"Tyranny of the Downbeat" Chapter 37

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"