Holyoak took an hour. Roderick Pritchett, manager-secretary of the Sequoia Club, was next and the interrogation moved into higher gear.
Pritchett, spare, neat and with mannerisms to match, wore a dark, conservatively tailored three-piece suit. His iron gray hair was precisely parted and in place; occasionally he put up a hand to satisfy himself it remained undisturbed. As he rose and approached the witness stand, Pritchett’s eyes appeared to gleam behind his rimless glasses. Shortly before the interrogation he had been conferring intently with Laura Bo Carmichael, seated beside him at one of the three counsel-witness tables.
“Mr. Goldman,” Pritchett began, “I have here a photograph.” He reached back to the counsel table and picked up an eight-by-ten glossy print. “I’d like you to examine it, then tell me if what you see is familiar to you.”
Nim accepted the photograph. While he studied it, a Sequoia Club clerk was handing additional copies to the commissioner and administrative law judge, counsel, including Oscar O’Brien, Davey Birdsong and the press. Several more copies went to spectators who began passing them around.
Nim was puzzled. Most of the photo was black, but there was a certain familiarity …
The Sequoia Club manager-secretary was smiling. “Please take your time, Mr. Goldman.”
Nim shook his head. “I’m not sure.”
“Perhaps I can help.” Pritchett’s voice suggested a game of cat-and-mouse. “According to what I have read in newspapers, the scene you are looking at is one you personally observed last weekend.”
Instantly Nim knew. The photo was of the Cherokee plant coal pile at Denver. The blackness was explained. Mentally he cursed the publicity which had disclosed his weekend journey.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose it’s a picture of coal.”
“Please give us a little more detail, Mr. Goldman. What coal and where?”
Reluctantly Nim said, “It’s stored coal for use by a Public Service Company of Colorado plant near Denver.”
“Precisely.” Pritchett removed his glasses, wiped them briefly, then replaced them. “For your information, the photograph was taken yesterday and flown here this morning. It isn’t a pretty picture, is it?”
“No.”
“Ugly, wouldn’t you say?”
“I suppose you could call it that, but the point is …”
“The point is,” Pritchett interrupted, “you have already answered my question—‘I suppose you could call it that,’ you said—which means you agree that the picture is ugly. That’s all I asked. Thank you.”
Nim protested, “But it should also be said …”
Pritchett waved an admonitory finger. “That’s enough, Mr. Goldman! Please remember I am asking the questions. Now let’s move on. I have a second photograph for you—and the commissioners—to look at.”
While Nim fumed inwardly, Pritchett returned to the counsel table and this time selected a color photo. He handed it to Nim. As before the clerk passed out other copies.
Although Nim failed to recognize the specific scene, he had no doubt where the second photo was taken. It had to be Tunipah, at or near the site of the proposed generating plant. Equally obvious was that the photographer was a skilled professional.
The breathtaking beauty of the rugged California wilderness had been captured under a clear, azure sky. A stark, rocky promontory towered over a stand of majestic pines. Near the base of the trees was dense foliage, in the foreground a racing, foam-flecked stream. On the nearer bank of the stream a profusion of wild flowers delighted the eye. Further away, in shadows, a young deer had raised its head, perhaps startled by the photographer.
Pritchett prompted, “A truly beautiful scene, is it not, Mr. Goldman?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Do you have any idea where that photograph was taken?”
“I presume it was Tunipah.” There was no point in playing games, Nim decided, or in delaying the point which sooner or later Pritchett was going to make.
“Your presumption is correct, sir. Now I have a further question.” Pritchett’s tone sharpened; his voice rose. “Does it disturb your conscience that what you and your company propose to do at Tunipah is superimpose this, this hideous ugliness”—he waved the coal pile picture in the air—“upon this serene and glorious beauty”—now he held up the second, color photo—“one of the few remaining unspoiled sanctuaries of nature in our state and country?”
The question—posed with dramatic rhetoric—produced a hum of approval from spectators. One or two applauded.
Nim answered quietly, “Yes, of course it disturbs me. But I see it as necessary, a compromise, a trade-off. Besides, in proportion to the total area around Tunipah …”
“That’s sufficient, Mr. Goldman. A speech is not required. The record will show that your answer was ‘yes.’”
Pritchett paused briefly, then returned to the attack.
“Is it possible that your journey to the State of Colorado last weekend was undertaken because your conscience bothered you, because you had to see for yourself the ugliness of huge quantities of coal—the kind of quantities there would be at Tunipah—imposed on what was once a beautiful landscape?”
Oscar O’Brien was on his feet. “Objection!”
Pritchett swung toward him. “On what grounds?”
Ignoring Pritchett, O’Brien addressed the bench. “The question has twisted the witness’s words. Further, it presumes a state of mind which the witness has not admitted having.”
The presiding commissioner announced blandly, “The objection is overruled.” O’Brien subsided, glowering.
“No,” Nim said, addressing Pritchett, “the way you put it was not the reason for my journey. I went because there were technical aspects of a coal-fired generating plant I wished to review in advance of these hearings.” Even to Nim, the reply seemed unconvincing.
Pritchett observed, “I am sure there are some here who will believe you.” His tone declared: I don’t.
Pritchett continued with other questions but they were anticlimactic. The Sequoia Club, through its shrewd use of the contrasting photographs, had scored heavily and Nim blamed himself.
At length the club’s manager-secretary resumed his seat.
The presiding commissioner consulted a sheet in front of him. “Does the organization ‘power & light for people’ wish to question this witness?”
Davey Birdsong responded, “It sure does.”
The commissioner nodded. Birdsong lumbered to his feet.
The big man wasted no time on preliminaries. He asked, “How did you get here?”
Nim looked puzzled. “If you mean whom do I represent …”
Birdsong snapped, “We all know who you represent—a rich and greedy conglomerate which exploits the people.” The p & lfp leader slammed a meaty hand on a ledge by the witness chair and raised his voice. “I mean exactly what I said: ‘How did you get here?’”
“Well … I came in a taxi.”
“You came in a taxi? A big, important wheel like you? You mean you didn’t use your personal helicopter?”
Nim smiled thinly; it was already obvious what kind of interrogation this would be. He answered, “I don’t have a personal helicopter. And I certainly didn’t use one today.”
“But you do use one sometimes—right?”
“On certain special occasions …”
Birdsong cut in. “Never mind all that! You do use one sometimes—yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“A helicopter, paid for with the hard-earned money of gas and electricity consumers in their monthly bills?”
“No, it is not paid for in utility bills. At least, not directly.”
“But consumers pay indirectly—right?”
“You could say that about every piece of working equipment …”
Birdsong slammed his hand again. “We’re not talking about other equipment. I’m inquiring about a helicopter.”
“Our company has several helicopters wh
ich …”
“Several! You mean you get a choice—like between a Lincoln and a Cadillac?”
Nim said impatiently, “They are mainly for operational use.”
“Which doesn’t stop you using one when you need it personally, or think you need it—right?” Without pausing for an answer, Birdsong reached into a pocket and produced a newspaper sheet which he unfolded. “You remember this?”
It was Nancy Molineaux’s article in the California Examiner, published shortly after the press visit to Devil’s Gate Camp.
Nim said resignedly, “I remember it.”
Birdsong read out details of the newspaper and date, which the stenotypist recorded, then swung back to Nim. “It says here: ‘Mr. Goldman … is too important to ride on a bus, even though one—privately chartered by Golden State Power—was going his way … and had plenty of spare seats. Instead he chose a helicopter …’” Birdsong looked up, glaring. “Is all that true?”
“There were special circumstances.”
“Never mind them. I asked: ‘Is that true?’”
Nim was aware of Nancy Molineaux watching from the press table; a soft smile played about her face. He said, “It was a prejudiced report, but—more or less—it’s true.”
Birdsong appealed to the bench. “Will the chairman please instruct this witness to respond with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”
The commissioner said, “It might save everyone time if you did, Mr. Goldman.”
His face set grimly, Nim answered, “Yes.”
“It took a lot of effort,” Birdsong said, “like pulling teeth.” He was facing the bench again and, chameleon-like, had slipped from hardness into affability. “But we finally have an admission from the witness that the contents of this courageous newspaper report are true. Mr. Chairman, I would like the article entered into evidence to demonstrate the rich living which officials like Goldman here, and Wotsisname the chairman, accustom themselves to at the expense of poor consumers. Also it shows why expensive boondoggles like Tunipah, aimed at supporting this kind of habit as well as making extortionate profits, are foisted on an unsuspecting public.”
O’Brien, on his feet, protested wearily, “I object—to inclusion of the report which is irrelevant to this hearing; also to the last remarks which are unsupported by evidence or testimony.”
The commissioner consulted briefly with the administrative law judge, then announced, “Your objection will be recorded, Mr. O’Brien. The document—the newspaper report—will be admitted as an exhibit.”
“Thank you sir,” Birdsong said. He returned his attention to Nim.
“Do you, personally, own stock in Golden State Power & Light?”
“Yes,” Nim said. He wondered what came next. He owned a hundred and twenty shares which he had acquired, a few at a time, through a payroll savings plan. Their present market value was slightly more than two thousand dollars—far less than the original cost since the value of GSP & L stock had slumped a month ago after omission of the dividend. But he decided not to volunteer more information than was asked. It proved to be a mistake.
“If this Tunipah deal goes through,” Birdsong continued. “is it likely the value of all Golden State Power shares will go up?”
“Not necessarily. They could equally well go down.” As he spoke, Nim wondered: Should he elaborate, add that with a huge construction program, to be financed by the sale of securities including new common stock at below book value, the existing GSP & L shares would be diluted and might slump? Such an answer would require complex explanations; it would also—in this context—look like waffling. Nor was Nim sure that the company’s treasurer would want the statement made in public. He decided to leave well enough alone.
“Not necessarily,” Birdsong repeated. “But the market price of those shares could go up. Surely you’ll admit that.”
Nim said tersely, “In the stock market, anything can happen.”
Birdsong faced the courtroom and sighed theatrically. “I suppose that’s the best answer I can expect from this unco-operative witness, so I will make the statement: The shares probably would go up.” He swung back to Nim. “If that happened, isn’t it true that you would have a vested interest in Tunipah, that you, too, would be a profiteer?”
The notion was so absurd, Nim wanted to laugh. The best he could hope for, for a long time to come, was that the value of his small shareholding would return to its level at the time of purchase.
Birdsong said suddenly, “Since you seem reluctant to answer, I’ll put the question another way: If the value of Golden State shares goes up because of Tunipah, will your shares be worth more as well?”
“Look,” Nim said, “I only …”
From the bench the commissioner cut in testily, “It’s a simple question, Mr. Goldman. Just answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”
About to explode at the unfairness, Nim was aware of Oscar O’Brien signaling with a gentle shake of his head. It was a reminder, Nim knew, of the instructions to be patient and resist provocation. He answered with a terse, “Yes.”
Birdsong declared, “Now that we have that admission also, Mr. Chairman, I wish the record to show that this witness has a vested financial interest in the outcome of this hearing, and therefore his testimony should be judged accordingly.”
“Well, you just put it in the record yourself,” the commissioner said, his irritation still showing. “So why not move along?”
“Yessir!” The p & lfp leader thrust a hand through his beard as if in thought, then returned to Nim. “Now then, I have some questions about the effect of Tunipah on the utility bills of ordinary working people, the ones who …”
It went on and on. Birdsong concentrated—as he had while cross-examining J. Eric Humphrey—on the suggestion that profit, and nothing else, was the motive behind Tunipah; also that consumers would foot the bill and receive nothing or little in return. What angered Nim, beneath the unruffled surface he struggled to maintain, was that not once were the major, important issues—future power requirements based on growth, industry economics, maintenance of living standards—touched on. Populist froth was being paraded; nothing more. But it would gain attention. Activity at the press table made that clear.
Nim also admitted to himself that the two-pronged attack—the Sequoia Club emphasizing environmental issues and the p & lfp dwelling on rates and finance, however superficially—was effective. He wondered if there had been liaison between the two groups, though he doubted it. Laura Bo Carmichael and Davey Birdsong were on different intellectual planes. Nim still respected Laura Bo, despite their differences, but he despised Birdsong as a charlatan.
During a short recess, after Birdsong had concluded his questioning, Oscar O’Brien warned Nim, “You’re not through yet. After the other witnesses I’ll want you back on the stand for redirect, and when I’ve finished the other people can have at you again if they want.” Nim grimaced, wishing his part were over, thankful that it would be soon.
Laura Bo Carmichael was next on the stand.
Despite her small, slight figure, the Sequoia Club chairwoman occupied the witness chair with grande dame demeanor. She was wearing a severe, tailored suit of beige gabardine and, as usual, her graying hair was cut severely short. She wore no ornamentation or jewelry. Her manner was serious. Her voice, as she responded to questions put to her by Roderick Pritchett, was crisp and authoritative.
“We have heard stated in previous testimony, Mrs. Carmichael,” Pritchett began, “that a public need for more electrical power justifies building a coal-powered generating plant in the Tunipah area. Is that your opinion?”
“No, it is not.”
“Will you explain to the commissioners your reasons—and those of the Sequoia Club—for opposing that construction?”
“Tunipah is one of the few, the very few, remaining natural wilderness areas in California. It abounds with treasures of nature—trees, plants, flowers, streams, unique geologic formations, animal, bird and insect life, some of
those features representing strains which have become extinct elsewhere. The region is, above all, magnificently beautiful. To despoil it with a huge, ugly, high-polluting industrial plant, serviced by a new railroad—itself polluting and intrusive—would be sacrilegious, an ecological stride backward to the last century, a blasphemy against God and nature.”
Laura Bo had spoken calmly, without raising her voice, which made her statement more impressive. Pritchett paused before his next question, allowing the impact of her words to sink in.
“The spokesman for Golden State Power & Light, Mr. Goldman,” Pritchett said, “has assured the commission that disturbance of the natural state of Tunipah would be minimal. Would you care to comment on that?”
“I have known Mr. Goldman for a number of years,” Laura Bo responded. “He means well. He may even believe what he says. But the truth is: No one can build any kind of a plant at Tunipah without doing tremendous, irreversible environmental damage.”
The Sequoia Club manager-secretary smiled. “Am I correct in my impression, Mrs. Carmichael, that you do not really trust GSP & L where that ‘minimal damage’ promise is concerned?”
“Yes, you are—even if that promise could be fulfilled, which it cannot.” Laura Bo turned her head, directly addressing the two occupants of the bench who had been listening intently. “In the past, Golden State Power and most other industrial companies have proven themselves untrustworthy where environmental choices were concerned. When they were left alone they poisoned our air and water, plundered our forests, squandered mineral resources, scarred our landscapes. Now that we live in another era, where these sins are recognized, they tell us: Trust us. Our past will not repeat itself. Well, I, and many others, do not trust them—in Tunipah or anywhere else.”
Listening, Nim thought: There was a compelling logic to what Laura Bo was saying. He could, and did, dispute her view of the future; Nim believed that GSP & L and other organizations like it had absorbed the lessons of old mistakes, and had learned to be good ecological citizens, if for no other reason than that nowadays it was simply good business. However, no fair-minded person could argue with Laura Bo’s assessment of the past. Something else she had already done during her short time on the witness stand, Nim decided, was raise the level of debate far above the gallery-playing pettiness of Davey Birdsong.