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CHAPTER 38

When you get there, there isn't any there there.
-- Gertrude Stein

You say you want a revolution
Well you know
We all want to change the world
You tell me that it's evolution
Well you know
We all want to change the world
But when you talk about destruction
Don't you know that you can count me out
Don't you know it's gonna be alright

You say you got a real solution
Well you know
We'd all love to see the plan
You ask me for a contribution
Well you know
We are doing what we can
But if you want money for people with minds that hate
All I can tell you is brother you have to wait
Don't you know it's gonna be alright
-- John Lennon & Paul McCartney, "Revolution"

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert ... Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
-- Percy Bysshe Shelley, "Ozymandias"

We sat enjoying the late evening breeze on the wide front
porch of The Ranch library. The low sun was dappling through the
oak trees, quilting our faces and the white-slatted railing.
Walsh nursed a beer. So did I. Elliot twirled a half-full
tumbler of iced tea. Pachelbel's "Canon" played inside the
house. Time standing still induced reflection.
--Elliot "When I think about Borba, I think about all those
men and women who blindly served Jim Jones at People's Temple."
--Western "Not possible. He was Portuguese. He considered
himself part of the Third World."
Elliot stared without focus. "I'm talking about the young
lieutenants surrounding Jones."
--Walsh "He still wasn't wonder-bread white like they
were."
--Elliot "I don't mean skin color. I mean attitude. They
all grew up in California in the Sixties. The young,
anti-intellectual, and sanctimonius. Wasted on ideologies.
Unable to clearly see through their own self-righteousness."
--Western "Most of those kids grew up affluent. In a
permissive atmosphere. Borba didn't."
--Elliot "Let me get to my point, all right?"
They shrug their shoulders.
--Elliot "As a group, these counter-culture rebels lacked
self-inquiry. None of them ever really examined their
assumptions about politics, groups, religions, or leaders."
--Western "Blind Faith, 1968." I did like my musical
allusions.
--Elliot "What they, and People's Temple, showed us was the
lack of a central social mission. They just couldn't sustain the
idealism of the Sixties. That's what was wrong with the Sixties.
We set everyone up. We gave them expectations. We raised
issues, looking for the truth."
--Western "And then we bailed out. There was no follow
through."
--Elliot "We asked the questions but didn't take the time
to find the answers. There was no closing act. And those who
believed it, who got caught up in it, were left dangling."
--Western "Sort of like Mike Prokes."
--Walsh "Who?"
--Western "The guy from Ralston who was with Jim Jones in
Guayana. Escaped 'the kool-aid acid test'. Then blew his brains
out in a Ralston motel bathroom just prior to telling all at a
news conference."
--Elliot "That's what I mean. We set him up. Made him
think he could change the world."
--Western "So, you're saying when Prokes killed himself, he
did it because he had lost sight of his original goal?"
--Elliot "Partly. He was a survivor. And Jonestown left
its scar. It compromised him. Corrupted his spirit. He
couldn't live with himself and with the shame. This society
claims it can help the victims. But what does it know about
healing those with great crimes on their conscience?"
--Walsh "So, what's the point?"
--Elliot "People like Prokes--and Borba--traded one idol
for another. One ideology for another. One blind belief traded
for another. One pursued the cult of personality, the other the
cult of power.
--Elliot "Both followed Messiahs. Borba, a good Catholic
worshiped Christ. Prokes, an average white boy, worshiped Jim
Jones. Both were seeking better worlds."
--Walsh "And they simply followed misplaced ideologies."
--Elliot "They couldn't see through those ideologies. When
they acted, they did things they couldn't live with."
--Western "And they killed themselves because of the
burdens they carried."
--Elliot "I guess I shouldn't be so surprised. I remember
something I saw in a magazine, or maybe it was a book. It
doesn't matter. Anyway, it was an interview with Michael Cimino,
the guy who directed 'The Deerhunter' and 'Heaven's Gate'."
We look at each other, our eyebrows raised in recognition of
what we know is about to come. The reaction doesn't go
unnoticed.
--Elliot "I should have listened more carefully. It told
me how the government would act in this case. Whose side they
would really be on."
We both lean back, preparing for the history lesson.
--Elliot "Cimino was discussing the historical
background that formed the basis for 'Heaven's Gate'. About
the role played by the federal government when they were faced
with the war that had started in Johnson County, Montana. He
quoted a statement made at the time by then President Benjamin
Harrison. Harrison said: 'I can do nothing except act with the
state to prevent violence. Everything else rests with the state
authorities.' In other words, the highest source of law
enforcement in the land was abdicating his authority to the money
and power of the ruling class. He was telling the cattlemen that
he expected them to maintain law and order. As they saw it. And
if they had to kill a few filthy immigrants in the process, to
keep anarchy from reigning, he was giving them the power to do
that. Don't you see? That's what happened here."
--Walsh "They supported the people with influence."
--Elliot "Sure, the people in government weren't about to
shoot themselves in the foot. They knew who put them in power
and who was keeping them there."
--Walsh "The PACs."
--Western "Like Borba's Valley Education Fund."
--Walsh "Supported by money from DiGiulio and OxyGene."
--Elliot "And that will keep the dams going up."
--Western "And the water flowing."
--Walsh "And the pesticides pumping."
--Western "Despite the fact that they know, and we know,
it's harmful to the public."
--Elliot "That's okay. They'll make the compromise.
They'll rationalize it as the greatest good for the greatest
number."
--Walsh "Or the ones with the most money and the greatest
influence."
--Western "And that's not us."
--Elliot "I once thought differently. I guess I was a
little ... " he hesitates, then finishes: " ... blind." He
refused to say the word, but he knew I had been right.
Elliot stared down the curving driveway. He was thinking
how life always did remind him of scenes from a movie. This time
he thought of all those movies made in the Sixties with
unresolved endings. That reversed the expected order of things.
He remembered something he once read. "Uncertainty is the way of
things. There isn't going to be any final truth. The path is
trackless. There is the illusion of the end point. But you
don't get THERE. What finally happens is you accept that you are
on a different journey."
He thought, as well, of the movie that had been a fellow
traveler throughout this journey. Again, it was "Chinatown."
It was John Huston, symbol of the rich, powerful, and
influential. Allowed to go free because of who he was and what
he had. In dollars and dirt on those conducting the
investigation. He truly was above the law.
Elliot recalled discussing "Chinatown" once with
screenwriter Robert Towne, who had said: "I approached the movie
from the point of view that some crimes are punished because they
can be punished. If you kill somebody, rob or rape somebody,
you'll be caught and thrown into jail. But crimes against an
entire community you really can't punish, so you end up rewarding
them. You know, those people who get their names on streets and
plaques at City Hall."
Life certainly did imitate art and history really did repeat
itself. The parallels were numbing. He finally realized,
sitting there, the truth of the cliche that the more things
change, the more they stay the same. He thought he could make an
impact. That he could use his influence to change things. But
he had only become part of the unending cycle of greed and
corruption. He had been derailed, like so many before him, by
special interests, politics, money, and influence, as well as the
apathy and disinterest of the public.
--Elliot "You know, there are no more happy endings."
--Western "Never were."
--Elliot "It's a misrepresentation. 'Easy Rider' got it
right. The world as we know it can yield only one ending. Death
and disintegration."
His disillusion was choking him. People had died. People
had been hurt so others would be more "aware." He had put his
life on the line to tell people something they really didn't want
to hear. And nothing significant had happened. He thought,
there will always be a next time. And people will be no more
aware, no more organized, no more outraged than now. He guessed
there would always be another someone foolish enough, naive
enough to think they could make a world of difference.
Elliot had given it his best shot. He had done what he knew
best; using the storytelling skills he had refined his entire
life, to move people toward enlightenment and action. He had
fired a volley across the bow of public opinion and into the void
of the vast wasteland. He had stirred the beast. Momentarily.
There was movement; some sign of life, a cry for change. Then it
got suddenly very quiet again. The beast was insatiable. It had
moved on in search of new delights to titillate; new wonders to
behold. Those who would move us must shock us someone had once
written and Elliot now believed. The attention span of this
behemoth was too short to assimilate and sustain such a
transformation in attitude.
But, more importantly, Elliot was very concerned. About the
future. The one-reeler inside his head had projected what the
future was going to look like. And it didn't look good.

I went down to the cross roads
Fell down on my knees
Asked the Lord for mercy
Save me if you please

I was standin' at the cross roads
Tried to flag a ride
Ain't nobody seem to know me
Everybody passed me by

You can run, you can run
Tell my friends before the sun goes down
Lord, I'm standin' at the cross roads
I believe I'm sinkin' low.
-- R. Johnson, "Cross Roads"

Walsh and I decided to take one last run out to the refuge.
Have a few beers and take our parting shots. The light was
getting low on the horizon. Summer was fading fast. Soon it
would be fall and, then, a new year.
We stood side-by-side, leaning against the front of the
pick-up. The summer's breeze was kicking up. The late afternoon
sun made everything golden, timeless. We stood in the middle
of a field bordering Masterson. The pond looked peaceful,
tranquil, inviting. There were no DWR men firing shotguns this
evening. The migrations would be starting soon. This time they
might have no place to stop. The refuge might be drained,
bulldozed into a pile and buried.
I kicked at one of the hedgerows in the field. It was
covered with a thick layer of salt. "Look at this shit. I can't
believe these people were so stupid. They killed the land that
fed them."
"It's money, honey. If cultivating more land meant more
money, they went for it. Even if the land got poisoned."
I picked up a handful of salty earth and let it sift and
drift slowly between my fingers. "Salt is gonna kill this
planet."
"Water to water. Desert to desert. Salt to salt."
"Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust."
The dirt fell with a thud on top of the casket. The parish
priest gave a blessing as Borba's wife, family, and friends paid
their last respects. Because he had been so generous and good
to the church during his life, they gave him a special
dispensation during death, allowing him a traditional Catholic
burial, despite the fact that he had committed suicide.
"Standing here sort of feels like the final scene from
'Monte Walsh.'"
"God, we have been around Elliot too long."
"No, come on. The one where the two friends realize the
days of the open range are over. That they're the last of the
cowboys. That they're going their separate ways ... forever."
"Don't get sentimental on me. Shit, not now."
"Yea, right. So, it's back to LA then off to DC for you?"
"And San Francisco for you?"
"I'm not sure. I've been thinking about sticking around for
a while."
"You mean going back to Ralston?"
"Maybe."
"You sure that's a good idea?"
"No. They probably won't even let me past the city limits."
"Well, you've heard it before. You can't go home again."
"But it is what I know. It's shaped me. I'm a valley boy.
I am what it made me."
"Some of that's good, some bad."
"Oh well, who knows." I drained the last of my beer and
threw it into the back of Walsh's pick-up.
"Any way, this is it for now, amigo. Give my best to Di and
the boys."
"Can do."
"See you real soon."
"Look for me when you see me comin'."
We looked at each other, then embraced. A few quick pats on
the back and we were apart, heading for our trucks. As we
climbed in, and fired up the engines, we nod. Then, Walsh
shouted out, "Hey, asshole, gargle my balls!"
"Yea, bite me!"
We both hit it, just once more. Going back in time, we
dovetailed out of the field. Pulling up side-by-side, we smiled
and were gone.
From the coast range, rising gently up from the valley
floor, you could see two trucks racing down the road. At the
cross roads, one turned south. The other turned north.
The native son was laid to rest in the earth of the San
Joaquin Valley. The land he loved, then almost killed. There
were not as many people in attendance as might be expected for
someone who was once so powerful. Ozymandias ruled no more. The
shovel-loads of dirt thumped against the wooden casket. Like a
drummer, playing the downbeat.

Well I was born in a small town
And I live in a small town
Oh, the small communities
All my friends are so small town
My parents live in the same small town
My job is so small town
Provides little opportunity

Oh, I cannot forget from where it is I come from
Cannot forget the people who really love me
Well, I can be myself here in this small town
And people let me be just what I wanna be

Well I was born in a small town
And I live in a small town
Probably die in a small town
Oh, and that's just where I wanna be

Well, I was born in a small town
And I can breathe in a small town
Gonna die in a small town
Oh, and that's probably where they'll bury me
-- John Mellencamp, "Small Town"

THE FINAL WORD:
In a carefully wrought compromise among environmentalists,
the state and federal governments, the Bureau of Reclamation
agreed to carry out the state-ordered bulldozing of the Masterson
Wildlife Refuge.

The DiGiulio Winery, OxyGene, the Marriposa Combine, and the
Westlands Water and Power League were fined and ordered to pay
damages to all who could prove pesticide-related health problems.

The EPA developed a new, more stringent set of standards for
protecting groundwater.

Sandy Western's self-image problem died one October's night
when he missed the on-ramp to San Francisco in the fog.

And Elliot Lincoln returned home to fantasy.

The only reminder you'll find of John Anthony Borba is a
freeway. In his honor. Running straight as an arrow, right
through the heart of the Valley.

CHAPTER 37

There's something happening here,
What it is ain't exactly clear.
There's a man with a gun over there,
Tellin' me I've got to be-ware.

I think it's time we stop, children, what's that sound?
Ev'rybody look what's goin' down.

There's battle lines bein' drawn,
Nobody's right if ev'rybody's wrong.
Young people speakin' their minds,
Gettin' so much resistance from behind.

Paranoia strikes deep,
Into your heart it will creep.
It starts when you're always afraid,
Step out of line the men come and take you away.

I think it's time we stop, children, what's that sound?
Ev'rybody look what's goin' down.
You better stop, hey, what's that sound?
Ev'rybody look what's goin' down.
-- Stephen Stills, "For What It's Worth"

The water project, now entitled "Tyranny of the Downbeat,"
aired the following week. Slotted behind "Monday Night
Football," and before the premier of the new fall shows, it stood
a good chance of being watched by a significant number of people.
The circus atmosphere surrounding the premier--the video press
releases, articles in the trades, and coverage on cable and
network interview shows--guaranteed sufficient pre-broadcast
interest to generate a solid response. The grisly coverage of
Borba's suicide added just the right touch of macabre
sensationalism to suck in the entire tabloid audience.
Print journalists and the electronic media, stumbling and
clawing over each other, fought like jackals over a carcass in
their attempt to capture the moment with just the right cliche.
Many were already referring to it as a "landmark event". Hailed
as a return to the grassroots activism of the Sixties, most
journalists characterized it as the first real attempt by private
citizens to use the power of the media to effect wholesale
change, instead of just selling a product or philosophy.
Some were already speculating about the trial that would
certainly follow; a case that was likely to set precedents
regarding criminal negligence and corporate liability. A few
even predicted that the companies and their top officers would be
prosecuted for negligent homicide. They hinted that
successful prosecution on those grounds would result in
punishment that was not, as before, a matter of fines and
community service, or a simple "slap on the wrist". Instead, it
would mean some expensive fines and some serious prison time.
The documentary itself would surely only be an appetizer to the
banquet these reporters would surely feast at once the trial
began.
Most of California watched. A lot of the rest of America
did too. The overnight numbers were good. A broad spectrum of
the population listened to the narrator's introduction as he
spoke of the agribusiness conspiracy to control California's
water; of the innocence or guilt of the farming, agrichemical,
and political community for their environmental insults.
Now, it was up to the American public.
If one could belief the reviews, news accounts, and
follow-up stories the following day, it appeared as if Elliot
Lincoln and company had succeeded. The media praised Elliot and
the persistence of his vision. He was congratulated over and
over for his courageous stand.
His morality tale had finally been told. His way of living,
his philosophy, might just have triumphed. It was almost as if
life had taken a brief step backward, imitating the movies of the
Fifties, when Elliot was growing up. Movies with resolved
endings, where good really conquered evil. Elliot may have
actually stirred the "vast wasteland".
But Elliot wasn't feeling it. The shifting of the balance.
He wondered. They may have listened, but had they really heard?
Did they recognize the inevitability of what would surely take
place if they didn't do something.
One sector of the viewing audience had heard everything loud
and clear. Every officer of every major corporation doing
business in the public sector knew the significance of this
program. They knew a change in public opinion could seriously
affect the future of American business, especially as it related
to corporate responsibility and environmental liability. For
them, there wasn't enough resources--people, time, and money--to
be invested in the immediate response and the coming battle.
The small stone that Elliot cast that day following his
reunion in Ralston now sent ripples that rocked corporate and
political America.
There were demands for congressional hearings and a grand
jury investigation. There were demands for at least a civil, and
perhaps, a criminal trial, seeking a cash settlement and
injunctions against the use of pesticides and continued subsidies
of irrigation water for the west side. Some officials were
preparing to prosecute OxyGene, The League--and hopefully the
DiGiulio Winery--for misuse of the public trust, stemming from
their willful and knowing conspiracy to contaminate groundwater,
as well as the resulting cover-up.
There were also charges of bribery, as well as obstruction
and tampering with the investigation of federal officials. Those
political representatives involved faced congressional censure
for misconduct and ethics violations. Their lawyers would be
brought before the legal ethics committee and faced possible
disbarment. A federal grand jury would begin conducting hearings
into the role played by government officials at all levels in the
conspiracy and cover-up. And there would be a full report from
the federal Office of the Inspector General. In addition, there
would be a class-action suit filed on behalf of all the people
living on the west side who had been exposed to selenium and
contaminated groundwater.
The authorities were especially interested in talking with
Jon Henry Miller.
Those who had been named--directly, by implication or
association--immediately took steps to disassociate themselves
from The League, The Combine, and DiGiulio; all the people once
represented by Borba and Delancy. As the panic spread, the cuts
began to run deep.
The Padrone, clothed in absolute anonymity and confident
isolation, simply went out and got the very best legal talent and
let them prepare "engineer the response".
That's what Stephan Harrington called it as he covered the
story in the weeks following the broadcast. He was struck by the
parallels between Nixon's "Watergate" and DiGiulio's
"Groundwatergate".

ALTA CALIFORNIA

-----------------------------------------------------------------
GROUNDWATERGATE
The unmaking of a conspiracy

BY STEPHAN HARRINGTON
OF THE RECORD STAFF

As the noose began to tighten, the facade of unity among
agrichemical companies, the corporate farming combines, and their
political cronies started to unravel. The old loyalties had been
shattered.
There was fear and concern about who would be indicted.
There was confusion about who ordered what and who ordered whom.
No one knew would be sacrificed. The mood was, "It's every man
for himself. Get a lawyer and blame everyone else."
Sound familiar? It should. Just change the names. Instead
of Nixon, try DiGiulio. Try the "Valley Education Fund" in place
of the "Committee to Re-elect the President".
It's all here. "Deniability and dirty tricks, plumbers and
back-room boys." Shredded records, secret slush funds, and
laundering.
These men, like those before them, became arrogant. They
lost their perspective working the corridors of power. They knew
they had only one job to do. Keep the water flowing. Whatever
it took. And whatever they did was justified in the name of the
greater good for the larger cause.
Their disdain was their downfall. They became careless and
a little sloppy.
Everyone denied it, but they had to know. About the money,
the conspiracy, and the cover-up.
Now it was time to "engineer the response". It didn't mean
telling the truth then and it doesn't now.
President Nixon was impeached by public opinion. As a
public servant, he could be reached and punished. All the
President's men were prosecuted on criminal charges, but the
President was pardoned.
Robert DiGiulio may not share the same fate as the
President. He may not be prosecuted because there may not be
sufficient evidence to bring criminal charges. And, as a private
citizen running his own privately-owned corporation, the public
cannot touch him. Except to boycott his products.
DiGiulio is a patient man. He has all the time and money in
the world. And the public has a short memory. He will survive.
And return triumphant. Nixon had.

Harrington's last article on the politics of water would
prove prophetic.

The crack of shotgun and small arms fire was unusual. And
the flares. The DWR didn't usually work at night. There were no
migrating birds this time of year. The sheriff's helicopter gave
it away.
A spray of dust kicked up behind Miller's pick-up, as it
careened on three tires south along the Santa Fe Grade. The
fourth had been shot out at the roadblock by a CHP officer, just
before Big Jon wounded him, firing through the broken-out
windshield. There was nothing like a valley night in the
summertime, as the night air starts to cool the day. It felt
good on his sweating face. He wiped the salty perspiration out
of his eyes so he could see the dirt road in the dark.
The flashing red light broke into his thoughts. Some of the
shotgun pellets must have hit his radiator. He was out of water.
The truck started to lurch and jump as the engine vapor-locked.
It died. He put it in neutral and jumped. It weaved crazily to
the side of the road and into the drainage ditch, rolling over
several times before it stopped on its back. He looked up and
around. Then headed east. He wasn't sure where he was going.
Maybe to the foothills. If he could get there, he might hide
out in one of the caves he'd explored as a kid.
He froze as the searchlight stabbed him. Then he ran left,
along the edge of the refuge. He was almost there. He could see
the bleached wooden gate of his gun club just ahead. He was
through and inside the club, looking for guns and more
ammunition, when he heard them. The migrants. Hispanic and
Asian. They stood in the half-light of the arc lamp spilling
through the broken window. The man in the middle--the one
leading the others--was someone he knew. He looked like him,
too. He was the brother of Jimmie Quon. In his hand he held a
baseball bat.
Miller crashed through the back door and headed east again.
He knew there were field trucks at the next ranch over. He
started that way, then stopped. His way was blocked. A
silhouette stood straight ahead. Miller lifted the rifle, but
someone hit him from behind. He fell face forward in the dust.
He rolled over on his back and they hit him. He rolled on his
stomach and they hit him again. He kept rolling, they kept
hitting. Until he rolled to a dead stop at the edge of the
refuge. Quon moved him with his foot. Nothing. He poked him
hard in the ribs. Still nothing. Quon nudged the body over the
edge and into the pond. It turned and began floating, face up,
toward the center. He wasn't happy, not even satisfied. Just
bitter. "How symmetrical," he thought. "That this man should
die in something he killed." As Miller's body slipped beneath
the surface, he dropped the bat into the dirt with a soft, dusty
thud, then silently disappeared into the sultry Valley night.

Soft winds blowing the summertime
Young lovers feel so free
Walking hand-in-hand down a shady lane
What happened to me?
What happened to me?

Did you ever love a girl, who
Walked right out on you?
You should know just how I feel, then
Why I'm so blue
Why I'm so blue

Well I made up my mind
I'll find a new girl
Who'll love me tenderly
Forget the past I left behind, now
To sad memory
To sad memory

Soft winds blowing the summertime
-- Richie Furay, "Sad Memory"

They had been dismissing the obvious all morning long. It
didn't make it any less painful or frustrating. Borba was dead.
And Miller. Those who would stand trial were mostly minor
players. Apparently, there would be no criminal charges against
DiGiulio. It could not be proven, or verified, that he had
ordered, or been responsible in any way for, any of the crimes
committed. There might be a civil trial for environmental
crimes, but DiGiulio would have his day in court to answer those
charges. Providing it ever got to court and he was still alive
when it did.
The ringing doorbell gave them an excuse to take a break.
Pat poured another cup of coffee while Laura went to the door.
When her heard her gasp, he rushed into the dining room. He
stopped when he saw her crying against his shoulder. Pat's eyes
met Billie's. Billie smiled and Pat simply touched his forehead,
in silent salute to the obvious. He turned and left through the
back door. As he walked down the driveway that ran beside the
house to his car, he heard the front door shut with a dull thump.
Across town in the Delgado Building, James David was reading
the same newspaper reports. He was disappointed. DiGiulio's
power and influence were obviously far greater and more deeply
entrenched than his own. The Padrone had covered himself well.
He would be allowed to continue, back to business. He had
escaped the carefully crafted trap. He had remained above the
law. The tyrant had held fast. And The Puppetmaster's plan for
revenge had been thwarted. For now. Delgado settled into the
back seat as the door of the white limousine slammed with a heavy
thud.
At the airport, I watched her back disappear down the
ramp. I hadn't planned it that way. Or had I? I guess I did
choose it by letting it happen. She had become one of the
photographs; one of the memories sitting among the trophies and
souvenirs. Sad because she was special. We had been good for
each other. We were just better apart. I remember reading
Hemingway: "They say the seeds of what we will do are in us
all." It just took fifteen years to realize it. I pictured the
last of her turning the corner as they pulled the cabin door
shut. And I felt that part of my life close with a hollow thump.

Take me to the station
And put me on a train
I've got no expectations
To pass through here again

Once I was a rich man
Now I am so poor
But never in my sweet short life
Have I felt like this before

Your heart is like a diamond
You throw your pearls at swine
And as I watch you leaving me
You pack my piece of mind

Our love was like a water
That splashes on a stone
Our love is like our music
It's here and then it's gone

So take me to the airport
And put me on a plane
I've got no expectations
To pass through here again
-- Keith Richards & Mick Jagger, "No Expectations"

CHAPTER 36

It is when the hidden decisions are made explicit that the arguments begin.
-- Garrett Hardin, "The Tragedy of the Commons"

The final showdown was at hand. The "on-line" was finished.
It was time to prepare the video press releases. The documentary
would air the next Monday. The press releases would start
running the week before. But first, bowing to his undying sense
of fair play and justice--and in a final attempt to convince
Borba and those he represented to take responsibility for their
actions--Elliot offered to screen the documentary in advance for
them. The rest of the production team, including Delgado and
Valle, Reisner, Pope, and Palmer, would see it the next day.
It is just another warm night in what seems like an
endless string. It is almost steamy. It is so still you can
hear the Ralston Symphony tuning up for one of its outdoor
performances in the band shell.
In the murky room, wisps of smoke float past the flickering
television monitor. Faces are silhouetted against the blue light
of the reality they are witnessing. The eyes of Borba, Delancy,
and Santiago are leaden dead. Occasionally, they turn to look at
each other, then to their "guides" and back to the monitor.
Elliot, flanked by The Mole and Laura sitting, Western, Devereaux, and Walsh standing nearby.
As the closing music begins, I bring up the lights. Borba
speaks first, menacing but cornered.
--Borba "It's all bullshit, Lincoln. You'll never get it
to air."
--Elliot "Try and stop me."
--Borba "Do you have any idea how much money the people I
represent pump into broadcast television?" Feeling the corner
against his back.
--Western "Not enough."
--Santiago "Enough that the network decision-makers will
listen. They always do."
--Borba "Money talks."
--Walsh "And bullshit walks."
--Santiago "Even if you do show it, it won't make any
difference. We've been in politics and media long enough to know
that people just won't care."
--Elliot "Didn't you once say that the American public gets
90% of its news and information from the television? They'll
believe it. And they'll care."
--Delancy "Then we'll see you in court."
--Laura "That's exactly where we want to be."
--Santiago "Why'd you do it? It's not your area of
expertise. It's not what you know. It's really none of your
business. What did you expect to gain?"
--Devereaux "Hope for the future."
--Borba "Sixties horseshit!" He was panicking, manic.
--Elliot "None of you probably read the industry trades,
or even the grocery store tabloids. But if you did, and if
you'd taken the time to learn more about me, you'd know that I
can't have children. And I can't have them because I'm sterile.
When I was growing up, I drank water from a well fed by
groundwater. Water that was contaminated by people like you and
the agrichemical conspiracy you represent!"
--Western "And whose tracks you covered with money."
--Delancy "Conspiracy and cover-up? Pretty serious
charges. I hope you can prove them? Slander and libel can be
very costly."
--Elliot "I think I just did." He gestures to the
television, now blank.
--Santiago "What do you plan to do with it?"
--Elliot "We've arranged separate screenings for local,
state, and federal officials, and the media. Then it'll begin
airing on the networks in its present form. We'll cut a three
minute version so it can run as a short subject in the theaters."
--Western "We'll also make copies available for schools and
public service organizations. We may even give copies to the
larger video rental chains so they can loan it out."
--Laura "Parts of it will be introduced as evidence in
court."
--Santiago "You won't reconsider? Maybe give us an
opportunity for atonement?"
--Elliot "Not possible. I haven't any compromise left in
me."
--Borba "I see. Then we'll be going." They stood.
--Devereaux "Be sure to tell Mr. DiGiulio what you've
seen."
Borba is pulled up short, as if someone had just yanked his
strings. "Sure thing, Devereaux." As he passes the monitor,
he stops, then turns to look at the group, then back to the TV.
As he lashes out, knocking it off the table, Elliot watches it,
floating in slow motion, until it shatters against the floor.

He asked for a glass of water. He knew where it was, but
asked anyway. He stood, balanced himself on the back of the
chair, then walked over to the wet bar. He felt like he was
trudging through mud. He drank one, then another glass. He let
the cool water run over his trembling hand. He looked at himself
in the smoked mirror above the sink. His eyes appeared to be
bleeding they were so bloodshot. Rock bottom again. Down to the
dregs. Put your ass on the line for people and what do they do?
Kick you in the nuts. Then wipe their feet on your ass as they
step over you on their way out.
He remembered the priests. They were sorry they said, as
they looked with saddened faces. There was nothing they could
do, they told him. It is out of our hands, they confessed. It
is God's way, they murmured. Then God damn His ways and the rest
of you, I say. When I needed you, none of you were there. And
now, this man, the one I thought I could count on, has proved
he's no different than the rest of you. Is this what compassion
and humanity holds? Then I'll have none of it! It's up to me.
Like it's always been. Out there on my own.
He saw the heavy figure in the mirror's reflection. I must
confess. I have transgressed. He swung around and realized he
was not in church. This was not a confessional. That was not
the holy father. It was The Padrone, limping parallel to the
wall with the window overlooking the winery.
"What will we do now, Padrone?"
"I will continue with business as usual." The singular
stung John Anthony's cheek.
"Did you hear any of what I just told you? Once this thing
goes to air, we're all ruined." He desperately clung to the
collective.
"I believe you are the one who wasn't listening, my son."
He stops pacing behind his desk and holds out his two large
hands. "Whose hands are bloodied? Whose fingerprints will they
find? Certainly not mine. I do not recall giving any orders. I
do not recall setting any of these events in motion. It would
appear that all this was the result of a few over-zealous
lieutenants. Soldiers taking the initiative to protect their
general. Staffers intent on sheltering their superior. I
ordered nothing."
"They may see it differently, especially after they hear
what I have to say."
"I doubt they will believe you. I don't even believe you.
How do I know what you did, or did not do, once you left this
office. I only know what you said and did while you sat here."
He slowly leans down and opens a drawer in his desk. He lifts
out an audiocassette and points it at Borba. "I have hours of
these. Transcribed and in the computer system."
"And no doubt edited."
"I am prepared to turn all of them over to the authorities.
I intend to survive this tempest, as I have the others. You,
however, will not."
"The courts will have something to say about that."
"Yes, the courts. And all the officials who protect us from
anarchy. You seem to forget whose side they are really on."
Thrown to the wolves by the master manipulator. Just
another player in his dirty little game of control.
The Padrone crashes into the side of his desk, ducking as
the glass of water sweeps past his face and through the window.
A slash of water stretches from where Tony had stood, cutting
across the carpet to the window, where The Padrone watches the
large door swing slowly shut.

Elliot expected someone to call that night. So he wasn't
surprised when Borba did. He wanted to talk. He sounded out of
control. Elliot hesitated, but agreed to meet him at the Ice
Plant at ten.
Borba looked bad. DiGiulio must have cut him a new asshole.
"There's nothing I can do, nothing I can say or offer, that will
change your mind?"
"It's so easy for you people to turn your back on what
you've done. To find a way out. Not this time. You won't get
another chance to do it again if I have anything to say about
it."
He looked away from Elliot, then down at his feet. When
the gun came out, Elliot was not surprised. "Then I'll have to
ask you for everything. The masters, the edited master, and all
the copies."
"Won't make any difference. You know this business much too
well. I've already vaulted a number of copies and given several
release copies to stations and the papers. I had a feeling one
of you would try something. You've done it often enough in the
past."
"I knew that. But I hoped you might be careless."
"Then don't you be."
Borba looked exhausted, broken. He was no longer in control
and he knew it. It was a new sensation; not being on top of
everything. The man who once had so many options now had none.
The cool of the Ice Man had been shattered.
"Don't go down alone. Take them all with you. Everyone who
put you where you are now."
Borba rubbed his eyes and shivered. It was all unraveling.
"It just doesn't matter anymore. None of it."
"Then think about it. You can make it through this and do
some good at the same time."
"Do you have any water around here?" He looked wide-eyed in
desperation. "I really need a glass of water."
"Sure, over here." Elliot started to move, but stopped as the gun came out. "Easy now. This is getting really stupid. Don't make it worse than it already it."
Borba looked down at the gun and cocked it. "I think it's time we finished this."
"Don't be insane. You've still got a chance to survive this! Don't blow it!"
"That's what the priests said. They lied to me, too. You've all lied to me. All of you!" He leveled the gun at Elliot.
Elliot, pinned against the low shelf holding the monitor, spoke very carefully. "There has been a camera on you the entire time. Everything you have said has been recorded."
"I knew that. The electronic last confession."
"Then put the gun down and we'll both walk out of here."
"Can't do that."
"Why not?" The smallest panic in his voice.
"It's gone too far."
Borba straightened up abruptly, shakily, his legs unsteady. Elliot jumped, startled, raising his hands to block the bullets he expected. Borba turned to the monitor and fired. In slow motion, the television exploded. Borba slowly and deliberately, again in slow motion, turned back to Elliot. He lifted the gun and pulled back the hammer. Elliot stood frozen in fear of the inevitable. Borba smiled, put the gun in his mouth, and fired. Elliot saw it all in super slo-mo. Pictures at eleven.

CHAPTER 35

All art is knowing when to stop.
-- Toni Morrison

A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells
you the less you know.
-- Diane Arbus

DISSOLVE:

MUSIC CHANGE: UP FULL THEN UNDER
THEME #20: Kitaro's "Full Moon Story"

148 EXT. REFUGE - LATE AFTERNOON - ESTABLISHING SHOT

AERIAL FLY-BY of Masterson. Helicopter flies low over the
grasslands and the water.

NARRATOR (v.o.)
Some see what's happening at Masterson as an ingenious revenge. Nature's way. Her revenge on a valley that stopped at nothing to become the richest agricultural region in the world. At an awesome expense to her water and wildlife.

149 EXT. RIVER CANYON - WIDE SHOT

HIGH ANGLE SHOTS of river running through King's Canyon.

We forget something we learned as children. The hydrologic cycle. It is a circle, a continuum. We can't do anything to our water without feeling the effects somehow, somewhere, sometime.

150 MONTAGE

Shots of rushing water.

We have learned that when it comes to water, everything we do carries a reward and a risk. There are two sides to this issue, to a degree matched by practically nothing else on the planet.

151 EXT. HIGHWAY - WIDE SHOT

Shot of highways in the midwest in winter.

If we want highways free of ice in the winter, we put salt on them. And we get chloride contamination of our groundwater.

152 EXT. FIELD - WIDE SHOT

Shot of aerial spraying.

If we want poisons to kill worms so they don't ruin our crops, we smother them with poisons. And we get aldicarb in
our groundwater.

153 CLOSE UP

Spraying ground with pesticide.

Think about it. When we poison the ground, we poison ourselves. Once exposed, the aftereffects may not show up for years. But they will. And they will kill us.

154 EXT. LAKE - WIDE SHOT

Family picnics near lake.

With every breath we take, we exchange oxygen with the air. With every drink of water, we take streams and aquifers into our bodies. With every mouthful of food, we complete pathways that run from our bones, liver, and brains to rainwater
and microorganisms in the soil that nurture the crops upon which we depend.

155 EXT. CITY - WIDE SHOT

New York City street scene.

English poet John Donne once wrote: "No man is an Island, entire of it self." For him, it was a religious principle. For us, it must become the basis for our daily lives, for it is an unrelenting and unforgiving reality.

156 MONTAGE

Shots of people hiking and recreating in wilderness areas.

We must recognize that we are a part of life and that we cannot destroy it for our immediate convenience and comfort
without ultimately destroying ourselves. Just as we cannot endanger life without endangering ourselves, so we cannot save
ourselves without preserving the entire biosphere. This interconnectedness with life will be our saving grace.

157 EXT. PLANT - ESTABLISHING SHOT

Exterior shot of OxyGene plant. CAMERA PANS LEFT to frame
children riding on their bikes.

If we don't send a message to those responsible right now, today, we are condemning our children, and our children's children to deaths more horrible than we can imagine. We must do
it for ourselves. We must do it for our children. We must do it for our future.

158 MONTAGE

Shots of development. Strip mining, coastal oil drilling,
nuclear plants, toxic dumps.

A noted politician once spoke of "a conspiracy of the present to steal from the future." He pointed out that the
future didn't have a chance because it had no legislators, no news reporters or lobbyists.

CONTINUE MONTAGE.

He wondered if we would have the wisdom and foresight to act as stewards for the future; or would we just consume away
the present as so many collapsed civilizations have done before us. There is only one answer. It is a resounding, "We will not."

MUSIC UP FULL

DISSOLVE

159 EXT. WATER - ECU OF FLOWING WATER.

160 TITLE

Roll Closing Credits

FADE OUT:

MUSIC: DOWN AND OUT

The last of the credits rolled off the screen as the final
chord faded away. Elliot turned to The Mole, then looked back at
me. He smiles, "I like it."
"Yea, I think it works."
As if trying to convince himself, "I think it goes just far
enough."
"Now we've got to get it on the air."
"Shouldn't be a problem."
"Don't be so naive." There was that word again. "What if
they freeze you out? Get an injunction, or something, so you
can't buy any air time?"
"I guess we'd have to come up with something a little more
creative."
"Like The Brigade did?"
The Mole shifts in his seat.

GRAPHIC DESIGN AND LAYOUT WILL CLEARLY INDICATE THIS SECTION
AS A CONTINUATION OF THE SCENARIO DESIGNED BY THE INSTITUTE. IT
MAY BE DESIGNED AS STORYBOARD OR COMIC BOOK PANELS.

It is January 1, 1992. It is an election year and the
ritual of choosing a Presidential image is about to begin. The
sophisticated imaging technologies sit poised for action. Narrow
vested interests with vast sums of money and the will to abuse
its privileges, prepare to use the powers of the media to tamper
with the fabric of a democracy.

The Info-Visionists finally complete design of a plan of action
as the campaign year dawns. The list of equipment needed and the
means of acquiring each is resolved. They have integrated the
equipment and the common resolve of 11 individuals into a
working system, a whole, a singularity of action.

In time, this network of individuals, hardware and ideals comes
to be called "The Engine of Change". Their efforts will spread
across day and night for the remainder of the year. They have
chosen their components wisely and well from within The Order and
are now ready to knit them into a new pattern. From Goliath they
have fashioned a David.

BREAK POINT IN SCENARIO.

The welder's torch spit blue shadows against the walls. The Arrow sat in the middle of the shop, crawling with technicians
and engineers. Portions of the cab had been cut away. The rest
of the frame had been extended, shaped, and modified to take the
racks of equipment that waited to the side. The aerodynamics had
been redesigned to allow it to cruise at speeds in excess of
140 miles per hour.

A team of millwrights cut through the superstructure, modifying
and reinforcing it to receive the new power train. The original
diesel drive undercarriage and generator lay abandoned, as a team
labored to couple an all electric drive sled and fuel cell module
to the reworked frame struts. Audio and video edit bays,
microwave transmission, and other pre-existing electronics were
being moved to clear a space for the high-speed computer and its
storage devices.

A narrow circulation shaft ran the length of The Arrow. Along
this corridor, control stations were built for the computers,
video processing and synthesis, audio, communication and
microwave transmission, and The PULPIT.

Low light level cameras had been installed throughout to capture
images of the interior and the crew as they progressed through
the event. The main studio and control console were located
in the upper front quarter of The Arrow, just above the driver's
cockpit. From there, the anchor and two associates, an engineer
and field producer, would monitor The Arrow, its transmissions,
and their pursuit.

A lower rear portion of the superstructure had been removed so a
second vehicle could be mated to it. It was a small, mobile
camera platform with a built-in signal reflector. It would be
operated by one driver and a cameraman. It was designed as a
decoy, to make it appear as if the transmission was actually
originating from The Mirror and not the control center aboard The
Arrow. Valuable time would be wasted by the pursuit forces as
they tracked The Mirror.

The survival time and degree of success of the entire effort
would depend on how long this deception worked. Its
maneuverability, speed, and size would be used to draw pursuers
ever farther from the real source of transmission. When, and if,
it was discovered, it was designed so it could broadcast the
pursuit back to The Arrow for re-transmission to the viewing
audience. The Info-Visionists intended to broadcast their own
capture and destruction in real-time. And the American public
would witness the brutality of The Order first-hand.

BREAK POINT IN SCENARIO.

Flynn James was unique among network telejournalists. Not even
the fabled Walter Cronkite enjoyed the same freedom to express views on any subject while maintaining a credibility that rivaled many national figures. For someone not directly involved in the power politics of government or business, he had achieved an unparalleled position of influence, respect, and prestige.

To millions, he was the truth. He had become their measure of
the events of the day. They had gladly abandoned their need to
know for the familiar manner and comforting order he could bring
to the disorder of the every day. His image had become an event.
And in his mind, it had become a burden of misplaced priorities.

BREAK POINT IN SCENARIO.

The crane slowly lowered the freshly-painted, charcoal-silver
Jet/Ranger helicopter into its nest on the roof of The Arrow.
Their night-running colors matched perfectly. The millwrights
coupled the helicopter into place.

The two remaining Jet/Rangers stood silently in an adjoining
hangar, soon to be converted into the aerial antennae system for
The Engine of Change. If necessary, the roof chopper would
assume the tasks of The Mirror in one final attempt to sustain
The Moment, to prolong the event. The copter was also mounted
with cameras so it could beam the last breath of rebel life into
the homes of America.

The infra-red night vision systems were being installed in all
the mobile equipment. The driver's cockpit of The Arrow was
nearly complete, as were the master control facilities for audio
and video. All remote cameras on The Mirror and the helicopter
systems were in place and being hard-wired to the editing
hardware.

As the year slipped away, seemingly more quickly than before, The
Info-Visionists neared completion of Phase One. They were confident they had acquired and integrated the necessary
equipment to succeed in producing The Moment and prolonging its
existence.

As the mid-point of the year approached, they turned their
attention to acquiring the special devices that would actually
create and project the images of this event.

BREAK POINT IN SCENARIO.

During his twenty years of broadcast journalism, Flynn had worked
with the best and brightest practitioners of the broadcast
journalism and video communication arts. And in confidential
conversations, he had come to share with a handful of them, the
fear that this vast network of continental teleconnections had
become a selfishly manipulated giant of social and economic
influence. And like them, he believed it was vulnerable. It had
an Achilles heel.

As he spent more time with these few men and women, and as they
grew to trust the other, they confided in him their intention to
assemble a machine and create an event unlike anything attempted
before. But they needed someone like Flynn to capture the public, to gain their confidence and participation. They
challenged his conscience. They asked him to join.

Flynn knew these dedicated individuals, the Info-Visionists as
they now called themselves, had the skills and drive to build
their so-called Engine of Change. But did he have the
commitment, the belief, the true emotions and honest words to
trigger the images they would require? For the heart of The
Engine of Change would be his heart, its soul his own.

The Engine would be an extension of his feelings and words. It
would be able to create a synthesis of image and sound based on
the words he spoke and emotions he felt. The context, inflection, and definition of each word would trigger a flow of
interpreted images that would be broadcast simultaneously,
instantaneously.

The Engine would reach into its pool of images to find a
visualization of the idea. It would be able to read and
interpret the great and small intentions, the nuances, the
inflections of any phrase. And it would also paint the truth of
any fears hidden behind his words. Every secret would be made
visible. Flynn wasn't sure he had the strength and conviction it
took to sustain The Event.

BREAK POINT IN SCENARIO.

The second Cray X-MP/48 slid easily into place next to its
identical companion unit. Only the upper rear quarter section of
The Arrow remained vacant, waiting to receive The PULPIT.

While the acquisition and assembly of the hardware moved ahead,
others of the team were busily gathering, cataloguing, and
storing images in the computers. These imagineers were responsible for writing the software that would encode and decode
an image library of the entire century.

The images and sounds of events, peoples, and places were
digitized and stored, a chronicle of the Twentieth Century. Each
was carefully mapped, categorized, and cross-indexed over a broad
matrix of commonality. A voice recognition compiler would
bring the appropriate image to the surface instantaneously.

A logic leveraging algorythm had been designed and installed
to couple the two Crays in parallel to achieve an exponential
magnification of processing speed. A pattern recognition
algorythm had also been designed to read and display the images.

The Engine of Change had become a mobile image library of our
nation and our world. From this pool, it was capable of
synthesizing new visual relationships. It could process
thousands of inputs from memory and real time simultaneously, and
display a composite in a heartbeat.

As the year wore on, and it became more and more obvious that
the world was in a state of flux and turmoil, the representations
of reality, as presented by the political and economic elites, was becoming more and more rigidly and narrowly defined.

Flynn recognized more clearly that the window of television, for
all of its variety, granted a limited field of vision. Flynn
finally realized that The Order held fast all the cards that
counted in this game. And it was now even more apparent that the
Info-Visionists were the only ones with the vision to compete
with The Order for a new image of The Future.

BREAK POINT IN SCENARIO.

The PULPIT suppressed all signals within its radius. The
Info-Visionists monitored the damped signals from the outside and
coupled them into their own transmissions. They monitored the
networks and listened in on their correspondents in Washington
and New York. Broadcast television would no longer be a one-way
network. It would become a living, interactive medium.

They now had the tools, expertise, voice, and familiar presence
to breath life into their plans. They would spend the balance of
the year gathering images. They waited for the election year to
reach its climax.

BREAK POINT IN SCENARIO.

It is Monday, November 4, 1992. Election eve. Unprecedented
millions have been spent by both parties and their special
interest supporters. The Order waits, exhausted, for the morning
and the expected results. It has been a long year.

The Info-Visionists are tired also, but they cannot rest. Their
year of effort and sacrifice is about to culminate in The Moment
they have prepared for.

It is 5:56PM. The final four-minute sequence has been set in
motion. Somewhere in the heartland of America, The
Info-Visionists accelerate along a ribbon of highway. In a
momentary burst, they will be before the people of the United
States. Flynn James will once more, perhaps for the last time,
speak to the nation about where we've been and where we're going.
The Info-Visionists are about to capture the imagination of a
nation. The Moment is at hand.

BREAK POINT IN SCENARIO.

"Good evening. This is Flynn James. We are The Info-Visionists.
Together, we have just crossed the threshold of an event unlike
any other. At this very moment, 190 million of you are
simultaneously sharing the experience of these images. Our
journey will be a short one. We raise our voices above the
established Order, not with guns and violence, but with
imagination."

"We will confront and challenge you with the reality of how this
screen limits your vision, masks the contradictions that exist.
Confuses how images and words are used to make you doubt the
realities that wait outside your door."

"It is time for us to confront how we perceive, and tolerate, our
nation's goals and methods. We have seized this moment on behalf
of the future. We hope that in the morning, our images will be
echoed by your united voices."

Within a matter of minutes, The Order knew that their worst fears
about the fire at the Rand facility had been realized. They had
been silent about The PULPIT. Now they could no longer deny its
existence.

They could call this treason. But they'd have to wait for the
right opportunity. At this moment, their access to the nation
was blocked. The Order had prepared a number of scenarios and
plans in case of terrorist action. But the nature and character
of this event had caught them completely off-guard.

The Info-Visionists could not be called terrorists. They had
made that clear. They had used their minds, not their fists to
seize The Moment. They had taken the high ground without a shot.
And their audience was receptive, having been primed by years of
dependence on the credibility of television.

The Order knew it was not impossible to find the source of The
PULPIT signal. But it would take time. And every wasted minute
allowed the rebels to broadcast their message to more people.
The risk to The Order and their carefully prepared perception of
reality could be changed forever.

The technologies of The Order were now on alert. There was
little time to spare. They had the new tools, as well as the
traditional weapons of brute force, to confront and terminate The
Event. It would only be a matter of time.

But with the right mix of images and words, and with sufficient
time to project them, The Info-Visionists could create a lasting
impression. A pebble cast into a still pond, the ripples could
reverberate for years.

With each new input, The Order collected data and refined their
assumptions about the nature of this event. They would find the
rebels. But in the end, their justified means could destroy
their image in the eyes of the nation.

BREAK POINT IN SCENARIO.

"Tomorrow, across this nation, millions of you will exercise your
collective will as a free people by participating in the
Presidential election. In spite of the fact that unprecedented
millions have been spent to influence your decision, voter apathy
is expected to reach record levels."

"Each candidate and special interest group has invested millions
to decipher, predict, and stimulate your every mood. And yet,
the depths of democratic participation have become even more
shallow. We sense that in the hearts of many of you, you feel
there is no real choice, no clear distinctions between the
candidates and their purposes."

BREAK POINT IN SCENARIO.

"When you step into the voting booth tomorrow, be prepared to
vote for yourself. To write in your name. You may see it as a
futile gesture. But the result of this common action will force
an evaluation of the values and motives that drive our democracy. We ride to remind you of our national spirit and the paths of possibilities that lie before us."

"As I speak to you now, The Order prowls the plains nearby. Back
and forth, they roam the heartland of this nation, watching for
us, their prey. We see them crest the hills behind us, swing
round, and ready for the chase."

BREAK POINT IN SCENARIO.

"Their dragons spit fire and flay the ground. Brutal force destroys a fragment of our plan. Yet the images survive. Two of
us are dead. Our fate will surely be the same. This is how The
Order will freeze the status quo in place."

"We bring you the reaffirmation of an ideal long forgotten. That
a person's right to participate in the democratic process is not
the result of wealth, position, or the influence of special
purpose elites. It is the ability to intelligently and
dispassionately see and understand the truth in a man's heart,
behind the words and postures."

BREAK POINT IN SCENARIO.

"This is the message of the moment. To expose misuse and abuse
of money, power, and influence is to embrace basic morality; to
accept personal responsibility, and to master your fate."

"In the morning, you will face yourself, your family, and your
conscience. Each of you will have experienced the events of this
evening through your own unique personal perspective. For a brief time, a channel of communication was opened, above the din
of The Order, so that we could share a moment in parallel with
each other."

BREAK POINT IN SCENARIO.

The mechanisms were nearly spent. The Point helicopter had met
the same fate as The Mirror. And the viewers had ridden shotgun.
They had seen and felt the sting of The Order. Perhaps some
applauded. Many more listened to their hearts pounding hard
against their throats. Would the images on this once familiar
screen ever again seem real? The people were no longer a passive
participant, but rather an active witness to the consequences of
rebel ideals and imagination confronting the shallow face of The
Order.

The path of The Arrow was being calculated and verified by The
Order at this very moment. Everyone realized that The Order was
only minutes away from terminating the images of The
Info-Visionists.

The words were few. The images rich with suggestion that those
who follow the paths of ideals and change will soon come to this
crossroads. Many generations had forgotten the sacrifices that
had created and maintained this democracy. They would not forget
this night, as they rode shotgun with The Info-Visionists.

"Outside, we feel the wolves draw near. We watch their fire and
remember being held hostage by their 'truth,' their dreams, their
past. Beyond this screen, the world waits. The Future does not
pre-exist beyond tomorrow. May your vision and actions achieve
the possibilities and promise of change."

END OF SCENARIO.

CHAPTER 34

An artist is a dreamer consenting to dream of the actual
world.
-- George Santayana

Elliot is a creature of habit. Routine comforts him. He
likes doing the same thing on the same day, week after week. So,
like every other Thursday evening, he and Maryanne are driving
down the road from The Ranch on their way to dinner in San
Anselmo. In the darkness, they don't see the black car parked
behind the oak trees and manzanita bushes at the foot of the
hill. It isn't until Elliot's car is several hundred feet ahead
that the driver pulls out onto the dirt road to follow.
Elliot and Maryanne are talking about their new puppy. As
he glances into his rearview mirror, he can see a second cloud of
dust behind his own.
"There's someone else on the road."
Maryanne turns to look. She can't see anything in the dusk
and turns back. "They're driving without lights."
"Don't want us to see them. Hold on." He steps on it and
the BMW kicks up more dust. When he does, the second car hits
its lights. "Damn!"
Maryanne turns again and sees the lights.
He hopes he knows the road better than they do. The main
road and the freeway aren't that far away. But they're far
enough.
The chase car has some power because it's gaining. At
night, Elliot doesn't know the road as well as he thought. And
the second car doesn't seem to care. The driver is reckless
enough, and his car fast enough, that he's soon inching alongside
the driver's side. As they draw parallel, Elliot glances over,
sees the driver and two passengers. They wear masks and hold
riot shotguns. But it doesn't look like they're planning to use
them. Just yet. But they are trying to get ahead. Probably
going to cut us off, Elliot thinks. Which they do. The other
driver punches his car, surging ahead, trailing tail lights.
Then he hits his brakes and Elliot does too. But as he punches
it to get around, the second car swerves into him. Elliot nearly
loses control as he swerves to avoid impact. Dead ahead are
several large oaks. Elliot knows they're going to try and run
him into the grove. The two cars continue to jockey. Slowing,
speeding up, and dodging swerves. Elliot thinks he can split the
gap before they reach the trees. As the BMW jumps forward, the
reactions and speed of the second car surprises him. Then he's
slammed into and flying off the road, heading for the trees. His
mind reels back to a beat-up pick-up and a country road before he
hits.
He lifts his head and shakes it. Then again. There's
nothing but dust. The engine's dead. The car isn't moving.
Maryanne is slumped over. Both their seat belts held. She's
breathing, but isn't conscious. He reaches for her but stops
when he sees the headlights through the dusty haze. "Goddammit."
He starts shaking Maryanne and pulling at her belt. The lights
get brighter. He yanks harder. Maryanne starts to mutter and
shakes her head as the belt comes loose. The lights stop a few
feet away. Then the spotlight hits him full in the face. And
the red light starts spinning.
"This is Officer Jameson of the Marin County Sheriff's
Department. Please don't move. We have a helicopter on the
way."
Elliot grimaces and turns to help Maryanne. That's when
he feels the sharp pain. When he realizes he's sweating. And
he's clammy. That he's going to ... pass ... out.
At the hospital, Maryanne is checked and released. A
few scrapes. Nothing more. She is assured that Elliot's
concussion won't keep him out of action for too long.
Maryanne is there when he opens his eyes.
"The sheriff never saw anyone. He said they could have
dodged down any of the farm or fire roads and out of sight."
Elliot heard what she was saying, but not really. He smiled
and closed his eyes. Then forced them open again.
"Obviously, they knew our routine. Knew our schedule. Knew
we would be there and no one else would. The sheriff suggests we
start patrolling the road from the house to the main road."
Elliot nods his head and closes his eyes.
He was in the hospital for nearly a week. He had visitors.
In his room. In his dreams.
His eyes snap open, his shirt is drenched. It began as a
home movie. Watching himself grow up. The film caught in the
projector. The heat of the lamp burned a hole in the image of
him graduating from Dewey High School. The hole burned white.
Like napalm. Fire jelly sticking to everything. He was burning
the trash. He tied a plastic bag from the dry cleaners around a
stick and lit it. He watched the fireballs of molten plastic
whiz to the ground, like falling bombs, firing anything it touched. He stood helpless in his director's chair as the
hooded man held up the black magnetic videotapes and lit them.
He saw them twist and shrink and dance, shriveling into shreds of
molten black powder, shrieking into a puddle on the floor.
The forest smelled of Christmas. It surrounded him, making
him dizzy with memory. He came upon a clearing. The dance had
begun. Inside the circle he saw himself, lying like a man in a
trance. He was the point where all lines intersect; where the
center is everywhere and there is no circumference.
The medicine man was speaking, interpreting the dream. He
was telling a story of the son who found a bird of the most
beautiful song. He brought it home to his father. His father
didn't want the bird, so he didn't feed it and it died. He
killed the bird of the most beautiful song. And, in so doing, he
killed himself. For when the father killed the bird, he was
really killing nature and thus himself.
Standing at the edge of the clearing, Elliot understood.
Those who have lost respect for earth and animals have lost their
center. Those who live out of harmony with nature are doomed.
Those who participate with dignity in the way of nature will save
the world.
As he stepped closer, the medicine man looked into his eyes.
Elliot knew this man. He had followed his teachings and
interpretations of myths. He spoke to Elliot. "You have been
marked. Your brush with death has made you a magical, spiritual
man. You are the bearer of white magic. The shaman is the
artist. The artist the mythmaker. Traveling beyond the
boundaries of reality, you will discover the mystery of life and
bring the truth back. You will fashion our future myth."
Moving into the circle, nearer the brightness of the flame,
it grew hotter. He closed his eyes against the light. When he
opened them, he found himself staring into a bank of studio
lights. He was on a television talk show. He was dressed like a
jester. His face in greasepaint. He could hear his voice down a
tunnel. His own words were mocking him. Speaking seriously, "I
try to deal with ideas and people, the way we are, the way things
operate, moods, society's likes and dislikes."
The interviewer was a film critic who had mercilessly
lampooned him many times during his career. He was dressed as
The Grand Inquisitor. "Do they like watching people hang?"
Not listening, but absently juggling film canisters, "To
me, film is historical document. Therefore it has practical
value."
"What's practical about glorifying terrorists and
murderers?"
Turning away and looking at the camera, still sincere,
trying to convince them of the truth. "Those who violate the
basic tenets of morality--of honesty, fairness, and
generosity--are eventually undone."
"Since you collaborated with these killers, then you too
will be undone?"
Advancing on the camera, "My methods are better because I
teach the virtues of being fair, honest, and generous."
"Your methods left two men hanging."
As he reaches for the critic's throat, the scene shifts.
There are strings attached to his hands and feet. Around him are
the others. Western, Laura, Walsh, Devereaux, Valle, Dewey
Palmer, Stewart Grossman. Slumped in wide-eyed vacancy. He
stiffly turns as the light streams through the rising curtain.
Beyond the footlights he can see the audience. The perfect
demographic. Suddenly, he's yanked to his feet and danced to the
edge of the stage. He tries to look up, to see who's pulling the
strings, but each time, his head is snapped forward. The crowd
begins to laugh and point. He continues to dance. A young man
drops from the ceiling and lands in front of him. He carries a
light saber. He swings it toward Elliot, who ducks. It slices
through the strings and Elliot collapses. He rolls over on his
back and looks up, only to see the hands of the Puppetmaster
disappear into the darkness. He closes his eyes and the scene
shifts again.
A slow dissolve to another place, another time. He's
standing outside a cave, wearing a suit of silver armor. It's
battered. He's bloody. The Mole stands to one side of the
entrance. But it isn't The Mole. It looks like him, but isn't.
He beckons. Elliot stumbles forward. He isn't used to walking
in full-dress battle armor.
The Mole holds a gleaming sword. He speaks, "The tyrant
awaits. The keeper of the past. He is proud, and therein lies
his doom. He is a mistaker of shadow for substance. It is his
destiny to be tricked. You know the secret of his doom. You
will find his weakness." In slow motion, he offers the sword.
Elliot takes it and enters.
He hears it. Somehow he knows what he was about to face.
He has seen it in every one of his movies. He turns a corner and
stops. The way is blocked. The face of the Minotaur keeps
changing. It is all the faces of his past, present, and future;
his friends and enemies. It is everyone and none. And, finally,
it is himself. He has become Dithyrambos; he of "the double
door," the second birth.
The Minotaur roars and draws his own sword, charging, black
cape billowing. Elliot spins and dances away. They clash.
Elliot raises his sword to strike. It changes in his hand,
becoming an electronic remote control. He presses the button.
The Minotaur is captured in the glass arena. Elliot lowers the
remote and points it at the videotape machine and fires. It is
over. He has shattered the crystal moment and is free. He
floats up, through the whirlpool, to the threshold of the dream,
where he re-surfaces and re-emerges into everyday existence.
Elliot awakes. He is sweating. Lying next to his hand is a
silver pin, in the shape of a sword.

The last of the all-nighters--editors and sound men--had
left The Ranch. Only the night security man remained. After
checking all the conference rooms, sound and video post rooms, he
sat down to dinner. Like he did the same time every night.
First it was rounds. Then it was food. Then the long hours
until daybreak. Boring. Not enough dope in the world to keep
you focused and alert. Didn't matter anyway. Right? I mean,
there was nothing there to steal. And the insurance would cover
it anyway. So, big deal. A little toke or two wouldn't hurt.
Certainly would keep things interesting, if not entertaining.
That's what he was thinking just before the gun-butt cracked his
head open.
The man in black was a blur of efficiency. Jam the
television monitors and motion detection cameras. Break the code
on the security door into the main hallway. Quickly down the
hallway and, with certainty, into Edit I. Disabling the
sprinklers with wax. Spreading the gasoline, then lighting it.
Out the door, then back down the hallway, check the guard, and
out the back door. Down the hill, into the ravine, across the
drainage ditch, up the other side to the waiting car.
Through the binoculars, it wasn't long before he could see
the flames. Then hear the alarm. And the people pouring out of
the main house. They may have their own fire company, but it
won't help. Not this time. It'll be too late. What the fire
doesn't burn, the napalm will destroy. He smiled at the irony,
the symmetry. Little would be left of anything it touched. The
masters are history. And so is Mr. Elliot Lincoln's version of
the truth. The car moved off into the night.
The fire inspector believed the guard. He couldn't avoid
the bandages and swollen eyes. But it was the nature of his job
to be suspicious. "I'll still need to do some lab work."
"I know they did." There was no question in Elliot's eyes.
"You need more evidence than just a feeling." The inspector
wasn't convinced.
"They burned that room for a reason."
"Why?"
Elliot was distracted. "You wouldn't understand. Has to do
with a project we're working on. Everything we've shot so far,
all the masters, were in that room."
Jane picked up on the past tense. "You say were?"
"I vaulted them this morning. I had a feeling. One of my
dreams."
"So you moved the tapes?"
"They wouldn't have known."
"They seemed to know everything else. How to get in.
Exactly where to go. The entire layout. So the masters are
safe?"
"For now. I can't believe this. There are people trying to
kill me." Then he remembered a comment about 'Snow White.'
"They didn't try to kill you." Elliot, looking down, looked
up and over, about to ask the question.
"You're just the messenger. They were trying to kill what
you're carrying."
"Then I'll make sure it gets delivered."

CHAPTER 33

Truly nothing is to be expected but the unexpected!
-- Alice James

It gets late early here.
-- Yogi Berra

The Padrone did not like this. In the spotlight. On the
ropes. He had managed his life too carefully to have it blown
away by this misguided idealist and his irresponsible slanders.
And yet, here he was, facing a room filled with panic--propelled
by the self-generating fear only a stampeding herd or trampling
crowd could create--and people speculating wildly about what the
program would say and who it would accuse. They were scared.
And frightened people overreact. And that's why he was here
again, in the board room, facing this inquisition. They wanted
to know if he had any knowledge of The Brigade or any of the
other incidents that had taken place since last they met;
incidents that had damaged and nearly destroyed a number of the
members in this room, and threatened to take more down if an
immediate response wasn't initiated.
He refused to betray his own concerns. They would not see
him sweat. He brushed his nose. Beyond the dust and mildew that
hung in the air, there was something else. A metallic odor.
Desperate fear. Pungent, like gun metal. He wondered how many
more times he would have to tell them that everything was under
control, taken care of, before they would believe him. He wasn't
about to wait. They didn't determine his destiny. He did.
He stood. The meeting was over. Slowly, the board members
nodded to one another and murmured weakness. As he limped to
leave, he flashed back to his father and the burning wreckage of
failure. He was too lost in the past to thank the man, again,
for opening the door. The same man.

The messenger delivered his message, waiting only moments
before following DiGiulio and driving to the appointed rendezvous.
The white limousine again waited outside the motel door. And so
did the bodyguards.
"Are they worried?"
"Spineless fuckers are scared to death."
"That will make them stupid."
"Stupid people make real stupid mistakes."
"And overlook the obvious. Playing right into my hands."
"Time to make them dance some more?"
"To even the score." Distracted, tugging at the gold
watchband, he felt a slight rush as he realized it would soon be
over. He would taste his revenge. "Thank you, Jon Henry. I
appreciate your loyalty. Make sure no one sees you leave here,
or on the road back to Ralston."
The big man smiled and left, trailing a hot, hideous odor of
tobacco, alcohol, and a bad lunch. The man was such a lout.
Unfortunate that this neanderthal was his only ally.
Rolling down the highway encased in the secure anonymity of
the limousine, he gazed upon the ceaseless flatness and he
remembered his sister. A casualty of her own innocence and
someone else's arrogance. His heart beat a little faster as his
anger and grief pulsed. Silly, stupid, impulsive high-schooler.
Not sense enough to be cautious. Just attracted to the flame.
Because he said he loved her. She believed him. That's why she
got into the car and drove down by the river. He had visions of
scoring. She had notions of money. He tried. She resisted. He
pushed. She tried to leave. He raped her then kicked her out
into the dirt.
She accused him. He denied it. Everyone believed him and
condemned her. Because his father used his connections to keep
it quiet and get the boy off. In court, and in the papers, their
lawyers made it look like she had seduced him. They painted a
steamy picture of a depraved, repressed girl from south of town,
driven to better her situation by compromising a trusting young
man who happened to be wealthy. She cried in court. And after
the jurors acquitted the boy. Then she killed herself. And
her brother had vowed to make the father and son suffer. The
Padrone--Robert DiGiulio--would pay for murdering the girl, the
sister of the man in the white limousine parking behind the
building in Ralston that housed The National Foundation for
Independent Living; the building owned by James David Delgado.

The Padrone was sitting at his desk, the grounds and
vineyards of the winery visible behind him. There was irritation
and impatience around his eyes.
"I am growing tired of these people. They don't live here.
They did not settle this valley. And yet they want to save it
from me. From me!" His open hand slammed down on the desk. "I
made this town. I made this valley." Softening. "It amuses me.
They are more concerned about butterflies and flowers than they
are people. They would deny the farmer the water he needs to
grow crops and feed people just to save a few insignificant
creatures."
Delancy rested his double chin against his chest as he
looked down, brushing the cigar droppings off his vest. It left
an ashen smudge. He was comfortable and smug, leaning back,
imbedded in the leather chair facing DiGiulio. "I wouldn't worry
too much, me boy." He always slipped into his best Barry
Fitzgerald, old-country Irish when he was feeling particularly
confident.
"And why is that?"
Leaning forward and pointing his cigar, "You know as well as
I, that we can keep this thing tied up in the courts forever.
We'll keep appealing until they run out of time and money, or
both."
"Besides, Padrone," Borba too tried to clear the fear,
"they'll never get an objective jury. There's just too many
people in this town, this valley, and this state that depend on
agriculture."
The clenched fist scattered everything as it crashed down on
the desk again. The vehemence caught Delancy and Borba both
under the chin and stood them straight up. DiGiulio leveled his
finger at Delancy's heart and stared so hard at the man that he
could feel the pressure boring into his chest. "That is just not
acceptable." Ground out, hissed out, word by word, through
clenched teeth.
The two lieutenants looked quickly sidelong at each other.
Delancy offered. "We're doing as much as we can as fast as we
can."
Steely, wanting to hear results not possibilities. "And?"
"And, we'll do better," John Anthony offered in his meekest
transgressor's voice.
The Padrone lifted himself out of his chair and limped out
from behind the oaken barricade. It seemed to take forever for
him to work his way over to them. He stopped and rested his
hands lightly on their shoulders. Now he was pleading. "Tell
me. What will I do? What can I do to stop them?" Rhetorical
questions meant to be answered with action. He moved off,
circling ever so deliberately to the window where he, the
anguished and victimized lord, surveyed a domain threatened by
saintly crusaders. "Will no one rid me of these meddlesome
martyrs?"
The two men quietly took their leave. In the window's
reflection, he saw their backs. He too remembered his motion
pictures.

I arranged another meeting with William Davenport for that
afternoon at the Bay Model. Elliot wanted him to verify a few
facts. What he needed probably wouldn't affect the shape of the
final show, but Elliot, ever precise and ethical, wanted
confirmation. Davenport was surprised by the request and
reluctant, until I employed my reporter's power of persuasion.
Actually, I was a little surprised by his surprise.
I had barely got inside and said hello, before he explained.
He wasted little time telling me exactly how he felt and what had
been happening in his life since last we met. I didn't have a
chance to even think about what I was planning to talk about. He
said there had been threats; some fairly recently. Quite
frankly, he was frightened. He said that he, as much as anyone,
realized how important this program was and what it could mean to
the state and its people, but he felt he could no longer be a
resource. He asked that we not bother him anymore and that he be
allowed to get back to his own work and his own way of doing
things. He didn't want anyone to see me there. I pressured him
for the verification, got it, and left a little confused. I
looked back at his face in the doorway thinking how cold-blooded
I could be in pursuit of the truth. Nothing mattered, except for
the story. Not even this man's fear. I guess some of Elliot's
blind arrogance was rubbing off on me. No hostages in the
pursuit of truth.
The next day he was in the hospital. Someone had beat him.
Just like all the others. They had knocked him out and had tried
to drown him. That's where they found him, semi-conscious, lying
inside the model, washed up on the shores of the eco-system he
had worked so hard to save.

I saw the red light of the answering machine winking as I
entered the dark production office. It blinked three times.
Three messages. The first was a hang-up. The second was Barbra
Sue Darwin. She asked for me or Walsh to return her call
immediately. The last message was her again, sounding very
shaken. She said it was nearly eleven and she had to talk to
somebody right away. Her voice trembled and broke as she
explained she had some information she needed to tell someone.
"I know who's pulling the strings," was the last cryptic comment
before the line started buzzing.
I dialed her home number. No answer. I dialed again to
make sure I hadn't misdialed. Still none. Then I called Pat and
asked him to meet me in front of her house. A half-hour later,
he pulled up. I was already waiting. He knocked. There was no
answer. He knocked again. Still none. Slowly, he pulled his
gun and tried the door. Locked. He looked over his shoulder.
He held up a hand. I stayed behind. He began moving around the
house. The back door was just ajar. He looked both ways before
he lightly pushed it open. He quickly went in. He worked
toward the front, room-by-room. She was already gone.
Suitcases packed and ready, but no Barbra. It didn't look like
she'd fought whoever was there. Nothing out of place. Must have
known them. Wouldn't have gone so easily. Walsh let me in
through the front door before he put the word out to the city
police and some friends at the Bureau.
The CHP found her body floating face down in the California
Aqueduct. An early morning fisherman spotted her. She wouldn't
have been discovered if her clothes hadn't snagged on a drainage
grate. She should have been half-way to Los Angeles. She'd been
knocked unconscious and drowned. A familiar pattern. Walsh
looked away. He couldn't breath. He was getting angry. I was
sensing the circle getting tighter. I was starting to feel like
the kiss of death. The other side was definitely playing
hardball now and it didn't seem to matter if they took a few
people out with them. And I was beginning to look over my
shoulder a lot more.

The two men sat gagged and tied to the seats in back of
the van. They knew each other. They had worked together many
times before. At harvest time. During the dormant season. They
had stood in fields together in summer, winter, spring, and fall.
The older of the two was an auditor for OxyGene. The other was
Manager of Field Operations for the wine grape division of
DiGiulio Winery. One had been run off the road on his way home
after having a few beers. The other was knocked unconscious at
the air field as he checked the equipment for the next day's
spraying. They had no idea where they were, why they were there,
or who the men were that had taken them. They only knew that the
van was no longer moving.
Three men opened the back of the van. As their eyes
adjusted to the light, the captives could begin to clearly see
the men in front of them. And behind, standing at parade rest
formation, was another twenty or so men dressed the same. The
masks they wore were similar to those worn by the heroes of
Saturday afternoon serials. Green silk, long in front, shorter
and tied in back. Slitted eyeholes. Just above the eyes, in the
middle of the forehead, where eyebrows would normally arch, was
silk-screened the symbol for the ecology movement. The rounded
lower case "e", dark green, in an oval of the same color. In the
sixties, this symbol, and the peace sign, had been called the
tracks of the American chicken by every conservative asshole and
redneck from Atlanta to Anaheim. Their hats were the same dark
green and were fashioned after the French Legionnaire cap,
rounded crown with leather visor and flaps at the back to protect
their necks from the sun. The rest of the uniform was
standard-issue military gear, available through any mercenary
mail-order magazine. Khaki and green camouflage fatigues and
dark green combat boots. Instead of dog tags, they wore a
hand-carved Earth on a leather thong.
The kidnappers pulled the two men out and dumped them into
the dust. They started to struggle. When they were kicked
repeatedly and told to stop, they did, but only for a moment.
Because to their right they saw the oak tree. And the two nooses
swinging silently. Their eyes began to plead. Their voices
croaked for mercy. But their cries only got them kicked and
punched again and again. Their hands were tied behind them
before they were pulled to their feet and marched away from the
van.
The tree was large and old. Its insides had been burned
out, struck by lightning. But it still stood. It looked like
the tree in "The Ox-Bow Incident." You kept waiting for Henry
Fonda to walk into frame and begin pleading for these men's
lives. But he didn't. And no one else did either. The van
pulled up under the nooses and the two men were hoisted up on
top. Their legs were gone. They couldn't stand, only slump.
Through their slitted eyes, they could see a bank of lights and
what looked like a camera mounted on a tripod. Behind the
camera, hidden from their view by the men, was a portable
microwave unit on a small trailer. At a signal from the man in
charge, the lights went on. They were bright. Much like
the lights used by highway crews repairing roads at night. As
the nooses went around their necks, the leader unrolled a
document. As the cameraman framed his shot and started a slow
zoom, he began reading.
"We are the harbingers of a new order. We are
environmental storm troopers, members of the New Committee of
Vigilance. We are known by the name, the John Muir Brigade. Our
message is simple and clear. Cease ravaging the environment of
this planet. If you do not, we will continue our acts of
terrorism. As the vigilantes did before us, we will take the law
into our own hands. We will initiate an ecologic guerrilla war
that you cannot stop and that you cannot possibly win. Our first
message is a brutal one. And we want it transmitted directly
into the living rooms of America. We want you to have it for
dinner, in much the same way you feasted on the carnage of
Vietnam."
He turned to address the two kneeling men, held up by the
nooses around their necks. "As pawns of the agrichemical
conglomerates and farming combines, we do hereby sentence you to
death for crimes against nature and crimes against man. On many
occasions, you have knowingly and willingly polluted waters and
poisoned animal life. You have exhibited no willingness to cease
these activities. You are unrepentant and you shall die." One
of the men tried to stand, to protest, but was knocked down
again. "We sentence you to death by hanging. May God have mercy
on your soul."
The troopers guarding each man jumped to the ground. The
leader dropped his hand and the van pulled away. It didn't take
long for the dance to end. He placed the statement and the
videotape below the dangling feet of the now dead men and walked
away. Life had begun imitating art, in an ugly way.

ALTA CALIFORNIA

----------------------------------------------------------------
ENVIRONMENTAL TERRORISM
The new vigilantes

By Stephan Harrington
OF THE RECORD STAFF

Terror in the Fields

Two unique and unsettling events took place yesterday,
witnessed almost simultaneously by the entire nation. A band of
environmental terrorists, known to us now as the John Muir
Brigade, successfully broke into the networks and broadcast their
grisly message.
We watched as two men were murdered for polluting the local
water supply. Both were part of the local farming community and
both were involved in the use of pesticides and irrigation water
on the west side of the San Joaquin Valley.
How this band accessed the broadcast airwaves is not the
issue. Anything is possible in our wired world. The key issue
here is this new phenomenon of frustration; this attempt to take
direct action now being referred to as "environmental terrorism".
It is possible that these men died, or were executed,
because their vigilante judge and jury condemned them for
destroying a precious natural resource and sentenced them to
death for their crime.
Historically, most societies have treated the poisoning of
water sources as a crime. In dry climates, not unlike ours here
in California, it is said that such criminals were often
executed.
Some officials at the State level feel that Proposition 65
is responsible for this new type of violence.
The initiative includes a provision for direct citizen
enforcement if law enforcement officials do not act against a
violator within 60 days of being informed. So angry and fearful
citizens, frustrated by what they see as the government's failure
to protect them from pollution, take the law into their own
hands. Becoming, in effect, environmental bounty hunters.
In many ways, these two unfortunate men were really only
innocent pieces in a much larger game. They were simply
following orders; doing their jobs. The true guilt may reach
much higher. Into the board rooms of the water contractors and
the agrichemical conglomerates that control California.

Daniel Valle had phoned first thing in the morning. Early.
The strain in his voice, the lack of humor in its tone, convinced
Elliot that he should meet him at the office in Ralston. "Neutral ground," he had said. That really threw Elliot. Knowing that Danny was as much a perfectionist as himself, Elliot
assumed he was having some problems with polishing the script--or
the show--or both.
Danny took the offered cup of coffee. He took a sip, then
put the unlit cigar back in his mouth. A courtesy to the
non-smokers and acknowledgement of what the coughing meant.
Elliot could sense the confusion. He could taste it in the air
between them.
Danny cut through it first. "Are you satisfied with your
work, my friend?"
"So far, yes. And you?"
"Tell me honestly, please. Do you feel that we can win?
That we can cripple them?"
"Right now, I can't say. I think we're moving in the right
direction. The program is coming together. The pieces seem to
be falling into place."
"Will there be no doubt? Or will they escape the trap, like
the coyote who chews off its leg so it can still run free?"
"We're still building the trap. It's not ready yet. But it
will be done soon."
"Soon enough? Will there be an end this year? Will there
be justice. Or will it go on into the next and the next?"
"I just don't know."
"We have so much to do. I drive these valleys and I see
myself, my family, generations before me and generations to
follow, still working the fields."
"It's changing. People are changing."
"Perhaps."
"You don't think we can make a difference?"
"I am not a cynic. I believe in the basic good of people.
Yes, once I was militant. I walked at the front in Delano. But
we marched within the system. We marched to make the system
work. We believed in non-violence."
"So, what's so different now?"
"Too many people have suffered. Too little has been done.
I see the gains we once made--are making--slipping away. Perhaps
it is time to be militant again."
"I don't really see any alternative. Anything faster.
There's no other way I can see it being done."
"I have another way." He opens his briefcase, reaches in,
and pulls out a piece of green silk cloth. He tosses it on the
table. Elliot carefully spreads it out. Above the slitted
eyeholes is the evergreen rounded "e" inside an oval. Elliot
stares at the mask, then up at Danny. "I lead them, my friend."

Danny left the mask behind. Elliot locked it away. I was
surprised to see him there, but glad, because we needed to talk.
I was angry because he was being stubborn and stupid. Pat
decided to stick around to see how two pacifists would handle
confrontation.
"They're just coincidences."
"Pretty dangerous coincidences."
"Still just coincidences. Nothing in common."
"Dream on!"
"Maybe, but I believe it. I grew up that way."
"Hopelessly romantic asshole."
"Exactly. I believe in being fair and honest. Trusting
people."
"Snow White or what? They're trying to take those virtues
and stuff them up your ass! They want you and your version of
the truth out of the way! Don't be so fucking blind! This is
life and death shit!"
Elliot shut down. I started stomping my foot on the wooden
floor and strumming my acoustic air guitar in imitation of some
old black delta bluesman. "Chord with me, Teddy!"
Walsh understood. He had been there before. Elliot was
confused.
"Get in sync with me, Elliot!"
Walsh translated. "He means you're not communicating, yet.
You're not in step."
"So, you're saying anything goes now as long as it gets the
job done? Is that it?"
"That's precisely it."
"Can't do it."
"Won't do it!"
"Both." He left the room and drove back to the bay area.

CHAPTER 32

I took off for a weekend last month
Just to try and recall the whole year
All of the faces and all of the places
Wonderin' where they all disappeared

I didn't ponder the question too long
I was hungry and went out for a bite
Ran into a chum with a bottle of rum
And we wound up drinkin' all night

It's those changes in latitudes
Changes in attitudes
Nothin' remains quite the same
With all of our running
And all of our cunning
If we couldn't laugh
We would all go insane

Reading departure signs in some big airport
Reminds me of the places I've been
Visions of good times that brought so much pleasure
Make me want to go back again
If it suddenly ended tomorrow
I could somehow adjust to the fall
Good times and riches and son of a bitches
I've seen more than I can recall

I think about Paris when I'm high on red wine
I wish I could jump on a plane
So many nights I just dream of the ocean
God I wish I was sailing again
Oh, yesterday's are over my shoulder
So I can't look backward too long
There's too much to