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Table of contents | Previous chapter Playing with Fire A novel by Scott Lazenby
Chapter Eight  he City of Trillium marked the end of summer with a labor day concert in Town Square Park. Mary and I stretched out on a blanket and watched the crowd swaying to a blues band. Trixie had been with us for a while, until she got assimilated by a group of pre-teen friends. The smell of charcoal drifted up from the concession stand. I closed my eyes to take in the sounds and scents and the feel of the breeze, heated by the streets that bordered the park. Mary scooted closer to me.The town square formed a physical link among the members of the community, sort of a family room for the city. A group of young girls in long dresses danced by the stage. A line of octogenarians sat in folding chairs under the shade of a cedar, tapping their feet. A man with an “I Brake for Slugs” T-shirt sneaked a beer from a cooler. Children played in the fountain in the center of the park. Trixie and her group laughed about something, completely oblivious to the music.  The band played a tight rendition of a John Mayall song and took a break. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a pale bear lumbering toward us. It was council member Rob Titus. When he sat down beside us, I noticed the sides of our cooler bulged a little.“Great turnout,” he said. “Yep. I’m surprised more people aren’t on vacation.” “No, the campgrounds are too crowded,” Mary said, “and they have to have their kids in school tomorrow anyway.” “How about you and Linda?” I asked. “Are you taking a final fling while the weather’s good?” “Naw. Too busy. We spent a few days on the coast this month — that was enough.” “Want a can of pop? We’ve got a few extra.” At least that would get him off my cooler. “No, but thanks anyway.” Trixie stopped by long enough to get money for an ice cream cone. I watched her disappear into the crowd. “So how did you feel the work session went last week?” I asked. “Pretty good. I think we’ll be able to take care of this budget thing.” “Uh huh.” “I’m not sure about the fire department deal, though.” Strange. He had been one of the strongest supporters of the idea when the council reviewed their options. He knew we couldn’t pass a budget without it. “How’s that?” I said. “Max isn’t convinced it’ll work, you know.” “He sounded pretty positive at the work session. I know he had some reservations at first, but I think he’s come around.” “I talked to him last week,” Rob said. “He thinks the union will sink the deal.” “Well, he may be right, but only if we let them. Are you having second thoughts?” “No, I backed it based on your recommendation, and I’ll stand by that.” Mary pulled a blade of grass and wound it around her finger. The sun was starting to sink below the tops of the trees, but the air was still warm. “Has Diane said anything to you about running for re-election?” Rob asked. “No. I doubt she’s really thought about it yet. Why?” “Just curious.” Rob scanned the crowd, probably looking for important clients or fellow Rotary members. “Guess I better get going,” he said. “Okay. See you tomorrow night, if not before.” Mary waited until Rob was out of earshot. “What was that all about?” “Which part?” I asked. “The part about ‘Is Diane running?’ He isn’t going to run for mayor, is he?” “That would be something, wouldn’t it? But the election is more than a year away. Anything can happen.” “It’s frustrating knowing you can’t get involved, isn’t it?” “Yeah. Sort of like watching the dice roll on a craps table. But hey, that’s what makes life interesting.” “Isn’t that a Chinese curse? ‘May you live in interesting times’?” I laughed. After a while the band started up again. Hearing the blues made me think of Kate. I hadn’t heard from her since she called me at the office a few weeks ago. I tried to keep her out of my mind — at least I told myself that — but it didn’t work. I looked at Mary, beautiful in the glow of the setting sun. We didn’t have many secrets, but I figured there were a few things that were better if I just kept them to myself. • • • The Boatwright brothers owned 40 acres of farmland on Chief Joseph Boulevard, the same road as the Nova project, but closer to town. It was in our urban growth boundary, and our comprehensive plan designated it as commercial property. Their mother had lived on the property up until the day she died a year and a half ago.The Trillium Village development was a 400-home subdivision just to the west of the Boatwright’s property. The land sloped to the east, and the gravity sewer line would need to follow a swale, with a lift station at the low point to tie it into the trunk line in Chief Joseph. Heinz Hesse needed the sewer line for his development, but having the pipe and the lift station there would be a huge benefit to the Boatwrights, if they ever got around to developing. Dick Boatwright owned a dairy farm a few miles out of town. He had run, unsuccessfully, for county commissioner a few years ago. He was a wealthy man, not so much from his dairy operation, but from profits on farm land that happened to fall inside the urban growth boundary. The dairy farm, too, was in an area called “urban reserve,” a fact that didn’t particularly bother him. In twenty years or so, the growth boundary would probably move out there, so he could sell the land for a hundred times what he paid for it, and either retire or move the farm a few more miles out. His brother Tom ran what was left of the family farm, and did work on the side driving tractors and backhoes for local contractors. In contrast to Dick’s easy-going common sense attitude, Tom was intense with a hair-trigger temper. Normally, one of Jake Wildavsky’s engineers would have worked out the easement issue. It seemed to me to be a fairly routine deal. Most times, property owners donated the easement just to have access to the sewer system. But the Boatwrights, especially Tom, had a strong distrust of government, and insisted on dealing directly with me on it. So I had walked the property with them and exchanged a few versions of the easement document. It looked like we were finally ready to close, and I had set up a meeting in the city hall conference room. “The language looks okay to me,” Dick said. I never saw him in anything other than jeans and a cowboy hat. He reminded me a little of Dennis Weaver in the old McCloud mystery series. “Well, I have a question,” Tom said. “We’re getting a credit of $54,000 against our future hookup costs. What if it costs less than that? Will we get money back?” “No, but you would end up with essentially a free hookup. That’s worth a lot these days, especially if you get some buyers for the property that use a lot of sewer service, like restaurants or a laundromat. But we don’t know what the final costs are going to be until Hesse finishes his work, and we draw up a reimbursement agreement — ” “So we may end up having to pay, even with giving away our land?” “Maybe, but $54,000 is a healthy credit for that easement.” Tom stared at me a moment, then went back to reading the document. Dick flipped to the last page and pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket. “I’m ready to sign it,” he said. “Well, there’s one more thing I’d like to see in here,” Tom said. “We’re going to be moving some dirt around on the property. Want to cut the slope down a little before we try to sell it. Says in here that we can’t change the depth of the pipe without permission from the city — ” “Which pipe are you worried about?” I asked. “The gravity line is pretty close to the creek. The city code doesn’t let you move dirt around down there. Or is it the force main?” “What’s that?” “The pressure pipe that goes from the pump station up to Chief Joseph Boulevard.” “Yeah, that’s the one,” Dick said. “See, the property by the street has the most commercial value. You can’t blame us for wanting to get that as level as we can.” “And that’s going to be a problem with that pipe in the ground,” Tom said. “I don’t know about that,” I said. “Jake may not really care how deep it is. Or if worse comes to worst, you can move the pipe after you’re done with your earth work — it’s just plastic pipe like you use in your house, only on a little bigger scale. All the easement says is that you get our permission first.” “Well, here’s what I’m thinking,” Tom said. “We’ve got some angle iron lying around in the barn. Couldn’t a guy make up supports with that angle iron and just hang the pipe, say, about ten or twelve feet up? Then a guy could just drive his tractor around there until he got the final grade right, and then bury the damned pipe. Could we make that change to this agreement?” His brother Dick was studying the end of his pen. “I’m not an engineer,” I said. “I’m not even sure that’s possible.” “But don’t you have the authority — if we pencil in that change here — don’t you have the authority to just sign it?” “I don’t know, Tom. You sure you want to do that? You really want to be driving a tractor under a pipe full of raw sewage under pressure? It really isn’t such a big deal to move the pipe later if you have to. And who knows? You may be able to get your grading done before Hesse is ready to lay that pipe anyway.” Tom stared at me again. Dick said, “How soon is Hesse ready to move?” “Well, he says he needs this stuff right away, but he’s taking his time on the design. That’s pretty typical — the developers want immediate turnaround on their plans, and then they sit on them.” They sat in silence a few moments. Tom tapped a pencil on the table. “Say, Tom, isn’t your son a senior this year?” I asked. “Yep.” “I reckon the football team’s going to have an outstanding season,” I said. “With your son and a few of the other kids that are returning this year, we ought to make state easily.” Tyson Boatwright had been the starting quarterback last year as a junior. He had had the highest passing record in Trillium High’s history. “Sure. Old Ty has been working out pretty hard this summer,” Dick said. “And his brother Timmy will be a freshman this year, and I bet he’ll make the varsity team.” Tom grinned. “You bet. We finally found him a coach he can work with. He went through a few to begin with. I guess Timmy can be a handful sometimes.” Quietly, Dick signed the easement, and slid it in front of his brother. “Both Ty and Timmy do a lot of hay baling on the farm,” Tom said. He looked absently at the document in front of him, and signed it. “That’s what gets ’em in such good shape for football. Well, anyway, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Ben.” • • • The League of Oregon Cities existed mainly to see that towns like ours didn’t get shafted too bad in Salem. Even though most of the state’s population lived in the cities along the Willamette valley, the state constitution was pretty much an anti-government document, and the legislature was disproportionately tilted toward rural interests with a strong distrust of the Portland area. I had gotten roped into one of the League’s legislative committees that met in Salem every few months. It included a mix of mayors, city council members, and city managers.We dealt with a lot of topics — affordable housing, mandatory sentencing guidelines, water rights, energy deregulation, development fees, stormwater regulations, pension funding, building codes, airport controls, street and highway funding, annexation laws, endangered species listings, juvenile crime, drinking water standards, cell phone towers, urban renewal, manufactured-home regulations, school funding, groundwater limitations, highway signs, business licenses, and records-retention laws. We even had a two-hour discussion on tsunami zones in coastal communities. But today, the main topic of discussion was what we euphemistically called state tax reform — or more accurately, how to find new taxes to make up for the hits the cities had taken in property tax revenue. It was a problem we all had in common, so in that sense it gave us a strong feeling of unity. On the other hand, we were no different than the state population as a whole — the members of the committee came with a wide range of political ideologies — and it was hard to come up with solutions that met any sort of consensus. Part of the challenge we faced was that the state tax system was a two-legged stool, supported only by property and income taxes. Not surprisingly, the tax rates were higher than in states that had property, income, and sales taxes. But the Oregon voters had rejected a sales tax so often that it was political suicide to talk about it directly. So we talked about tax reform instead. A recently elected city council member from Umatilla had earnestly put forth a proposal for legislation that would combine a modest sales tax with cuts in both the property tax and income tax rates. It sounded logical. “Only one problem with it,” boomed a voice from the other side of the room. It was Al Hobbes, the city manager of Klamath Falls. “It won’t work.” “Why’s that?” the councilor from Umatilla asked. “The state is structurally unable to make decisions on tax reform, or anything else that makes a real difference.” “Huh?” “It’s like this,” Al said. “Ever hear the story about the scientist and the frog? The scientist, see, is doing an experiment. He says, ‘Jump, frog.’ The frog jumps three feet. So he writes in his notebook, ‘Frog jumps three feet.’ Then he cuts off one of the frog’s legs. He says, ‘Jump, frog,’ and the frog jumps two feet. He writes in his book, ‘Cut off one leg, frog jumps two feet.’ He’s making real scientific progress here. Then he cuts off another leg and says, ‘Jump, frog.’ The frog jumps a foot. So he writes in his book — “ “ — frog jumps a foot,” someone said. “Don’t interrupt me, I’m telling this story. So he writes in his book, ‘Cut off second leg, frog jumps a foot.’ Then he cuts off another leg and says, ‘Jump, frog.’ The frog jumps six inches. He writes in his book, ‘Cut off third leg, frog jumps six inches.’ You still with me?” “Yes Al, we’re with you.” “Okay. So the scientist cuts off the last leg. He says, ‘Jump frog.’ The frog doesn’t do anything. He says, ‘JUMP FROG.’ The frog still doesn’t do anything. So he takes out his notebook and writes, ‘Cut off last leg. Frog goes deaf.’ ” “Ha ha. So what does that have to do with the legislature?” the councilor from Umatilla asked. “Nothing, I just thought it was a good story,” Al said. “Great.” “No really, here’s the parallel,” Al said. “We keep yammering that the legislature isn’t listening to us, that it’s not doing anything about our screwed-up tax system. The voters think the legislature’s gone deaf. But really, we’ve cut all the legs off the legislature.” He waited for the obvious question, but didn’t get it. “It’s like this, see. First, we elect a Democrat governor and a Republican legislature. We make it hard for them to agree on anything to begin with. That’s the first leg we cut off. Second, we have a state constitution that’s the size of a phone book. It completely ties the hands of the legislators. That’s something we’ve done to ourselves, since a lot of the garbage that ended up in the constitution got put there through voter initiatives. That’s the second leg we cut off. Third, one of the useless features of the state constitution is a bicameral legislature — both a House and a Senate. That was put in the U.S. constitution as a compromise between representation based on population and equal representation for the states. We don’t have that situation here — the sixty house members and thirty senators are all elected based on population. With the urban vs. rural, east-of-the-Cascades vs. west-of-the-Cascades splits that we have, it’s hard enough to get one house to agree on anything, let alone two — ” “But look, Hobbes, do you really want to make it easy for those guys to pass laws?” the mayor of Eagle Point asked. “That’s my point. As far as getting work done goes, we’ve designed the system to be f... — uh, we’ve designed it for failure. So where was I? The two-house legislature is the third leg we cut off. And the fourth one is the threat of a voter referendum, and those are a dime a dozen these days. If we can have ballot measures on what kinds of traps to use for bears and cougars, or whether trucks can have three trailers, or how chiropractors are regulated, we sure as hell will get a referendum on anything the legislature tries to do with tax reform. And now, buying elections through the initiative process is a lot easier and cheaper than buying candidates. You can bet that the owner of the Sinklow Inns will put up the money to kill any new tax measure, whether or not it’s revenue-neutral. So the point is, we can yell at the legislature as much as we want, but they’re not going to give us tax reform, for the simple reason that they can’t.” “Thanks, Al, for that upbeat view of the world.” Carol Lewis, the mayor of Lake Oswego, gave him a piercing look. “So what do you think the solution is?” “Time to haul out the bludgeon,” Al said. “Forget the legislature. Go straight to the voters with an initiative that, say, requires the state to share a third of the income tax with cities — ” “And what makes you think that will pass?” “Simple. When you stack up our services — police, fire, parks, libraries, the senior centers — against the state services, the choice will be easy. The average resident probably doesn’t even know what the state does. Public utilities commission? Who cares? Prisons? Make the prisoners pay their own way. The Oregon Health Plan? Get those people off welfare in the first place. No, the election would be easy — the trick is buying the signatures to get it on the ballot. But I bet the unions would put their money where their mouth is, and some of the suppliers and contractors would, too.” “Seems irresponsible,” a council member from Neskowin said. “That would just shift the problem to the state. It would hit school funding, universities, state parks, you name it. Do we really want that?” “No, that’s why it’s a meat-axe approach,” Al said. “But look, that’s just what all these property tax measures have been, too. We need something like this to shake things up, get us some real tax reform. Like I said, we can’t wait around for the legislature to do it.” “Well, your bludgeon won’t work, either,” Carol Lewis said. “You’re right that the trick is to get it on the ballot. But the unions are going to have their hands tied, since the teachers would fight it out of fear of losing their state funding, and businesses wouldn’t risk getting crosswise with the legislature. So we won’t be able to buy the signatures. Ain’t going to happen.” A woman to the right of me asked, “What about recruiting residents to just go door to door and get the signatures? It would be for a good cause.” “No, there hasn’t been a grassroots initiative in years — people aren’t that motivated.” Carol popped the top of a Coke can. “Besides, people may vote for a measure like this, but they wouldn’t spend much time getting it on the ballot. By and large, the voters don’t have a clue how the state taxation system works. I really don’t know what’s worse, apathy or ignorance.” “I don’t know and I don’t care!” Al shot back. Carol made a choking sound. “Cool,” Al said. “I want to see if that pop comes out your nose.” I enjoyed listening to the bantering, and occasionally chipped in myself. But we didn’t seem closer to solutions, and I wondered if I could make it back to Trillium before rush hour. Some of the committee members agreed to do some research and make a few phone calls before the next meeting, but we all knew that, with the crush of day-to-day work, not much would actually get done. We wrapped up the meeting by 3:30 and I headed for I-5. After a few minutes, I switched my car radio from a talk show to music. Talk was the last thing I wanted to listen to now. Traffic wasn’t too bad, and when I hit my exit, I avoided the highway connection to Trillium, and instead pulled onto a local road. As I started the climb up from the Willamette, I saw Bo French, our sewer-plant bum, trudging along the side of the road. I pulled over. “Hey Bo. Need a ride?” It looked like he had used the shower at the treatment plant, and cleaned up a little. “Sure. Thanks.” He opened the door and slowly climbed in, laying a worn, empty backpack at his feet. “You’re kind of late to be running your errands, aren’t you?” “Not as long as the bank and post office are open. I caught a fish this morning, had to celebrate some. So busy, hard to keep to a schedule, don’t you know it.” “Right.” I didn’t think he was serious. “River been warm enough to swim in much?” I asked. “Yes sir, I’ve ventured out a few times. About got run over by one of those water motorcycles, what do they call ’em?” “Jet skis?” “Yep. Don’t care for ’em much myself, make too much noise.” I had left my window open, but Bo didn’t smell too bad. Mostly a mixture of smoke from cigars and his wood fire. “What brings you to my part of town?” Bo asked. “Had a meeting in Salem. We’re getting ready for the next legislative session.” “Oh.” Bo scratched his head. “If you need any help from Lynn Pennington, let me know.” “Why, do you know her?” “Yep. I communicate with her fairly regularly.” Bo must have been pulling my leg. I doubted he used the phone at the treatment plant, and it was equally unlikely for a state representative to spend much time there. “Just out of curiosity, how do you do that?” I asked. “Easy. Just use one of the Internet stations at the library.” Well I’ll be darned. Bo had a P.O. box, so there was no way for Pennington to know that Bo’s actual residence was a lean-to camp in a corner of our sewer treatment plant. I pictured her and her staff assistant dutifully responding to e-mails and keeping Bo apprised of the latest issues, and had to smile. But it probably helped them more than I first thought. Bo talked to half the town when he made his rounds, and was really a fairly reliable information conduit. I guessed he voted, too. “Say Bo, what did you list your residence as when you registered to vote?” “Uh, you’re not going to get me in trouble, now, are you?” “No, I’m just curious.” “Well ... I used the street address for the plant. Figured no one else was registered there — pretty good, eh? But they send my ballots to the post office, and that’s what really matters. I just got to make sure I get up there when elections are going on.” We joined the traffic in downtown Trillium. “So where are you headed?” “The bank will do.” “Uh, which one?” “Trillium Community Bank. Been a customer there for years.” It was on my way, just a couple of blocks from city hall. I pulled over to the curb. “Thanks,” Bo said. It took him a few moments to get his seatbelt unhooked. He swung his backpack over his shoulder. “Go with God, my friend.” “And you,” I said. When I got back to the office, Mrs. Dunwoody was scribbling furiously on her yellow pad, and Terri Knox was trying to placate someone on the phone. She put her hand over the mouth piece. “Todd Pritchard wants you to call. He says it’s urgent.” Great. I had a dozen voice mail messages, but I decided to get it over with and call Pritchard first. “Hello, Todd, I’m returning your call. What’s up?” “The TBLC is meeting tomorrow and we want you to join us.” Well, here was a strange turn of events. I had picked up a rumor that the Trillium Business Leadership Committee met early in the morning. I had considered attending one of their meetings. On one hand, I didn’t want to give them any more credibility than I had to, and didn’t want to treat them like a force that had to be reckoned with. On the other hand, as Seth Rosenberg pointed out, that’s exactly what they were, whether I liked it or not. So I had called Todd Pritchard and offered to sit in on one of their meetings to answer questions about the Nova project, but he had always been evasive. I figured I knew why — it would cramp their style to have an outsider observe their bellyaching and strategizing. So what had changed his mind? “I’ll try to. When do you meet?” “Seven in the morning, in the back room at Tall Jim’s.” “Am I just sitting in, or do you want me to talk about anything?” “We just have some questions,” Pritchard said. “Some about the Nova deal, and about city management in general.” “Okay. I’ll see you there.” I walked across the hall to Bess Wilson’s office. I found her at the development services counter, standing across from Sparky Bellah with a plan unrolled between them. Bellah, it turned out, wanted to plant a seventy-foot sign on his car dealership, just in case someone missed the fifteen thousand watts of lights on the display lot, or the tangle of plastic flags flapping over the cars. “Ben, make her be reasonable. All I’m asking for is a sign. I don’t know why these mossbacks here have to get in the way of everything.” “I hear you, Sparky,” I said. “Your sign would look great — for miles to the west, people would see your sign instead of Mount Hood, and I’m sure they’d appreciate the change. But you know, if we allowed yours, we would have to let anyone put up a seventy-foot sign, and then yours wouldn’t stand out anymore.” Bellah just grunted. I used the break in the conversation to ask Bess to join me at the TBLC meeting. She wasn’t very enthusiastic about it. Bellah didn’t say anything. “You’re not tied in with that outfit, are you Sparky?” I asked. “Naw, I just go for the breakfast.” • • • The back room of Tall Jim’s had cheap wood paneling and no windows. The walls were decorated with saw blades from old mills, which had been painted with scenes of lush forests. The irony was probably lost on the loggers who ate here twenty years ago. Bess and I had arrived at seven, but it was obvious that the meeting had started earlier. There had been an awkward pause in the discussion when we walked in, and after some silence, several side conversations broke out. They had saved a seat for me at the head of the U-shaped table. They clearly weren’t expecting Bess, but she found an empty chair at the end of the table.I ordered an omelet, which later turned out to be a mistake, since I didn’t get any time to eat it. As soon as the waitress left, Todd cleared his throat and tapped his knife against a water glass. “I invited Ben Cromarty to join us this morning because I know you have questions about things happening in the city that you haven’t been able to get answers to — questions on the property, uh, probity, of certain decisions that have been made that I don’t need to go into, that involve Nova, and questions about things that the city manager and city council have done in the past and how that relates to present situations at the local government level.” Todd sat back. The room was silent. “I guess what Todd was trying to say is, if you have any questions for me, go ahead and ask them,” I said. “Okay.” Neal Orso owned a couple of car wash operations. He spoke with the macho jock voice that professional wrestlers or football linebackers use in a press conference. “Here’s one. Why did the city close down Willy’s Grill?” “The city didn’t,” I said. “It was the county Health Department. I don’t know the details, you’d have to ask them.” “City, county, same difference,” Orso said. “It seemed like a fine establishment to me, and it didn’t need any government interference.” I didn’t react to that. “All right, what’s this I hear about the city giving Sparky here a hard time about a sign?” Cliff Ashcraft, who happened to be sitting next to Sparky Bellah, owned a small industrial park. “Since when is it illegal for a man to advertise his business?” “He wanted a sign so high that the FAA was worried about it knocking planes out of the sky.” “That’s ridiculous!” “I was joking, Cliff.” “Most cities have height limits for signs,” Bess said. She talked about the philosophy behind sign codes, and got into some debate about it. It gave me a chance to take a mental note of the people in the room, and to wonder why they were there. I noticed that one of the painted saw blades that had been turned into a clock was stuck at 3:35. It had probably been like that for years. Todd Pritchard leaned forward, looking for a break in the conversation. “I want to get the discussion back on track,” Pritchard said. “Ben, tell us why Nova doesn’t have to go through the same hoops that all the rest of us do. Now there’s a question I have.” “They do have to go through the same hoops. Give me something more specific.” “Aw, come on now. We have to put in street improvements and fill out all these application forms and put up maintenance bonds and all sorts of other stuff. I don’t see Nova having to do all that.” “Bess,” I said, “did we let Nova off from any of those requirements?” “Nope.” “What may seem different to you,” I said, “is that Nova agreed from the start to meet all our requirements, and didn’t complain about it. They probably see some of them as an unnecessary burden, just like you do, but they’ve done enough work in other states that they weren’t surprised by them.” “Well, I think the whole deal stinks,” said Paul Happell. He was the manager of Trillium Screw & Fastener Company, which he liked to abbreviate to Trillium Screw. I shrugged. Happell said, “Why do you guys spend so much time chasing after an out-of-town company at the same time you make things tough for us business people who have been here for years?” “Well — ” I started. “We didn’t chase after them,” Bess said. “They came to us. You bet your ass we worked with them — they were bringing a thousand jobs, and we would do the same for any of you if you were looking at that kind of expansion. Matter of fact, we helped Phillip’s Fruit get a grant for their new processing equipment, and we set up a local improvement district for Bruce Poulet here to take care of the streets and parking at his shopping center. Besides, Nova had to meet all our development code requirements, but most of you have gotten around that because your businesses got grandfathered in.” “Yeah, but — ” “I think we have some more questions for the city manager,” Pritchard said. “So, about this zoning for the Nova’s housing project, how do you justify that when — ” “Now that’s right,” Neal Orso said. “Didn’t the city use zoning to keep Hillman from being able to use his property downtown?” “We didn’t stop him from using his property,” I said. “There’s a whole page of outright permitted uses in the downtown commercial zone. He could have done any of them.” “But his business is used parts. That’s what he bought the land for.” “What he wanted to do just didn’t fit with our downtown, or any city’s downtown, for that matter. It should be in an industrial park or in a commercial area where it can be screened.” Hillman had called his business “used parts,” but he wanted outdoor storage for parts and the carcasses of old cars. It was a junkyard by any other name. “So the city keeps an honest businessman from using his own property, but it lets Nova make a zone change to put housing in an industrial area. How is that fair?” “The zone change hasn’t been decided yet. But having homes close to jobs fits with our comprehensive plan.” “And having jobs downtown doesn’t?” Orso said, spitting his words out. “I don’t know how you get off trying to run everybody’s life!” He stood up, threw his napkin on the table, and stomped out of the room. There was an awkward pause. Bess rolled her eyes. There were a few more questions, but the guys started looking at their watches as if they really wanted to get to work. The waitress put the bill next to my mostly full plate and I watched to see if Pritchard made any attempt to pick it up. He didn’t. Bess and I had parked at our usual spots at city hall and walked the two blocks to Tall Jim’s. The morning traffic was a little heavier when we headed back, and we had to wait for a signal to get across the street. The air was cold — a sign that our Indian summer was coming to an end. “Did you notice anything unusual about the folks at that meeting?” I asked. “No shit. They were all men. Talk about the good old boys’ club.” “Why do you think that is?” We got our “walk” signal and Bess stepped out. I tried to match her pace. “Well, I suppose life has probably gotten hard to understand for a guy like Orso,” she said. “Look at the real leadership positions in the community — almost all of them are filled by women. The mayor, of course, but look at the president of the Chamber of Commerce, and even the president of the Rotary Club, Linda Bartell. Polly Andrews is the chairman of the board of the Trillium Bank, and the managers of the other bank branches in town are women too. Most of the active, positive business owners who have gotten anything done in the last five years have been women. What’s a boy like Orso or Pritchard to do?” I laughed. “And to make matters worse, their zoning and development issues are being managed by a woman, and the chair of the planning commission is a woman too.” “Ah, the conspiracy must be working,” Bess said. “There’s something else. Did you notice that most of those guys got their businesses through their fathers, or maybe their fathers-in-law? Sparky married into the car business. Orso’s business was started by his father, and he’s been pretty much a caretaker since. Paul Happell’s business was founded by his father-in-law, and so was Pritchard’s. Bruce Poulet’s dad started him off in the fruit trucking business, and it was almost by accident that he ended up owning so much land. Cliff Ashcraft has the industrial park because his father needed a place to put his metal fabricating business.” “Not exactly self-made men, huh?” “No, and it may help explain the split you noticed.” I held open the city hall door for her. “Most of the women who are running things around here built their businesses from scratch. They don’t have time to sit around and stew about how the world is unfair to them. They’re too busy making things happen, and they’re smart enough to know how to work with city regulations — ” “Or work around them, maybe. ...” “Yep.” “So what good does this tidbit of information do us?” Bess paused in front of the elevator door. “Not much, except maybe to help figure out where they’re coming from. As much technical training as we get, doesn’t it always seem our biggest challenges are dealing with human psychology? And if you get very far into that, you wonder how the world functions at all. ...” • • • That evening Mary and I attended an open house at Trixie’s new middle school. I wore jeans and a polo shirt, but the disguise didn’t help — people still insisted on talking to me about their street that needed paving, or their neighbor’s barking dog. On cue, Mary would interrupt to tell me that we needed to move on to the next classroom.Trixie had already mastered the labyrinth of hallways and proudly showed us her locker. The sixth graders still had home rooms, sort of a way to phase them into junior high. Her home room teacher, Miss O’Malley, looked barely old enough to be out of college. But I could tell Trixie liked her, and she seemed to have a strong-enough sense of self-assurance — and sense of humor — to be able to deal with middle-school kids. “Trixie told me you work for the city. What do you do there?” she asked. “I’m the city manager.” “Oh! Then you probably know my fiancée, Jim Ripp.” “Hmm, not sure. Where does he work?” “He was on the reserves for the fire department, and just got hired on full time. He’s a good-looking guy, with a moustache.” “You just described most of the department,” Mary said. “Yes, I sort of noticed that. Oh, but don’t tell Jim I said the other guys were handsome — he gets kind of jealous.” Mary laughed. Trixie joined a knot of her friends. They pretended to ignore their parents, but they would sneak glances to see what Mom or Dad were doing. There was already artwork on the wall — watercolor paintings of different species of salmon. They all looked the same to me, and some of the students’ work was unrecognizable as fish. Modern art, no doubt. Mary pointed out Trixie’s picture of a coho — she had carefully used a pen to add scales. I was impressed. I stood back and watched the fish. I could picture them moving down the Snake River. Some of them made it past the huge turbine blades in Bonneville Dam. They swam under the hundreds of hooks dangling from boats in the Columbia, and reached the open ocean. They thrived on the cold Alaskan currents, but some fell victim to the orcas and sea lions, and others were scooped up in massive nets from American, Canadian and Japanese trawlers. Some were slowly poisoned to death from the runoff of farm fields or the tons of oil and chemicals pumped from the bilge of ships. A handful made it back upriver to their spawning grounds, only to fall victim to the sport fisherman’s bait, or to find that silt from a road building project had covered their stream’s gravel bed. One — maybe Trixie’s coho — was able to lay eggs. It had always been a numbers game for them, where thousands of smolts had to be born to produce a few dozen healthy adults, but the odds weren’t in their favor any more. I could see the photograph — it was that recent — of Indians at the rapids where Bonneville Dam now squats, spearing the salmon as they passed in a boiling torrent of fish. What was it that Spock said to Kirk when they visited twentieth-century earth? “It is illogical to hunt a species to extinction.” As individuals, we human beings prided ourselves on being rational creatures, but as a group, we seemed to have a hard time doing anything that was logical. I felt a tug on my elbow, and the sounds of the classroom seeped back into my consciousness. “Come on, Dad, I want to show you the band room.” Trixie had broken free from her group of friends and was pulling me through the crowd. • • • The city council agenda had taken a while to prepare. We put most of the routine items — approval of the minutes, liquor license renewals, a bid award for a street sweeper, authorization to apply for a state grant for a bike path, reappointment of Norma Givens to the planning commission — on the consent agenda, where the council could pass all the items with one vote.But we still had some tough policy issues left. Our citizens’ urban forestry committee was recommending a strict policy that would require everyone — homeowners included — to get a permit for cutting any tree. A survey had shown that most residents wanted a strong tree ordinance, but they just wanted it to apply to everyone else. Jake Wildavsky had negotiated an agreement to buy future water from a city that had a treatment plant upstream. The provisions of the agreement seemed fair, but it would commit us to sharing a portion of the plant expansion cost no matter what our growth rate was. And Simon Garrett had a proposal to shift the jurisdiction of certain juvenile offenses from the county district court to our own municipal court, with community service being the primary form of punishment. Pete Koenig slid his agenda in front of me. He had written “10:45” and circled it. He and the other department heads had an informal pool to guess the length of the council meeting. “I’m afraid you’re right,” I said. As Diane McTavish started the meeting, Todd Pritchard came striding in like the emperor’s messenger carrying a new edict. His armor-bearer, Neal Orso, trailed him. They stood at the back of the room. After the roll call and changes to the agenda, the mayor called for public comments. Pritchard marched up to the dais and dropped a thick bound document in front of each council member. The mayor watched him with suspicion as he took his position at the lectern. “What you have before you is a transcript of a deposition taken, under oath, by the city manager.” Pritchard gripped the sides of the lectern and leaned into the microphone. “I think you will find it very interesting. In this deposition, you can see that the city manager misled and lied to the city council. I have highlighted the relevant sections. I think you will be appalled at what you read, and I trust you will take the appropriate disciplinary measures.” Pritchard strutted back down the aisle, and stood at the door to listen to the council’s reaction. It occurred to me that in all the cartoon pictures, the devil had a goatee just like Pritchard’s. The council members sat in stunned silence. I whispered to Pete, “Have you seen that?” “No.” Pete cleared his throat. “Mayor and council, this issue relates to a pending lawsuit, and we shouldn’t comment on it or discuss it at this time. We have not yet received the transcript, and can’t comment on that either.” “Okay,” McTavish said, and quickly moved on to the next agenda item. Pritchard and Orso left the room. The council members studiously ignored the transcripts sitting in front of them, except for Maggie Henderson, who furtively reached out, slid the document closer to her, and leafed through the pages. The meeting dragged on, and I had a hard time concentrating. By the end, most of the members of the public had left. Under the council comments portion of the agenda, Maggie Henderson raised her hand. “You know, I heard about something at the National League of Cities meeting. It’s about putting a quiche in the mall. I think we should have a quiche in the mall.” The council members stared at her. The mayor said, “What? A quiche in the mall? I don’t get it.” Maggie snorted in exasperation. “I know you’ve heard of them. People can look up things about the city, you know, how to get a permit or where to get a dog license. All sorts of information.” “Maggie, do you mean a kiosk? An information kiosk?” “Yes, whatever. I think it’s a good idea.” “Oh. All right. Ben, could you have your staff look into it?” Betty Sue looked at me and raised her eyebrows. She scribbled a note to herself: “Check into mall quiche!” Finally, the mayor gaveled the meeting to a close. She looked up to make sure the live cable TV feed had been cut, then opened the transcript. I tried not to look too eager, but I couldn’t stop myself from walking over. “So what does it say?” I asked. “Not sure,” McTavish said. “It looks like he highlighted this part where you’re explaining how the Nova work was financed. Take a look.”
I slid the transcript back to McTavish. “So what’s new about that?” “Nothing, as far as I can tell,” she said. The council members and department heads were gathering their papers and leaving, too tired to hang around and talk. I took the stairs to my office. How did Pritchard reckon I had misled the council? Maybe he was fully aware that I hadn’t misled them, but he also knew we couldn’t discuss it in a public session, so the damage would be done for the viewing audience and the press, without me being able to respond. But I didn’t think that was the case. It could be that the loan agreement was news to him — he hadn’t been paying much attention to the issue when it first came up — and he figured it must have been news to the council. But in any case, he made the impact that he wanted. I unlocked the door and sensed the comfort of the silent rooms. I sat in my office in the dark. Next chapter: day in court 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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