before. Looks like a clear shot across open country after it leaves Livermore, which helps to minimize property acquisition costs. What about things out there? You see any problems?”
“Well, the Salamander thing would have helped, but we’ll smoke it by them, tell them the spin-off from the highway will be good for the town, even though it’s six miles west of them. The farmers and ranchers’ll scream like hell about it cutting through their land, but they can be handled. One other possible problem just came up. Word has it that the Sioux consider the area around Wolf Butte sacred land, even though they don’t own it. They did own it a long time ago, but that was inconvenient for the government and gold miners, so it got kind of slipped over into other hands. The Indians still feel proprietary about it, however. We’ve had similar problems with other development projects. Somehow we’ll work it out, give ’em the modern-day equivalent of beads—a truckload of beer or something—or just blow it past ’em, whatever it takes.”
“Good. Listen, Bill, the main reason I called is a fellow named Ray Dargen who is apparently buying up land along the highway route. That’s got to stop or at least be cranked up six more notches of secrecy. Apparently Dargen has been a force in getting the highway through your area, but the whole thing might collapse or at minimum get held up if he doesn’t quiet down.”
“I just got wind of that, Cal. Whatever bad things you’ve heard about Ray Dargen are not only right, they’re probably not bad enough. Also, he’s a state highway commissioner. Frankly, I hate to be in the same car with him, always feel sort of like I’m cheating someone in some undefined way just by talking to him. You can see him licking his lips and rubbing his cologned hands every time the highway is mentioned. In general, he’s incorrigible, plus he’s a big supporter of Harlan Sterk. But I’ll talk to him, try to get him shut up.”
Akers continued. “Jack Wheems mentioned something about Dargen owning property near a place called Wolf Butte. Something to do with gold. Know anything about that?”
“No. I’ll see what I can find out, though.”
“Okay, I’m counting on you. Bill, I’ve got another call coming in. Just wanted to let you know how things are going here. Keep the faith and stay in contact. If everything continues the way it is now, we’ll announce the final highway plans in a couple of months.”
“That sounds great. We appreciate your help. I’d like to talk with you sometime about this Mexican trade agreement I’ve heard you mention and what impact it might have on us out here.”
“Sure thing. I did ask the senator about that, however, and he doesn’t foresee any real negative impact on your area. In fact, he thinks it might open the door for additional wheat exports. Gotta run, Bill.”
When the light on her phone console flashed off, indicating Bill Flanigan was finished with his call, Margaret Andrews was still thinking about her granddaughter and worrying about what kind of job her son-in-law could find to support a family over the long haul. Things just seemed to be falling apart out there, jobs disappearing and people leaving. Mr. Flanigan, though, had told her that better times were on the way and had winked when he’d said it. She trusted him and hoped it was true, feeling the sunlight of a high plains autumn on her hands from the window beside her, she sat with fingers clenched, knowing winter was not far off.
She wished that her son-in-law had gone to college instead of working at Guthridge Brothers Sand & Gravel over in Salamander and hanging around Sleepy’s Stagger Inn up in Livermore all night. She figured he would probably get laid off when cold weather arrived, then flop around the house drinking beer and watching game shows, yelling about what he could do on Wheel of Fortune if he just had the chance. When she had offered to pay his tuition so he could attend Three Buttes Community College right there in town, he’d laughed and gone out to change the oil in his car. She had made the same offer to her daughter, but Marilee had wanted to attend cosmetology school and fiddle with hair the way she’d always done with her own. The pregnancy changed all that. And once again, Margaret Andrews thought about winter approaching, even though the sun was coming through a window and lying warm upon her hands.
Chapter Fifteen
“YOUR GUESS IS RIGHT. THEY’LL GO AFTER YOU USING eminent domain.” The professor of environmental economics at Stanford was talking by phone to a man named Carlisle McMillan somewhere out in the high plains.
“The Fifth Amendment allows for the taking of private property for public use as long as fair compensation is provided. When it comes to acquiring right-of-way for interstates, the law is quite specific. The secretary of transportation is authorized, and I’m quoting the law here, ‘in the name of the United States . . . to acquire, enter upon, and take possession of such land or interests in such lands by purchase, donation, condemnation, or otherwise in accordance with the laws of the United States.’ In this case, accordance means they have to compensate you, but they can take it.”
“There’s nothing I can do, then?”
“You’ll have to use other defenses. In fact, you have to go on the offense. From what you’ve said, I gather there’s been some doodling around with the route. I’ve seen that before, plenty of times. Carefully study the engineering data, make them justify the route they’ve chosen. At least fifty percent of the time they can’t do it. I’ll send you some materials that’ll give you a good idea of how to go about it.”
The professor watched students walking by his window in Palo Alto, red knapsacks, blue knapsacks, and glanced at his plane ticket for a conference in Melbourne. “Then there are the birds you mentioned, the T-hawks. Tell me a little more about them.”
Carlisle described how he and Moore had identified the hawks and what had transpired since then.
“Are they on the endangered species list?” the professor asked.
“No, because everyone thought they were already extinct, but they’ve been nominated as candidates. The Raptor Coalition is working on that.” Carlisle leaned against the door of a phone booth in Falls City. He was a third of the way through a garden room addition for a local attorney and trying to concentrate on his work, while anger over the road kept coming in waves, subsiding, then coming again.
“That’s too bad.” The professor sighed. “A species considered endangered or even threatened, which is the next lower level, is a powerful weapon in situations like these. That’s the general thrust of the Endangered Species Act, and this highway clearly will destroy habitat.
“But I’ll remind you, the first law of highway engineering is this: The shortest distance between any two points is always through a forest. The problem is that no legislative authority currently protects species that are candidates for the protected list but not yet on the list. And the process of getting a species listed is slow and uncertain. A recent report showed it will take the government ninety-four years merely to review all the plants and animals currently requiring attention, partly because the Office of Endangered Species is underfunded and understaffed.
“Along with that, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, which manages these things, is subject to all kinds of political pressures. Even if you do eventually get the birds listed, that’s no guarantee they’ll make it. Of those currently listed, one-third continues to decline in numbers. Also, the FSW spends most of its money on species with high visibility, those that have a lot of sexy, public appeal, such as the bald eagle, and I suspect your birds are not in that category.”
All of it sounded pretty grim to Carlisle. “Well, what do you suggest?”
“There’s a pretty good chance you can get the highway stopped, at least for a while, on the technicality that the original environmental impact statement was inadequate.
That’s been done in the past. If you have the resources, first get an injunction to halt construction temporarily on the basis of the statement, and, second, file a lawsuit to push the birds onto the endangered list. If the birds get on the list, you’re just about home free. Notice I said ‘just about.’ There are various legal and political shenanigans that can be pulled to circumvent the list, but as I said before, it’s a powerful weapon. Have you got, say, twenty or thirty thousand dollars for a lawsuit?”
“No.”
“Does the Raptor Coalition have that kind of money?”
“I don’t know, but Daryl Moore, a biologist at Three Buttes Community College, mentioned that the coalition is talking about an injunction, so maybe they do have the money.”
“Okay, that’s a start,” the professor said, checking his watch and fingering his plane ticket for Melbourne. “Let the coalition work on the environmental aspects of the problem, since that takes a high level of technical expertise in the natural sciences and the ability to move rapidly. Also, very few federal projects have ever been stopped purely on environmental considerations. You concentrate on the route, try to show why the proposed route is not the optimum one. That’s your best strategy. Listen, Mr. McMillan, I’m catching a plane for Australia in less than two hours, so I have to run now. Good luck. I’ll have my secretary send you the materials I talked about earlier, which is a detailed, rigorous approach to analyzing route selection, and call me again if you need to, anytime.”
“Thanks very much, Professor Weinstein. It looks a little bleak, but you’ve been very helpful.”
“Glad to be of some use. Hang in there. The bastards hate intelligence and commitment. They’re not prepared to deal with those qualities. Let me warn you, though, this kind of thing can get rough. There’s a lot of money at stake, and that’s all they care about. I generally wade into these battles figuring they’ll get at least an R rating. Gotta go. Good luck.”