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Table of contents | Previous chapter Playing with Fire A novel by Scott Lazenby
Chapter 13  few days later, over breakfast, I opened the metro section of the Oregonian.
I chuckled. Mary asked what was so funny. “Oh, it looks like the TBLC is finding themselves on the receiving end for a change.” I passed the paper over to her. She had her hair in a ponytail and hadn’t put on her makeup yet. She was still as pretty as the day we first met. After a minute Mary looked up. “Is this the thing with Bruce Poulet’s land?”  “Yeah, looks like it.”“So do they really think they can make a lawsuit stick?” “Good question. I doubt it, but maybe they’re just trying to make Pritchard squirm a little. If nothing else, they’re going to have to shell out some dough to Terry Judd to fight this off, and those guys are cheap enough that it may take some of the wind out of their sails.” “How did Nova find out about it?” “I don’t know,” I said. • • • Later, I sat in Pete Koenig’s office. Oriental tapestries hung on the walls, and the room lights were muted. A green desk lamp lit up the clutter of papers and files, and the row of pipes in a holder. He had quit smoking them years ago. Just as well — some of his tobacco used to smell like cow dung, not the sweet scented mix I remembered from my father’s pipe-smoking days.We talked about the Nova lawsuit. Pete kept a professional distance from it, but I could tell he was amused. “That’s not the only headache Judd has, either,” Pete said. “Oh? How’s that?” “It seems someone has filed an ethics complaint against him with the Oregon Bar.” “Really? I wonder why someone would do that.” “Well, I know why, since that someone is me.” “So what’s the story?” I asked. Pete rummaged around in his desk. “My daughter Martha and her husband were having a late dinner last week in Finnigan’s Bar and Grill. Terry Judd, Todd Pritchard, Neal Orso, and another person apparently had just had a meeting, and stopped in for some drinks. They were in the booth next to Matt and Martha. Matt, you know, was with the intelligence unit when he did his military service. They heard my name being mentioned, and started listening in — “ “Didn’t the other guys know they were there?” “I suppose so, but Matt was pretty crafty. He and Martha pretended to be huddled in a deep conversation, and at one point he started bantering with the waitress. The place was pretty crowded, I guess, and a lot of conversations were going on. They finished their dinner, and then went straight to their car, and Matt wrote down a couple pages of notes. They called me when they got home, and I asked them to write it down for me.” He lifted a pile of papers on the corner of his desk. “Aha. Here it is.” Pete handed me a typewritten paper. I skimmed the first paragraph, which summarized what Pete had already told me. It read like a police report.
...when subjects 3 and 4 entered and sat down, subject 1 stated, "Well Terry, you're really earning your money. You did a fantastic job tying up Nova's access road." Small talk took place for a few minutes, then the conversation again returned to the Nova project. It was stated they thought they were wearing Bess Wilson down, and she might be ready to give up on the whole deal.I handed it back to Pete. “Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?” “Martha was uncomfortable about raising too much of a fuss with it. She agreed to let me use it in the ethics complaint against Judd, because that’s handled internally by the bar association, but she didn’t want it to go any farther.” “Hmm. I don’t blame her for that.” “Yes.” “But don’t you think this was just a bunch of guys blowing smoke over a few beers?” I asked. “They were probably joking about the whole thing.” “Could be. But as an attorney, Judd shouldn’t have even been joking about harassment or illegal acts.” “Are you going to show it to the mayor?” I asked. “Not unless you want me to. Like you say, they were probably joking. There isn’t any need to — ” The phone rang. Pete looked at it for a second. “Hold on,” he said. “Hello, Koenig ... yes ... now, look here ... no ... no ... do what you want, but I don’t think that would be a good idea ... now look ... all right then.” Pete hung up and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead. “Speak of the devil,” he said. “Judd?” “Yes. He was just notified by the Bar Association about the ethics investigation. Claims I’m harassing him.” “If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen, eh?” “I suppose. He threatened to take it to the newspapers.” “Really? Think he will?” “No. The last thing he needs is publicity about an ethics complaint.” • • • Judge Fritz Poppen wore a black robe, but I knew that under it he had on a flannel shirt and blue jeans. The robe was as much formality as he wanted in his Trillium Municipal Court. He sat at a high bench — a smart move, since he was barely five feet tall — but he didn’t care if his clerk addressed him as “Fritz,” instead of “your honor,” even if his customers followed her example. He dispensed small-town justice while dispensing with ceremony.I sat near the back, and watched as a few sorry souls pleaded their case. “Yes, judge, I might have been going that fast, but the speed sign was covered by a tree.” “Doesn’t matter, young man. You should know the speed limit in urban areas — it was in your driver’s manual when you took the test back...when was it?” “Uh, two years ago. But it’s hard to remember —” “All right, if you’ve learned your lesson, I’ll save you thirty bucks, but watch your speed in our fair city, you got that?” Fritz had pestered me for years to sit in on one of his court sessions, but I just hadn’t gotten around to it. There were always more important things to do, or so I told myself. But Fritz and his court staff ran an efficient operation, bringing in $600,000 in fine revenue to the city, and he did it without causing me any headaches. I owed him the visit. After a few more traffic cases, Fritz took a break. I figured he had ducked into his office to review the next trial, and I took the opportunity to play back the voice mail messages that had been accumulating for me. I scribbled a few numbers to call if I had the chance, and saved the rest. Nothing really urgent anyway. I was just putting my phone back in my pocket when Fritz re-appeared. “Okay, our next case involves a Mr. Sedgewick. Are you here?” “Yes, I’m Dr. Jonathon Sedgewick.” “All right. This case involves a barking dog. Your neighbor, a Mr. Eckhart, has complained about it many times. Are you here, Eckhart? “Yes, your honor.” “And in turn, we have a complaint against you. It seems that you have a boat stored illegally in your side yard. Your neighbor, Mister, uh, Doctor Sedgewick, has also complained to us about this numerous times. Do I have the facts about right so far?” “Yes, but — ” “Good. Okay, let’s start with the boat, that’s going to be the easier one to deal with. Mr. Eckhart, why don’t you take a seat over here and tell me why you think this boat isn’t a violation of our municipal code.” Eckhart hesitated, then moved up to a chair next to the court clerk. “Well, yes, I do have a boat, but it isn’t on the street. From what I can read, parking it on the street is a violation of your city code. But my boat isn’t on the street, it’s parked out of sight by the side of my house. And it’s been there for years. The previous neighbors, they never said anything about it. Neither did Sedgewick, until I talked to him about his dog — ” “Objection, your honor!” “Mr. Sedgewick? Are you an attorney?” “No, your honor. I’m a dentist.” “All right, then. I’m a lawyer, but as far as I can see, I’m the only one in this room. And I really don’t have much patience for legal theatrics, as much as we all enjoy them on TV. So why don’t we settle down and let Mr. Eckhart finish his story? If you have something to say to me, just raise your hand, but I would prefer it if you would just sit still there for a while. Comprendez?” “Yes, your honor.” “Okay. Go ahead Mr. Eckhart.” “Well, that’s about all there is. My boat is on private property, out of sight like I said, and it isn’t bothering anyone. I keep it under a cover, and use it during the summer. Where else am I supposed to park it if I can’t put it on my own property?” “Point of law, your honor!” “What’s that I hear? I don’t see your hand raised, Mr. Sedgewick esquire.” “Excuse me, but the municipal code is specific in prohibiting the storage of boats and recreational vehicles where they can be seen from the street. It’s in section — ” “I’m well aware of that, sir. But I believe in a live-and-let-live attitude. Now, exactly how is this boat harming you, aside from this technical violation of the city code?” “If a boat is allowed, what about other things? The next thing you know, our neighborhood will be full of abandoned cars and sporting goods. It affects my property value, too. I moved out of Lake Oswego to get away from this kind of lax code enforcement.” Fritz stared at Sedgewick. It looked like his eyes would pop out of their sockets. He eventually turned back to Eckhart. “You seem like an educated man, Mr. Eckhart.” “Yes, I am a financial advisor and have degrees in — ” “Then in that case, let me suggest a simple solution that will allow you to keep your boat, and comply with the city code at the same time. Wouldn’t that be a smart thing to do?” “Yes, I suppose so.” “All right. Then here’s what you do. You just put a fence around this boat. I assume you already have one on your side property line, between you and Mr. Sedgewick here?” “Yes.” “Okay. Now just put the fence in front of the boat too. I know, you have to put a gate in somehow to get the boat out, but an educated man like you can figure that out, right?” “Yes.” “And check with our building and zoning folks before you do it. Can you tell me how soon you can have this done?” “Uh. A month, maybe two.” “All right. Polly, could you write that down for me? If Mr. Eckhart doesn’t have his boat behind a fence in three months, he’s getting a citation. You can take your seat now, sir.” Eckhart went back to the third row, avoiding eye contact with his neighbor. “All right, Dr. Sedgewick, come on and join us at the table here, and tell us about your pooch.” “If it pleases the court — ” “Whoa! No legalese here. Just plain English, remember.” Sedgewick frowned. “What I’m trying to say is that I believe this case is moot.” “And why is that?” “Dog died.” “Pardon me?” “My dog died. There isn’t a case if there isn’t a dog.” “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but why did you let this thing go to a trial? Why didn’t you just tell the clerk when you got your citation?” “I didn’t plan it. Harley just died two days ago. It seems he was poisoned.” “Poisoned? How do you know? Do they do autopsies on dogs these days?” “No, I didn’t take him to the vet. He just keeled over after dinner. I buried him in the back yard. He wasn’t that old — maybe twelve.” Fritz sat back and rubbed his eyes. “Well, you’re right, this does simplify this case — and I’m not going to touch this poison business, that’s for the animal coroner or whatever. But if you get another dog, try to make sure it doesn’t bark when you’re at work fixing peoples’ teeth. And another thing. It seems the real crime here is that you two fellows don’t seem to get along, but you live next to each other and you have to deal with that. So do me a favor.” “What’s that?” “The next time one of these things come up, just pick up the phone and call our neighborhood mediation folks. It’s their job to patch things up between people. They’re really good at it. Will you do that for me?” “Yes, your honor.” “Did you catch that, Mr. Eckhart?” “Yes, sir.” Sedgewick and Eckhart left the courtroom. Fritz climbed down from the bench and joined Polly as she gathered her papers. “So what did you think?” he asked me. “You did a nice job,” I said. He chuckled. “Pretty weighty legal matters, huh? I don’t think any of these are going to make their way to the Supreme Court.” “No. But you know, for the last two guys, this is probably the most important encounter they’re going to have with the City of Trillium. We can pick up their garbage, sweep their streets, deliver them water, and treat their sewage, and they take that for granted. But a barking dog or their neighbor’s boat just gets under their skin, and it’s a big deal for them. Compared to that, city hall is pretty remote and insignificant. So I don’t know, Fritz, I think what you’re doing here makes a lot more difference to them than esoteric points of law at the Supreme Court.” “Ha, I know you’re just saying that to flatter me. But I’ll take it. Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.” • • • Terri Knox handed me a message when I got back to my office. Mrs. Dunwoody was sitting in the reception area, wearing a yellow raincoat and scribbling furiously on a legal pad. Terri looked at her and shrugged.The note said “Max wants you to come to his office.” No voice mail for Max — he had made his secretary call Terri. I returned a few phone calls and then walked over to the fire station. A couple of firefighters were scrubbing down a red and chrome pumper. They greeted me, but without much enthusiasm. I let myself into the office door. “Any results yet on the firefighter sign-ups?” I asked Max. Max looked up from a magazine. “No, not a single one. There is too much peer pressure.” “They can’t look like they’re buying into the plan, huh?” “That’s right. But I will tell you that a few of the guys have talked to us privately about their preferences.” “They want to make sure they stay on the fire side?” “No.” Max turned his back to me and opened a drawer in his mahogany file cabinet. “Interestingly enough, they want the medical assignment.” “You’re kidding. They want to give up the 24-hour shift and cushy job?” “Yes. They want to stay busy. Give us some credit, we’re not all like Gallagher.” “How about that,” I said. “Of course, they swore us to secrecy and said they would deny they had talked to us if anyone asked.” Max pulled a bright red piece of paper from a folder and sat back at his desk. “But enough of that, this is what I wanted to talk to you about.” He laid the paper on his desk. In the top corner, in black, was a large Trillium Firefighters Association emblem.
I groaned. “Where did this come from?” “A friend of mine found it on his porch. Apparently the guys are going door to door passing them out. It appears to be a fairly well-organized campaign.” “Well, this will sure elevate the level of public discussion.” “How do you mean?” “I’m using irony, Max.” He frowned. I said, “Any ideas on what we should do about it?” “No. I believe we should just leave it alone. People haven’t paid too much attention to the issue so far. Perhaps they will just see this as a union issue.” “Maybe. But it’s one that folks will probably be sympathetic to. So you don’t think we should do a mailing to residents, that sort of thing?” “No, with the possible exception of something in the regular city newsletter. It would be difficult to fight emotion with logic.” “Yeah, you’ve got a point.” • • • It was 5:45 by the time I got back to my office. The place was quiet, and even Mrs. Dunwoody was gone. I sent an e-mail to Kate. The messages were coming almost daily now, and I couldn’t help myself from looking for them when I got to the office every morning. We shared news and trivia, and Kate revealed more of her feelings. This was a side to her I had never really known — it had been hidden under her cynicism and devil-may-care attitude — and I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to it. I did the best I could, for above all I didn’t want to break the bond that was forming between us.I had coffee with Maggie Henderson the next day. She was only in her mid-fifties, and was filling her time with a variety of volunteer activities. One of them was the retired teachers association. I first thought the organization was aimed at supporting education, but I later realized that their primary mission was to fight for pension benefits in Salem and Washington. She did have a variety of altruistic causes, including handicapped rights and at-risk youth, and I suspected she ran for council because she thought that it would be a way to help the needy and downtrodden. She was shocked to discover that the city provided few social services, and that she would instead spend her time on the council making tough policy decisions on issues as diverse as debt management, intergovernmental agreements, and land use planning. She may have been in over her head, and her waffling was frustrating to me and her fellow council members, but her heart was in the right place, and I admired her for having the courage to work for the things she believed in. Maggie had one of the bright red flyers. The firefighters had actually knocked on the door and handed it to her. They didn’t recognize her, and Maggie said they had been very polite. “But when they left, I read this, and I have to say I was disturbed,” she said. “It seems very one-sided and misleading. It says here we voted to reduce fire protection. But that’s not what we did, is it?” “No, of course not. The fire equipment will roll from Station One and not the other two, and we think the medical response time will actually improve. But people see fire and medical response as the same thing these days. So when the firefighters say that fire protection will be reduced, people automatically picture themselves standing by the phone waiting for the paramedics to show up while Uncle Benny is rolling on the floor and turning blue from choking on a chunk of steak.” “Well, this behavior by the firemen is not good, not good at all. Some city residents have already called me about this, and I have had a hard time explaining it to them. They think I’m being evasive or something, but it’s so complicated. ...” Maggie shook her head and stirred some cream into her coffee. Her blond wig made her look like a poodle that needed shearing. She said, “I’m wondering now if the people should have been more involved in this decision.” “Uh, which people in particular?” “The people.” “Uh huh. Well, they did get involved by voting for Measure 5-47. And if we had made major cuts in services, that’s one thing. But here, we’re really just making an existing service more efficient. It seems to me that the people elect a city council to make those kinds of decisions.” “I don’t know.” “Besides,” I said, “the budget discussions were open to the public. The newspaper printed an article on it, so if the public wanted to comment, they could have.” “Oh. That’s true.” “By the way, when residents called you about it, what did they say?” “Mostly that they don’t want to see any change in the fire department. I’ve only gotten four — no, three — calls. One of them was from Bill Lyons — you know him, don’t you? The other two didn’t give their names. They gave me a lot of statistics about how long it takes to drive a fire engine to a fire, things like that. I tried to write it down, but I couldn’t really follow it.” “Hmm. That’s what I expected.” “Yes. Uh, what do you mean?” “Sorry. I meant that I’m not surprised they used a lot of statistics. Were the two anonymous callers men or women.” “Women. Both were women.” “I see. Well, I suspect that the other council members will get the same calls. And you’ll get more.” “But what do I tell them?” “Just listen, ask questions if they say anything that you don’t understand, and thank them for their comments.” “Yes, but what do I say if they ask me to change my mind?” “You could tell them the decision has already been made by the council and the budget committee, and that the meeting was open to the public. If they have any actual questions about it, have them call me or Max. And if that isn’t enough, they can always come to a council meeting and speak under the public comment part of the agenda. I’m not sure what good that will do, but at least it’s there.” “Okay.” Maggie pulled a small notebook out of her purse. “There was something else I wanted to ask you, but I can’t remember it.” She flipped through the pages. “Oh yes. Bill Lyons said he had heard that the city was going to close down our well station in Trillium Heights because the water in the ground was polluted. I didn’t know what to tell him. Is it true?” “No, absolutely not.” This was a new one to me. How do these rumors get started? “In the first place, we only use that well station as a backup source in the summer, and we have never had any problems with the water quality. But more important, if we ever did do something like that, you would know about it. It would involve some kind of city council decision. If you hear rumors like that, just flat tell them they’re not true.” “Well, I wanted to say that, but I wasn’t sure if I missed something along the way.” • • • After dinner that night, Mary and I went to the supermarket for our weekly grocery shopping. The parking lot was still fairly full. Two firefighters were standing at the doors, handing out the red flyers. One was a relatively recent recruit with short black hair and a moustache. The other was older — George Richards, if I remembered right. Everyone entering the store took one of the flyers, and a man stopped to talk. As we approached, the younger firefighter held out a flyer, and Mary took it. I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, but his partner must have recognized me. He interrupted their conversation and glared at me.“I’m not sure you want one of these,” he said. “Hey, George, I’m a resident just like everybody else. I’m as affected by this stuff as much as anybody.” More than some, in fact — over half of the firefighters lived outside the city, on acreage where they could store their fishing boats, snowmobiles, and campers. They were protected by the Fly Creek rural fire district, whose response times were up to ten times longer than ours. But he didn’t offer me a flyer, and we kept on walking into the store. “Isn’t it against some policy for them to do that?” Mary asked. “What, stand outside a supermarket?” “No, I mean handing out propaganda while they’re in uniform. It makes them look like they’re on duty.” She pulled a shopping cart out of the rack. “Well, you’re right, that’s definitely a violation of department policy.” “So are you going to do anything about it?” “Not sure we really can. Can’t you see the headlines? Firefighters disciplined for protesting management decision. It would make martyrs of them.” I pulled a loaf of French bread off the shelf. It was still warm. Mary said, “I don’t know how you put up with that kind of thing.” Kate had written something similar, but with stronger words. “Hey, you work in a school. Compared to the teachers’ union politics, ours seems tame.” She laughed. “Yeah, but I don’t have to deal with it.” • • • Maybe I was paranoid, but the firefighters’ attack seemed to include some non-traditional tactics. I was sitting at my desk, working up a letter to our U.S. congressman on telecommunications regulation, when I heard a commotion in the reception area. Betty Sue and Terri were looking out the window at the entrance to city hall, three stories below.“What’s going on?” “It looks like something’s burning on the steps,” Terri said. I tried to see, but the angle made it hard to get a good view. A small crowd was gathering, and a police car pulled up in front of the building. “Guess I’ll check it out,” I said. I took the stairs, with Betty Sue behind me. Out on the front landing of the building, orange flames were dancing above a clay pot. The air held a slight scent of kerosene. A woman — fairly young but with long gray hair — sat cross-legged next to the pot. She was wrapped in a brown shawl, and the flames reflected off a set of brass trinkets she wore around her neck. Several smaller pots and jugs were arrayed by her side. A uniformed officer was squatting next to her, talking firmly, but too quietly for me to hear well. “Who’s she?” I asked Marie, the receptionist. “Beats me,” she said. “She just showed up and started burning something. So I called the cops.” A car pulled into the visitor’s parking lot, and after a moment Sabrina Chan got out. Either she had a police scanner, or had come for another story and just got lucky. She saw the crowd and made her way toward me. “What’s going on?” she asked. “I really don’t know. It looks like Officer Howlett has it under control, though.” The flames were starting to die. I was thinking that Sabrina probably wished she had a photographer with her. But then she whipped out a small push-and-shoot camera and stepped closer for a clear shot. The woman with the pot gave her a scornful look. The officer stood up, and then helped the woman to her feet. She bent down and poured something from a jug onto the fire. Steam hissed into the air. Talking to herself, she began to place the smaller pots into a wood crate. The officer touched the side of the larger pot, then picked it up. The two made their way out of the crowd and put their load in the trunk of the patrol car. The officer held the back door open and waited for the woman to slide in, then closed the door and turned back toward us. I moved a few paces away, but Sabrina stayed close. A few of the other onlookers hovered near us. “So what’s the story, Mike?” I asked. The officer looked warily at the reporter, then shrugged. “Says she’s a witch. Says she came to put a curse on, well. ...” “On who?” “Well, on you actually. I don’t know why, that’s just what she said.” “And she needed a fire to do it?” “Apparently. Now, I’m no expert on witchcraft, but I guess they do that sometimes. They write stuff on little slips of paper and burn ’em.” “What was in the jugs?” “You name it. Some goat’s blood, a few other concoctions, or so she says.” “Do you know why she has a beef with me?” “No idea. But she did say you’ll be dead within twenty four hours.” “Uh oh. I still feel fine now.” They laughed. “What are you going to charge her with?” Sabrina asked. The officer rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh, I doubt we’ll have anything the D.A. will want to mess with. I don’t think she really violated any city ordinances, and I’m sure there’s some sort of free-speech issue here.” Sabrina cocked her head. “I’m just going to take her over to the station and talk to her for a few minutes,” the officer said. “Just to see if there’s anything else we need to know about.” “What’s her name?” Sabrina asked. “Star of Sagittarius, or something like that. What do you bet we can’t find that in the LEDS database, huh?” Sabrina was trying to figure out how she could interview the witch. She would have to hang out at the police station for a couple of hours, and I doubted she would have the patience for that. • • • I was wrong. The small article in the morning paper stood out, with it’s bizarre picture. The good news, at least as far as I was concerned, was that I was still alive and reasonably healthy. Maybe Star of Sagittarius had used the wrong type of goat’s blood. Mary didn’t find the humor in it, though. She said her faith and her reasoning told her it didn’t mean anything, but it still gave her shivers.Sabrina hadn’t had any better luck than Officer Howlett in discovering the reason for the curse. There were a few vague comments about how Ben Cromarty was putting the safety of the people in jeopardy, but that could mean anything. What was more disturbing to me was the separate article that focused on the firefighters. Sabrina Chan wrote that one too, and she didn’t seek out many people who supported our position. In fairness, she did follow through with residents who objected to the change, asking what it was exactly that they objected to. Few of them were able to come up with anything concrete, but there was the usual refrain, “We didn’t hear about this before,” and “They should have informed us about this before making a decision.” There were even a few letters to the editor that continued this theme. I talked about it later with Betty Sue. She reckoned it was the American Way: If you don’t have a good argument to use against the substance of a decision, then attack the process. It was certainly reinforced by the legal system, where criminals who were caught red-handed got off on technicalities. The problem, she said, was that people were so used to arguing against the process that they forgot it was a separate issue, and that policy decisions should stand or fall on their own merits. She was right, I thought, except that a few of the people who used the attack-the-process tactic were smart enough to know the difference, and they were shrewd enough to use any tools at their disposal. Next chapter: Plan B Copyright © 2001, Scott D. Lazenby. Reproduction in any form without the written permission of the author is prohibited. Illustration: Paul Salmon |
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