Tyranny of The Downbeat

TYRANNY OF THE DOWNBEAT
by
Kenneth White
"Crucified Landscape" – Roman Loranc, Two-Hearted Oak ©2003
Kenneth White
1108 Wellesley Avenue
Modesto, CA 95350-5044
(209) 567-0600
Ken1White@aol.com
Tyranny of the Downbeat 1
THE FIRST PAGE:
For without belittling the courage with which men have died, we
should not forget those acts of courage with which men ... have
lived. The courage of life is often a less dramatic spectacle than
the courage of a final moment; but it is no less a magnificent
mixture of triumph and tragedy.
A man does what he must--in spite of personal consequences, in spite

of obstacles and dangers and pressures--and that is the
basis of all human morality.
-- John F. Kennedy, "Profiles in Courage"
There are few things wholly evil or wholly good. Almost
everything, ... is an inseparable compound of the two.
-- Abraham Lincoln
CHAPTER 1
Salus populi suprema lex.

The people's safety is the highest law.
-- Ancient Roman Legal Maxim
The Great Unwashed Valley. This is where it ends.
Rising up over the Sierra foothills, a helicopter shot,
reveals the open blade of the San Joaquin Valley. A jeep runs
down a heat-rippled, two-lane blacktop. Inside, the driver dials
through the radio, searching for a song to match his mood. He
stops. It's a Greek Chorus telling him what he's there for, what he
already knows.
It's nature's way,

It's nature's way.
Of telling you,
Something's wrong.
-- Spirit, "Nature's Way"
My name is Western. I'm a flatlander. I was born here,
raised here. Probably die here. I took it for granted. Now I'm
trying to save it.
I'm a television reporter. In the myth-making jargon of
today's American pop-culture, a "telejournalist." A video
gunslinger. A free-lance hired gun. I've been taken on by a
well-known filmmaker. He's responsible for some of the biggest
money-makers of all time. Movies filled with pure entertainment.
Plenty of thrills and fantasy, but little substance. Or so his
critics say and he disputes. We've got something more in common than
this job. He also grew up here in the Valley. In the same small
town. A town called Ralston. Once, we both called it home. Now
it's a destination.
Ralston is small town. The local Chamber of Commerce is
proud of the signs proclaiming it an "All-American City." Not
many got out alive. I had to leave to grow up, to see it
clearly. Many of my friends didn't. They're still seventeen and
counting.
Another Valley refugee once wrote that a place belongs
forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most
obsessively, shapes it, loves it so blindly that they remake it
in their own image. I believe that. Ralston belongs to me and
the Valley is mine. I take the good with the bad. I like the
flatness, unending. I like the people, uncomplicated. I like
the weather, unbearable. I suppose it's what you get used to. A
certain idea of what the world should look like. I'd just rather see
the sun and where I'm going.
This valley after the storms can be beautiful beyond the

telling,
Though our cityfolk scorn it, cursing heat in the summer and
drabness in winter,
And flee it: Yosemite and the sea.
They seek splendor; who would teach them must stun them;
The nerve that is dying needs thunder to rouse it.
I in the vineyard, in green-time and dead-time, come to it

dearly,
And take nature neither freaked nor amazing,
But the secret shining, the soft indeterminate wonder.
I watch it morning and noon, the unutterable sundowns,
And love as the leaf does the bough.
-- "San Joaquin"
The Central Valley Heartland. There is no other place on
earth like it. The lush garden first seen by mountain men like
Jedediah Smith, explorers like John Fremont, and naturalists like
John Muir.
It's flat. It's dry. It's desolate. Once, though, it was
a sea, filled by rivers of the Sierra Nevada. Now it's the
world's most fertile, most productive farmland. Crops can be
grown here around the clock, around the year. It was put here
for farming. Some have even suggested that it be used
exclusively for cultivation. That all residents be uprooted and
moved to the foothills that rim the valley.
What was once a sea of water is now a sea of grass. Lying
below the soil is the bottom of this ancient sea. It's a layer
of clay, impermeable. Nothing gets through. In some places it's far
below the surface, in others very close to the top.
Skimming the valley, as a marsh hawk would, hunting, it's
dead level. There's not much that's tall enough to break the
dusty monotony. Except the Masterson Wildlife Refuge, lying
south and west of the Sierra foothills. It's one of the last of
the wetlands. Once there were thousands. Stopping-off places

for migrating birds. They're not stopping anymore. Because
there are flashing lights and explosions. There are scarecrows
and men firing shotguns. Not as hunters, but protectors. They
don't want the birds to land. If they do, they'll die. They'll
sink to the bottom of a poisoned pond.
That's where I come in. I want to know why the birds are
dying. And why no one's talking about it. But that's only the
beginning of the story. Only part of the reason I'm headed
there. I'm heading home, back to familiar territory, because

someone is dead. Not too unusual, you think. Perhaps. A
farmworker. Maybe still not worth the drive. Vietnamese, not
Chicano. Now you're listening. Poisoned. By a pesticide.
You're awfully quiet.
I think it's all connected. So does the filmmaker. Just
another unsuspecting victim. And he's tired of it.
"Kathy, I'm lost," I said,

Though I knew she was sleeping.
"I'm empty and aching and
I don't know why."
Counting the cars
On the New Jersey Turnpike.
They've all come
To look for America,
All come to look for America,
All come to look for America.
-- Paul Simon, "America"
Jimmie Quon was born to the highland tribes known as Hmong
in his native Vietnam. He had lived in tunnels and holes. Hiding.
First from the Marines, then his own country's army. He had fed his
family on the run. Refugees in their own land. Until he boarded the
ship that took him, his brother, their families, and too many others
for the small boat, away. Along the way, they had been boarded by
pirates. Robbed, beaten, and raped. They finally reached camps that
were as tightly packed as the boats were. After months or years of
waiting, they got processed and left for America. Only to find
themselves in a HUD housing project on the east side of some city
like San Jose. Strangers in a state of shock in a strange land.
Jimmie's odyssey was no different. His began in Galveston,
continued in East Los Angeles, then East San Jose, and finally
ended near Mendota. For a short time, he lived in a housing

development at the edge of town. Jimmie worked in the fields;
this generation's version of the "wetback". His wife became a
domestic. Their two children went to school and took the first
steps toward becoming Americanized. They did well in school. As did
so many others who, given the opportunity, greedily grasped it. They
wanted to learn, which was more than their native-born classmates
could say.
Within a year, they'd saved enough to move into a small
apartment closer to town. Jimmie still worked days in the
fields. He also worked nights as a mechanic in the Texaco
station. He knew engines. He'd dismantled a few in the fields
of his former homeland. Tanks. Personnel carriers.
Helicopters. Jeeps. War materiel left behind, partially
destroyed. Not worth salvaging by the retreating American army.
Jimmie worked hard and kept to himself, kept quiet. He
didn't want to make any trouble. He was successful at both.
So he couldn't understand why this man was treating him
this way. He had done nothing. He was their prisoner. Again. In

his own home. Again. The man had broken in around midnight. The
gun kept him from resisting. Jimmy thought it was some kind of joke.
Especially since the man was carrying a baseball bat. Funny, until
the man hit him with it. Until everything went black when he tried
to stop the man. His wife and children huddled on the floor as he
was dragged away. Again.
Now he was awake. A little slow, but aware. He had been moved
to a truck shed. In a room to the side where oil, grease, and
pesticides were kept. All the petrochemical products that kept the
chemically-dependent farm factory running smoothly. Why he was
there, and why the man was filling the spray rig with a pesticide
confused him. Until he doused his shirt with it. Until his entire
neck and back were soaked with it. Until he was left swimming in it.
As the hours passed, Jimmie became feverish. Delirious. He
began shouting against the bandana in his mouth, the ropes around his
arms. But nothing gave. The sweat glistened around his eyes and on
his forehead, and plopped to the concrete floor. Then the slugger
returned. He took out the bandana and stuffed a handful of aspirin
down his throat. The man held his nose and mouth shut so he couldn't
breath and had to swallow. He put the bandana back in and left.
Aspirin? It tasted dry and bitter on the back of his tongue.
A few hours later, the hitter returned to check Jimmie's pulse.
Barely there. He untied him and dumped him in the back of a company
truck. He drove through the night, through the cotton, through the
grapes. To the edge of the wildlife refuge, where he rolled Jimmie
out of the truck and onto the ground, quickly strapped the spray rig
to his back, and left. That's how the foreman found him the next
day. Dressed for work. Comatosed on the American dream.
I drive up the long road to his house. On the redwood
picnic table sits a couple of glasses. There's water in them,
melted from yesterday's ice cubes. Somehow this tells me a lot
about the man who lives here.
Then I talk to him and it's very clear.
His nickname says much about who he thinks he is. "Big
Jon." The Duke. I hate myself for making snap judgments, but
I do. Make snap judgments, not hate myself. This guy's every
red-necked asshole you ever met. A real hippie's nightmare.
Confederate flag on the front license plate, gun rack in the
back. I can tell he doesn't much like me at first either. Think it
might be the beard? I thought this "Okie-from-Muskogee" crap had
gone the way of Spiro Agnew.
Jonathan Henry Miller is just over six feet, wide and mean.
He's built like the kind of guy you were always afraid was going
to crush you each time he hugged you. He was like the bully you
remember from elementary school. Too big and clumsy, and maybe a
little too dumb, to be accepted, so he turned mean. Threw frogs
against the school walls. Put kittens in burlap sacks and dumped
them into the canal, laughing. The older he got, the bigger and
meaner he became. And he wasn't just big, he was also fat. His
barrel-chest had dropped down to his beer-belly. His shirts were
always too small, exposing pieces of his long johns through the gaps
between the buttons. His pants were too short, exposing trunk legs,
and his belly bubbled over the thin leather belt he wore and
regularly used on his kids and sometimes his wife. His head seemed a
little too small for his body. His close-cropped blonde hair curled
tightly above a narrow forehead over dead-blue watery eyes. He had a
large mouth, hiding broken, crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. His
breath always smelled of bourbon, mixed with an odor that smelled
like something had died in the back of his throat.
He makes me think of the original definition of the word
"yahoo". In Swift's "Gulliver's Travels," a "yahoo" was one of a
filthy race of brutes having the form and all the vices of man.
"Yahoo" came to mean any degraded or vicious man. The shoe seemed to
fit.
I notice Big Jon wears Levi's blue jeans and Tony Lama
cowboy boots, with silver tips. "Better for stickin' toads," he
says. My guess is he's used them a few times to puncture groins. He
smokes Camels. A lot of them when he gets nervous. And he drinks
Jim Beam. A lot of that too when he's on the spot. He's educated,
but hides it well. He went to Ralston Junior College,
then the University of California at Davis.
Miller's as big and looks as jolly as a greeting card Santa.
But you don't really want to sit on his lap. "Big Jon," as he's also
known, doesn't like kids. And he doesn't like spics, although he's
got a platoon-full working for him. And he really hates gooks,
thanks to a long, mind-bending tour in 'Nam. Jimmie Quon worked in a
vineyard Miller managed for the DiGiulio Winery.
Miller's a rancher on the west side. And he owns a duck
club near Masterson. He says he's a pleasure hunter. That
usually means he only shoots what he can eat. In Miller's case,

it means he gets a thrill in his nuts each time he kills one.
His ranch sits right along the San Joaquin River. The front of
the house faces the river. The deck faces the fields.
We talk about the river. And we talk about cycles. "If
they're profitable, we'll use 'em. If not, we'll improve 'em.
When they start destroying what is mine, I eliminate 'em." A
philosophy the Army Corps of Engineers would be proud of.
Big Jon has a philosophy. And it is the problem.
"If you see something you want, you go get it."

"What if you run out?"
"There'll always be more somewhere else."
Welcome back to the disposable society.
Big Jon was named after his great-grandfather, Henry
Miller, the man who brought water to the valley. Miller's father
started farming around Bakersfield in the 1930s. "Water was cheap
back then. You could irrigate an acre for a few dollars.
Then the Depression hit. You couldn't pay for your water, so you
lost it. No water, no farm. It was simple and quick."
"So why do you keep lobbying for water? I mean this looks
like Southeast Asia around here. There's plenty of water."
He rubs his large, sun-burned forearms and reaches to pick
up a handful of dust. "Because we gotta rely on groundwater.
And right now, we're pumpin' it out faster'n it can recharge.
And we have to go deeper to get it. I started pumpin' at 25 feet
down. Now it's 150. That takes energy. And that means money."
"So that's why you're lobbying for more dams? And why the
environmentalists are hassling you in the local papers?"

He has fought to get water from the Jamestown Dam and
lobbied for more subsidies. "You know, 30 years from now, when
you can't get a clean drink of water and can't even flush the
shitter, you remember these people. They caused it."
I watch him as he thinks. Absently, but determinedly, he
twirls the ice in his glass with his fingers. Then he fishes
them out and throws them on the ground, in the dust. A soft thud.
They immediately begin to melt.
That's it, I think. Such casual disregard. "What about

conserving the water? Recycling it?"
"Because it costs me money I ain't got. Besides, think
about all that water washing down from the hills into the Delta
and out to sea. The state could sell that water. But instead,
it's doin' nobody no good. They're just wastin' it."
This attitude about "waste" is not unique. It reminded me
of something I'd read during the early part of my research. It
was an editorial in a county newspaper dated November 3, 1871.
It was part of a series written to promote the establishment of
water districts in the Central Valley. The closing paragraph
summed it up.
"We have the climate; we have the soil of a first class
country; but, for the want of that water which runs to waste at
our very doors, and which a little sagacity and industry would
make pour itself over our rich earth, we are living in a
comparative desert, and are becoming notorious for our poverty."
The "waste" the writer spoke of referred to fresh rivers and
streams running unstopped from the mountains to the delta and then to
the ocean. "Sagacity and industry" really meant building dams,
dikes, levees, and concrete canals to control the water. So the
editor, speaking for most of the valley's vested
interests, was really saying that to make the desert fertile, it
was time to stop "wasting" the water that was being allowed to
run free. It was time to corral it behind dams so it could be
diverted to a more productive use--the growing of crops. The
editorial was a herald of the way things would soon become in the
valley.
Miller doesn't want to talk about the incident. He tells me
what he knows, which isn't much. The way he figures it, it was
Quon's own fault.
"Damned gook. Shoulda watched what he was doin'. Dumb
fuck. Besides. There's plenty more where he come from. They
cross the borders and oceans every day."
It was obvious he felt the same about migrants as he did about
water. Waste it 'til it's gone, then find some more somewhere.
Later that day, the county coroner gave me the cold,
scientific specifics of why Jimmie Quon was lying near death in a
hospital.
"His nervous system just shut down. When Dinoseb--that's

the pesticide he was exposed to--is absorbed through the skin, it
will cause a fever. A very high fever. Most people would take
aspirin to get rid of the fever. Except, in this case, that's the
wrong thing to do."
"Why?"
"Because aspirin makes the chemical more potent."
"And more deadly?"
"You can certainly die from it. It's a phenomena
toxicologists are just now realizing. The medical term is drug
potentiation, or synergism. One drug augments the effects of
another through biochemical or physiological processes."
I was getting lost in the babble. "But, it could have been
avoided?"
"Sure. If he hadn't taken the aspirin."

"How could he have known?"
"If the manufacturer had stated clearly on the label that
Dinoseb poisonings should not be treated with aspirin."
"Probably wouldn't have made any difference."
"Why's that?"
"Because the label's printed in English."
An uncomprehending stare.
"Jimmie Quon was Vietnamese. I doubt he knew how to read."
He looks away for a moment. "This reminds me of another
case. Took place in Davis, a town near Sacramento, several
months ago. This Hispanic farmworker was burning some paper
sacks. He told the foreman he wasn't feeling very well. That he was
dizzy and sick to his stomach. The foreman sent him home. A few
hours later he went into convulsions."
"He died?"
Nods. "The bags were filled with residue from a product
called Temik. Generic name is Aldicarb. It's a pesticide,
systemic insecticide, and nematocide. It's manufactured in
granule form to decrease the handling hazards."
"Is it toxic?"
"Very. Since atrophine is the antidote, it's a CNS
stimulator. It overstimulates the body and you die in
convulsions."
"So, he died from inhaling the smoke?"
"Pretty much."
"How come he didn't know that?"
"Like you said. He probably couldn't read the label."

"And the foreman didn't either."
Shakes his head. "You know, this isn't the first time these
people have been around this block."
"Who's 'these people'?"
He pulls out a recent newspaper article and passes it over to
me.
PESTICIDE SCARE HALTS HARVEST AT 2 WEST SIDE VINEYARDS

MENDOTA--The wine grape harvest at two west side vineyards
has been halted temporarily by the state because of the apparent
pesticide poisoning of dozens of field workers.
The chief of pesticide enforcement for the state Department
of Food and Agriculture, said at least fourteen workers have been
admitted to hospitals over the past ten days for treatment of
dizziness, nausea and a drop in their blood enzyme levels.
The symptoms are similar to poisoning caused by a group of
insecticides known as organophosphates, which can drop levels of
blood enzymes.
"We haven't found anything in those fields that is capable
of causing these illnesses," a state official said Friday.
The most recent incident occurred Thursday in a vineyard
owned by the DiGiulio Winery of Ralston. Twenty-seven workers at the
vineyard fell ill and four were hospitalized overnight with dizziness
and nausea.
Workers at another DiGiulio vineyard, located about a mile
away, fell sick earlier in the month. Ten of those workers were
hospitalized and three still remain in the hospital.
The county agricultural commissioner said tests of the
vineyard showed higher than expected levels of phosaline, an
insecticide sold under the brand name Zolone.
Once tests showed pesticide residues had dropped to a safe
level, officials ruled that grape picking could resume.
I had to shake my head. "They're putting a price on these
people's heads."
The coroner didn't say anything. He just put the article
away.
CHAPTER 2
We begin life with the world presenting itself to us as it is.

Someone--our parents, teachers, analysts--hypnotizes us to "see"
the world and construe it in the "right" way. These others label
the world, attach names and give voices to the beings and events
in it, so that thereafter, we cannot read the world in any other
language or hear it saying other things to us. The task is to
break the hypnotic spell, so that we become undeaf, unblind and
multilingual, thereby letting the world speak to us in new voices
and write all its possible meanings in the new book of our
existence. Be careful in your choice of hypnotists.
-- Sidney Jourard
For me the only realist is the visionary because he bears

witness to his own reality.
-- Federico Fellini
Returning, exiting off the freeway and onto state highway
132, then right and left onto Ralston Avenue, I drive under an
archway above what used to be the main entrance into town. It's
metal. An "iron rainbow." At night it's lit with white lights.
It reads: "Where the Land Owns the Water." All the times I've
driven beneath it, I never thought much about it. But it says
everything about survival in the Valley. It's the key to
understanding California. The desert that fooled everyone.
Tonight, I'm thinking back on how this long, strange trip began.
It's the beginning of summer in the valley. A time of
graduations, Father's Days, and class reunions. It's hot. You
can see the heatwaves simmering on the roadway. You can see the
mirage, the water just down the road. It's an illusion. Funny
the journey should begin this way, at a high school class
reunion. A reluctant reliving of the first rites of passage.
It's a Saturday night in June. The day is just beginning to
cool off. But the main drag is just heating up. The cruisers
are out. Street machines and their drivers begin the weekend
mating ritual.
The man who immortalized this scene on celluloid so many
years ago can't even get through the crowd to his own class
reunion. He's late.
Elliot Lincoln is in Ralston for the twenty-fifth reunion of
the Thomas Dewey High School Commodores. Cruising the main drag
he immortalized in his first successful movie, Elliot's mind
isn't on gym classes or sock hops. How everyone will look, or
how far--or fat--they've gotten in life. Sitting behind the
wheel of his Mercedes, he isn't thinking about dragging the
strip, the way he used to in another lifetime, or the prom queens
and "BMOCs" he's about to encounter for the first time since he
last saw them in 1962, just before he wrapped his car around a
walnut tree. He's not thinking about that brush with death,
either. It's with death of another kind that he's preoccupied.
He's thinking about what he and his father had just talked about.
They were sitting on the back deck, drinking iced teas, when
he waded in. Never one to hedge, he went right to the point.
"Dad, I'm sterile. I can't have any children."
His father, about to take another sip, put his glass down.
His only chance to have a grandchild had just been yanked away.
"You're sure? You've checked with the doctors, with all the
specialists?"
"Everyone. Everything. Too many waiting rooms and not
enough right answers."
Resigned, like his son, "You've given up."

"On having our own? Yes. We've decided to adopt."
"It won't be the same."
Suddenly a little angry, perhaps disappointed because his
father is. "How do you know? Look, I really want a family. I'm
desperate to have a family."
"There's no other way?"
"No. There's nothing else we can do. Nothing else they can
do. It's adopt or have no family at all. Pretty cruel twist, if
you ask me. It takes me this long to finally decide to bring a
child into this screwed up world and, suddenly, I don't have a
choice in the matter."
His father is desperate for answers. "So why didn't anyone
else in the family get sick?"
"Guess I've always been the lucky one."
"Stop joking around."
"I asked the doctors. They say it manifests itself in
different ways. Some people's systems just seem to resist it
better than others. And it doesn't always appear right away."

"Have you told your Mother?"
"Not yet. I will after supper."
They both look off in different directions, suddenly
uncomfortable with each other, searching for something neutral to
rest their eyes on. It was hard to accept. Even harder to
admit. Now it was done. But it wasn't even close to being over.
There was something gnawing at him. Something he'd been
wondering about.
One weekend, while he was home visiting, he was leafing

through the "Ralston Record." He started reading about an
agrichemical company in the next town.
Waterston is a small farming town east of Ralston. The
train passes through, there's a General Mills plant, and several
industrial processing plants. Not much else. Except the smell.
Traveling down the highway, you know you're close because the
stink precedes it. A combination of smells from the sugar plant
and the fertilizer plant. A sign on the outside of town reads,
"Waterston--It's the Water." Just like the old Oly beer ads.
And it certainly was.
In 1943, Standard Oil of California built a fertilizer plant
in Waterston. The plant made thousands of tons of fertilizer and
its constituents. Ammonium sulfate, sulfuric acid, ammonia, and
phosphoric acid.
In 1948, it was purchased by OxyGene, a multinational
holding company. Plant operations were expanded to include the
manufacture of pesticides.
For years, the plant wasn't too careful, or concerned, about

how it got rid of its wastes. They just dumped the stuff on the
plant grounds or in settling ponds. Ponds that were unlined.
Even back then, it was a clear violation of state law. The
people in charge knew it. And so did the people at corporate.
But it cost money to do it right. So they didn't. They just
kept on dumping. And they kept on looking the other way. And,
as the saying goes, what the locals and the state didn't know,
Until one summer afternoon. A farmer was irrigating his
land; land sitting right next to the plant. Some water began
percolating into his field. His dog chased a jack rabbit through
the water. After the jack lost him at the fence, the dog trotted
back over to his owner. He sat down and began licking himself.
Suddenly, he started coughing and wheezing and convulsing. Then
he died.
The water had come from the plant's waste water pond.
Turns out the plant was built right on top of a major
aquifer. The Waterston aquifer supplied the town and surrounding
area with its only source of water. For manufacturing,
irrigation, and drinking.
The soil around the plant was very permeable. Anything
dumped on the ground found its way into the soil. And,
eventually, into the aquifer.
The state decided it had better test the water pumped from
wells around the plant. They found that the only water source
for the entire town was contaminated with DBCP, a chemical known
to cause cancer and sterility. They ordered the plant to shut
its doors until further notice.

Then they started testing the employees.
Not once during the more than twenty years the plant
manufactured DBCP, did management ever warn its workers about the
severe reproductive dangers posed by DBCP. Not once did the
workers know that exposure would make them sterile.
The article continued with an interview with the plant
safety manager. The former plant safety manager.
"We suspected for more than four years that the pesticides
were probably poisoning the local wells. I knew it was illegal.

And I kept covering it up. Every report to the state during
those years was a lie. We were killing our workers and the local
people and we didn't do a thing about it. Because it would've
cut into the bottom line. If the state hadn't started testing,
the people around here would never have known. Still wouldn't.
The authorities at the state and federal level aren't even
watching out for us. And when they find something, it takes
forever for them to do anything about it."
For Elliot, the real bottom line had become abundantly
clear. The plant dumped its waste on the ground. It got into
the water. The water was contaminated. The contaminant caused
sterility. He was sterile. His family's ranch was just a few
miles from the plant. And the tainted water was the same water
he had been drinking since 1948, the year they moved there. The
year he celebrated his sixth birthday. The same year the plant
started making pesticides.
The following Monday, he went to his doctor, showed him the
article, and asked if there was a possible connection.

"It's possible, yes."
"That's all you've got to say? So why didn't you tell me
before?"
"It wasn't appropriate."
"Appropriate? Possible? Look, don't you think I'd like to
know why I'll never have children?"
"Yes. But we're not certain exactly what caused your
sterility. Information on pesticide toxicity is sketchy at best.
There's a lot we just don't know. But, yes, there is a possible

relationship between your sterility and the contaminated
groundwater. We just haven't felt compelled to research it
enough to be able to draw any definite conclusions."
"So you don't have enough information?"
"In general, no, not enough. And on you specifically,
certainly not."
"Why did it take so long to show up?"
"Pesticides are made up of chlorinated hydrocarbons. The
name's not important. Their behavior is. They can be taken into
your body any number of ways. Through the lungs, the gastro-
intestinal tract, or the skin. Once you're exposed and they're
in your body, they're not metabolized right away. They're stored
in your body fat. It could take 10, 20, or 30 years before the
effects become apparent."
"Try 40 years."
Elliot was staring over the back fence at the orchard
beyond. He was thinking. And he was getting angry. "Nobody

knows. And the people who should know aren't doing anything
about it."
His father continues to look away, but he's still listening.
"I think we're going to have to change that. I almost died
once in my life. Now I'm being told that I've died a second
time."
He has his father's attention again.
"That my family will not continue beyond me. I may even be
dying of cancer. Right now. And someone I don't know did this
to me because it was easy. Because it was going to affect their
profit margin."
"So, what are you going to do?"
"I don't know. Yet. But I will get even."
Shaking his head, "Still haven't changed. Still can't
forgive and forget."
"You know what they say? 'I don't get mad, I just get
even.' I've always been that way and I'm not about to change
now."
"Do unto others? ... "
"That's right. I will not go out of my way to hurt people.
But you try and pull something like that on me and I'll be all
over you like a bad suit." He had to smile. That was an old one
he'd never used.
I never dreamed of being Shakespeare or Goethe, and I never

expected to hold the great mirror of truth up before the world; I
dreamed only of being a little pocket mirror, the sort that a
woman can carry in her purse; one that reflects small blemishes,
and some great beauties, when held close to the heart.
-- Peter Altenberg
He's the perfect stranger, like a cross of himself and a fox.

He's a feeling arranger and a changer of the ways he talks.
He's the unforeseen danger and the keeper of the key to the
locks.
Know when you see him, nothing can free him.
Step aside, open wide, it's the loner.
-- Neil Young, "The Loner"
Elliot Lucian Lincoln is a storyteller. He creates
fantasies in a medium that is literally faster than the human
eye. His fantasy world is his home. He has called it that
himself. He has friends there. It is comfortable there. He

says that sometimes you have to leave home and travel somewhere
else. But he knows he will always return there again.
In a business that's enslaved by technology, Elliot remains
a free man. In his world, the story is the story, not the exotic
settings; not the special effects. He is interested in human
frailty, not technological wizardry. He feels a movie filled
with nothing but special effects would be pretty boring. Though
he uses the technology to more efficiently tell his tales, he
takes pains to explain that it is the message that is most
important, not the messenger; not how it is packaged or
delivered. He believes the hardware will always fail when faced
with a determined, united human spirit.
It is still a question that bothers him some. Will the
machine serve humanity or crush it? He can't help wondering
about it as the hum of electronic ingenuity encases him. He says
he doesn't like technology. He distrusts it, especially what it
can do to people; particularly when it is misused or abused. It
destroys their independence, their analytic capabilities, their

free will; their ability to make their own decisions. It does
worry him, even as the promise of its imaging, sound, and
reality-bending power taunts his fingertips. He knows he cannot
live without technology, so he is dedicated to using it to defeat
"the inhumanity of unchecked technology."
That doesn't mean he's not intrigued by it and attracted to
it. He explains that society's perception of visuals is much
faster now than in the past. The pace of editing, the speed of
movement through the frame, are what he's interested in. He

likes speed. Always has. He wants to see how fast he can go,
how many images he can layer, before the perception blurs. He
says it's a lot like his personal life: how fast he can go, how
much he can do, before it too becomes an incomprehensible blur.
You wouldn't know it to look at him, but you're staring at
one of the most successful deal-makers in the history of
Hollywood. His style is more like the owner of the local
five-and-dime in a small midwestern town than the high-pressure,
fast-talking sleazoids that trade in dreams in the real and
imagined communities around Hollywood and Vine.
Self-effacing, he's physically so low-key as to seem almost
apologetic. But that's one way to maintain the privacy he must
have and he so jealously and tenaciously guards.
He's always pale. Lying in the sun catching rays is not
important to a man who spends most of his life in dark rooms.
His translucent skin and stooped demeanor make him seem almost
fragile, breakable. He is often underweight and anemic, which
changes the illusion into reality. Perhaps the fact that he

lives on burgers, fries, and milkshakes helps explain the way
he looks.
His brown hair, flecked with gray, above mildly bushy
eyebrows and a sometime beard of the same colors, swept into a
wave straight back, almost a Del Shannon pompadour, gives you a
clue about what time period he seems to crave and feel safest
living in. Curly, wavy, and thick, it's long in the back and
peaks over his ears. He has somewhat large ears, which is
probably why he wears his hair a little long. He has a thin,

pointed nose with slightly flared nostrils. His mouth is small;
pinched I think they call it. And his bottom teeth are somewhat
irregular.
His eyes, though. His eyes are the messianic blue of the
martyr. They betray him. This is a man with a mission and the
energy and dedication of a zealot. He is inspired by his own
vision of things and his eyes blaze it. They are always busy,
darting, moving, as if constantly scanning a screen. He
sometimes hides them behind Ray Ban aviator glasses. Holding
back the heat, concealing the conviction.
Though his demeanor seems easy-going, he is intense. The
posture says one thing, the eyes another. When he talks to you,
you sometimes wonder if he's talking with you or at you, or if
you're really even in the room at all. He doesn't look you in
the eyes, but stares around and beyond, as if he might lose some
of the power of his eyes by locking onto yours.
Like the food he eats and the hairstyle, everything about
Elliot tells you he liked life best in the late Fifties and early
Sixties. His clothes, though not off the racks of a golden
oldies nostalgia store, remind us of a simpler time. Over white
T-shirts, straight from the racks at Penny's or K-Mart, he wears
pearlescent cowboy shirts, tucked into corduroy pants girded with
a large brown belt. Sometimes he'll trade these in for a flannel
work shirt and faded blue, button-fly Levi's. He doesn't like
wearing short-sleeved shirts, choosing instead to wear his
sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He wears his thin, gold-banded
watch with the face on the inside of his wrist. It makes you
wonder if there's a slide-rule still dangling from his belt. The
motorcycle boots he once wore have given way to the fashion and
comfort of designer tennis shoes.
His speech is deliberate. He speaks in a soft, slightly
raspy voice originating from somewhere at the back of his throat.
The ends of sentences sometimes trail off to something like a
whisper. It almost looks like his voice-track is out of sync
with his lips. He often grimaces, screwing up a cheek, when
stuck for a word, or arches his eyebrows to make a point. His
gestures are small, contained, not flamboyant.
His wealth has allowed him a vice and an indulgence that is
also an homage. He collects vintage Porsche roadsters,
especially the model James Dean was driving when he skidded into
pop culture history.
In the few pictures that adorn the flat surfaces of his
office and home, as well as publicity stills and bio pics,
there is a resemblance to an icon of the Fifties that Elliot
cultivates in his external life. The hair, the slouch, the

mumble, the clothes, the cars, the shades. All that's missing is
the cigarette dangling precariously and jauntily from the right
edge of the lower lip, a vice abandoned to health and mortality
which his self-destructive idol laughed at.
Elliot often said that assuming the persona of Jimmie Dean
made it easier for him to deal with people in Hollywood and New
York. It was a character he could hide behind when he had to
make difficult decisions. He, like Dean, prefers not to confront
people directly, choosing to let things ride until forced to make

a decision. Then he reacts quickly, sometimes violently.
Like Dean, Elliot is a fatalist. Jimmie Dean played the
hand that was dealt him. No regrets, no requests for another
round. He looked at life as it sped past, around, and over his
windshield and he laughed. Most people have painted a picture of
Jimmie Dean that was negative, that portrayed him as a loser.
Ask Elliot about that and he will tell you Jimmie Dean was a
winner because he lived life his way. He was consistent. He was
honest. He was straight-forward. And it was people like Dean
that became the heroes of Elliot's movies.
Jimmie Dean found stardom as a rebel without a cause. But
the title of the film was misleading. Dean had a cause. And
Elliot, another rebel because he turned his back on Hollywood,
has his own cause. He too will do things his way.
Elliot isn't theoretical. He isn't emotional. He is
methodical. He doesn't draw conclusions beyond the facts.
Beyond the obvious. He is uncomfortable with too much analysis.
Quite simply, he's interested only in the truth. That's what

motivates him. The clarity of his own vision. That's what makes
him run.
And like his hero, Elliot is reclusive. He once said, "I do
things my way until they're done the way I want them done. And I
can't-- no, I don't want to rely on anyone because they might let
me down, or I might let them down. It's just easier to rely on
yourself. That way nobody expects anything more or less. Nobody
takes the fall but you."
Distance defines his dealings with people. He never lets

anyone too close. He's just cautious. And those who work for,
and with him, sense that it's his independence that creates the
distance, not a dislike or mistrust of people. As a result, in
an industry known for its petty backstabbing transitoriness, the
employees at "RebelFilms", whose roster, not surprisingly is
published in the form of a high school annual, are some of the
most loyal in the business.
Elliot's relationship with his father was not unlike that
between Jimmie Dean and Jim Backus in "Rebel". They never quite
seemed to get in sync, to understand the other. Elliot's father
thought his son was lazy and, when he decided to become a movie
maker, he was baffled how his son could make a living carrying around
a camera. But he could and his father was finally able to express
his pride in his son's accomplishments, though he still remained a
little confused by how.
The parallels with Dean, whether contrived or natural, were
many, especially when it came to women. Elliot was never at ease
with women. They seemed to represent something dangerous, unknown.

As a teenager, his fear of rejection made it easier to substitute
cars for girls in his adolescent affections. Then movies took the
place of cars. Sexually, he was lost in the Fifties. Puritanical
and somewhat repressed. And when he got caught up in the sexual
revolution, he got ate up, a casualty of new attitudes.
When he met Maryanne, he thought he had finally found
someone he could live out his days with. The fact is, he felt he
was running out of time. He wanted a family and he sensed the
hourglass turning. He admired Maryanne, and grew to love her.

Unfortunately, he was never able to become really close to her.
Elliot was never comfortable with physical expressions of
affection, for friends, family, or colleagues. Kisses and
embraces were not familiar territory. You could almost see him
shrink inside himself whenever you tried to hug him.
Probably the one personality trait that was the closest bond
between the two rebels, that tied them the tightest, was their
naivete, their trusting openness. For people who achieved so
much success in their lives, whose impact had been so great, it
was almost impossible to imagine how insulated and trusting they
were and could be. It certainly caused the death of one, as he
found it harder and harder to cope with the demands and duplicity
of the world. And it was setting up the other for the trial of
his life.
Ironically--and prophetically--Elliot's name foreshadowed
his life. It seems his mother was addicted to the television
show, "The Untouchables," probably because of a handsome young
actor named Robert Stack. Impulsively, she named her son after
him. Elliot was indeed a lot like the character. But not the
way Stack played Ness. More the way Kevin Costner played him.
Naive, trusting. Hoping to change the world.
Jimmie Dean died young. Elliot nearly did. On graduation
day, as he was returning home from his last day of high school,
he was excited and probably driving a little too fast. Too fast
to react to the old pick-up truck that broadsided his cherried
Porsche speedster. The walnut tree stopped him. The seat-belt
saved him. Because it didn't hold. He was thrown clear of the

wreck. A ruptured spleen began pumping blood into his stomach
cavity. He lost two pints. He made it to the hospital in time
to remove it and stop the bleeding. He missed graduation, but he
got the message.
He didn't know it then, because he, like the rest of our
modern culture, had lost touch with our mythological roots. But
he changed on that day. He was transformed. He had died and
been reborn. And like those ancient tribal members who dance
with death, he became magical; a spiritual man. A mythmaker. An
interpreter. Of the future. He would lead us. And he chose
fantasy to show the way.
The week following the reunion, they sit in one of the dark
cubicles, reviewing a rough cut. Elliot and his administrative
assistant, Janet Baio. He points at the screen with his left
hand, controlling the Kem table with his right. He's making a
point. Janet laughs at something. He doesn't see the humor and
continues, slightly irritated. He can sometimes be soon

humorless. It's still bothering him.
He slumps back in his chair. "Obviously, the people in
charge aren't going to do anything about this."
"Excuse me." Jane looks over. The continuity broken.
"So I will. I've been accused of making films with no
content."
She turns to face him, drawn to the intensity in his eyes.
Distracted, almost to himself, he continues. "Now I will.
I'm going to go right for the heart on this one. My legacy to

the children I will never have."
Now she's caught up with the conversation. "Wait, you mean
you're thinking about cranking up another project? You've got
six in process right now. You're maxed out! You can't take on
anything more."
Elliot turns slowly away from the screen. He looks straight
into her eyes. "'Live, as though the day were here.' Remember
that? Remember where it came from? Who said it? And why?
Well, the day is here. We do it now."
He leaves her sitting there, looking at the floor and
wondering what will be the nature of this latest crusade.
Janet was having lunch with Paul, one of the staff editors.
It was a warm and breezy Northern California day, so they sit on
the raised deck. Small talk gives way to what is becoming the
main topic of conversation at The Ranch. Project #061988: "The
Water Project."
Janet took a sip of her Diet Pepsi. "There's something else

driving him. He's over forty."
"So? I'm almost forty."
"Then listen up. It's around forty that people start to
feel that something's missing. That something got away. That
they missed something."
"What? You think Elliot is having a mid-life crisis? Why
doesn't he go out and buy a sports car? Or have an affair?"
He doesn't notice, but she winces. "The sports car, maybe.
An affair, not his style. But I don't think either will take
care of it. Something else is driving him. He's awfully damn
tired of all the critics saying he can't make a movie about
today."
"I don't want to hear this again. The last time he tried
something new, it almost shut us down."
"They say he's in a fantasy rut. That he knows nothing, or
has nothing to say. About real people. About contemporary
people living, working, loving, and dying."
"This facility's going to die if we don't keep him on
track."
"He doesn't care. He feels he's supported this operation
long enough. Now it's time for the company to serve him. And he
really wants to do something that will make a difference."
AT INTERVALS THROUGHOUT THE NOVEL, I WILL ACTUALLY "CUT AWAY"

TO SEGMENTS FROM THE IN-PROGRESS DOCUMENTARY. THE EFFECT I AM
ATTEMPTING TO ACHIEVE IS THE ILLUSION OF WATCHING THE DOCUMENTARY
AS IT IS PUT TOGETHER. MANY OF THE INTERVIEWEES ARE REAL PEOPLE
SAYING THINGS THEY HAVE ACTUALLY SAID OR WRITTEN. THE TRANSCRIPT
OF THE DOCUMENTARY WILL APPEAR IN A MOTION PICTURE FORMAT TO
DISTINGUISH IT FROM THE REST OF THE TEXT.
FADE IN:
1 ON BLACK
TITLE -- SUPER
Give me a lever and a place to stand, and I will move the

world.
-- Archimedes
MUSIC: UP FULL THEN UNDER NARRATION

THEME #1: Dramatic Classical Theme/"New World Symphony"
DISSOLVE:
2 EXT. EMPTY INLAND VALLEY - EARLY MORNING ESTABLISHING SHOT

It is almost daybreak. The full moon burns pale fire low on the
horizon. We see a fresh water cistern surrounded by barbed-wire.
Standing near its edge is a lone sentry, silhouetted against the
moon. The reflection of man and moon stares back at us from the
shimmering surface.
Suddenly, there is a second figure rising up out of the foreground.

He moves slowly toward the guard. Then he's on top
of him, riding him to the ground. His raised fist crashes down
five or six times. Then he stops.
Slowly, he lifts his head and looks around, like an animal that's
just killed its next meal. We look closer. We see that the
intruder is Southeast Asian.
He quickly scrambles down the rise and returns carrying some

empty bags. He starts filling the bags with water. Because it's
scarce. And very little of it is clean. He has none, with no
ration due until next month. So he's stealing it. For his
family. For his survival.
MUSIC CHANGE: UP FULL THEN UNDER

THEME #2: Synthesized Variation of Previous Theme
DISSOLVE:
3 MONTAGE
STOCK FOOTAGE showing natural and man-made disasters, including

pollution, dumping, dams breaking, rivers flooding, earthquakes.
JAMES HOUSTON (V.O.)

Imagine a planet destroyed by development. A
world decimated by a combination of natural
and man-made disasters. Earthquake, drought,
AIDS, "the Greenhouse Effect," and toxic
pollution.
DISSOLVE:
4 EXT. ENDLESS DESERT VISTA - ESTABLISHING SHOT
CAMERA frames a WIDE SHOT of dry land.
Imagine a land with no water.
5 EXT. STREET - ESTABLISHING SHOT
Two armed sentries stand guard near a tanker truck filled with
water. It is being rationed out and sold to people.
Imagine a time when the good water--what

hasn't been poisoned by industry--is
controlled by the very wealthy.
6 EXT. DESERT ROAD LEADING TO A DAM - ESTABLISHING SHOT
CAMERA follows as a ragged, but well-armed group of bandits chase

the water tanker across the desert. They are trying to steal the
water.
You can live without food for quite a while.

But not without water.
That's why people will steal it. Even kill

for it.
Can you imagine that?
7 MONTAGE
Quick-cut series of California scenes. Emphasize down-side of

development.
Then imagine California in the next century.
In this program, we intend to examine the

agribusiness conspiracy to control
California's water. To assess the innocence
or guilt of the farming, agrichemical, and
political community for their environmental
insults.

THEME #3: "Hotel California" Instrumental
DISSOLVE:
8 EXT. COASTLINE - ESTABLISHING SHOT
AERIAL SHOT flying south along California's coastline.
HOUSTON (V.O.)
"This is the prow and plunging cutwater,
This rock shore here, bound to strike first,
and the world will watch us endure
prophetical things
And learn its fate from our ends."
9 WIDE SHOT
Continue AERIAL SHOT. CAMERA does a FLY-BY, then a 360 SPIN, of

JAMES HOUSTON, author and Native Californian. He is walking
along the edge of the coast near Big Sur.
JAMES HOUSTON
Poet Robinson Jeffers was really describing
all of California when he wrote those lines
describing the Big Sur coastline in "Thurso's
Landing."
10 MEDIUM SHOT
CAMERA, still mounted on helicopter, PEDESTALS DOWN to frame

HOUSTON with the ocean spreading out behind him.
It's been observed that tomorrow always seems

to come first to California.
11 MEDIUM CLOSE UP
Second CAMERA mounted on a STEADICAM follows as HOUSTON walks

along the edge of the cliff.
There is definitely a sense of destiny that

comes with living here. Perhaps it is the
nearness to the coast.
The coastal tribes used to call this

shoreline the brink of the world. The
coastoans would dance on the shore, and over
and over they would sing out that they were
dancing on the brink of the world.
12 MEDIUM SHOT
CAMERA frames HOUSTON in foreground with long shot of coastline

and ocean trailing off behind him.
As a place and state of mind, California

represents the ultimate frontier. The final
destination.
California has carried into the twentieth-

century the paradoxical meanings of the
nineteenth-century frontier: the place of
both new beginnings and of violent endings.
13 WIDE SHOT
First CAMERA, still mounted, lifts up off HOUSTON, sweeping past

him, over the edge, and west across the ocean.
As author Joan Didion once observed: "Things

had better work here, because here, beneath
that immense bleached sky, is where we run

out of continent."
MUSIC: UP FULL THEN OUT
BREAK POINT IN DOCUMENTARY

CHAPTER 3
When they tell you to grow up, they mean to stop growing.
-- Tom Robbins
Out on the road today, I saw a "Deadhead"

sticker on a Cadillac
A little voice inside my head said, "Don't
look back. You can never look back."
I thought I knew what love was
What did I know?
Those days are gone forever
I should just let them go but--
I can see you--

Your brown skin shinin' in the sun
You got that top pulled down and that
radio on, baby
And I can tell you my love for you will still
be strong
After the boys of summer have gone.
-- Don Henley, "The Boys of Summer"
There's a new saint in the cultural hagiography these days,
born of the public's insatiable need to know, it's rampant
illiteracy, and the power of the media. The most visible of this
new phenomenon, and perhaps the most laughable, is Geraldo
Rivera. He, who once tracked down the Mafia and exposed drug
kingpins, now stoops to blowing open empty vaults and telling

tales of Elvis's phantom lovers. These people are really not
interested in hard news, just the sensational. They're known as
investigative journalists. I prefer to call them "video
gunslingers." They're free-lance information junkies and
publicity hounds. Brought in when the ratings start to sag.
Brought in, in the name of truth. I know, because that's what I
used to do.
I had become more and more disillusioned with the way things
were. One night, while watching the evening news, I got angry.
I realized that I had a talent, a skill, that I was wasting. I
was a shaper of public opinion. I was a master manipulator. I
could make people cry. I could make them laugh. But it wasn't
enough. I wanted desperately to make an impact. There were
powerful vested interests in this country that controlled the
media and kept most of the public in the dark. That used their
influence to get things done their way. It wasn't paranoia. I
had seen it. Sometimes aided it. I decided to blow their cover.
It was time to stop making money and start making a difference.
That's when Elliot called. The timing, the coincidence, was hard
to ignore.
Travis Blair Western. A dramatic name, given with great
expectations to the first-born son. His appearance and demeanor,
like so many born and raised in the valley, is average, almost
non-descript. He seemed to cultivate that because, as he often
pointed out, if they couldn't see you they couldn't hit you.
He stands five-ten, when he isn't stoop-shouldered and
shuffling, the result of no one telling him to stand up straight.

Now he does it because his stomach muscles have gotten beer-soft
in his middle age. His hair is a lightish dark brown, thinning
at back and in the front. He makes no attempt to have what's
left perform contortions and miracles of coverage to give the
illusion of fullness. Like him, it is what it is. He's
comfortable with it and doesn't really care what you, or anyone
else, thinks.
He is neither handsome nor unattractive, simply average.
The residual childhood freckles and chipped front tooth make him
look like he should still be fishing for tadpoles or throwing
dirt clods. As do the scars that dot his body, forehead,
stomach, and legs, all from some type of athletic injury
sustained while trying to grow up. And that's the key to his
real attractiveness. His boyishness, his energy, his enthusiasm,
his humor, his ability to make people feel good, his ability to
have fun and enjoy life. They like him because he's fun to be
with, when he wants to be with. Which isn't all the time.
He's active, even hyper, and never really seems to slow
down. To stop and read a book, or just lay on the beach, he
thinks is a waste of time when he could be doing something
productive. He likes staying busy.
He's healthy. Probably as healthy as he's been since high
school, thanks to a better diet, exercize, and a wife who won't
let him slip. But he does have a drinking problem. Something
he's yet to really deal with. It killed his mother and some of
her relatives, so he will have to deal with it.
He and his wife both work, making a good living. But

they're careful with their expenses and investments. He wants to
make sure he'll always have money, unlike his childhood. He
never went without, but there was never enough money for the
frivolities, the movies or the candy bar. His friends always had
money and he seemed to always be the kid with his face pressed
against the glass staring in at the candy store. He swore it
would never happen again.
He dresses casually, but neatly. He likes being clean,
freshly scrubbed. He's almost compulsive about it, which is

obvious from the way he looks and the way his house and his car
and his desk look. Everything is neat and tidy and in its place.
His whole life is too organized. To the point where there seems
to be no room for spontaneity. He'll probably die from it.
Certainly not the spontaneity. It's part of his obsession with
controlling his world. Which may explain why he's had trouble
with family and friends, girlfriends and wives. Especially
wives. He was on the backside of a marriage going down.
and family.
He had met Cassandra at college, although she had grown up
just five blocks away. She was five years younger; the same age
as his younger brother. He knew her older sister, who was the
same age and went to all the same schools through high school.
He remembered seeing Cassandra, or Sandy, walking or riding
around the neighborhood. Looking lost and for a way out.
A mutual friend got them both to play on a college, co-ed,
intramural volleyball team. One weekend, she asked for a ride
home, he asked for a date. They went out the next week. They
slept together that night and never looked back. Now, thirteen
years later, they're both looking in different directions.
We used to have good times together.

But now I feel them slip away.
It makes me cry.
To see love die.
So sad to watch good love go bad.
Remember how you used to fear it.

You said nothing could change your mind.
It breaks my heart.
To see us part.
So sad to watch good love go bad.
Is it any wonder,
That I feel so blue?
When I know for certain,
That I'm losing you.
-- The Everly Brothers, "So Sad"
In 1978, Elliot Lincoln took the first step toward
realizing a dream. He purchased a ranch that was a former
Spanish land grant in Marin County, north of San Francisco,
across the Golden Gate Bridge. Over the next few years, he added
several bordering properties of gently rolling hills and deep-cut

valleys.
Like most of the people who grew up and lived for a time in
the valley towns of California, and who seemed to fondly recall
those days, Elliot liked staying home. He wasn't comfortable in
the city and preferred a quiet night at home with Chinese and a
rented movie to the bustle and tension of a night in the canyons
of the city. That's why he bought the land in Marin. It was
close enough to a dangerous San Francisco, but it was in the
country. And it reminded him of a time and terrain around the
town where he grew up. It didn't get quite as hot as the valley,
but it had the same rolling hills, green in winter and dusty
brown in summer.
Exiting off Highway 101 north and skillfully following the
convolutions of Sir Francis Drake Boulevard will lead you to
an old weathered wood and baling wire gate, sentried by
California redwoods. Ascending a short rise and then dropping
down into the main valley, the road splits, encircling a lake.
Security gates, requiring computer card keys, guard the main

road. Down a road to the left are the original ranch buildings.
Renovated, they now house support staff and the ranch hands who
still tend the fences and roads. Arcing around the lake in a
half-circle is the main house, guest houses, production,
administration, and facilities buildings. This is where most of
the work is done.
All the buildings are white Victorian. Some are
two-storied, resembling the row of houses along Alamo Park in San
Francisco. Each has a wide, low porch running around the front
and along the sides. Low rock walls surround the group. Buried
beneath the lawns, the meadow, and the softball diamond at the
back of the main group is an interconnected system of wires,
cables, and optical fibers for telephone, computer, and power.
An equally intricate system of pipes crisscross the same area to
provide fresh drinking water and irrigation water for the
often-parched grounds.
Totally self-contained and self-sufficient, The Ranch is a
"new age, only-in-California" company town. "Ralston

Remembered," as it's officially known--in homage to his
hometown--was designed to give Elliot a headquarters unlike any
movie company; something between a studio and a college campus.
His office sits atop the main house, an isolated aerie
surveying the valley from an unbroken, window-paned, 360 degrees.
The floor is a gleaming, buffed oak. Rugs of southwestern design
and origin lie scattered about. Dusky rose chairs and a couch
recline to one side. In the center, spotted by an octagonal,
stained-glass skylight straight above, is Elliot's work station.

Plexiglass desk holding a telephone and NeXT computer.
Stereo equipment and playback units lie partially sunk along one
wall of windows. Monitors and speakers spider-dangle from the
ceiling.
This was my first visit. Part of the indoctrination tour.
And Elliot was obviously very proud of what he'd done. He told
me about it as we walked up the drive to the main house.
"This is my think tank. A writer once likened it to a
'cinematic yacht club.'"
"A dream come true, Commodore?"
"All the films we've made, all the money we've made, was
done so we could build a place to think, free from all the
outside distractions."
"A retreat from the deal-makers?"
"And hand-shakers. I've always wanted to get back to a film
school kind of situation. Where a group of people, a community,
could make films together."
"People that respect each other's work?"

"I'm so tired of having to put up with all the flakes and
used-car salesmen in this business. All the jerks I have to deal
with to get things done."
"Do you still plan to make features?"
"Sure. Some will be experimental. The kind of films I used
to make. Pure film."
"Is there a future for film? Especially pure film? Or do
you think the electronic media will replace it?"
"There are a number of us in the industry who feel video

will become the primary distribution medium."
"What about the quality of the projected image? That's
still pretty questionable isn't it?"
"Not any more. High definition television is already giving
us enough lines of resolution to project a very high quality
image. There will be a time very soon when features will be
shot, posted, and projected using video instead of film. In
fact, some of the more innovative video production houses here in
the Bay Area are already experimenting with it."
"And what about film?"
"It's getting too expensive to make films anymore. Films
will still be made. But they'll be more experimental. More like
art films."
"More like archives?"
"No, more like works of art."
As we worked our way through the administration and
production offices, we met a handful of staffers, including Janet
Baio, who introduced herself because Elliot wasn't very good at

it.
Having ascended to the eagle's nest, Elliot offered me a
cup of tea before he slouched onto the couch. Janet joined us,
pulling up a chair near a windowed and shuttered wall. The man
who was known for not liking to talk much wanted to. Receding
into the couch and crossing his legs, body language signaling
withdrawal, he starts to speak.
-- Elliot (quiet and resigned) "The problem is, I'm
typecast. Like an actor. I've made a lot of different kinds of

movies. But the public and the critics only remember the
blockbusters. The adventures, the fantasies. Now they think
that's all I can make. What's worse, that's all they want."
-- Western (sympathetic) "I guess they just want you to
keep making the same movie over and over again. The studios like
that."
-- Elliot (sighing) "Anything that's different bombs. They
just won't let me play against the grain."
-- Janet (encouraging) "So make a serious film. Show them
you've got one in you."
-- Elliot (leaning to his right, head on hand, elbow resting
on the back of the couch) "I'm in a rut. A routine. I do some
things. I'm not something. I'm settled in. My life's too safe
and adjusted. I'm insulated. Cut off. It's too easy. There's
no tension. I need tension. I need a change. A challenge."
-- Western (reeling with the feeling) "Reminds me of
Richard Chamberlain in 'The Last Wave,' living his safe,
well-adjusted life. Until the aborigines show him that life is

not the middle road. It's not the path of least resistance."
-- Janet (hanging fire) "Change is scary. Very scary. We
think we want change. We think we need it. But we sure cling to
the way things are, or the way things were."
-- Elliot "I think most of us really like stability. We'll
stay put, holding on to what we know, or think we know. But we
really don't know ourselves or other people. Remember 'The Big
Chill?' 'We're all alone out there. And tomorrow we're going
out there again.'"

-- Janet (rationalizing) "Look at your movies. You can
make them laugh. You can excite them with effects."
-- Elliot (resisting) "You know, they're right."
-- Western "Who?"
-- Elliot "The critics."
-- Western "How's that?"
-- Elliot "Sure, I can do all that. But I can't make them
cry."
-- Janet (still trying to break through) "But your films
are positive. You've created all kinds of role models for kids
and adults. They respect you and your vision. You make people
feel optimistic. I really think they feel good about life and
their world when they leave one of your movies."
-- Elliot "Right. But it's only surface."
-- Western "Excuse me, but what's wrong with giving people
hope. Making them believe things will get better. You can't
just leave them with the down-side. They already know how bad
things are."
-- Elliot (brightening philosophic) "I really feel film
should do what the church and society used to do. It should tell
us what's right and wrong, good and evil."
-- Janet (jumping on board) "That reminds me of something an
expatriate film producer once said. That America built its
empire with motion pictures. Movies spread American culture
around the world the same way Rome's legions once did. He said
he learned about blue jeans and hairstyle and music and the way
to dress and dance and eat and about hamburgers. You name it.
He became Americanized like every kid in the Western world. He
was basically saying that Hollywood made America what it is in
the eyes of the world."
-- Western (sarcastic cynical) "And look how the world
sees us now. 'Porky's 9' and 'Rambo 19.'"
-- Elliot "That is exactly what I'm saying. Mass
media--any type of entertainment--should give us examples of how
to live our lives. Its influence is so total. It's everywhere,
inescapable. It's a part of our culture. It determines how our
society operates. How many times do you need to see a terrorist
asking to be interviewed by the local news media to know that?"
-- Janet "That life imitates art, not the other way
around?"
-- Western "It's 'real to reel.'"
-- Janet (getting frustrated) "So who's responsible? Who
takes the blame? You and me?"
-- Elliot "And everyone else in our industry. We're
responsible for the shape the world's in."

-- Janet (reaching the end of the rope) "Come on. That's a
major responsibility."
-- Elliot (not to be deterred) "And it's all ours.
(conspiratorial) But, it also means we can have an impact. We
can change things for good. We can make a world of difference.
The government's not going to do it. The corporations sure as
hell aren't going to do it. It's people like us, who can reach
other people, who are going to have to do it. Forget rational
arguments. Forget logic."

-- Western (catching the spirit) "Go right for the heart.
The emotional appeal."
-- Elliot "That's exactly right."
-- Janet (catching up) "Don't forget what Louis B. Mayer
said. 'If you want to send a message, call Western Union.' A
message film, especially one like you're describing, will never
sell."
-- Elliot (messianic) "Wrong. This audience grew up on
'Medium Cool,' 'Easy Rider,' 'The Graduate,' 'Dr. Strangelove,'
'2001,' and 'Coming Home.' If there's a message AND it's still
entertaining; if it's truthful, they will listen and they will
act."
-- Western "And they will cry."
-- Elliot (remembering) "When I made my second move. My
so-called 'coming of age' picture, I realized that making a fun,
uplifting, positive movie could be a real rush. It could
entertain. And it could make a point without being preachy. I
haven't done one since then."

-- Western "And that's why this project means so much to
you?"
-- Elliot (pulling at his beard, his eyes defocus and
he drifts into his own world, no longer talking with us) "The
point I was making in that movie was that you can't hang on to
the past. Things change. Life goes on."
-- Janet "You can't stay seventeen forever."
-- Elliot (not hearing, drifting deeper) "Life is a
constant transition and you have to accept that. The future may
be completely strange and different, but that's the way it should
be. The idea is not to be afraid of change. It's sad because
you're leaving something you know behind. But you have to keep
moving forward. That's what life is all about. You can either
have a good attitude about change or a bad one. But you have to
accept it so you can control it. So you you can make it work
for you. (He starts heading back to the surface) That's really
all I've ever been saying. I'm just a storyteller. If my
stories help people cope, all the better. But I always start
with the tales I have to tell. (Eyes focused and scanning both
our faces.) This story has been hiding deep inside me until the
time for telling was right. I remember watching our first lunar
landing. I realized then that, unlike the maps we had in school,
there are no geographical or political boundaries. There's only
land, sky, and water. We are one world, one race, hurtling
through space. Most people can't handle that kind of global
perspective. But I recognized the interdependency. I realized
that anything we did one one side of the planet, whether it's
polluting the water or setting off a nuclear device, would one
day reach the other side. (Now completely back with the living.)
That's also why I have to do this project. In a previous life, I
entertained people. In this life, I want to enlighten them. I
want them to stop shuffling in the terra firma and begin staring
at the stars. (startling us both with a question) "The Gaea
Principle. Either of you ever heard of it?"
-- Western (recovering) "The what?"
-- Elliot (zealot impatient) "The Gaea Principle?"

We both mumble a slightly embarrassed no.
-- Elliot (proselytizing) "It's based on ancient mythology.
Greek and Roman, I think. It's what I've been talking about.
Gaea was the Earth Goddess. Mother Earth. Once, we were one
planet. We started that way. And now we have lost our way. We
have lost our respect for the Earth, wildlife, ourselves, and
other people. And those who live out of harmony are doomed.
'Koyaanisqatsi.' It's a movie. The title is Hopi for 'Life
out of balance.' And that's what it shows. We're destroying
this planet."
-- Western (rallying a little too hard) "We're writing a
check the future can't cash?"
Janet laughs. Elliot doesn't appreciate the joke. I'm
finding he often doesn't.
-- Elliot (walking over to his electronic wall, he picks up
a blank videotape) "This is my thunderbolt. With this, I will
give you truth and new perspectives."
-- Western "Remember 'The Flying Burrito Brothers?'"

-- Janet "How could you forget a name like that?"
-- Western "There was a line in one of their songs.
'Destiny is in my right hand.'"
-- Elliot "That's right. We control our own fate.
Starting here. Starting now." He put the tape back. "Have you
seen our new edit suite? (the jump cut in subject and attitude is
jarring) I'd like to show it to you and I'd like you to meet
someone."
The cooler it got, the less light, I sensed the closer we

were getting to the editorial catacombs. Entry to each vaulted
area was allowed only with a magnetic ID card. Each was very
secure, very clean, very sterile. And quiet. The white noise of
no noise.
Finally, we passed through another chamber in this
subterranean nautilus and entered a spacious room. Monitors
lined one entire wall, fronting a scimitar-shaped, gun-metal gray
console. To the left, through doubled-paned sliding glass doors
was master control. The machine room that powered Nemo's dream.
Audio and video monitoring, digital switchers and audio mixing
boards spread away from the center of the console, where there
sat, hunched over the computerized editor, a round-backed crone
of a creature.
He was real hard to look at. Like something whose skin had
never been touched by sunlight. Pale and thin, he resembled
creatures you'd uncover in the garden, angry because you had
disturbed them. His hair was long, shoulder-length, stringy and
greasy. Imagine equal parts Medusa and Rasputin. A rocker gone

south. His teeth were chipped and rotting; partly because he
didn't eat right, partly because he smoked. Around his neck he
wore a leather thong. Attached to it was a computer chip--the
first one designed for the personal computer. It was his
talisman. An amulet. A charm to protect him against sickness,
harm, or witchcraft.
Behind thick glasses, he had tiny eyes, pinholes that
squinted. But they were voracious. They scanned CRTs, ravenous,
to feed his hungry mind. It was no surprise his nickname was

"The Mole." He spent all his free time cruising data bases,
burrowing deep into mounds of facts, labyrinths of figures,
seldom coming up for air. And when he did, squinting in the
glare of day-to-day reality, he'd soon turn his back and return
to the dark, damp tunnels of anonymous binarity.
He was an information junkie. Self-proclaimed and proud of
it. He was a true believer that information is power; that the
old industries--coal, steel, and automobiles--were dead or dying.
Information was the new source of energy and power. And he
thrived on it. He was one of a new breed. Those dedicated
hackers who dreamed of a new Jeffersonian democracy based on
equal access to information. They believed that when everyone
had a computer, all political and economic power would flow back
to the individual and away from the corporations.
His modem was his equalizer, his key to the doors of
perception. Through it, he could travel anywhere in time and
space, back to ancient Mesopotamian civilizations or forward to
colonies on Mars. The possibilities were limited only by his

imagination, and The Mole was not known to be lacking in that.
There were no doors locked to his inquisitive mind. He could
break any code, crack any security system, and often did it
simply for the fun of it, for the pure challenge, the thrill of
the chase.
Like any hacker worth his code, he liked to engage in
"softwar." He was a software saboteur. Any time he wanted, he
could alter data in computers at banks and stock brokerage
houses, or he could send false signals to air traffic

controllers. He loved exposing the dark side of silicon. Often,
he would invade centralized data banks and read out information
on educational background, medical history, credit ratings,
employment records, political affiliations, and sexual
preferences.
One of the things he liked doing best was harassing the MIS
departments of major corporations. He'd get into their systems
and plant a "worm" or "virus". Anywhere information could go,
he--and they--could go. And did. For those unfamiliar with the
hacker and his world of communicable diseases, a program that
moves through a computer's memory is called a "worm," and a
stationary one is called a "virus," a "Trojan Horse," or a "logic
bomb."
Virus spreaders like The Mole were mostly men in their late
teens or early twenties--you couldn't really tell if The Mole fit
in either group--who had spent most of their life in the comfort
of the CRT. They lived in a protected world, emotionally and
socially, and had never developed a code of ethics to govern or

judge what they were doing. Forty years after the dawn of the
computer age, there had thus arisen a phalanx of programmers,
with access to the world's most powerful technology, and no
checks or balances to control it. But that didn't bother The
Mole. He was far more interested in the game, not the ethics of
it. The challenge and the pursuit thrilled him.
So anything he could modem up was fair game for his probing
mind. Nothing could stop him. If it was confidential or top
secret, he simply broke the code, just to see what they were
hiding. But he was more than a hacker, more than a consumer of
facts. He had a mind that could make connections. Very
analytical. His deductive reasoning rivaled the fabled mind of
Holmes. He could see the interconnects. That made him valuable.
It also made him dangerous.
To give him the money, and thus the freedom, to pay for his
habit, The Mole spent his daylight hours working as a videotape
editor at a local production house. Still more hours in a dark
room at a computer CRT. It was something he understood and
something he was very good at. One of the best, in fact. But
his client skills were questionable. That's why he was never
left alone with one. When Elliot needed an editor for "The Water
Project," he hired Moses. He didn't know how much more he was
getting for his money.
Moses Campbell was also real hard to talk to, as I soon
found out when he shrank from my outstretched hand of greeting.
He not only wouldn't look you in the eye, but he refused to waste
any energy on words. He was used to communicating only with

machines, not people. He never used articles or prepositions;
any short, unnecessary words. He preferred talking in short
bursts. He communicated in binary bits. Most of the time he
sounded like a "B-movie" redskin. A grunting computer Cochise.
Elliot did most of his talking, which was something of a
joke considering how reticent he was. In their war of words, The
Mole had already won.
"Moses, here, will be our editor."
A grunt of disdainful acknowledgement.

"But, more importantly, he's my secret weapon. He's going
to take us places no one else can. It's up to him to get
everything he can, as quickly as he can, on the players in this
game."
The Mole shrinks from Elliot's affectionate pat on the
shoulder, his fingers flying over the console; a virtuoso
effortlessly and unconsciously weaving dreams at thirty frames a
second.
"Once he has the data, I want him to synthesize,
extrapolate, and trace the interconnects. It will become my
electronic scratch track. The blueprint for a show that I hope
will entertain, inform, and motivate. We're going to start a
rebellion from here. For safe drinking water. The documentary
will kick it off."
"Our shot heard 'round the world," I volunteer.
"Congressional hearings won't do it. Litigation hasn't done
it. Or petitions and letters to congress. That's only created a
ripple. We're going to make a wave. We're going to use the

greatest weapon ever known to sway people."
"The motion picture?"
"It's also known as propaganda."
"Capture the heart and the head will follow?"
"I'll finance it myself. Produce it here at The Ranch.
They say I can only do fantasy films. Okay. So let's do one.
For good."
I guess I shouldn't have been so surprised at his absolute
commitment, his blind dedication. It really wasn't that hard to

understand him. From the moment the title sequence of his first
mega-hit began to roll, his every move and word had been a matter
of public record. Janet and I talked about it afterwards.
She knew what was driving him. "It's so clear. All he
wants is to do good. To make films that matter."
"Accentuate the positive." I seemed to be stuck in a rut of
cliches this day.
"His view of the world is pretty simple. He's got a real
problem with people who misuse their power. He feels it's up to
the individual to stop it."
"To take it personally?"
"It's just basic human morality. And he feels it's the only
way to master your fate, to control your destiny."
"The weight of the world?"
"And he takes that responsibility very seriously." Janet
suddenly changed the subject, finally tired, and shifted to the
more immediate needs of the production itself.
"I need your opinion on something. The way I see it, we can
two ways with this show. We can use a professional, a third
person, as our narrator."
"Which will give us objectivity, but will be less
involving."
"Or, we can go the other way and be very subjective. Get
people who are recognizable, who have credibility, and who are
emotionally committed to the same issues."
"People from different walks of live and disciplines."
"I think we need their energy and emotion. If we stay too

objective and scientific, I don't think we'll get the kind of
grass-roots response we want."
"So maybe we stack it with poets, musicians, scientists,
writers, politicians, and celebrities?"
"And the more native Californians the better."
The rumbling sky splinters with light.

Girls are dancing on the silver yacht.
A hot wind sweeps over the bay, from the island,
and slows the music blaring from below deck.
The son of a famous architect has won another drinking bout.
He's eager to show the girls his new trick;
he straps on his waxed wings
and climbs to the crow's nest
and, arms outspread, eyes closed,
makes his leap for the sun:
the boiling waves swallow him with a hiss.
The girls fall down laughing
and the rough shore darkens with rain.
That night, in a foreign capital, the architect
cancels his engagements to design
an obelisk for his son's grave.
At the funeral, strangers offer their condolences
and the priests remind him that all men die happy.
He goes home and dreams himself lost
in the labyrinth that made him famous:
the iron corridors pounded into steel,
the sparking hoofs and thunderous breath,
the smoke that reeks of perfume ...
He wakes in a cold sweat, a ball of string in his hands.
Maybe the priests were right.
Or maybe, in the end, fools like his son
chance on a kind of wisdom.
Coveting a final, futile gesture in order to cheat death.
One could do worse, the old man concludes, snuffing the light.
Much worse.
-- Nicholas Christopher, "Icarus"
Sometimes, late at night, as you walk by The Old Brewery,
you might think you have been beamed back to Terra Incognito.
You half expect to turn around and see a blazing fire
illuminating aboriginal features; a man growling low, licking his

jaw harp. Softly, but clearly, you can hear the primitive sounds
of the digereedoo. No, you are not approaching the fatal
shore of Australia. It's really nothing more than The Mole
taking a break from breaking code.
In the catacombs that are his offices, located in an old
brewery south of Market Street in San Francisco, there is not one
but many computers, of diverse ages, sizes, and capabilities. It
resembles a museum of the transistor and semiconductor ages, as
much as a working computer lab. Many lie open, disemboweled,
with parts tossed about and cables snaking in and through. Some
are in various stages of disrepair or in-progress hot-rodding.
The Mole never seems capable of finishing a repair job. Once a
machine is functioning, he could care less about how it looks,
whether the casing is closed or the wires neatly tucked inside.
As long as it works.
His central console resembles a space shuttle's instrument
panel or a rock keyboardist's bank of synthesizers. The console
is designed "in-the-round," so there are 360 degrees of hardware

surrounding him. The entire apparatus sits on a free-floating
platform with its own gyroscope and its own power source, free
from any vibrations created by passing trucks or shifting faults,
and isolated from power surges that could trash months of work.
Directly above the main CRT of his central console is a
shrine of sorts. In the smokey half-light that always fills this
room, you can barely see that it is a yellowed piece of
newsprint, torn ragged and crudely framed between two pieces of
uneven plexiglass. It hangs where a single shaft of light,

streaming through a crack in the painted skylight above,
illuminates and isolates. It is his dogma. The man quoted is
his prophet.
Leon Martel, a futurist and political scientist, has a
message for America: "We are in the midst of a major structural
change, as information rapidly replaces energy as society's main
resource. Unlike energy, information is infinite and does not
disappear. We're just beginning to use information, and the
changes we are going to see are, in many cases, contrary to the
common wisdom. In the electronic computer age, information
already has added to the value of goods and services by
increasing labor's efficiency and dramatically shortening the
time it takes to develop products."
Below the frame is a bumper sticker with a simple
recommendation. "COMPUTE, DON'T COMMUTE."
Moses affectionately nicknamed the entire apparatus
"Icarus," after the son of Daedalus the scientist, who, in his
attempt to escape the labyrinth of the Minotaur, with wings

fashioned by his father of feathers and wax, flew too close to
the sun, and fell to his death.
He prays he will not suffer a similar fate as he begins
dialing up his first data base.
We gather information here the way ancient cultures gathered

food. And for the same reasons--to live, to thrive.
-- "The Leading Edge"
CHAPTER 4
I know when day is done,

That a new world awaits at dawn.
See them rolling along,
Pledging their love with a song.
Here on the range I belong,
Drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds.
-- Bob Nolan, "Tumbling Tumbleweeds"
DISSOLVE:

THEME #4: "Tumbling Tumbleweeds"
14 EXT. MOJAVE DESERT - ESTABLISHING SHOT
GROUND LEVEL SHOT of Mojave Desert. Far off, we can see a lone
man standing in the middle of this barren land. It is MARC
REISNER, author of "Cadillac Desert." The CAMERA begins racing
toward REISNER, skimming across the ground.
MARC REISNER
Everyone knows there's a desert somewhere in
California. But many believe it's off in
some remote corner of the state. Like here
in the Mojave, or Palm Springs, or maybe the
eastern side of the Sierra Nevada.
MEDIUM CLOSE UP
CAMERA comes to an abrupt halt just in front of REISNER.
But most of inhabited California is, by

strictest definition, a semidesert. Los
Angeles is drier than Beirut. Sacramento is
as dry as the Sahel. San Francisco is only
half as wet as Mexico City. About 65 percent
of the state receives less than twenty inches
of rainfall a year.
DISSOLVE:
15 MONTAGE
Shots of lush parks and streets in los angeles and the Central
Valley.
REISNER (v.o.)
California is a beautiful fraud. It fools
visitors into believing it is 'lush.'
Everywhere you turn, you run up against 'the

holiness of the blooming desert'. Water and
irrigation, allowed us to establish a
beachhead here. And it's going to be
increasingly difficult to hold onto. Both
the water and the beachhead.
16 MEDIUM SHOT
LOW ANGLE SHOT of Metropolitan Water District's corporate

headquarters in Los Angeles. DOLLY SHOT of water fountain in
foreground.
Unless you're Los Angeles. Then you either

buy the water, or go out and get it. In the
movie "Chinatown," John Huston tells Jack
Nicholson: "Either you bring the water to
L.A., or you bring L.A. to the water."
CAMERA DOLLIES UP steps toward front door.
And in a scene from the beginning of that

movie, Nicholson's Jake Gittes, sitting in
the Los Angeles city council chambers, hears
this.
17 INT. COUNCIL CHAMBERS
Former Mayor SAM BAGBY is speaking. Behind him is a huge

map, with overleafs and bold lettering:
"PROPOSED ALTO VALLEJO DAM AND RESERVOIR"
Some of the councilmen are reading funny papers and

gossip columns while Bagby is speaking.
BAGBY
--Gentlemen, today you can walk out that door, turn
right, hop on a streetcar and in twenty-five minutes end up
smack in the Pacific Ocean. Now you can swim in it, you can
fish in it, you can sail in it -- but you can't drink it, you
can't water your lawns with it, you can't irrigate your orange
grove with it. Remember -- we live next door to the ocean but we
also live on the edge of the desert. Los Angeles is a desert
community. Beneath this building, beneath every street
there's a desert. Without water the dust will rise up and cover
us as though we'd never existed!
(pausing, letting the
implication sink in)
CLOSE - GITTES
sitting next to some grubby farmers, bored. He yawns --

edges away from one of the dirtier farmers.
BAGBY (O.S.)
(continuing)
The Alto Vallejo can save us from that, and I respectfully
suggest that eight and a half million dollars is a fair
price to pay to keep the desert from our streets and not on
top of them.
18 MEDIUM CLOSE UP
REISNER stands on steps of Metropolitan Water District.
REISNER
It's ironic. Pollution from another segment
of corporate America is responsible for
filling the air with carbon dioxide. And
this same carbon dioxide is slowly, but
definitely changing the world's climate. And
as it does, California will become even
drier. It will become ever more a desert.
As REISNER exits frame, CAMERA DOLLIES BACK to frame flowing

fountain.

THEME #5: "Grand Canyon Suite"
19 EXT. WESTERN LANDSCAPE - ESTABLISHING SHOT
AERIAL SHOT of Monument Valley or the Grand Canyon.
MARC REISNER (v.o.)

You will not find it in an atlas, or on a
topographical map, or as you fly over it
escaping the East. This line that marks
where the West begins. But it is clear to
all who live there where it starts. It
begins, wrote Bernard DeVoto, "At the point
where the average annual rainfall drops below
twenty inches." And it goes a long way
toward explaining our passion for seeing
water under control.
DISSOLVE
20 WIDE SHOT
LOWER LEVEL AERIAL SHOT of Hoover Dam. CAMERA swoops over edge
of dam.
21 MEDIUM SHOT
GROUND LEVEL SHOT of two people. MARC REISNER and JOAN DIDION,
author and native Californian. They walk near the marble Star
Map at Hoover Dam.
JOAN DIDION
This marble star map traces a sidereal
revolution of the equinox. It fixes forever,
the man from the Bureau of Reclamation has
told me, for all time and for all people who
can read the stars, the date Hoover Dam was
dedicated.
22 CLOSE UP - DEDICATION PLAQUE.
DIDION (v.o.)
"They died to make the desert bloom," it
reads. This plaque is dedicated to the 96
men who died building this first of the great
high dams. This is the legacy of the West.
Our compulsive need to control water. To
hoard it. To not waste a drop.
MUSIC: UP FULL THEN UNDER
DISSOLVE
23 MONTAGE
Series of beauty shots of Hoover Dam.
REISNER (v.o.)
Someday, archaeologists from some other
planet will sift through the bleached bones
of our civilization. They may well conclude
that our temples were dams. The permanence
of our dams will merely impress them. Their
numbers will leave them in awe.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
Imponderably massive and constructed with

exquisite care, our dams will outlast
anything else we have built. Skyscrapers,
cathedrals, bridges, even nuclear power
plants. When forests push through the
rotting streets of New York and the Empire
State Building is a crumbling hulk, Hoover
Dam will sit astride the Colorado River much
as it does today. Intact, formidable,
serene.
DISSOLVE
24 MEDIUM CLOSE - DIDION AND STAR MAP.
DIDION
The star map is here for that time when we
are all gone and only the dam is left. I
hadn't thought much of it when he said it
then, but I think of it now, ...
25 HIGH ANGLE WIDE SHOT - HOOVER DAM.
DIDION (v.o.)
... with the wind whining and the sun
dropping behind a mesa with the finality of a
sunset in space. I realize that is how I
have always seen it. A dynamo finally free
of man, splendid at last in its absolute
isolation, transmitting power and releasing
water to a world where no one is.
Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?

You been out ridin' fences for so long now.
Oh, you're a hard one,
I know that you got your reasons,
These things that are pleasin' you,
Can hurt you somehow.
Desperado, oh, you ain't gettin' no younger,

Your pain and your hunger,
They're driving you home.
And freedom, oh, freedom, well,
That's just some people talkin',
Your prison is walkin'
Through this world all alone.
-- Don Henley & Glenn Frey, "Desperado"
I had driven down the Pacific Coast Highway, south instead
of north, to meet my old friend. We had lunch at Sharon's, a
warm, little, home-grown restaurant in Montara, near his home in
Moss Beach.
We caught up over the seafood marinara. A lot had happened

since that June day when we threw our mortarboards into the air
and kissed our collective college asses goodbye. Then we got
good and drunk and left for our respective homes and our future
lives. We phoned and wrote for a while, then he moved to
Washington state and then Los Angeles. And we didn't talk as
much. He moved back and our paths still hadn't crossed that
often. Now we were working together on what was probably the
biggest and most important project in both our lives.
Living on the edge. That's where he liked living his life.
Always had. Along the razor's edge. That's where the title came
from. Where poets, dreamers, and madmen reside. I suppose the
writer had him in mind when he talked about life needing to be
more than the every day; especially here in California, living
so close to the coast; to the edge of the world.
Patrick Michael "Monte" Walsh fit his nickname. He was the
last of the cowboys. Just like the character Lee Marvin played
in the movie of the same name. He wasn't real good about change,
about getting older and slower. About accepting the inevitable.

That the frontier was closing. He carried a gun across his heart
and had a hair-trigger on his temper. The boy liked to fight. I
still remember trying to stand between him and a half-dozen of
Daly City's finest during San Francisco's "Grand National Rodeo"
one year.
Pat came from long line of native sons from the "auld
sod" of Ireland. His great grandfather was a craftsman who did
all the goldwork on the dome of the state capital. His father
was once California's Lieutenant Governor. Like most Irishmen,

the men in his family could have taken up the cloth or the badge.
Most of them rejected the cloth and became cops or marines. His
grandfather was a homicide inspector for San Francisco's finest
and his uncle, a four-star general, commanded the Marines in
Vietnam. There was always a strong family tradition of honor and
duty to country. He believed it, just like generations before
him. He lived with it every day of his life. And though he
didn't break ranks during the so-called "Vietnam conflict," it
did shake his confidence in the concept.
Walsh was born to the wealthy and politically influential of
California's power elite. But it was never his style. His
parents were, and are, very much stuck in living the "proper"
life. And, when he married "beneath his station," they disowned
him. They haven't spoken to him or his wife or seen their
grandchildren since the marriage.
You'd never know he was part of the privileged world of "old
money" California. As wealthy, powerful, and "class conscious"
as his parents were, Walsh wouldn't be caught dead with a silver

spoon in his mouth. Maybe a "Silver Bullet." He liked getting
down and dirty on the spinside of life, which is probably why he
tended to overreact when someone tried to take advantage of their
position in life. It was almost like once his family cut him
loose, he made them and the rest of their world his enemy. He
wasn't about to let any of them get away with anything ever
again. He took special care with any case involving the power
elite. It was his albatross. In fact, it was almost as if he
was over-compensating. He wanted so much to separate himself

from his father's world that he went out looking for any cases
involving the powerful, just to bring the big guy down. Maybe it
was an indirect, or direct, way to show his father, and attack
what his father represented at the same time. To offset the
disappointment, the anger, and the hurt he felt when his father
and mother abandoned him. It cut him deeply that he, who
cherished family and friends, had to disown his own.
He grew up during the Sixties, but he was really a Muskogee
kind of guy when it came to sex, marriage, relationships, and
women. He spent time, like his hero Merle Haggard, raising cane.
And his family hoped his crops would fail. He was not
experimenting, as many of his peers were. He was just living out
what he considered the typical macho college ritual. Though he
wasn't intimidated then by bright, aggressive women, he wasn't
overly aroused either. He admired them, as he would a wonderful
watercolor or an intriguing acrylic, but he never took them home
either. When it was time to settle down, to marry and have a
family, he did and he stayed faithful. He wasn't interested in

the philandering of his father's generation. He intended to make
his marriage work.
Now he's got two children, both boys. His wife, Diane, whom
he met in college, is several years younger. They've been
married for twelve years now, through good and bad and multiple
moves. They get along as well as two people in harness can.
They like each other fine when they're alone and away from family
and friends. When they do fight, it's usually over Pat's
juvenile behavior and heavy drinking, especially when he gets

together with his college buddies, Calvin Michael Gover, a vet in
Sacramento, myself, and George Orona, otherwise known as "Jorge."
Then he gets nostalgic and starts thinking about moving back to
the valley. That is the only real threat to his marriage. The
prolonged adolescence that creeps back into his life whenever he
sees "the boys." None of the current wives or girlfriends really
want to be around then. It's too embarrassing. He, and they,
are stranded, caught between the adolescent rock and the middle
aged hard place. And they're all having a rough time making the
transition. They'd love to remain twenty, partying with their
buddies. But they want the career, wife, and the family. Caught
on the horns.
I guess he, Gover, Jorge, and I really were family. His
only family. We were brothers. He had often said, and it had
been echoed by me, that we would all be friends for life. That
no matter how far away, or how long we'd been apart, we could get
together and it'd be like we'd never left. There was that kind
of understanding between us. I said it had to do with

expectations. We didn't have any of each other. If we didn't
have any expectations, we'd never be disappointed in each other,
because that's when the trouble starts. We accepted the other
for what they were; nothing more, nothing less. And you were
there for them, whether they needed you or not. My wife could
never understand that. She always said I was being taken
advantage of. I think it was really jealousy, or lack of
understanding, because she never had it with her family or any of
her close friends. It bothered Diane, too, and Gover's wife

Debbie, but this kind of "male bonding" was never understood by
women, particularly women who had liberated themselves during the
sixties and hoped that some of it had rubbed off on the men they
married.
Like his ancestors and his friends, Pat liked to drink,
though not as much now as he did in college. And his temper,
like the Irish, could kill. That's why he made a good FBI agent.
He was a good company man, loyal to the corps. And loyal to his
buddies. And that's what usually got him into trouble. That was
another thing about him. He was persistent, diligent, and dogged
in his determination, once he was on the scent. He never quit,
until he'd been beaten senseless. He worked hard to be good at
what he did and to earn the respect of his peers and superiors.
Pat acted and reacted. He was not one to ponder and consider.
Once given an assignment, he'd ride it out. And, sometimes, he'd
ignore his superiors, and stay on a case until he was satisfied
it was complete. If it had to be done, he was the best one to do
it.
Walsh could be melancholic, sullen. You could see it in
his face. It was there right around his eyes and creasing his
forehead. He always seemed angry, just a word away from
exploding. And when he went, reason and restraint shut down.
And sometimes, violence could be a close companion. He could
also be vindictive. Although it was probably due to his
"Irishness," it was as if Pat had selected every personality
trait that could possibly be objectionable and reprehensible to
the sensibilities and upbringing of his family. He cultivated

one to alienate the other.
In some ways, "Monte" was a throwback to a simpler time.
Thus the nickname. When he wanted to relax, he'd pop open a
beer, pick up his guitar, and play a little Merle. At least in
The Hag's world, everything was black and white. It might be
depressing, but you knew exactly where you stood. What sometimes
appeared to be shallowness and lack of imagination was simply a
less complex personal code of conduct. All things really were
monochrome. He believed in the cowboy code of justice and fair
play. In a previous life, he might have been a John Wayne, his
idol, or a Gary Cooper. And like them, he wasn't real good at
affection. He'd rather have a tooth pulled than hug someone. Di
and the kids had softened the edges a little. He was better
about it, but still not real comfortable. I doubt he had ever
hugged his old man.
Pat grew up in Berkeley before moving to Davis, California,
while his father worked at the state capital. He finished high
school there before enrolling in college. He had always planned

to be a Doctor of Veterinarian Medicine. He did well enough in
class and as a working intern, but his attitude bothered some
people. His GPA was acceptable, but not unquestionable.
Everything depended on his letters of recommendation and the
personal interview. So he decided to enlist the help of some of
his father's more influential friends. It was a difficult thing
to ask, but he did it; to swallow his pride and ask for help from
his father just this once. It was that important. He got the
letters. But something happened. Either during the interview or

because of the letters. Walsh still feels he was screwed because
the screening committee didn't feel like being steamrolled by the
politically powerful. And he wasn't even sure that maybe his
father hadn't talked to the committee; maybe mentioned in passing
that he thought Pat might have a drinking problem. That maybe he
wouldn't make a good professional. Whatever the reason, he was
rejected. Cal Gover wasn't. What could have destroyed a close
friendship just seemed to make it stronger. Pat's pride got him
through it. And a little Jim Beam. His life's goal had been
taken away. He never got over the disappointment. But he never
talked about it. Just got on with his life. First as a
pharmaceutical salesman and then as an agent, thanks to a
disillusioned brother-in-law, a bureau administrator in San
Francisco, who saw himself as a young man.
When Pat first joined The Bureau, he worked as a sound man,
wired to incriminate drug dealers, kidnappers, and child
pornographers. Then he spent time tracking down Soviet spies and
defectors across Northern California. Just letting them know we

were watching them watching us.
Just about that time, the war against toxic waste started
heating up. In California and across the nation. There were
more and more cases of roadside dumping; and cans and cans of
waste were discovered in abandoned warehouses all over the state.
There were rumors the Mafia was somehow involved. In California,
the passage of Proposition 65 put the pressure on all public
officials. The U.S. Department of Justice was forced to begin
taking the issue seriously. District attorneys and Federal

Bureau of Investigation staffs throughout the country began an
all-out assault on this new form of white-collar crime.
When it came time to select someone to join the Department
of Justice's Toxic Task Force, Pat's name was mentioned early and
often. His background in bio-chemistry made him a strong
candidate. And, because he was born and raised in Northern
California, he also knew the territory and the players. The fact
that he was politically connected didn't hurt, although it was
never discussed in any of the interviews and he didn't bring it
up. He was appointed Special Agent to the toxic waste
investigation.
Walsh took to his new assignment with a vengeance. Another
shot at the old man. He had to be careful because he was going
for the purse strings on this one. He probed and he pushed. He
tried hard not to step on the toes of certain politicos and
bureaucrats, because he knew they had the power to stall, or
subvert, the investigation. He was careful who he reported to;
about who heard what and how. He knew he was moving far beyond
his original assignment; beyond what they had asked him to
investigate.
In three months, he documented over one hundred violations
of the Clean Water Act and the provisions of Proposition 65. He
had sufficient evidence to cause some major financial and PR
problems. And the people on his hit list were some of the same
ones he was worried might stop him. Corporations like the
DiGiulio Winery, the Marriposa Combine, and several members of
the Westlands League.

Then he took his findings to the Bureau, feeling good about
them and ready to take the next step; certain they would
authorize it. The next day, his supervisor called him into his
office and told him to stop volunteering information he hadn't
been asked to. It was like the guy had punched him in the gut,
then slapped him across the face.
It was the first time he'd ever had shit like this pulled on
him. He'd heard the rumors before. Of agents reprimanded and
re-assigned. And he didn't like it. Someone had pulled in some
cards; had pulled some strings from atop their plush corporate
offices. Only this time, it wasn't some hick county sheriff or
medical examiner, it was the fucking Bureau that was asking him
how high he'd jump. This had been his best shot ever at the big
boys and they had turned the tables on him.
He left the office thinking that not even the Bureau was
clean on this one; that even they could be compromised and
couldn't be trusted. They didn't want to hear what he had to
say. Not then. Probably not ever. Money, bureaucracy, and

politics made it hard to protect the public and tell the truth.
He knew then that it would never come out. Not this story. The
whole truth and nothing but wouldn't be. His naivete was
beginning the education of its life.
He protested. He wrote a handful of internal memoranda. He
talked it up with his fellow agents. He spoke a little too
loudly about it at lunch when he was within earshot of his
superiors. His wheel was squeaking real loud. The next thing he
knew, he was off the case and at a desk. Writing up reports and
following-up on other agent's work. He was crushed. Then he got
pissed. He compared the new assignment to something he knew. A
frontier analogy. "It was like riding fence," he later told me.
It was the same as being put out to pasture. On a working ranch,
when you couldn't cut it anymore, your started riding fence;
repairing broken fence, making sure none of the cattle got out.
It cut a couple of ways. It was a job, but it was also making
sure the fence stood. Fence. That's what closed the frontier,
carved up the open range. It meant the end of freedom.
He didn't like this idea of checking fence-posts, so he
started thinking about bailing out. He talked it over with his
brother-in-law, who didn't like the idea, but certainly
understood. He had been frustrated most of his career and it
wasn't going to get any better until he retired. Pat could stay
and be a maverick. Continue the investigation without agency
approval. But he was finally, really tired of the bullshit
bureaucracy. It was time to press on. And he did. His
brother-in-law put him in touch with a large private

investigation firm in San Francisco, one department of which
specialized in toxic waste violations. He got another shot at
the title. Maybe there he could tell what had to be told.
And that was another coincidence that couldn't be ignored.
Pat had taken his new job about two months before Elliot
contacted me. Our paths were going to cross professionally. It
would be interesting to see what my old college buddy was like in
real life.
Heading up the beach and back to our cars, I was glad to

know we were still thinking along the same lines. Like me and
Elliot, his gut told him the Quon incident was somehow tied to
Masterson. He was also wondering out loud if it wasn't linked to
the death of farmworker twenty years earlier. That case had been
unsolved and closed for quite a while, but it had come up again
as part of the trail he had been following when he got yanked.
He wanted to finish that one just for the principle of it. He
didn't think he'd have any trouble getting his new bosses to let
him help us out. And if they didn't, he'd do it on his own. It
wasn't like he hadn't been forced to do that before.
That was just about a week ago. Now he's undercover in
Ralston. Got himself hired as a field inspector (PCA) for
OxyGene. He makes the rounds each day selling fertilizer and
herbicides, making sure the growers are using the right chemicals
for their problem and assuring that the chemicals are mixed in
the right amounts and properly applied.
Squatting in the dust, drawing patterns in the dirt, and
talking about next season's crops, he feels right at home. He

fits in, drinking RC Cola and eating moon pies. He understands
these people. He likes and respects them. He enjoys buying them
a beer at day's end. He doesn't like seeing them taken advantage
of. And he doesn't want any of them, or their kids, dying of
cancer or being exposed to poisons that might some day cause it.
He knows his bio-chem and he knows it's all too possible. Now
that he's seen their faces and talked to them, he's even more
determined to get to the bottom of the Jimmie Quon story and how
it relates to Masterson. We have an idea or two, but it's up to

Pat to get the hard evidence--beyond a reasonable doubt.
It's going to be a long, hot summer.

CHAPTER 5
"I come before you today with the distressing news that
one of this Nation's most vast and vital resources is in serious
jeopardy. Our ground waters, long considered virtually
pollution-free, are threatened by ruinous contamination. The
problem is national, for potential sources and routes of
contamination may be found wherever people live and work. The
problem is serious, for the intruding contaminants are often
highly toxic, sometimes cancer-causing. The prospect that water
may contain high concentrations of toxic chemical compounds
compels our immediate attention and action. The story of
hazardous wastes and vulnerable groundwaters is just beginning to
be written, but the opening chapter is enough to predict that
this will become the environmental horror story of the
eighties--with aftereffects reaching into the next millennium."
-- Eckhardt C. Beck, Former Assistant Administrator for Water and
Waste Management, U.S. Environmental Protection Agency.
Before the Subcommittee on Environment, Energy, and Natural
Resources, June 25, 1980.
Pope asked me to meet him in the foothills above La Grange
Dam. He explained it was better to see things first hand.
Carl Pope is a non-fiction author who specializes in
environmental issues. He writes about the amount and type of
pollution being inflicted on our country by private corporations.
He is also the Sierra Club's national deputy conservation
director. He's been writing about the groundwater problem for a
number of years. Now he's about to begin my education.
We stand near several large granite boulders. Beneath our
feet is a hole between the rocks. He is explaining. "An aquifer
is an underground storage area for groundwater. It's taken
thousands of years for the largest ones to form. Most aquifers
in North America were formed during the Ice Age's glacial melt.
They can be a few feet, or several thousand feet, below the
surface. This one," he points at the hole, "is close to the
surface."
"Makes pumping easy," I add, trying to participate.
He smiles but doesn't look up. "Right. Water from these
aquifers has been used for years as a source of drinking water.
Then it watered crops. Then it served industry. Anyone could
sink a well and start filling buckets with water. Hand pumps
were replaced with electric pumps. Wells went deeper and pumping
lasted longer. People pumped as if there were no tomorrow."
"Figured it was an endless supply?"
"Well, it wasn't. There's one thing all these aquifers have
in common. They're disappearing. Rapidly. Pumped, or polluted,
out of existence."
"Can't they be replenished. By rain, or something?"
"Sure. Aquifers can be recharged, refilled, by rain,
snow-melt, seepage from river bottoms, marshes, and wetlands.
But if any of these sources are contaminated, the groundwater
will become contaminated. And once it's in the aquifer, it's
there for good."
"Or bad."
His look tells me he doesn't think much of my participation
or humor. "Undergroundwater doesn't flow too much, or too fast.
So contaminants can be stored undisturbed for thousands of
years."
"For example?"
"In the 1960s, some wells in Ohio started gushing raw
sewage. Toilet tissue and other junk. When the local
authorities researched the records, they found that public and
private wastes had been dumped into sinkholes and wells as far
back as 1872. Almost a hundred years earlier." He watched as
the realization showed on my face. Then we both looked down into
the hole.
"How bad is the groundwater problem?"
"Only one percent of America's groundwater is now known to
be contaminated. But man is threatening vital groundwater
supplies in many regions of the country."
"Could you briefly explain the strict, scientific meaning of
contaminate?"
"It has two common meanings. One, to reduce native purity
by intrusion from outside. And, two, to make unfit, or
unwholesome, by the introduction of outside elements."
"When did groundwater pollution first emerge as a public
issue?"
"In the late 1970s, mostly associated with the disposal of
manufacturing wastes."
"When did incidents related to pesticides first appear?"
"By the early 1980s, several instances of contamination,

resulting from the field application of pesticides, had been
confirmed."
"And what pesticides were those?"
"The most widespread problems involved the insecticides and
nematocides aldicarb, brand name Temik and DBCP,
dibromochloropropane. Early findings led to monitoring for
other pesticides. Several additional active ingredients were
detected in at least a dozen states."
"Were you at all surprised by the findings?"

"Contamination from field-applied pesticides was almost
entirely unexpected. Particularly since the pesticides found
included ones we generally assumed would degrade or volatilize
rapidly."
"In lay terms, can you tell us a little about some of the
high risk contaminants?"
"One class of agricultural chemicals, the nematocides, poses
a particularly high risk for groundwater contamination."
"What do nematocides protect against?"
"Nematodes, or worms. Like the hookworm or pinworm."
"How do they work?"
"Nematocides are designed to be mobile in the soil and water
environment to protect the root zone. That's where the pest
problems occur. The most severe nematode problems occur in
sandy, porous soils. Soils with low water-holding capacity."
"Which makes it easier to leach into groundwater."
""Unfortunately, yes. The nematocide DBCP has caused the
most extensive contamination documented to date. Others, like

EDB, D-D, and aldicarb have also leached into the
groundwater."
"I thought the earth could filter out some of it?"
"For decades, that was widely believed. Experts thought the
soil would bind chemicals and cleanse water as it percolated
through. Now, we're finding that soil is not effective in
filtering viruses and organic materials."
"What's the best way to control the contamination?"
"Stop using the chemicals."

"Seriously?"
"Yes, but not realistically. So, we've recommended a series
of the best management practices. We call them BMPs."
"Which includes?"
"Closely following label instructions. Carefully
calibrating spray equipment. Efficiently scheduling irrigation.
Optimizing timing of pesticide applications. Altering crop
patterns. And properly disposing of tank rinse water or residual
pesticide solutions and containers."
"What do the growers think of these 'BMPs?'"
"Seriously?"
"Realistically."
"They consider them important because we do. But we suspect
that they're ignoring the recommendations on the labels."
"Why?"
"Because they don't want to take the time."
"Or because the people doing the spraying can't read the
labels?"
"That's a problem. Besides, most growers are skeptical
about just how effective the BMPs are. We think a lot of them
simply disregard our suggestions."
"Even though they know it's unsafe?"
"Sure. Their life depends on crop yield. And they're going
to get more crops in a stress-free growing environment."
"There must be other reasons?"
"Of course. There's no economic incentive."
"Down to dollars? Is there any way to punish growers for

misuse?"
"They might have their permits canceled. The permits that
allow them to apply agricultural chemicals."
"Would that stop them?"
"No, they'd probably spray anyway."
"Let's change our focus a moment. The farmers may use these
chemicals, but they don't make them. Let's get to the source.
Who are the major manufacturers and what responsibility must they
assume?"
"Dow, of course. And Union Carbide. Internationally,
OxyGene is probably the world's largest manufacturer of
agricultural chemicals."
"They're a Swiss company aren't they?"
"Based in Switzerland, but German-founded and owned. They
have offices around the world, but with a concentration in
countries that depend financially or economically on
agriculture."
"Third world countries and the U.S.?"

"Especially South America and California."
"What do they make?"
"OxyGene's AgriChem Division manufactures carbofuran. It's
a widely used carbamate insecticide and nematocide that's been
detected in groundwater. They also make three herbicides.
Atrazine, simazine, and metolachlor."
"What's their company line on groundwater contamination?"
"Representatives have stated that the detection of pesticide
residues in groundwater doesn't necessarily constitute

contamination."
"Sounds like corporate double-talk. It's there, but it's
not."
"It's their view that detectable levels of certain
chemicals in water doesn't necessarily mean that the water is
contaminated. That it's not potable."
"Drinkable?"
"They point out that acceptable residue levels for
pesticides in food have been established by the federal
government. So they ask why such levels can't be established for
pesticide residues in water."
"So, if the concentration isn't strong enough to kill you
outright it's okay? Even though it's been proven that the
chemicals will stay in the body until they do kill you. So,
they're basically washing their hands of responsibility then?"
"Not entirely. None of the companies have forgotten about
Bhopal. They are aware of corporate liability."
"To the tune of 2500 dead, 40,000 injured, and 6 million

dollars in damages."
"They are trying to become more aware of the environmental
factors that could help transport their products into the ground
water."
"So, they're beginning to regulate themselves, as long as
it's cost-effective?"
"You see, part of the problem here, as usual, is a legal
one. It's hard to believe, but the law assumes you have the
right to pollute if you can show some benefit."

"Let's talk about that for a moment. Litigation and
liability. You've said that most major aquifers have taken
thousands of years to form. And that the undergroundwater in
those aquifers doesn't flow too swiftly or too far. Which makes
them vulnerable to permanent contamination; from a variety of
sources. How long might it be before the contamination is
discovered?"
"It may not be recognized until decades later. Contamination
may have been caused by industrial dumping several decades
earlier and many miles away. By the time the contamination was
discovered, the offending source may have disappeared, and the
geology and hydrologic patterns in the immediate area may have
changed."
"What about assessing responsibility for polluting ground
water?"
"In the past, the only way the government could no anything
about groundwater contamination was to take court action or use
superfund monies. But suing companies for polluting aquifers

twenty, or even thirty years ago, was difficult and expensive.
Extensive and costly geologic and hydrologic studies had to be
conducted. The cost of proving that X corporation caused Y
pollution could easily run into hundreds of thousands of dollars.
Establishing proximate cause was often very difficult."
"And the slow movement of the water made locating the source
of contamination, beyond a reasonable doubt, extremely difficult,
if not impossible?"
"Difficult, but not impossible."

DISSOLVE:

THEME #6: "White Line Fever"
26 EXT. SAN JOAQUIN VALLEY - ESTABLISHING SHOT
AERIAL SHOT. Time-lapse photography speeds us along the spine of

the valley.
JOAN DIDION (V.O.)

When you say "the Valley" in Los Angeles,
most people assume that you mean the San
Fernando Valley. Some people actually assume
you mean Warner Brothers. But make no
mistake, we are talking not about the valley
of the sound stages and the ranchettes, but
about the real Valley. The Central Valley.
The fifty thousand square miles drained by
the Sacramento and the San Joaquin Rivers and
further irrigated by a complex network of
sloughs, cutoffs, and ditches. The Delta-
Mendota and Friant-Kern Canals.
27 MEDIUM SHOT
GROUND LEVEL of flat, two-lane blacktop. There are mirages

in the distance. Heat simmers on the surface.
Robert Penn Warren was writing about another

place, but he described this one as well when
he wrote: "You look up the highway and it is
straight for miles, coming at you, with the
black line down the center coming at you and
at you. . . and the heat dazzles up from the
white slab so that only the black line is
clear, coming at you with the whine of the
tires, and if you don't quit staring at that
line and don't take a few deep breaths and
slap yourself hard on the back of the neck
you'll hypnotize yourself."
HOLD LONG SHOT.
Over rise in road you can see someone slowly come into view. It
is JOAN DIDION.
JOAN DIDION
The landscape it runs through never, to the

untrained eye, varies. It gets hot here. So
hot that August comes on not like a month,
but like an affliction. All day long, all
that moves is the sun and the big Rainbird
sprinklers.
DISSOLVE
28 MONTAGE
Shots of Central Valley towns.
DIDION (V.O.)
To a stranger driving highway 99 in air-
conditioned isolation, these towns must seem
so flat, so impoverished, as to drain the
imagination. They hint at evenings spent
hanging around gas stations, and suicide
pacts sealed in drive-ins.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
There is something in the Valley mind that

reflects a real indifference to the mobile
stranger. A failure to perceive even his
presence, let alone his thoughts or wants.
An implacable insularity is the seal of these
towns.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
They think alike and they look alike. I can

tell Ralston from Mendota only because I have
visited there, gone to dances there.
Besides, there is over the main street of
Ralston, an arched sign which reads: 'WHERE
THE LAND OWNS THE WATER'. There is no such
sign in Mendota.

THEME #7: "White Winds"
29 MONTAGE
Shots showing current uses of groundwater.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
Groundwater is one of America's most valuable
and plentiful natural resources. We drink,
bathe in, grow and cook our food with this
liquid. It's absolutely essential to life

and to our agricultural and economic
sustenance.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
Groundwater makes up 96 percent of our total

freshwater resource. Underground aquifers
supply drinking water for 117 million
Americans. About half the population.
Nearly 95 percent of the nation's rural
population depends on well water. 34 major
cities rely entirely on groundwater. Wells
also supply water for food processing,
irrigation, livestock, and industry.
30 MONTAGE
Shots of contamination. Open ponds, leaking barrels of toxic

material.
Just when our reliance on groundwater for

pure drinking water and other economic
activities is increasing, so is its
contamination. At a distressing rate. Clean
groundwater is being seriously threatened by
overuse, indiscriminate dumping of hazardous
wastes, improper disposal, and the use of
toxic degreasing agents in septic tanks.
31 EXT. VALLEY - MEDIUM SHOT
MARC REISNER stands in the middle of a grassy meadow.
MARC REISNER
In the late 1800s, most of the San Joaquin
Valley was still a vista of wild blond
grassland and wheat.
DISSOLVE:
32 MONTAGE
B&W historical stills depicting growth of California agriculture,

including early irrigation, Central Valley Project, and
California Water Project.
A few parts of the valley had been privately

reclaimed by farmers and irrigation districts
rich enough to build small dams. Before the
federal government got into the business of
building dams, these farmers used groundwater
for irrigation.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
Then came cheap oil, electricity, and the

motorized centrifugal pump. The farmers
began pumping in the finest California
tradition. Which is to say, as if tomorrow
would never come.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
End with shots of Central Valley Project

under construction. The farmers pumped it
out so relentlessly that by the 1930s, the
state's biggest industry was threatened with
collapse. The growers had such a
stranglehold on the legislature that they
convinced it, in the depths of the
Depression, to authorize a huge water
project--by far the largest in the world--to
rescue them from their own greed.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
Shots of finished CVP.
Today, the Central Valley Project is still

the most mind-boggling public works project
on five continents.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
Shots of State Water Project under construction.
In the 1960s, the state built its own

project, which was nearly as large.
33 EXT. FARMLAND
Shots of land irrigated by groundwater pumped from underground

wells.
The projects brought into production far more

land than they had water to supply. So the
growers had to supplement their surface water
with tens of thousands of wells. As a
result, groundwater overdraft, instead of
getting better, got worse.
34 EXT. SIGN - MEDIUM CLOSE UP

California Water Project sign on Delta-

Mendota canal. Farmers could get more money
by irrigating new land, so they did. And
they took the water from wherever they could
get it. Out of the ground, or out of canals.
35 EXT. - MEDIUM CLOSE UP
Pump pumps groundwater into irrigation ditches.
And there doesn't seem to be any end in

sight. In California, there's absolutely no
regulation over groundwater pumping. And it
doesn't look like there will be any for many
years to come. The farmers dislike the idea.
And, in California, "the farmers" are the
likes of Exxon, Tenneco, and Getty Oil.
36 MONTAGE
Shots of small and large farms in the Central Valley.
The way the landlocked groundwater farmers

see it, they're competing with amply supplied
neighbors. State attempts to regulate
groundwater bring out farmers bearing
pitchforks. The growers say regulation or
changing crops is not the answer. More dams
are. Once they get subsidized water, the
pumpers say they will lay off the aquifer.
But until then, don't expect any changes in
their pumping habits.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
Some of the smaller farmers, especially those

without a reliable source of water from dams
or groundwater, would like to see a sharing
of the wealth. But changing water rights
laws to accomplish that would drastically
alter the distribution of wealth in
California society. And that won't happen
without a fight.
37 EXT. PUMPING WATER
Shots of water being pumped into fields lying near the delta.
The pumping of groundwater can't go on for

much longer. First of all, the water is
running out. Already some Valley wells near
the Delta yield salt water.
38 EXT. GROUND - CLOSE UP
Shots of ground caving in.
And, on the west side of the Central Valley,

there are holes in the ground. Places where
the ground has caved in. One is 28 feet
deep. All the groundwater below it has been
pumped out. It's gone. You can't pump it
back in. The earth settles. And it simply
slumps.
39 ANIMATION
Computer-generated imagery sequence showing salt-water intrusion.
What's worse is that the valley's ancient

saltwater aquifer could eventually spread.
Fresh-water aquifers serve as buffers against
salty water. If the fresh-water aquifer is
reduced by overdrafting, the salt water will
fill the partial vacuum. The remaining fresh
water will become more saline, until it's
made undrinkable by humans and useless for
agriculture.
40 EXT. - EXTREME CLOSE UP OF PUMPS.
Finally, energy is running out. It doesn't

take much electricity to pump water from 35
feet. But 140 feet is a different story. So
the farmers just drill deeper, pay for more
electricity, and make up the difference when
they sell the water-intensive, cash-intensive
crop.
41 MONTAGE
Shots of fresh water pouring out of taps for various

personal and business uses.
The groundwater being pumped and polluted is

as nonrenewable as oil. And yet, the same
fresh water supply we rely on, is facing a
triple threat that we, in our avarice and
short-sightedness have created. Salt,
Overdraft, and Pollution.

At what was once the main entrance, there is a large wooden
sign, very much like the thousands of other signs that mark state
and national parks. But there's something unusual about the sign
and this place. The white sideboard ranger's station is empty
and boarded up. There are shotgun and .22 holes peppering its
facade; the object of bored target practice. The main gate is
padlocked with a huge, forged steel chain. The sign itself has
been stripped. Like the uniform of a soldier who's been
court-martialed; stripped of rank. Like his uniform, the sign
shows sun and weather-faded outlines of insignias, for the state,
the BuRec, and the Department of Interior, that have been
removed. Though the letters have been taken away, the name is
still indelibly stained into the wood by the weather. The
letters say: "Welcome to the Masterson Wildlife Refuge."
A square blue and white sign, standing near the gate,
features a drawing of a duck in full, spread-winged flight. It
also displays a warning. "Unauthorized Entry Prohibited."
Behind it, the swamp grass stretches away to an ominously low

horizon. There will be a surprise summer's storm today.
The intense sunlight reflects off the shallow water. The
golden light scatters across the shallow water, tranquil and
serene, the lily pads, and the marsh grass, then glances off the
vermilion greens of the few ducks flying across the dusky sky.
This was once a thousand-acre refuge. It is now only cattail
marshes, bulrushes, and reeds.
Behind me, the light silhouettes the coast range in the
telephoto distance, hiding behind shimmering heat waves. The

grasslands of the flat valley wave lightly in the wake of a
summer's breeze. A big rig cuts through the middle of the scene,
highballing it from Fresno to San Francisco.
There was a time when you could witness the cycle of life
here. Migrating down the American flyway, mallard, gadwall, and
pintail ducks used to blacken the winter's sky. Avocets and
shorebirds also wintered here. But the children of the future
will never see it again.
In the summer it's quiet here. In the winter, it's eerie.
Through the thick tule fog, two single headlights cut a path.
The riders on each ATV work for the Fish and Wildlife Service.
They dismount and slowly slide a boat out into the waters. The
muted colors and the long shot of them sitting in their boat,
reminds one of a Turner or Vermeer. As they sit, in the moist
cottony quiet, something suddenly blasts out of one of their
hands, trailing fire through the mist. The spiraling black smoke
traces the trajectory of the hand rocket.
Along the bank, there are more of them. They wear brown
coats and brown hats, drab and colorless as the winter's ground
surrounding the refuge. Some wear surgeon's masks, to block out
the stench they say, but they're really thinking it'll probably
protect them from the poison. Some wear airline headphones to
block out the noise. They all carry weapons. Some stand near
FWS pickup trucks, others near squat amphibious vehicles.
One slowly cleans the barrel, plunging the ramrod in and
out. He drops in a red-encased cartridge, snaps it shut.
Holding it low against the inside of his elbow, he levels and

fires. It skips across the surface once--an ordnance
flatrock--then it dives below the surface. It explodes,
imploding in a plume of water. A flock of startled coots
straggles into the sky. He breaks open the barrel, discards the
cartridge, and loads another. A second protector holds something
that looks like a handgun. It's smaller. What looks like a
"Whistling Pete" protrudes from the barrel. And when it's fired,
that's what it sounds like.
These men are trying to save the wildlife by scaring it away.
And I've traveled to this stink hole to see what
smells and why.
A few years ago, some of the duck hunters around Masterson began
talking to some university biologists about a change in the birds.
Many seemed sick. So weak they couldn't float. So weak they simply
drowned. The hunters thought the birds were being killed by field
runoff filled with fertilizers and pesticides. The farmers and the
farm lobby told them to stick it up their collective asses. Then the
biologists found out what it was. It was selenium, a trace mineral

that can be toxic in small doses.
There's a lot of selenium concentrated in the soil of the
southern Coast Range. It's washed down from the edges of the
valley by rain and irrigation. The water can't percolate through
the layer of clay below the soil, so it sits there, like water in
a giant bath tub. The selenium stays in solution. The algae eat
the selenium. Fish and waterfowl eat the algae. Then, maybe,
people eat the fish and birds. At each step in the food chain,
the selenium concentration multiplies. Up to 50 or 100 times.

And the more concentrated, the more lethal.
The battle between the hunters--backed strangely enough by
the environmentalists--and the farmers--backed by the water and
petro-chemical lobbies--raged for a while. Then it died down.
Then the birds at Masterson stopped spawning. And the ones that
did had dead or deformed chicks.
The scientist wades in thigh-high hip boots, slogging
through a swampy layer of algae and decomposed debris that floats
on the surface. As he moves, the mucilaginous material swirls
and congeals around his legs, revealing the brackish water below.
He stops and reaches down. His gloved hand gingerly picks up,
then holds up, a young duck, limply dead. Its eyes are gone. He
adds it to his collection of gross deformities, missing wings,
misshapen beaks, and swollen heads.
Selenium sparked the controversy. It got people to look at
Masterson closely for the first time. The closer they looked,
the more they found. Over-irrigating was bad enough. It wasted
precious water and flushed selenium out of the soil. But the
west side farmers were also misusing chemicals. Fertilizers,
pesticides, and herbicides. They were polluting the wetlands
with more than salt and selenium. The worst offenders seemed to
be the farmers growing cotton and wine grapes.
During irrigation, as water flows from field to field, it
picks ups salts, herbicides, pesticides; whatever's in the soil.
The plants absorb the water and leave the rest. And when it gets
real hot--and it does in the valley--the good water goes up, the
bad goes down. It collects on the layer of clay. It then

becomes what hydrologists call, "perched water." The more
that goes down, the more concentrated it becomes. Then, as the
farmers irrigate, it starts to rise. And the more they irrigate,
the higher it rises. If it's not drained off, it eventually
reaches the plant roots. By then, the salts and poisons are so
concentrated it kills the plant.
Here and there, across the valley, the bad water has reached
the surface, killing every living thing. All that's left is bare
ground. No plants. Not even weeds. Just bare ground newly
dusted with what looks like snow. Thousands of acres, chalky
white. It's salt. Bleached ground beneath a bleached sky. It's
nature's way.
The west side farming combines tried to ease the dual
problem of selenium and pesticide contamination by draining the
bad water off their fields and into a larger drain called the
Tranquility Canal.
Torrenting out of the drainage pipe is a cascading waterfall
of rusty smelling, dirty looking water. As it drops into the

runoff canal, it looks like the inside of a washing machine in
mid-cycle. Billowing piles of white, fluffy, agitated, "sudsy"
water collects on the surface.
The drain was built to carry the bad water out of the valley
and eventually into the San Francisco Bay. Out of sight and,
... Well, you know the rest of that saying.
But there's a few problems. Major problems. First, the
canal's not done. Instead, it dead-ends into Masterson, turning
the refuge into a giant evaporation pond for the ag runoff. And
what is done leaks. Over half of the drain water percolates
down. And on this trip, there's no clay to stop it. So it seeps
into the fresh water aquifer lying directly below. The aquifer
that just happens to supply fresh drinking water for most of the
San Joaquin Valley.
So until the holes are plugged and the canal's completed,
the drain water is simply dumped into a man-made swamp. A swamp
named Masterson.
And Masterson isn't an isolated case. The factory farms are
trying to do it again. This time in the Tulare Lake basin.
They've built huge ponds for collecting and evaporating
mineral-laden water from underground drains.
The west side farmers don't want to hear it, but the fact is
that a lot of their land just shouldn't be irrigated because of
the selenium and the salt. The costs and the risks are far
greater than any possible benefits realized from cultivating that
land. And there will be more--costs and risks--when it comes
time to fund the clean-up.

So far, the recommendations proposed, according to one
expert, "are too costly to be economically feasible, too
dangerous, or too politically, socially, or environmentally
unacceptable."
The director of the Bureau of Reclamation, the agency in
charge of cleaning up Masterson, has been asked about the
possibility they may build a drain running from the valley to
Point Pinos near the Monterey Coast. The BuRec has already
purchased the land along the right of way. The director denies
it, adding, "We've considered it among other alternatives."
Another option, the so-called "Wetflex" plan, recommends
flooding Masterson with clean water. The experts think they can
immobilize the selenium with fresh, non-seleniferous water.
Still another has scientists introducing microbes into the
soil that supposedly can metabolize the selenium.
The latest recommends removal of the poisonous soils. They
want to bulldoze the top six inches and dump it into a
plastic-lined, forty-five acre landfill. It's estimated that
such a procedure will cost over 25 million dollars.
The Westlands League initiated the Murrieta Selenium Removal
Project with funds from their members. They embarked on a 6.6
million dollar pilot plan and placed another 5 million in a trust
fund to deal with the problem in the future. And they want to be
congratulated for taking the lead in cleaning up a problem that,
if they didn't start it, they certainly aggravated it.
It's predicted that water managers and agriculture managers
will still be dealing with the pollution and drainage problems

one hundred years from now.
CHAPTER 6
From shadows and symbols into the truth.

-- John Henry, Cardinal Newman
As darkness gives way to light,

so confusion precedes clarity.
The responsibility of today's
communicators is clear.
To peer deeply into the
shadows. To explain the symbols.
And so illuminate the truth.
-- Westinghouse Broadcasting Company, Inc.
The Calafia Institute is located in San Mateo County, along
Skyline Boulevard, in the hills above Redwood City, skirting property
owned by Stanford University. Its roughened redwood buildings are
scattered among groves of pine, redwood, and eucalyptus, with views
of the entire San Francisco peninsula to the east and, on clear days,
the Pacific Ocean to the west. It is a "think tank," one of the
newest and most controversial in the nation. The Institute, like the
state, was named for the Amazon queen who ruled a mythical treasure
island sought by the Spanish. The Institute was dedicated to
defining the state--and state of mind--known as California. It was
also the site of one of five regional supercomputer centers
established in 1985 by the National Science Foundation. The driver
for this engine of change was a four-processor Cray -MP/48
supercomputer.
One group at the Institute, the Water Sciences Division, had
done a great deal of research on pesticides and groundwater
contamination. It had performed analytical work to identify water
contaminants and modeling studies of the fate and movement of

chemicals in water. Another division, the AgriChemical Center, had
conducted market research and business studies of pesticide use in
agriculture. The activities of yet another entity are a little less
well known. The division known as "The Third Wave."
Because the human brain is exquisitely adept at picking up
visual clues, the founders of The Institute recognized early on the
benefits to be gained from computer-aided insights. They knew that
scientists, finding themselves lost in a maze of data, were suddenly
realizing, "I can compute more than I can comprehend." The Institute
decided to capitalize on an innovative way to show them the road to
comprehension. They determined to turn their numbers into images.
That's when they established The Wave. John Whitney, Senior, a
pioneer in synthetic imaging, founded the division and managed it
until just before his death. Several years later his son, John
Whitney, Junior, was recruited to continue his work.
During the past few years, The Wave had been very successful at
obtaining grants and funding for a wide variety of projects. Though
it remained a profit center, the simulator division was no longer
relied upon to generate most of the revenue for the entire operation.
As a result, The Institute embarked in a new direction to explore new
territories. Dismayed by political, cultural, and societal
developments around the world, they decided to concentrate on the
future; to use their skills and technology to prophesize the future;
to create possible scenarios and design strategies to predict those
trends. Though they were considered futurists, they preferred to

call themselves "imagineers," and dubbed what they did
"imagineering." Mystics had always claimed that reality is a state
of mind. The Imagineers intended to make it a state of the art.
John Whitney, Jr., later wrote that the best way to understand
their work was to recall "The Simile of the Cave," in which Plato
discussed the concepts of Belief and Illusion with his pupil Glaucon.
Whitney could best correlate the simile by substituting the cinema
for the cave.
Plato began with the moral and intellectual condition of the
average man. Though he made it clear that the ordinary man knows the
difference between substance and shadow in the physical world, his
simile suggests that man's moral and intellectual opinions often bear
as little resemblance to the truth as the average film does to real
life.
Plato wrote:
"I want you to go on to picture the enlightenment or ignorance
of our human conditions somewhat as follows. Imagine an underground
chamber, like a cave with an entrance open to the daylight and
running a long way underground. In this chamber are men who have
been prisoners there since they were children, their legs and necks
being so fastened that they can only look straight ahead of them and
cannot turn their heads. Behind them and above them a fire is
burning, and between the fire and the prisoners runs a road, in front
of which a curtain-wall has been built, like the screen at puppet

shows between the operators and their audience, above which they show
their puppets."
"I see."
"Imagine further that there are men carrying all sorts of gear
along behind the curtain-wall, including figures of men and animals
made of wood and stone and other materials, and that some of these
men, as is natural, are talking and some not."
"An odd picture and an odd sort of prisoner."
"They are drawn from life," I replied. "For, tell me, do you
think our prisoners could see anything of themselves or their fellows
except the shadows thrown by the fire on the wall of the cave
opposite them?"
"How could they see anything else if they were prevented from
moving their heads all their lives?"
"And would they see anything more of the objects carried along
the road?"
"Of course not."
"Then if they were able to talk to each other, would they not
assume that the shadows they saw were real things?"
"Inevitably."
"And if the wall of their prison opposite them reflected sound,
don't you think that they would suppose, whenever one of the passers-
by on the road spoke, that the voice belonged to the shadow passing
before them?"
"They would be bound to think so."

"And so they would believe that the shadows of the objects we
mentioned were in all respects real."
"Yes, inevitably."
That was the task of the imagineers. To predict the substance
by projecting the shadows.
Where they work, the inner sanctum, is called The Bunker,
because it's located below ground, in a light and temperature
sensitive environment. It's not unlike the hi-tech labs used to
manufacture silicon chips. In this controlled environment, there is
not a speck of dust. The occupants must shower and put on sanitized
uniforms before entering. The uniforms also mask their identity.
The director doesn't want to risk loss of data through contamination
or conspiracy.
All that is known, and that only through personnel records,
purchase orders, and equipment requisitions, is the type of people
and hardware that occupy this electronic bunker. They are mostly
electrical engineers, computer programmers, and simulation experts.
Many had once worked in the Silicon Valley, for technology and
defense contractors like Lockheed, GTE/Lenkurt, Singer, and General
Dynamics. Some had pioneered new technologies while working on the
various planetary flybys monitored at the Jet Propulsion Lab and the
California Institute of Technology. Some had come from the world of
advertising and broadcast television, having worked for computer
imaging companies like Evans and Sutherland, Robert Abel and

Associates, Cranston/Csuri, Information International, Inc., Pacific
Data Images, Magi/Synthavision, and Industrial Light and Magic. It
was a who's who of the best in synthetic imaging and simulation;
"renaissance teams" of scientists, artists, and computer
professionals dabbling in the realms of hyper-reality and artificial
intelligence. Their equipment included high-speed computers and
imaging devices by manufacturers such as Link, Singer, Pixar,
Cubicomp, Wave Technologies, and Aurora.
Hero and guru to many inside The Wave was teacher and
philosopher Herbert Zettl. His ruminations on "the eternity of the
moment," the power of the simultaneous experience of the event,
inspired these conjurers.
Some of the unrepentant Woodstock degenerates working there
liked to get stoned and enjoy some of their own hot-rodded programs
of music and image. They said it was better than the movie "Altered
States."
In the quiet bustle of number crunching, these mathematicians
plotted complex equations on computer-graphics terminals, while the
Cray translated numbers and symbols into form and color. They worked
at both the microscopic and telescopic; the atom and the universe.
To sketch the shape of the future, the imagineers relied on image
processing software developed by Benoit B. Mandelbrot at IBM's Thomas
J. Watson Research Center in Yorktown Heights, New York. Known as
"fractal geometry," or "fractals"--short for "fractional dimension
analysis"--derived from the Latin adjective "fractus," meaning

irregular or fragmented, they were geometric objects, points, planes,
and cubes. Their intricate organic shapes modeled nature's complex
forms and processes. A designer could mimic any natural event by
blending in fractals to bridge the chasm between order and chaos.
The imagineers spent much of their time dabbling with
"artificial reality." Because the cost of computers had plummeted
and the quality of high-definition video displays and digital audio
had skyrocketed, the imaging devices created and manipulated here
were quite realistic; quite capable of creating a "real-time"
interactive environment and placing the participant inside it.
The Wave had designed the original simulator for the space
shuttle and a number of other "reality environments" for the jets,
bombers, and tanks that were far too expensive to lose if a trainee
screwed up. They had designed and fabricated entertainment
environments for EPCOT, the French Disneyland, and entertainment
complexes for resorts from Cancun to Kona, Tokyo to Rio. They had
also created excitingly complex special effects for feature films.
A regular customer was Elliot Lincoln. In fact, one
particularly powerful piece of equipment in regular use had been
funded and designed by Elliot's own staff of engineers. "Fractus"
was able to produce high-resolution, three-dimensional color pictures
two hundred times faster than the advanced minicomputers previously
used.
One of their most successful magic lanterns was something called
the "Virtual Environment Workstation." Co-developed with NASA, this

twelve-pound helmet resembled a white Bell motorcycle helmet with a
flat, bolted plate in front of the eyes. It completely enveloped the
head, covering both ears with stereo speakers and both eyes with
flat, 3-D, high-resolution (HDTV) screens. Sensors embedded within
the helmet detected which way the image within the environment was
moving and then automatically, and instantaneously, changed the aural
and visual perspective of the percipient to match. The helmets were
used primarily during early training sessions for Skylab astronauts
to replicate space walks and exterior repair work. The engineers
also experimented with applications in other experiences and
disciplines dependent exclusively on sight and sound, like air
traffic control situations.
The Wave had also created true interactive simulations for
hospitals, police forces, and the army; to re-create crisis
situations. When attached to touch-screens or any type of outboard
device, whether a gun shooting laser beam bullets or a plastic human
body, police officers could be put in the middle of a robbery, or a
physician could learn what it was like to lose a patient dying from a
shotgun wound. In addition to imaging devices and environments, The
Wave had applied their skills and technology to designing
sophisticated computerized editing systems for audio and video. A
logical spin-off that generated additional revenue.
All work at The Institute was closely-guarded; most it
classified, some even top-secret. Access to all areas was restricted
and required a security clearance. But everything within The Wave

was absolutely confidential. Only those doing the work knew the
nature of it and even then they often knew only bits and pieces.
Just the key executive officers of The Institute were privy to
everything. Because, in this case, a little knowledge could be both
dangerous and lucrative. It could even change the world.
The imagineers at The Institute had been laboring over one
particular simulation for several weeks. They had been contracted by
the state Assembly Office of Research to visualize some of the trends
described in their report: "California 2000: Paradise in Peril."
But the managers of the imaging division asked their people to read
between the lines. To extrapolate. To imagine some "worse-case
scenarios."
GRAPHIC DESIGN AND LAYOUT WILL CLEARLY IDENTIFY THIS SECTION AS A

SCENARIO DESIGNED BY THE INSTITUTE. IT MAY BE DESIGNED AS STORYBOARD
OR COMIC BOOK PANELS.
The slate fills the screen. With each key click, another line
of information is completed.
SCENARIO: #880603
CLIENT: INTERNAL
ENGINEER: D. MACRITCHIE
STATUS: IN-PROGRESS
CLASSIFICATION: PRIORITY
DATE: 06/03/88
TRT: TBD
WORKING TITLE: "THE FLATLANDER"
WHEN: Sometime in the not too distant future.
WHERE: Somewhere in California's Central Valley.
LOCATIONS/PLACE NAMES:
The Flatlands--The endlessly flat, dry remains of what was
once the world's most fertile agricultural valley. Now it is a land
inhabited by dust devils, concrete and blacktopped roads leading
nowhere, ceaseless expanses of chalky white,
salt-encrusted earth, empty canals, dry riverbeds, and the
skeletal remains of once great cities. These are The Flatlands, the
heartland of the late, great state of mind once known as California.
Watertown--A small town in the heart of the Flatlands. On
either side of the main road into town are the remains of an
archway, an "iron rainbow," that once spanned the road. Split in
half, they now bookend the road in their disrepair. To the left,
half buried in sand, the sign reads, "Where the Land". To the
right, the remainder reads, "Owns the Water." A broken reminder
of a hollow dream. It is here that The Flatlander was born and
raised.
The City--The city that was once San Francisco. It is
now the only trading port on the West Coast, shipping food,
supplies, and people to the rest of the planet. The City is
controlled by The Vigilantes.
The Big One--A series of cataclysmic events that occurred
simultaneously. Several years of continuous drought, brought

about by movement of the polar icepack, the phenomenon known as
"El Nino," combined with a series of natural disasters,
including a string of small earthquakes, and a number of
environmental anomalies created by man--including acid rain,
ground water contamination, and the "Greenhouse Effect"--
precipitated an incredible rebellion by Mother Earth, almost as
if she, like a snake, were shedding her dead skin. A massive and
devastating earthquake sheared off parts of California and
Florida, opening up huge chasms and canyons in the Earth's
surface. Dead rivers suddenly flooded their banks, destroying
everything in their path, before they simply dried up again.
Plants and trees shriveled and died. The rains stopped. There
was no water. Without water, there was no food. And then there
was famine and disease.
Water Districts--After The Big One, all centralized
government broke down. What government remained was divided into
small water districts. In a time when the source of power
derived from the control of water, the seat of government resided
in a loose collection of water districts, carved out of what was
once the United States of America. Ruling each is a Territorial
Chairman.
Boom Town--A mining town located in The Foothills that rim
The Flatlands. The town supplies miners and workers who re-build
and maintain the dams destroyed during The Big One.
The Center--In the time before The Big One, The Center moved
more water farther than had ever been moved anywhere. They used
to manipulate the flow by remote control from this room in
Sacramento with its big board and its flashing lights. Driving
the system was a Univac Series 904.
The Univac never died. It waited. It stood ready, programmed
to resume its duties. It survived. So did much of the
infrastructure, the canals and conduits, the sensors and metering
devices. Much of what didn't was easily repaired. The League was
soon in absolute, total control of the most precious
commodity in The Flatlands: cool, clear water.
The climax of this scenario will take place here. The
Flatlander, leading an assault force, will storm The Center in an
attempt to liberate it, and the water it controls, from The
League.
CHARACTER SKETCHES:
The Flatlander--Though born to wealth and influence, he chose
to become a member of law enforcement. He is a Field Marshal for
the Mendota Water District, the largest water district in The
Flatlands, headquartered in Watertown. It's his job to
enforce district law and that means punishing those who steal or
abuse water. And that means he works, if not in name, certainly
in fact, for The League.
Approaching middle-age and disillusioned, he can see the
inevitability of change. He abandons his birthright to battle
the arrogance, abuse and disregard of people's rights and basic

humanity perpetuated by the privileged.
The Mole--Sancho Panza to The Flatlander. Alchemist and
computer hacker. He is one of The Mole People. A binary bandit,
he spends most of his time at his computing apparatus, snuffling
through the dark labyrinths of information.
The Commodore--President and Chief Executive Officer of
AgriChem, the most powerful agrichemical conglomerate before--and
now after The Big One. The portrait of elegant malevolence, he
is leader of The League; a commodore of a land-locked navy on a
sea of sand.
Unknown to the other, he and The Flatlander are brothers—Cain
and Abel.
Daedalus--A genetic engineer in the employ of AgriChem. The
archetypal artist-scientist, he is dedicated to building the
ultimate fighting machine. It is his mission to genetically
engineer a race of superhuman mutants to serve as the mercenary
army for The League.
Creole Tattoo--Born to Cajun and Japanese parents, she is
proprietoress of the local "Attitude Adjustment Parlor". Though
mistress to The Commodore, she is in love with The Flatlander.
She is also the secret leader of a band of environmental
terrorists known as The Muirs. She sleeps with The Commodore for
information and with The Flatlander for love.
Fremont--Right-hand man to The Commodore. A soldier of
fortune, he's a man of war. He lives to take orders; to simply

do his job. He leads The Barnestormers.
The League--An alliance of water barons, agrichemical
companies, and factory farms. They run huge, hi-tech,
water-intensive, hydroponic factory farms. They supply most of
the remaining world with food supplies.
Following The Big One, the western territories again became an
untamed frontier. The maker and enforcer of the "territorial
common law" was The League. They used their money, power, and
influence to gain absolute and complete control of all sources of
water in California. That meant rivers, dams, canals, and the
infrastructure that controlled the entire system. Most of this
was already in place before The Big One, courtesy of the State
Department of Water Resources and The Central Valley Water
Project--the most ambitious water project ever attempted by
a single state in modern history. From the seat of their power--
what was once the Operations Control Center for the California
State Water Project--they manipulate the flow of water.
AgriChem--An agrichemical conglomerate that supplies all the
necessary pesticides, herbicides, and chemicals to run an
energy-intensive agriculture. It represents the faceless legions
of corporate chemistry.
The Barnestormers--A band of mercenaries and free-lance
gunslingers. Some survived The Big One, physically bruised and
mentally damaged. Others were created in the labs of Daedalus.
Havenots--Roving bands of homeless people, mostly Asian or

Chicano. They carry what belongings they have in burned-out car
bodies. They live in cardboard boxes. Many are derelicts,
having succumbed to the cheap, overproof ghetto wines produced
before The Big One. Because most of these wines were more
chemical than grape, cases and cases of it still exist in the
basements of burned-out liquor stores. Each time a cache is
discovered, the derelicts get tanked up and begin a rampage of
looting and killing.
The Muirs--A band of water pirates and ecological storm
troopers. They live in, and defend, a labyrinth of tunnels that
once was a rapid transit system. Now abandoned and empty, it is
easily defended. They rob from the water-rich and give to the
water-poor, and punish those who continue to pollute what is left
of the Earth's natural resources.
The Institute--A shadowy, monastic order of Puppetmasters.
They use high-speed super computers and ultra-sophisticated
imaging devices to create possible future scenarios. They try to
visualize the future and then set events in motion to achieve or
subvert that vision. They are neither good nor bad. They simply
are.
The Mole People--A race of near-sighted engineers and
software programmers who live in the empty warehouses and opulent
corporate headquarters that once housed the semiconductor
industry in Silicon Valley. Their power is their access to
information and their ability to make computers work so people

can communicate.
The Vigilantes--The members of the New Committee of
Vigilance, they control The City. They were once the ruling
elite of San Francisco; bankers, stock brokers, Presidents and
Chief Executive Officers of major corporations. Those with
sufficient money sequestered away and enough street smarts to
survive The Big One, re-surfaced to monopolize trade and run the
West Coast.
Serious Moonlight--A blind Mi Wok Indian shaman and conjurer
who lives in the foothills near Boomtown. The Flatlander visits
him to have dreams and omens interpreted. He is to The
Flatlander what Merlin was to King Arthur.
The Deacon--A former telejournalist and video gunslinger, he
leads The Holy Modal Rounders.
The Holy Modal Rounders--A fledging, fanatical religious
order that believes in the sanctity and purifying power of
synthesized, heavy-metal rock and roll. They intend to overthrow
The League. Their seat of power is the Mormon Temple in the
hills above what was once Oakland. They have installed a massive
synthesizer, reputed to heal the sick and crippled. The Temple
is also the head-end of a small, but growing, electronic
ministry. Many former members of The Barnestormers have found
sanctuary and spiritual peace here.
Hyena--A seven-foot, albino half-breed, he is the keeper of
the "Olympian laugh"; court jester to Serious Moonlight.

BREAK POINT IN SCENARIO:
The engineer at The Institute detected the intruder because he
saw strange footprints in the system. Instead of shutting him out,
he set a trap. It backfired. The interloper was good. Very good.
He had anticipated every snare and left his own booby trap behind
once he exited the system. The logic bomb was tripped by the trap
itself. He could hear the laughter as it exploded and began
shuffling through the data.

CHAPTER 7
The way to learn any game is to play for more than you can
afford to lose.
-- Author Unknown
The present is the only thing that has no end.

-- Erwin Schrodinger
In Sacramento, near the State Capitol, is a building housing
the Operations Control Center of the Department of Water
Resources. Inside, a computer quietly manipulates the movement
of California's most vital resource: water. This is a serious
place. There is no nonsense here. After all, these people are
doing nothing less than determining the future of California.
This "hydrologic ballet," as it has been dubbed, controls the
wealth, and thus the power, of this entire state.
To enter the control room of the State Water Project is like
entering the nerve center of NASA in Houston, or master control

at ABC in New York. Lights, flashing buttons, display panels,
print-outs, monitors, sensors, computers; and the people who run
and watch each one.
DISSOLVE:

THEME #8: "Swan Lake"/"Fountains of Rome"
42 INT. OCC - ESTABLISHING SHOT
HIGH ANGLE WIDE SHOT of Operations Control Center. JOAN DIDION

enters frame and begins to speak.
JOAN DIDION
I am a native Californian. And a worshiper
of water. This is the Operations Control
Center for the California State Water Project
in Sacramento. What they do here is move
water. Lots of it. More water farther than

has ever been moved anywhere.
43 EXT. RIVER CANYONS - ESTABLISHING SHOT
WIDE SHOT OF granite canyons of the Estanislao River. Shots of

rock and river.
DIDION (V.O.)
Water collects in the granite keeps of the
Sierra Nevada. It races toward the ocean in
the riverbeds of the Estanislao, the Eel, the
Snake. Trillions of gallons of it are stored
behind dams named Oroville, Hetch Hetchy, and
Jamestown.
44 MONTAGE
Shots of dispatch sequence. Dispatchers receiving incoming

calls. Shots of allocation process.
And, every morning, down at Project

headquarters in Sacramento, they decide how
much of their water they want to move the
next day. They make this decision according
to supply and demand. Simple in theory, more
difficult in practice.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
Intercut shots of field dispatch sequence. Close with shot of

gates opening to release water. Watch water rushing into
irrigation ditches and then into rows between plants.
In theory, each morning, each of the

Project's five field divisions--the Oroville,
the Delta, the San Luis, the San Joaquin, and
the Southern divisions--places a call to
headquarters. They tell the dispatchers how
much water is needed by each local water
contractor, based on orders from growers and
other big users. A schedule is made. The
gates open and close according to that
schedule. The water flows south and the
deliveries are made.
45 INT. COMPUTER ROOM - ESTABLISHING SHOT
HIGH ANGLE WIDE SHOT of Univac 418 sitting in computer room.
In practice, this requires prodigious

coordination, precision, and the best efforts
of several human minds. And a silent
partner. This whole hydrologic ballet, this

acrobatic rise and fall of megatonnages of
water performed on a stage twice the length
of Pennsylvania, is orchestrated by a quietly
efficient choreographer.
46 EXT. OROVILLE DAM - MEDIUM SHOT
Shot of water flowing down from the dam.
In practice, what's being delivered here is

an enormous volume of water. In practice, it
takes two days to move this kind of volume
down through Oroville into the Delta, which
is the great pooling place for California
water. And the most ecologically sensitive
point in the system.
47 MONTAGE
Shots of Delta water system.
For some years, the Delta has been alive with

electronic sensors and telemetering
equipment. With men blocking channels,
diverting flows, and shoveling fish away from
the pumps.
48 EXT. AQUEDUCT - MEDIUM SHOT
Water flows down the California Aqueduct.
It takes perhaps another six days to move

this same water down the California Aqueduct
from the Delta to the Tehachapi and put it
over the hill to Southern California.
Water-level POV of water beginning ascent of Tehachapis.
"Putting some over the hill." That's what

they say around here when they're talking
about pumping Aqueduct water from the floor
of the San Joaquin Valley up and over the
Tehachapi Mountains. "Pulling it down" is
what they say when they're talking about
lowering the water level somewhere in the
system.
50 EXT. EDMONSTON PUMPS - ESTABLISHING SHOT

To some engineers the Edmonston pumps are the

ultimate triumph. The most splendid snub
nature has ever received. A sizable river of
water running uphill. It's here that
California intends to prove that the Second
Law of Thermodynamics is a lie. Watching
this wall of water roar uphill makes you
understand why moving water in California
requires more electrical energy than is used
by several states.
51 INT. OCC - WIDE SHOT
Shot of DIDION standing in the Control Center. CAMERA TRUCKS

alongside as she walks CAMERA RIGHT TO LEFT.
JOAN DIDION
From this room in Sacramento, the whole
system takes on the aspect of a perfect,
three-billion-dollar hydraulic toy. The
entire water project seems as make-believe as
California itself, in its relentless quest to
deny its desert heart.
52 MONTAGE
Shots of California water system.
The "farmers" on the west side include some of the
wealthiest, most powerful, and influential corporations, holding
companies, investor cartels, associations, consortiums, and
lobbying organizations in the state. Most of these corporations
became "farmers" in the late Sixties, not because they had a love
for the land, but because it was good business. It provided a
tax shelter. Congress passed a law that allowed businesses to
deduct all expenses for specific crops during the early stages of
growth, while vines and trees were still maturing and hadn't
produced any fruit. The exempt crops included fruits and nuts.
As a result, large investors, with money to bury, began buying
large chunks of land and paying handsome sums to the small family
farmers.
The federal government, once again, had created all the
right conditions to squeeze out the small farmer in favor of the
factory. And in the process, they also made it possible for
these corporations, once their trees and vines began bearing
fruit, to virtually monopolize the marketplace. They could set
the price and increase their holdings by driving their smaller,
tenacious competitors out of business and then buying their land.
The bigger got bigger and the smaller just disappeared.
These growers have amassed huge fiefdoms of dirt-cheap
scrub land. They irrigate marginal crops on questionable land
with an endless supply of subsidized water provided by the
Westlands Water and Power League--an alliance of water users,
corporate farming combines, and petro-chemical conglomerates,
banded together by mutual interest, to monitor the use of water,
and each other.

In addition to the corporate farms, its members include
OxyGene; the California River Flood Control Consortium, based in
Sacramento; the Water Imperium, located in Valencia; the Table
Grape and Tree Fruit Association of Oakdale; the Tricounty Water
Agency, located in Bakersfield; and the Boca Negra Water District
of Santa Monica.
Corporate headquarters of The League sits along a county
highway, sandwiched between, and surrounded by, acres of cotton.
Irrigated, its grounds are green with grass, eucalyptus trees,

oak and ash trees. There are picnic tables and sandbox toys for
family and company outings. Down the road are green plywood
houses for the temporary workers. All day long, the brand new,
light blue company field trucks hum in and out of the recently
paved driveway.
The grounds are not impressive. In fact, they're purposely
low key. The better to avoid attention. There is not
ostentation here. Just business. The League doesn't like
publicity of any kind. Or people looking into its affairs.
There are nearly 1000 square miles in the water district
controlled by The League. It is the biggest and richest
federally subsidized irrigation district in the United States.
It produces one half billion dollars in food and fiber annually.
Of the 42 commercially grown products, on the 566,844 acres
irrigated by state water projects, the west side "farmers"
average a return of $1100 per acre.
The League is the biggest consumer of water in the western
United States. It gets more water from the state's water

projects than anyone. The League uses as much water as a city of
six million people. Through price breaks, it gets about 3.5
billion dollars in water subsidies. We're talking about a 14
billion dollar annual harvest.
Among the members of The League, the DiGiulio Winery is
unique. It is still privately owned. The rest of the large
landowners are everything in between. Many are throwbacks to the
old days when a few families controlled most of the arable land
in the valley. Many are the property of multinational

conglomerates whose major business isn't even agriculture. In
addition to providing the convenient and lucrative tax dodge,
these lands provide a front for foreign investors. Some of these
farms are owned by holding companies made up of conglomerates and
investors based in London, Bahrain, Zurich, Paris, Tokyo, and
Hong Kong. It's an easy, and inconspicuous, way for foreign
investors to get a toehold in America and participate in the
capitalist system.
Once established, they consolidate. They buy more land.
They slowly force smaller farmers out of business. More land
generates more money, through cash crops or tax breaks, which
buys more political power and influence. The metaphor used
by Frank Norris is as apt today as it was then. The octopus whose
tentacles seek out and strangle everything within reach.
Most of these corporations were only interested in the
return on investment their on-site managers could achieve.
They were not particularly concerned about dying wetlands,
deformed wildlife, or contaminated groundwater; the bastard

offspring of chemical-dependent and techno-intensive
agribusiness, unless it interfered with their operation.
Besides, they weren't eating the tainted birds or drinking the
polluted water.
Some of these feudal barons even seemed to take a perverse
joy in sucking the land dry and leaving the shards behind, as if
this was the one way they could take their revenge on the American
land and people for some past insult; an invisible, but
no less effective way of undermining the American way of life.

For one man in particular, it was his way of personally
regaining face for an entire generation of ancestors, his way of
re-taking Pearl Harbor, of winning the war of the Pacific Rim,
not in the shore break or rice paddies of Guam or Okinawa, but the
rivers, pastures, and orchards of California. His name was
Takahiro Ozawa.
The 55-year old Ozawa was only fifteen when the war ended in
the Pacific, but the humiliation did not. He remembered his own
father's seppuku, and that of other family members and friends,
when they were faced with unforgivable failure. He remembered
the emotions and tucked them away, holding them, savoring their
bitter taste, and using them as a prod, a scar that would not let
him forget, would not let him weaken, would not let him fail in
his quest for revenge.
The billionaire Tokyo resident built his fortune by using
the equity in his family's small kimono business to buy his first
hostess bar. He then bought the building it was housed in. Then
more hostess bars, nightclubs, and buildings in more expensive

and fashionable Tokyo locations followed, until he controlled a
substantial, and growing, real estate empire. He suddenly found
himself fabulously wealthy, as the price of Japanese land went
skyward and the yen replaced the dollar as the world's most
solid currency. With his fortune made, he had the resources he
needed to initiate his revenge. He turned his eyes eastward,
toward the sun rising over Hawaii and California.
Within two years, Ozawa bought over 160 houses,
condominiums, and buildings in Hawaii, worth more than eighty

million dollars. His was the most visible of the many shopping
sprees that had residents, legislators, and business people of
The Islands worried about the Japanese land-buying juggernaut.
In one day alone, he bought 17 properties without ever leaving
his limousine. He simply pointed and paid.
Ozawa once said that he never thought he would ever own
property in Hawaii because it was too commercial, too "primitive";
too many naked, oily bodies running around in rubber
sandals. Then he visited Oahu. The beautiful beaches and azure
skies convinced him it might be a good idea to buy some property
if only, as he explained, it was to keep a change of clothes in.
He continued to accumulate property there, although he made it
abundantly clear on several occasions that he felt the buildings
were unimpressive, poorly and carelessly built "lousy candy
houses."
Ozawa's arrogance, and obvious disdain for Americans,
became common knowledge on the mainland as a result of the
"slipper incident." It took place during one of the few times he

chose to personally inspect an American home in Honolulu.
Approaching the door to look inside, Ozawa was kindly, and
respectfully, asked to remove his shoes. The fickle land baron
paused, then turned and left. When asked why, he replied that
there were no slippers and, snap judging the house too unclean
for him to walk through in his stocking feet, he chose to leave.
Smiling a cool grin, he mentioned that such an oversight hadn't
been made since; that brand-new slippers were now especially
prepared for each visit. He later added that he felt the owners
had not paid sufficient respect to him. And that they, like most
Americans, seemed to take him and his countrymen too lightly.
The true source of his arrogant acquisitiveness had fleetingly
come to light. The uproar that followed did little to ruffle
him. He had other matters to attend to.
Although Island property was the most visible of his
American land holdings, Ozawa spent some of his time in
California. He would fly into San Francisco and from his
penthouse suite atop the Mark Hopkins, which he never left, he
would transact his mainland business. The particulars of these
dealings remained known only to his closest associates and a
handful of California businessmen. It was even suspected that
one of his objectives was to turn California into a "free trade
zone" for Pacific Rim countries; a marketplace where traders
could come and go as they pleased, unencumbered by visas and
tariffs, to freeboot and traffic in the hard and soft goods of
the entire world.
Takahiro Ozawa, son of a kimono maker, was mapping the

master strategy that would make him one of the largest landowners
in the state of California. His collaborators were none less
than the members of the Westlands Water and Power League and real
estate evangelist James David Delgado.
It was not well-known, at least early in his career because
it would have been bad for business, but Ozawa was an active
member of a growing political faction that advocated a return to
the militarism of pre-World War II Japan. He helped organize and
fund the movement. And now, a number of their party--people he

supported--held office in the Japanese government.
In addition to Ozawa's cartel, there are another eight or so
companies that control most of the agricultural land in the
valley. The primary business of each ranges from oil to media to
transportation. By conspiring with the other large growers, by
controlling local officials and elected representatives--through
political contributions or more overt bribery--many have carved
out their market and cornered it. Whether it's olives, cotton,
tomatoes, or grapes, these conglomerates ruthlessly determine
where the market goes, who stays in business and who doesn't,
what the fair market value for that product is. No one is large
enough or powerful enough or brave enough to stop them. And it
is they who are changing the face of American agriculture in
California, the Midwest, the South, and every other geographical
area dependent on tilling the land.
And it is they who control the water.
The Central Valley in the 1990s looked a lot like the
Western Territories of the late 1860s and early 1870s. Despite

the existence of "official state law," and sometimes under its
guise, the Valley was controlled by an informal, but no less
enforceable, "territorial common law." Nearly everyone who lived
there knew it, understood it, and recognized who enforced it.
Even this century's immigrants, the Chicanos and Asians, learned
quickly who really ruled. They were no strangers to the power
behind the throne. The maker and enforcer was The League.
Like the cattle barons who ruled the feudal duchys of the
Western Territories, the power of The League was difficult to

assess and almost as impossible to overstate. They monopolized
the wealth and controlled the political power of the Central
Valley and much of the state. The public knew about the money,
perhaps not of the entire League, but certainly of its more
prominent and visible members. They definitely understood the
power. But of what type and to what degree, and how tight the
tentacles were wrapped around certain public officials, they
really had little idea. In actual fact, their reach extended to
the State Capitol and its legislature. And many local officials
and politicians had been, or now were, members. The League
elected Congressmen, Governors, Senators, and, when the cards
were right, and return favors guaranteed, even Presidents.
In the Western Territories before the turn of the last
century, the major problems facing the ruling class were cattle
rustlers and immigrant homesteaders. Sometimes the two were one
and the same. The cattlemen could hang the rustlers with the
backing of the common law of the range. But the homesteaders had
the blessing of a federal government eager to tame and populate a

continent and thus realize its manifest destiny. Within twenty
years of the Homestead Act, the unlimited expanse of unbroken
grazing lands had been carved into thousands of 160-acre parcels,
fenced off and under cultivation. The stock owners were unable
to legally enforce "land rustling," which is what they considered
this stealing of "their" land by foreigners; theirs--the cattle
man's--by birthright, tradition, and the oldest of claims, actual
use. With their backs against the wall and the future staring
them straight in the face, they began ruthlessly murdering some

of their "neighbors," resorting to charges of cattle rustling, in
an attempt to scare the immigrants off the lands before they
had stayed long enough to claim title. The charges were often
transparent, barely able to justify the casual disregard for
whatever official law existed, but no thinner than measures taken
before, or since, to maintain a toehold, to preserve the status
quo.
The Twentieth Century landowners now living in California,
in the last of the frontiers, very closely resemble their
forebears. Instead of running cattle, they're cashing in on
cotton, tomatoes, rice, and grapes. And though there were
immigrants on the land to them, these landowners weren't fearful
of losing their land, of having it parceled out. They were more
worried about losing the one thing their crops needed to survive.
They weren't riding the range looking for cattle rustlers. They
were riding point looking for "water rustlers." More people on
the land meant the need for more water, a resource these men felt
was as much their birthright, by custom and usage, as the open

range was to the cattlemen before them. The escalating
population of the West, especially in California and its Central
Valley, and the wave upon wave of immigrants, whether from Mexico
or Southeast Asia, Massachusetts or Wisconsin, was depleting a
once abundant resource; a resource agribusiness needed to
survive.
These men could no more prosecute people for "water
stealing" than the stock growers could, but they could use the
same weapons, the same informal "common law," the same harassment
and intimidation to subjugate, or run off, as many interlopers as
they could. The League was their Stock Growers' Association.
Their "territorial common law" was the true law. And they
expected their governmental agents, the ones they put into power,
to enforce it.
Caught in the middle, now as then, between the old,
established order and the coming new order, were the keepers of
the law; those charged with enforcing the official law that
represented everyone, newcomers and old alike, but who were
expected to unofficially maintain the accepted common law that
kept the existing order in power. Those most often caught in
between were those in federal law enforcement, whether Marshals
in the 1880s or FBI agents in the 1980s; those who had often
gotten their jobs because they too were once part of the
propertied class and had been appointed by their own people,
whether Association or League; the ones they were now supposed
to pursue and perhaps even prosecute.
These men, and unlike the last century, women, witnessed

first hand, from the moment they were born, the arrogance and abuse
of power of their own kind. Many grew up to perpetuate it, as they
went into the family business, or became the legal, or
legislative arm, of the status quo. A handful of others became
disillusioned, sickened by the disregard of people's rights and
basic humanity. These few chose to give up their birthright, to
exorcise what they were by becoming a part of the new order.
These men and women included Patrick Michael Walsh and Laura
Van deCamp.
Perfection is a masculine desideratum, while woman inclines by

nature to completeness.
-- Carl Jung
At 36, Laura Van deCamp is a successful career woman.
Determined to make it on her own, she did. She makes good money.
Drives a new Mazda RX-7 convertible. And lives with Chloe, her
7-year old cat.
After graduating from Hastings Law School, she went to work
as a staff lawyer for the Bay Area Rapid Transit system. When
she and her husband decided to return to Ralston--finally in his
case, reluctantly in hers--she took a job in the Public
Defender's office. She was appointed county Appellate Judge just
before the separation. She stayed just long enough for the
divorce to become final then she exiled herself to Washington
D.C. to work for a colleague of her father's in the Department of
Agriculture. She stayed for nearly two years before an election,
a change in administration and her own heart sent her home again.
She went into private practice this time, joining the respected
firm of Delancy & Reed. Now, she's in line to be appointed a
member of the state Water Resources Control Board; recommended by
the Governor, another old friend of her father's.
Laura loves the process, the interaction, the challenge of
lawyering, lobbying, and politics. She hasn't become jaded yet,
though the game probably killed her father.
Many women search for their father all their lives. In
husbands, friends, lovers. That was Laura. She spent her entire
childhood trying to please her father, to earn his love and
affection, to be the most important thing in his life. Became a
tomboy to be the son he never had. That solved one problem, but
created another. It made an enemy of her mother. Whether she
realized it or not, she entered politics to please her father.
To finally get his approval. She only earned her mother's wrath.
Laura stands a stripling slender five-ten of intimidation
to most men her height. For a woman who had been taller than
most her age, she shows no sign of the self-effacing stoop
affected by so many of her peers out of deference to the boys.
Her parents had urged her to stand straight and her own
confidence made it easy. Her grace is more athletic than
sophisticated. Whether walking, sitting, or standing in
conversation, she moves with easy authority. Her intelligence
and self-assurance make her appear still taller, more athletic,
almost man-boyish.
Her eyes are brown, almost black, her skin dusky, like dark
olive oil. Her hair color is somewhere between blonde and brown,
with just enough red to make it glow. She has always worn it to
contemporary taste, sometimes long and straight to her waist,
other times up in a Gibson-girl, or short and perm-curly. But
it frames her face best the way she wears it now, just to her
shoulders and straight. A bit of a natural curl and its own
thickness makes it maneful.
She is sexy, not in a sensual or voluptual way, but in a
leaner, more intelligent, harder-edged way. This is a woman of
no-nonsense, who you meet halfway, as an equal, whether in the

board room or the bed room. If you were comfortable with who you
were and could handle the challenge, there was no more
delightfully terrifying company to be had. But few men had
bothered, libidinously exposed by her, shrinking in her shadow.
And she's got legs. That's what most men notice first. Her
breasts are small, her butt tight and flat, creating the illusion
that her legs stretch all the way to her neck. And when she
strikes a pose, standing in front of a jury or at a cocktail
party, one leg leading the other, hand on hip, slit skirt partly
revealing more leg, she is hard to ignore.
She is witty, with an absolutely perverted and off-the-wall
sense of humor. She has what many a generation older would have
termed "a dirty mind." But hers is refreshingly honest and
mirthful. She likes her bedplay seriously fun.
She has a husky voice that sends shivers running when she
takes it low into a languid whisper. Yet it commands attention
when shouting full-throated in the courtroom. Her smile is
slightly crooked, showing perfect teeth, courtesy of early years

entrapped in a metal-mouth dental contraption. Her face still
has a few freckles, sprouting more whenever she stays out in the
sun too long. With hair back and no make-up, she looks even more
like the boy pulling the pigtails rather than the girl who owns
them.
Laura is bright. She's aggressive. And, she's alone. There
are no men in her life. Possibly frightened off by her
success. Nonetheless, she subscribes to "Cosmo's" philosophy for
surviving single life in the Eighties. You may lose your lover,
but never lose your job.
Her life isn't complete and it isn't empty. But sometimes
there is a fear. That she may never marry again. Or have a
family. And she wants a family. So she wants to be sure that
any man she sleeps with isn't wasting her time. Often these
days, she thinks of Tillie, the lonely old lady next door. She
doesn't visit very often anymore. There's a smell in her house.
Overpowering. For Laura, that smell means slow death, suffered
alone.
Her first marriage ended in divorce. Very civilized. And
she's been on the run ever since. From San Francisco to Ralston
to Sacramento to Washington, D.C., then back to Ralston.
Laura's really a hometown homebody. She always liked
Ralston, but as a single woman, it was a trap with no bait. She
left because she wanted a family and there seemed to be no
prospects in town. Had she met someone during the years of her
return, she probably would have stayed. And even during her
years in Washington, amid the state dinners and the junkets, and
the power in the air, she still missed the sense of community she
found in that small valley town light years in distance and
attitudes from the political center of the free world. During
her self-imposed exile, in a place of prominence on the
refrigerator in her Georgetown condominium, she kept crayon
drawings by her nieces and nephews. That was the artwork she
truly cherished. That's probably why, when the administration
changed in her department, she returned to Ralston.
Now, when she talks about the future, there's a little

desperation and frustration in her eyes. She sees friends and
their families who seem happily married, who are busy building a
home and future for their children. And here she is, attractive,
intelligent, financially independent, and there doesn't seem to
be anyone out there for her. So instead of putting additional
energy into her romantic future, she doubles her time at the
office. She figures if she can't find a lover, she'll more than
make up for it on the job.
Behind the oak-paneled doors, it's meeting time. The Board
of Directors of the Westlands Water and Power League are gathered
in shrouded silence. The heavy drapes and polished furniture
create the aura of authority. There is power in this room.
Nobody knows much about the members of the board. Many have
tried to find out. No one has succeeded. But some things are
obvious. Most are white males, middle-aged or older, very
wealthy, and very conservative. And they are all bound together
by one passion: their commitment to controlling the flow of

water in California.
There is a problem. The board has learned of Elliot
Lincoln's plan to make a "serious" film about water in
California. The details are sketchy, but apparently The League
and its members have been targeted for investigation as part of
Lincoln's documentary.
The president of the board, pressing the fingertips of both
hands together in a gesture of nervous discomfort, addresses his
comments directly and exclusively to one person. "I think it

goes without saying that we, and I feel I speak for everyone in
this room, are concerned about the reports we are receiving
regarding this proposed documentary."
There is no response. The recipient of this lecture
obviously plans to let them do most of the talking.
"There is simply too much at stake here to be cavalier about
the potential damage such an effort represents."
The listener takes a drink of water, carefully puts the glass
down, and folds his hands on the table. Even his smallest
movement is watched by dozens of eyes. And he knows it. He's
playing to them.
"Elliot Lincoln is a very popular and very influential man.
If he says that something is true, most people will believe him.
He has been a very successful entertainer. He threatens to be an
equally popular propagandist. And he could severely compromise
everyone in this room."
His sweeping gesture dies as he is distracted by movement at
the back of the room. He notices a solitary observer standing in

the shadows, listening intently to the lecture.
"I certainly cannot presume to tell you your business, or
what we expect you to do ... "
He stops because this presumption has visibly stirred the
listener. He hurries to make his point.
" ... in this matter. But we suggest that steps be taken
immediately to neutralize this project and stem the tide of
negative publicity we suspect it will generate. It is exposure
we neither want nor need."

As the listener stands and turns to take his leave, the
board president quickly tries to recover control.
"Thank you all for attending today."
Before he can ask for a motion to adjourn, the man is gone.
On his way out, barely acknowledges the man holding the door for
him. The one who has been watching the entire time. Another
member of the board, recently appointed by influential friends,
the rancher Jon Henry Miller.
Miller follows, a safe and respectful distance behind,
driving down the country road away from League headquarters and
onto highway 580.
North of Mendota, on the outskirts of town, near where the
old main highway used to run, he pulls up next to a white
limousine, incongruously out of place in front of the last
bungalow. He enters, brushing by two burly columns that
obviously double as bodyguards. Through the smoke stains, road
grease, and fly specks, we see him acknowledge another man before
he sits at a wobbly, gray, Formica-topped table. We cannot

clearly see who he is talking to, but he is obviously reporting
what has just taken place at the board meeting. It doesn't take
him long. Finishing, he leaves, pulling back onto 580 and
heading back south. A moment later, the man also leaves.
Obscured by the bodyguards, he quickly ducks into the back of the
limo. Meet the unseen mover. This is The Puppetmaster.

CHAPTER 8
There are places I remember

All my life though some have changed
Some for ever not for better
Some are gone and some remain
All these places had their meanings
With lovers and friends
I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life, I've loved them all
But of all these friends and lovers

There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
-- Lennon and McCartney, "In My Life"
One of the first people to join Elliot--to embark on the
journey--was another crusader now living in Ralston. Throughout his
life, Robin Devereaux had written and lectured about his fascination
with the challenges nature presents to man; the sort of physical
confrontations that have always existed between humans and their
environment. These held a special mystery and attraction for him.
And he had dedicated his life to fighting those who would kill the
magic, like the Army Corps of Engineers and the Bureau of
Reclamation, righteous in their attempts to dam and divert all the
waters of the entire western United States. He was almost singly
responsible for keeping many of California's
rivers wild and scenic.
Now, he was content to relax, to occasionally raft some
white water, or climb an unassailable ascent. The rest of the
time he spent on his latest "crusade"--designing and selling a

line of "adventurewear" clothing. The clothes were a reflection
of the man: rugged, practical, and durable. He called the line
"White Water," after one of his favorite pastimes. His passion
for outdoor adventure took shape in the clothes he designed.
They were clothes he enjoyed wearing. And now much of active
California was doing the same.
Devereaux grew up in Chico and Stockton, California. He
studied Human Ecology at Berkeley and created his own master's
program in interdisciplinary studies on the future of American
cities. He was active in the peace movement in the sixties at
Berkeley. He helped found "The Whole Earth Catalog" and was an
"Earth Day" leader. He also formed a group called "EcoFuture,"
an organization dedicated to promoting the politics of ecology.
It was a time of freedom and a time of action. He organized. He
propagandized. He catalyzed the individual, galvanized activists
to use the power of the group and the political process to get
things done.
Like many in that time, in that movement, he idolized Gandhi,

Martin Luther King, Jr., and the other pacifists who fought and won
concessions without resorting to physical action or violence. And
like them, his non-violent stance, his resolute inaction, was almost
the cause of his own death once when he tried to keep a dam from
rising and a river flowing. The last stand he took nearly took his
life.
One beautiful summer's morning, he kayaked into one of the
lower canyon's of the Estanislao River and chained himself to
a granite boulder. Only one person knew exactly where he was.

The Corps, the Bureau, and the national news media soon knew what
he was doing. That same morning, the head of the Army Corps
received his hand-written ultimatum. If the waters of the
Estanislao rose above a certain height, as the river was
stopped behind the Jamestown Dam they had just completed, he
would drown. One man and "the most rapacious federal agency in
the history of modern ecology," stood face-to-face and
eyeball-to-eyeball. The agency was the first to blink.
Devereaux quietly floated out of the river canyon and into
temporary anonymity. As the rebellion dispersed and the
enthusiasm dissolved, and the search for ideals was abandoned in
favor of the chase for comfort, he settled in Ralston. He
married Sharon, a local girl. They had two children, a boy and
girl. And a life.
But, like so many before him, he couldn't completely let go
of his addiction to activism. He organized the first
large-scale, commercially successful, alternative recycling
center. He also fought his first battles against the factory

farms of the Westlands and their political allies who, when they
weren't stealing the valley's water, were damming its rivers for
whatever use they chose.
The Westlands Water and Power League had become the newest
ally of the Bureau of Reclamation--the BuRec--and the Army Corps.
The League needed water and the Bureau got it for them, with help
from the Corps, whether it was taming wild rivers in the Sierras,
draining wetlands, or re-channeling stream and creek flows.
The BuRec was originally established to protect the small

farmers of the west; to assure their survival by getting them
sufficient irrigation water to raise their crops. But their role
as guardian and protector did not last long, especially in
California.
The Bureau and the Corps were lashed together from the very
beginning. The Bureau wanted to farm the desert. The Corps
wanted to build dams. That meant controlling water. Or, in the
self-serving euphemism of water-hungry westerners, that meant not
wasting it. "Conservation" traditionally meant protecting
waterways from development. Out west, it meant building dams.
When westerners said you were wasting water, they really meant
you weren't consuming it. To realize their goals--and to
perpetuate their continued existence--both agencies quickly
realized that the small farmer wouldn't be much use to them. But
large farms and thirsty cities, wealthy and powerful, with the
same goals, would be. Combined, these agencies, with the support
of organizations like The League and cities like Los Angeles, had
dammed and re-channeled more rivers and ruined more wetlands, in

a shorter period of time, than anyone in the history of the
planet. And now they existed solely to quench the insatiable
thirst of the factory farmers, with little thought of the
consequences to wildlife or the people exposed to agricultural
runoff.
Now 47, Robin's sandy hair is tinged with gray. His neatly
trimmed beard has the same colors. He is soft-spoken and chooses
his words carefully. He is trim and active. Physically, and
again, politically. He has emerged from his self-imposed exile

because no one, in this new age of acquisition, seems remotely
concerned about the future of the planet or the race of people
who depend on it. Those he once fought to keep from damming the
waters, he's about to begin fighting again to keep from poisoning
them.
Elliot's call simply anticipated his own.
MUSIC: UP FULL THEN UNDER NARRATION

THEME #9: "Los Angelenos"
53 EXT. CANAL BANK - ESTABLISHING SHOT
Shot of empty irrigation canal from bank level. Standing amongst

puddles of water and debris is MARC REISNER.
MARC REISNER
Call it water imperialism. This control and
manipulation of water. Out here in the West,
everything depends on it. On capturing it
behind dams, storing it, and rerouting it in
concrete rivers over distances of hundreds of
miles. It's also the most blatant example of
socialism for the rich.
54 MONTAGE
Shots of irrigated agriculture. Aqueducts, canals, ditches. The

entire "hydrologic ballet" under control.
REISNER (v.o.)
California agriculture does not like
unpredictability, especially when it comes to
water. So they have changed the natural
order. They have captured water, stored it,
and moved it around.
55 EXT. LOS ANGELES - ESTABLISHING SHOT
AERIAL SHOT of Los Angeles on a particularly smoggy day.
With its meager and erratic rainfall, Los

Angeles has always been haunted by drought.
The mere thought of more water always sets
off a Pavlovian response.
Water being pushed up over the Tehachapis to Southern California.
Southern California's demands for more

Northern California water will never end so
long as water planners continue to be
afflicted with the 19th-century assumption
that we have infinite resources to support
unlimited growth.
57 EXT. OWENS RIVER - WIDE SHOT
Shot of Owens River flowing down toward Los Angeles.
The Owens River created Los Angeles, letting

a great city grow where common sense dictated
that one should never be. But it could also
be said that it ruined Los Angeles.
58 MONTAGE
Scenes of Los Angeles.
The Owens River made LA large enough and

wealthy enough to go out and capture any
river within six hundred miles. And that
made it larger, wealthier, and a good deal
more awful.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
Shots emphasizing negative side.
It's the only megalopolis in North America

mentioned in the same breath as Mexico City
or Djakarta. Places whose insoluble excesses
raise the specter of some majestic, stately
kind of collapse.

CHAPTER 9
Through the chill of winter,

Running across a frozen lake.
Bloodhounds are on his trail,
All odds are against him.
With a family to provide for,
The one thing he must keep alive,
Will the wolf survive?
Standing in the pouring rain,

All alone and the world has changed.
Running scared, now forced to hide,
In a land where he once stood with pride.
But he'll find his way,
By the morning light.
Sounded 'cross the nation,

Coming from your hearts and minds.
Battered tubs and old guitars,
Singing songs of passion.
It's the truth that they all look for,
Something they must keep alive,
-- David Hidalgo & Louie Perez, "Will the Wolf Survive?"
I have come to San Juan Bautista to see him. Traveling the
coast highway southward, I cut over at Watsonville, crossing
Steinbeck country, through the Salinas and Pajaro Valleys. Fruit
and vegetable stands beckon along the way. Picked daily by the
workers wearing nylon Dodgers hats, long wool work shirts, and
Levi's bandannas to cover their faces and the backs of their
necks. Ragged rows of irrigation pipes lie in low trailers,
awaiting the workers who will hand-carry them across the neat
furrows.
This valley, like all the others in this state, needs water.
The rolling hills are brown now, in the summertime, like the old
wooden barns and new stucco homes that line the ridge above and
facing the old town built around the mission founded in 1797.
It's a good town to begin again in. He lives here with his wife,
Socorro, their two sons, and much of the rest of his extended
"familia."
Because I'm early, I stop for lunch at the "Jardines de San
Juan." I enjoy the succulents and flowers edging the brick
flagstone patio almost as much as the relleno. Finishing, I
still have some time, so I head out along The Alameda and cross
over to Second Street to stop at the mission because my sister
says we have relatives buried there. Satisfied for now, I decide
to walk the few blocks to his office. Left on Muckelemi to
Fourth Street and left again to the white, side-board building
that houses "La Drama del Coyote."
Daniel Valle is barrel-chested stocky, looking not unlike
Pancho Villa. A resemblance he perpetuates with drooping
handlebar mustache and the campaign hat of the Mexican
Revolution he sometimes wears. His voice resonates with the
blood of two races oceans apart. He is both civilized

"conquistador" and savage Yaqui.
His eyes are a deep, hollow brown, eternally concerned. His
hair, a dark dark, is longish, slick and pomaded. He sometimes
likes to wear it in a short ponytail. It glistens with health.
Below the widow's peak, he carries a small scar, courtesy of a
broken bottle and a street fight during high school. He is
handsome; not slickly and seductively like Valentino, but
innocently and open-faced like a young Anthony Quinn.
We talk of the journey his parents made from the deserts of

Mexico to the fields of California. Following the crops, they
moved up the valley through towns like Fresno, Firebaugh, Selma,
Los Banos, Livingston, Ralston, and Stockton. His family finally
settled in Gilroy, hoping to make it the end of the migration,
where he was born, forty-six years ago.
His father prayed for guidance, for a sign to help his son
find a way out. And he worked extra jobs to pay for the prayer.
He would say of Danny, too often to anyone who would listen, "My
son, he can be anything he wants to be. As long as it is not in
the fields." School became his ticket to ride. Education showed
him the possibilities and he never looked back. Pajaro Community
College led to San Francisco City College led to the
Haight-Ashbury and "The Diggers" in 1965. He was performing in
street theater and taunting the Tactical Squad at SF State when
the grape worker's strike began. He had to go. His people, now
calling themselves Chicanos, were taking a stand in Delano. It
was a time of reckoning. For all that he and his family had
suffered all those years in the fields.

Arriving there and finding no easy entry into the Chavez
power structure, he turned to what he knew. He organized a
troupe of street players, borrowed a flatbed truck, and began
performing guerrilla theater at the picket lines. "La Drama del
Coyote" was born. And Daniel Valle became a powerful voice in La
Raza.
Then the Sixties were suddenly gone. The apathy and
self-centered introspection of the Seventies and Eighties descended.
It was no longer cool to care. The movement

faltered. Chavez retreated to the Tehachapi Mountains. Valle
remained behind, writing. Poetry, plays, short stories. He even
wrote a few screenplays. One he made into a hugely successful
film. Enough to give him the freedom to continue studying this
state of mind called California.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, the cycle came full circle. People
began asking questions again. They began protesting. Chavez
returned. Pesticides would be to the new movement what lettuce
and table grapes were to the old. But there was no place for
Daniel at his side because he had been too critical of the
retreat. In his impatience to perpetuate and maintain the
changes they had achieved, he had alienated himself from the
leaders and conservative philosophy of La Causa. Also, many
Hispanics had accused him of selling out; of whoring after the
Anglo entertainment dollar. He knew in his heart he hadn't.
It is here, in San Juan, that Daniel and "La Drama" have
come to re-group; to re-establish their influence. To re-capture
the credibility and the power they lost when they crucified
Chavez. He sees a new activism, or rather, one that has been
dormant and is about to rise again. The Hispanics are the people
of the future and they need a new voice, someone to dramatize
their life in this new age. He intends to prove to his people
that he is still the best one to chronicle "la causa". That he
still believes in the right and good things. He simply needs an
opportunity, a forum. That is why I am here. Daniel Valle will
write "The Water Project".
He appears relaxed, content. His style is that of old

California, of the Mission days. The days of the Don. A
cultivated style somewhat at odds with his younger days. He has
become very much a man of his people. He speaks slowly,
deliberately. He weighs his words. Considers them closely
before speaking. But what he says betrays a driven man.
On the wall behind his desk is a poster from one of his
early plays. It reads: "La tierra pertenece al que la trabaja.
The land belongs to those who work it." We talk of that and some
of his other concerns.
"Pesticide safety. Chavez has made it his number one issue.
According to the National Farmworkers Health Group, last year
alone, California reported over 2500 accidental pesticide
poisonings."
"The numbers are low."
"There were more than that?"
"Many more. We do not really know how many have died."
"Why not? Aren't there agencies that are supposed to do
nothing but monitor that sort of thing?"

"They did not count the illegals. Those who went home.
Those who were deported, and died there."
"Why couldn't they be counted?"
"They were afraid. If they spoke up, they would be fired.
If they said anything, they would be deported. So they remained
silent."
"And they died quietly?"
"Yes. They are the guinea pigs. The factory farms
experiment every day with our people, with the field hands. It
is they who work with the poisons each day. They who wear it on
their backs."
"A Federal task force said that about half of the nation's
five million agricultural laborers face the danger of dying.
That nearly two-thirds have been sprayed directly, or
have been hit by drifting spray."
"Do not forget those that go into the field directly after
spraying."
"I thought the EPA monitored exposure and enforced the
limits? I thought it was law that no one, including farm workers,
should absorb more than the minute amount allowed in food."
"They pretend to believe. The farm lobby and the chemical
industry pressured the politicians to pass a law with no teeth.
There is an important part you have overlooked. The EPA
balances regulations against cost. The cost to growers or anyone
else in agriculture."
"That puts a price on the heads of all the field hands."
"Yes. Their health is weighed against economic disruption.

Instead of regulating the cause, they modify the effect. They
recommend that workers wear protective clothing. That they be
careful when they spray. That they read and follow directions."
"That doesn't help those who can't read English."
He smiles sadly.
We speak of his most recent accomplishments; his attempts to
transition from the limited audiences and impact of street
theater to the mass appeal of television and motion pictures.
"They say I have sold out. My own people."

"Because you make television commercials. Because you made
a successful movie financed by Hollywood?"
"It is just like my people. It is so like the minorities.
It is an attitude that is self-defeating. I do not believe it
now. And I did not as a 'Campesino.' I believe in triumph. I
believe in success."
"Isn't that just as dangerous? Won't that be viewed as a
sellout also?"
"I am only saying, 'What is wrong with success?' What would
you have me do? Remain on the flatbed trucks? Does that make me
better? Does that make me more pure? It hurts deeply to make a
statement about something I believe in and then to have my own
people ignore it."
"Will their rejection stop you?"
"It is temporary. They will understand. I will do plays.
But my future is in the 'glass arena'. I will do more mass
media. I can reach more people that way. I want to do the
greatest good for the most people. That is my mission."

"And what of the stereotype? Will you remain an Hispanic
director?"
"I do not want that. California is what I know. The world
is what I wish to know. There was a time when I spoke only to
Chicanos. Hispanic is what I am. But it is not all that I am.
I am an American. I am also a magician. The magic I weave is
human magic. It is the wonder of the human mind. And it belongs
to everyone. I have something to give. I can unlock the secrets
of the American landscape."

"You talk of magicians. Do you consider yourself a shaman?
Someone who can show people the way?"
"I think our children are searching. There is something
missing. Much of what is wrong with today's youth is the lack of
mythology. There are no models, no rite of passage, to show them
where they belong in society. They become confused. They look
to drugs and gangs and guns to fill the void. Yes, perhaps I can
help them find the way." He coughs, as if apologizing for this
naked emotion, or to cover what only he knows are the beginnings
of cancer.
The sun isn't quite up yet. There are still lights on at
The Ranch. As usual, there's a late shift going. The ones who
like the rock & roll lifestyle. Elliot has come down from the
main house to see some of the footage he missed while at the
reunion. He enters the edit suite. Already there, as if he'd
never left since Elliot left, hunched over the KEM table, is the
almost human form of The Mole.

"Hey Cam."
A grunt. The best he can offer.
"Good to see you, too." Waits. "Fine. So, let's do it."
There's a ton I want to get through tonight. Gotta get back on
track."
As Cam starts to thread up the mag track and work print,
Elliot wanders over to the kitchen of the employee lunch room for
a shot of caffeine. Opening the can of Diet Pepsi, he's thinking
of many things, but hearing only one. It keeps chipping away,

until he acknowledges it. It's something he hears; something he
now suddenly and urgently wants to hear again. He walks into the
lunch room. The late crew is just finishing their lunch break.
And like every night, they're watching a rented movie. They
suddenly sit up as he enters, snapping to attention. He nods.
They relax and go back to the movie. He watches. He startles
them when he speaks.
"Could you play that back? Just the last few minutes?"
They all scramble for the machine. "Sure. Somethin'
wrong?"
"No. Just thought I heard something."
The tape is rewound and starts to play.
5 INT. GITTES'S OFFICE--GITTES & CURLY
Gittes and Curly stand in front of the desk, Gittes staring

contemptuously at the heavy breathing hulk towering over him.
Gittes takes a handkerchief and wipes away the plunk of
perspiration on his desk.
CURLY
(crying)
They don't kill a guy for that.
GITTES
Oh they don't?
CURLY
Not for your wife. That's the unwritten law.
6 Gittes pounds the photos on the desk, shouting:
GITTES
I'll tell you the unwritten law, you dumb son
of a bitch, you gotta be rich to kill
somebody, anybody, and get away with it. You
think you got that kind of dough, you think
you got that kind of class?
Quietly, like the entire room now, "Stop there. That line."
Turns to The Mole, who's slipped in beside him. "That's it. Can
I borrow that tape?"
They can't give it to him fast enough. "No problem. Sure.
Here it is."
They walk to an adjoining screening room. "It's been a long
time since I've seen this movie. I'd forgotten just about all of
it. There may be a lesson or two still in it."
The credits finish. The screen glows dark. Silence for a
moment. Elliot's stretched out full, thinking. The Mole's
burrowed in.
"It's the same thing."
"What?"
"The same old water grab. Just a lot bigger. And what they
can't get or keep, they're poisoning."
The Mole mumbles, following in his wake.
"Just like Owens Valley. The local politicians and public
officials are helping the rich get richer. Helping them help
themselves to the water. All they can use. And when someone
gets in their way, they remove them."
"Mulwray. The water commissioner."
"Then they use their power to cover it up. Or buy immunity.
But not this time. This time we're going to stop them. We're
going to expose THIS water grab. And we're going to expose every
politico, official, and money man that gets in our way."
The Mole shakes his head. "No different. Same as last
time. Rich get rich. Rich get away with murder."

"Don't bet on it. I've got the weapons this time around.
And they can't stop us. We're 'media guerrillas'. We'll appear
out of nowhere, fire off our message, then disappear back into
the jungle before they know what hit them."
Elliot's eyes flashed in the darkened room. He suddenly
felt completely, abjectly alone. The dangerous, solitary
transit. He smiled quietly to himself. He felt like a character
in one of his own movies; on a voyage of discovery and
redemption. The journey had begun.
He couldn't let go of it. All day long it rode with him.
The next victim of his musings was Janet. Elliot's hunched
attitude warned her that something was working away inside him.
"The more I think about it, the more angry I get."
She looked up from her notes, unprepared for the extra notch
of intensity.
"Their righteous arrogance. Their moral immunity."
"Did the studio call again today?"

"No. I mean, that's not what I was talking about, but
that's part of it."
"Care to put me on the same page?"
He shrugs, trying to loosen up the knots. "'Chinatown'
didn't tell the entire story. Sure, it talked about the land
grabs and stealing the water. But the real crooks, not the
'Noah Crosses', but the other rich and powerful men of Los
Angeles, even the city itself, were left pretty much untouched.
The fact that the city and the people who ran it, went out and
ruined the entire Owens Valley, ruined the people's lives who
lived there, so they could have an unlimited source of water, was
never really discussed in the film. I mean they made the city
look absolutely glowing gorgeous. And John Huston got away with
it."
"Wasn't that the point of the movie?"
"Maybe. Part of it. But it wasn't accurate. It didn't go
far enough."
"You expect that from the movies? Where have you been?
Besides, maybe there just wasn't enough time to tell the whole
story. Weren't they supposed to make a sequel?"
"They were. And it never got done. Probably for the same
reasons. Because the same people who control Los Angeles,
control the movie studios. And they weren't about to let the
whole truth out. Water is the source of all power down there.
And those with the power, run the studios. You want a permit to
shoot in the streets? You want a license? You want access?
Then you'd better be willing to play by their rules. You only

get one chance."
"So are you worried that's going to happen to your project?"
"No way! That's why I moved north. I didn't want to be
under their control. I wanted freedom and immunity to tell my
stories. I didn't want to have to depend on their system. And I
won't this time."
He's gone before she can ask why he called the meeting.
CHAPTER 10
The eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was

important to them: there ought to be as many for love.
-- Margaret Atwood
Lend yourself to others, but give yourself to yourself.

-- Michel Montaigne
"I've thought about that."
We sat, sorta-watching "Giants Vision," and trying to talk
above the noise at the "Brew Pub." I was working through

some more guilt and Jorge was sounding the board.
"I think losing the kids and her loneliness definitely
contributed to her state of mind. But I've also wondered if
there wasn't something else."
"Which was?"
"Low self-image. I don't think she was particularly happy
with who she was."
"Except when she was drinking and the alcohol gave her
strength to do and say what she felt."
"I think her weight, the fact we had no money, that she
thought Dad didn't find her attractive anymore, that they had
little in common after we kids had left. I think all that kept
her image of herself pretty low. And if anyone said anything to
her, or didn't provide any reinforcement, or any reason to live,
it was easy to become depressed and desperate."
"And from there it was very easy to just give up. What was
the point."
"What's really scary is that Sandy's got the same problem.
I mean it's amazing how much she and my Mom were alike."
"Don't they say we're always looking for our mother in the
women we marry?"
"They do and I guess I did. And I didn't make it easy for
either of them. I sure don't help Sandy deal with her esteem
problem. I say things or do things that cut her down, even when I
don't mean to do it. It's just unconscious."
"Always?"
"No, not always. But sometimes I get pissed. I shouldn't,
but I do. It's like, sometimes she suddenly gets real angry. I
can't figure out why. I ask her what's wrong. She says I talk
too much. I say I'm just making conversation. Then she tells
me what she really means. She says she's tired of me speaking
for her. And it's true. I do. Someone will ask her a question
and I'll answer for her. I do it all the time."
"Maybe you were just being you. The facilitator."
"No. There's more to it. And I know it. She was right.
She caught me. And I don't like being wrong. So I get pissed.
I continue to speak for her, but I'm putting her down as I do.
I'm laughing and making it look like I'm just poking fun at her.
That she's so cute because she acts like she does. But what I'm
really just cutting her because she hurt me. And it can get
malicious if I've had too much to drink or I'm really pissed."
"Sounds like something your mom would have done."
"Probably where I got it. I tell myself I'm doing it to
keep Sandy involved in the situation. She's obviously not having
any fun and, God knows, we've got to fun. But then I make her
the object of the conversation, sometimes the butt of the jokes I

make. They're not nasty, but she becomes the focus. And I'm
doing it to ingratiate myself with the people we're talking to."
"Why, you don't need their approval."
"Sure I do. Because it's usually with people we both
consider better than us. Either they've got more money, or they
were born to a better class. Whatever. We're both envious. And
I'm cutting her down to impress them. And I don't even like
them."
"Sounds like schoolyard survival. Remember when we were in
elementary school? Actually I think it probably went back as far
as high school. Anyway, we'd always find someone to pick on.
Usually a dumb okie, or a kid with some kind of handicap."
"Yea, and we, in our infinite compassion called them MRs or
cripples."
"Exactly. And what did we do? We picked on them. Harassed
them. Made their life miserable just to impress our friends.
Just to make them laugh. So we could be a part of the group.
We were cruel so we could be cool. And we did it all through

school. And we do it now as adults. I mean, it's what comedians
do. Poke fun at people. Hold them up to scrutiny. And that's
what you're doing with Sandy. You're trying to get the approval
of these people, people who don't really give a fuck about you,
by picking on the only person who really does care about you."
"Pretty fucking stupid."
"Well, a little short-sighted, maybe."
"All I know is that I don't give her enough support, enough
reinforcement."
"But you've always said that you protect her too much.
Isn't that the same thing?"
"I don't know. All I know is that if she got real
depressed, got down far enough, desperate enough, it wouldn't be
too difficult for her to transition into suicide."
"You think she'd be capable of that?"
"I don't want to find out."
"Don't be so arrogant."
"What do you mean?"
"Don't be so sure of the position you play in her life. You
may think you're center stage, but you may be barely in the
wings."
There are just some things no one can do alone: conspire, be
a mob, or a choir, or a regiment. Or elope.
-- Ranata Adler
Just remember, we're all in this alone.
-- Lily Tomlin
It's her birthday. I would have sent a card by now. I
would have phoned. By then, she would have had too many glasses
of wine, but she would still have been happy to hear from her
number one son. We would have made small talk. She would have
repeated herself a number of times, told me things she had just
told me last week or last minute. Timing was everything with
these calls. If I caught her too late, it would not be a good

conversation. I would get angry, trying to browbeat her long
distance into taking better care of herself. She would get upset
and the call would be over. And I could avoid the reality of
what was happening for another week.
Then she was dead. And I could make the comment I had just
made to Jorge; a statement that was true, that I really didn't
mean, but had said anyway. "I'm glad I don't have a Mother to
have to worry about shopping for, or sending a card to." I
realized that it didn't come out the way it was supposed to.
"That's not how you feel and you know it."
"I meant I wish she was still here, but I'm glad we didn't
make a big deal out of buying gifts."
"But she always expected one."
"And I always sent her a card. I think I was the only one
in the whole family who never bought a gift on Father's Day,
Mother's Day, or their birthdays. Just one more example of how I
wasn't as much a part of the family as I thought. I was just
never there for them. Especially at the end."

"Why do you keep beating yourself up? Why should you feel
bad? She lived her life the way she wanted. Nobody was going to
change that. Not even you."
"She was pretty stubborn."
"And none of us would have ever changed that. She died.
You couldn't stop that. You can't stop time. You've got to keep
moving. There are a lot more days ahead. So put your energy
into making those good instead of worrying about what you didn't
do and couldn't help."

For them both--my Mom and Sandy--I had become what the
therapists call a "coalcoholic": the caretaker, the giver of
hope, the ignorer of oppressive reality. I gave them a fix as
deadly as their addiction. I satisfied their dependency; their
need to be needed. I shot them up with blind faith and
unquestioning support.
I wasn't there when she died. Typical. I hadn't spent much
time with her or the rest of the family since Sandy and I got
married and moved away. We went down for Thanksgiving and
Christmas, then once every month or so. It was hard, but it was
one of the compromises you make to sustain a marriage. So I
really didn't know what was going on. I blamed it on Sandy, but
I realize now it was a defense. If I ignored the problems--my
Mother's drinking, her health, her behavior--it would go away.
It did. About a week after she visited us. I told her she was
drinking too much and refused to make her any more drinks. It
was easy to be righteous when you didn't have to deal with it
everyday like my Dad and the rest of the family. I remember my

sisters telling me stories about Dad passing out because he tried
to drink all the booze in the house so she wouldn't have any. It
was the only way he could tell her no. He knew she was killing
herself but he just couldn't stop her. It wasn't in him. I
begin to realize how much like him I really am. Easier to give
in and ignore it than confront it. And that's why I really
stayed away. When I just talked to them over the phone, I didn't
have to see what was going on, and didn't have to admit it. So I
wasn't there when her heart stopped. I wasn't there sitting in

the dining room with the rest of the family while she lay on the
couch, waiting for the ambulance to take her away. I arrived
later, after she was already gone. I had avoided it again. And
I probably would have ducked out of the next few days of mourning
if I could have.
I never cried for her. Jorge did. The night of the wake.
I heard him. And I, the practical, non-nonsense,
always-in-control eldest son, thought he'd had too much beer and
was just throwing up.
It wasn't until months later that I began to deal with some
of the guilt and hurt. I did, as we usually do, in dreams. I
was in the living room, sitting on the coffee table by the couch;
the old, broken-down couch with the maple coffee and end-tables.
At her feet was the black and white television. On one end-table
was her Kleenex, her plastic glass of water, and all her
medicine. It was here that she went each night to pass out.
After she'd doused the emptiness with alcohol. I guess it might
have been the night she died. She asked me what was happening to
her. I had no answer. She looked at me as if she couldn't
believe there was none. "Am I dying?" she asked. I could only
sit there. I couldn't tell her. She was perspiring. Her thin
hair was stuck to her forehead. Her eyes were frightened, near
tears.
I couldn't stand it when she cried. It tore my heart out
every time she and Dad would fight and she'd start. She didn't
do it very often. Kept it bottled up. And it was usually over
money. She'd want to buy us something, maybe new Easter clothes.

He'd say we didn't have any. She'd threaten to order it anyway.
He'd say he would take her cards away. She'd come running into
the family room, crying and blowing her nose with the Kleenex she
always kept handy in the waist-band of her pants. She'd say she
was only doing it for us kids. We were too young to know what
was going on, so Dad was always the bad guy. He'd come into the
dining room and our hard stares would chase him away.
As I sat there, she began to cry. I couldn't handle it. I
started to leave. She touched my arm. She never did that.
"It's for the best, you know?"
"No, you'll get better. It'll be okay."
"No, it won't. You don't understand. You have your
friends. Your job. A wife. Your whole life. I don't have
anything."
"You've got Dad. The cats." It sounded pretty empty.
"But I don't have you kids. When your brother finally
moved out, that was it. You were all gone. Do you know how
lonely that was?"

"But we were always around. We came to visit. We had
Christmas and Easter."
"But you weren't here for me everyday anymore. I couldn't
take care of you. Couldn't watch out for you. That's what I
lived for, you know. Now it's gone and I'm alone. I just don't
want to live anymore."
"Come on, Mom. You can't just give up. You've got reasons
to live. I know you do." It was weak, but it was the best I
could offer.
"You just don't know how lonely it can be. You've always
been independent, a loner. You can handle it. I can't. And I
don't want to anymore."
There was nothing more I could say. And then she died.
Just closed her eyes. And I left her, alone again.
I never had the dream again. But I would see her alone.
Passed out, alone. Waking up, alone. Inside herself, alone. I
couldn't understand it. She had a full life, I thought. Or
convinced myself. There were always people around, even after
she'd pissed them off. They loved her and cared deeply about
her. Yet she was completely alone. And she died that way.
I guess it's really a lonely world. Someone once said you
can die from loneliness as surely as you can die from heart
disease. I remember a writer commenting that it was not possible
for two people to truly know each other. No matter how close the
husband and wife, the father and son, the lover and beloved, we
are all locked inside ourselves, which says something horrible
about our lack of knowledge, about our hopeless and terrible, and
sadly permanent loneliness. And something about the loneliness
of the individual trying to find meaning in their isolation.
I guess when all us kids had moved away, she just gave up.
She had no reason to live anymore. The coroner's report listed
heart failure. But my Mom really died from the absoluteness of
loneliness.
The Giants went on to lose in the ninth. And I lost it in
the bar bathroom.

The news is over. She stands and begins turning off lights.
He says, "I think I'll have another beer and watch
Letterman."
She lets out a sigh with his name, disappointment edged with
anger.
"Hey, I'm not tired yet, okay! What? Oh, I see," he grins
but doesn't move any closer to the bedroom.
"It's been weeks," she says.
He turns off the television and slowly follows her into the
bedroom as she slips on the nightgown he bought at "Victoria's
Secret" last Christmas. But he'll never see how sexy it makes
her look because he's snoring when she returns.
Angrily, Sandy snaps on the bedside light and begins to
read, but she can't see anything through the frustration. "What
is it? What's wrong with me?" she screams silently. "I can't
take it much longer," she vows.
Sex would be more fun if you forty-year-olds weren't so
seriously scared and boringly concerned about length-to-

performance and orgasm-to-enjoyment ratios, the baggage of past
lives like ex-lovers and wives, fathers and mothers, priests and
sisters, repressed instead of uninhibited, oblivious to the fact
that when the flaps are down and stay down it reflects on me, and
you can't understand the anger and frustration I feel even though
you pleaded to sleep with me and I can't shout my irritation in
your face because I'm supposed to be supportive and understanding
of your precious ego so you won't have a sexual breakdown in my
bed that might leave you permanently impotent and leave me alone
when the biologic clock is winding down and I want to be sure
that you're not wasting my time.
I dream of a man mutually interested in the joy of pillowing
and not the dreaming pillow before the late night news even
begins, but if I exercise the option to trade I may not get
someone as nice and easy and accommodating, especially at this
point in my life when there's a greater likelihood that I will be
killed by a terrorist than I will remarry, so it's easier to fake
it, hoping things will at last work out, and have someone around
for the summer, because it looks so bad at the beach when you're
alone.
On Friday nights in high school your ears would burn because
we were judging you as we giggled and cried and worried and
whined at slumber parties that now are afternoon lunches of the
"Annie Hall Club" for twice-divorced, newly-divorced, or
in-process divorced women complaining again about you men, and
second-guessing your actions, interpreting your words,
manipulating your feelings, and making you more paranoid about us

than you already are.
Stephan Harrington was a frustrated Hemingway. He worked as
a journalist to pay for the time he spent writing a novel.
Several of them, actually. And none of them done. Because he
talked more about doing it than actually doing it, he was
probably less of a writer than he realized. His frustration made
him angry. And that made him a hungry reporter. That hunger
gave him clarity.

He resembled a refugee from a rock 'n roll carnival. His
unshaven chin receded into his neck, shrinking as if embarrassed
by its size. That's why he wore a beard most of the time. His
hair was thick, but when slicked back, as he usually wore it, it
looked greasy, stringy. He used to smoke and drink heavily. He
finally gave them both up so he wouldn't die, but they left their
mark on his voice, which had a whiskey-soaked raspiness. His
face had a few sandpaper scars from a pimply pubescence. His
ears were large, so he wore his hair long along the sides and in
back.
All the elements together created an energy, a magnetic
attraction that sucked people into his web. Maybe it was the
eyes. They were small and very black. But they held you where
you stood and wouldn't let go. And then there was the crooked,
mocking smile, as if only he heard the last laugh in the cosmic
scheme of things.
We first met in college while taking communication classes.
It came easy to him. I had to work at it. But we liked each

other and made a good team. We became friends. He still lived
in Davis, choosing to drive the few miles to Sacramento instead
of living in a town that was beginning to get out of control.
Steph had started as the night police reporter for the
"Sacramento Record" when he turned 20. He liked the beat because
it reminded him of his days as a "carny". A walk down sleazy
street. Eventually, his nightly rounds burned him out. But his
time there gave him a healthy cynicism, a spare style, and his
own by-line. "Alta California" examined anything to do with

Northern California, its people, and lifestyles. One of his
favorite topics, one that occasioned at least one article a week,
was the "politics of water" in California.
He wrote about "water grabs." He wrote about dams. He
wrote about "the big ditch," otherwise known as the Peripheral
Canal. He wrote about subsidized water and "the hydrologic
ballet". He also wrote about The League. So it was no surprise
when a series of articles on the pollution at Masterson, and its
connection to The League, began running under his by-line. And
it was no less surprising when he started receiving prank calls
and anonymous threats. He figured most of them were probably
coming from local farmers who were afraid of losing their cheap
water. He knew because he'd written about them. And, like a
cornered animal, they'd go to any length to protect their own.
In one of his articles, an interview with a valley farmer
made the situation quite clear. "Any regulation of groundwater
or surface water, from rivers or dams, means me, and most other
farmers, would have to cut back on production or turn to

different crops. Some of us would definitely go out of business.
Out here in the desert, when you lose your water, you lose your
farm. You lose your farm, you lose your livelihood. You lose
your family and, eventually, you lose your life. It's simply a
matter of our survival."
Harrington had closed the article with an analogy to the
"Dust Bowlers" of the 1920s and 1930s. Without water, those
farms had turned to dust and blown away. But those farmers at
least had some place to go. They could head West. The farmers
in the West had no place to go. The only thing West of them was
the Coast and the ocean. Full of water, yes. But also full of
salt.
The day after the article ran, he received a small token of
appreciation from a nameless benefactor. A strangled duck, its
neck snapped in a hangman's noose, dangled from his front porch.
A scrap of paper was pinned to its wing. It read, "Must be the
water."
In another article, Harrington interviewed a leader of the
"stop-the-canal" campaign; a businessman who talked off the
record about how dirty a war over water in California can get.
"The business community in southern California has made the
business community in northern California extremely paranoid.
One company, a large manufacturer based in San Francisco, was
told, 'If you want to sell any more product south of San Jose,
you'd better not take an anti-canal position.' Because
contributions are identifiable and trackable, everyone in the
business community up north is afraid they're going to be found

out and blacklisted down south."
Another businessman drew the following analogy, "It's like a
Banana Republic election, where the houses of the opposition
candidates miraculously and unexplainably catch fire."
Harrington had a source that, in a gesture of unjustifiable
self-importance, he dubbed "Deep Water," intending to link
himself to those other, well-known investigative journalists. He
loved running up the Watergate flag any chance he could.
He and I had been talking since Elliot had first signed me

on. I knew he had stories he couldn't run. Either because his
editors felt they were too explosive to publish or because there
wasn't sufficient confirmation to run them. He said he had a
file full. In a strange and ironic twist, we both realized he
would be my "Deep Throat."
DISSOLVE:
THEME #10: "California Here I Come"/"California Blues"

59 MONTAGE
AERIAL SHOTS of California places and people.
NARRATOR (v.o.)
This is California. It has more people than
the entire population of Canada. An economy
richer than all but seven nations in the
world. It grows one-third of all the table
food in the United States. Sales of
California farm products
reached $15.6 billion last year. California
farmers have led the nation in agriculture
for twenty-five years. And none of it
remotely conceivable within the pre-existing
natural order.
60 EXT. VALLEY FIELDS - ESTABLISHING SHOT
AERIAL SHOT of Central Valley factory fields. Miles upon miles

of cultivated acreage.
This is the valley. The business that makes

it so unique and so powerful is industrial
agriculture. Modern chemical farming. The
billboards of the Production Credit
Association don't call agriculture "farming."
They call it California's "number one
industry."
61 MONTAGE
Shots of agricultural activity.
The three top-producing farming counties in

the nation are in the San Joaquin Valley.

Agriculture uses 85 percent of
all the water used in California and it's as
dependent on irrigation as ancient
Mesopotamia and Egypt.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
Technology--irrigation, fertilizers,
pesticides, and sophisticated machinery--is
the invisible warp that holds the
natural weave in place. And it is a
lucrative weave. A single county, producing
tomatoes, peaches, apricots, almonds,
walnuts, peppers, grapes, melons, and
cherries, yields up to $5,000 profit an acre
compared to $10 or $20 an acre for Kansas
wheat.
62 CONTINUE MONTAGE.
Shots of fields and workers at The Marriposa Combine.
The Valley supports thousands of family farms

and a handful of mammoth agribusinesses. The
largest 15 percent of these farms soak up 83
percent of irrigation benefits from public
projects.
63 CONTINUE MONTAGE.
Shots of large factory farms.
Farmers using State Water Project and Central

Valley Project water include some of
America's biggest corporations. Chevron has
50,000 acres, Tenneco 53,000, Getty Oil
41,000, the Southern Pacific Land Co. 38,000,
J.G. Boswell 95,000 acres, and the Tejon
Ranch Co. 41,000 acres.
64 MONTAGE
Shots of farming activity.
Today, the farmland in California, and much

of the rest of the nation, belongs to the
corporations. To the oil companies and
railroads and their stockholders, who never
see it and certainly never work it. It
doesn't belong to the farmer's children or

their children after that.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
Central Valley agriculture may be the most

energy-intensive agriculture the world has
ever known. It is pumps, using more power
than dams can generate, carrying water 400
miles from its source.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
It is bulldozers. Trucks and trains carrying

produce 3,000 miles. Rice being shipped to
Japan. It is fossil fuel-
based fertilizer, the staple of Valley crops.
Automated picking equipment, gasoline-powered
drying equipment. Pesticides and herbicides.
65 EXT. FIELD - ESTABLISHING SHOT
GROUND LEVEL SHOT of aerial spraying. INTERCUT pilot's POV and

follow shot from second plane.
California agriculture is also chemical-

dependent. Of all the pesticides produced in
the United States, California uses about 30
percent. Over 500 million tons of pesticides
are applied to the fields of California each
year. More than any other state. That's one
billion dollars a year in chemicals.
66 MONTAGE
Shots of pesticides being applied to fields in variety

of locations.
Although many new pesticides are less persistent and

more specific, some are also more mobile, more water soluble, and
more acutely toxic.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
They leach into groundwater, endanger those

who work in sprayed fields, and leave
residues on fruits, vegetables, and
grain, despite washing and processing. The
dangers are considered so grave that the EPA
has catapulted pesticides to the top of its
list of problem pollutants. Above toxic

wastes.
67 MONTAGE
Shots of industrial agriculture.
In the eyes of those who are critical about

agribusiness and corporate farming, the new
American farmer is fast forgetting the old
rule about putting more back into the soil
than he takes out of it. Of being a good
steward of the land.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
It's a bit of the devil's bargain. In

exchange for using $3 billion worth of
pesticides yearly, American farmers reap $12
billion worth of crops that might otherwise
be lost to weeds and insects.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
Without the chemicals, millions of people

might face food shortages. On the other
hand, less than one percent of the poisons
reach their target.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
Worldwide, the compounds fatally poison an

estimated 10,000 people a year and injure
400,000 more. Uncounted millions
more may be at increased risk for cancer,
reproductive problems, and birth defects due
to low-level, chronic exposure.

CHAPTER 11
Breathes there a man with a soul so dead who never to

himself has said: "Someday I'm going to show them."?
-- Richard Reeves
It's late Sunday night, actually Monday morning. You turn
on the TV and start playing Russian roulette with the remote
control. You drift through the channels. You stop. You see a
handsome man, casually dressed in loose tropical clothes, with
the blue ocean and white waves crashing behind him. He's
smiling. He seems comfortable, in control, satisfied. He's
talking with a young man who sits in a chair next to him.
They're talking about foreclosures.
The scene changes to a series of interviews, each praising
someone named James. "If you follow what James says, it's real
simple. Any ordinary man can do it." The program shifts to a
packed auditorium. A giant banner stretching across one wall
shouts: "FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS WITH JAMES DAVID DELGADO." The
audience chants: "WE CAN DO IT! WE CAN DO IT! WE CAN DO IT!"
As the noise builds, the public address system booms: "The
National Foundation for Independent Living presents America's
number one cash flow expert. Television's consumer advocate of
wealth and better living! The deacon of no money down! James
David Delgado!"
The camera swivels to catch a man as he runs through the
packed room and up on stage. It's the man from the tropics and
he's still smiling. This time he's dressed in a double-breasted
suit. Riding on the back of their expectant cheers, he launches

into his sermon on success. He is the best of a new breed known
as real estate evangelists.
At 38, he's set for life. He survived the roller coaster.
Most of the other gurus didn't. Now he's consolidating his power
by buying as much air time as he can get and by looking into new
arenas.
Delgado didn't always like himself or the way he looked. He
does now. And he works hard to maintain it. Especially his
weight. It comes easily to his solidly-built, thick-waisted
frame. He wears a small, neatly trimmed mustache, and hair
fashionably long, just beginning to bald. His teeth are even and
seen often as he flashes a ready smile. At work, or during his
seminars, he wears hand-made silk suits. At home, he wears
casual, but expensive, resort clothing. Home is the Kahala
district of Honolulu. He likes gold and wears lots of it:
watch, rings, and necklaces.
He has a smooth, somewhat high-pitched voice. He speaks
with a light valley accent, which means it has a little midwest,

a little Texas, and a little south of the border. His sing-song
delivery is his attempt at sincerity, courtesy of bad direction
and little practice.
When Delgado talks, he uses his hands, like any good
Italian. He punches the air like Stallone. But, like his
message, the gestures seem a little too practiced, a little too
contrived. It's often been said that if something seems too good
to be true, it probably is. Many think that's especially true of
Delgado and his teachings.

Although wealthy, he's not worldly. He still exhibits many
of the simple habits and traits of his childhood. Particularly
the insularity, the trusting naivetÕ. But that's what makes him
seem so friendly. He makes you feel comfortable. He's someone
you don't mind being around. For someone so successful, he
doesn't seem to be the least bit intimidating.
The only boy in a family of three children, Delgado's two
sisters led uneventful lives, marrying right out of high school.
One is still married and teaching. The other, divorced twice
already, manages a record store in Ralston. He, his parents, and
his sisters all get along well enough now that they've come to
terms. He used some of his first million to atone; to make up
for his early rebellion, to take care of his guilt by buying his
parents a ranch near Ralston.
Delgado doesn't talk too much about his Father or his
childhood. Reading between the lines, you see a strict father
with a volatile, sometimes violent, temper. His parents fought a
lot and would sometimes take it out on him. He rebelled, fell in

with wrong crowd, and became a "hood" in high school. He partied
through most of his adolescence. The only thing that kept his
interest was athletics. He was good at most, but excelled at
baseball. A scholarship to the University of Texas gave him his
exit visa.
Texas was another world. It was light years away in
distance, time, and emotion. This was an era when Texans seemed
to personify the redneck. Though Delgado wasn't a "goat-roper,"
as the panhandle cowboys loved to call hippies, he was definitely

not a native son of the Lone Star State. When he played ball, he
was fine. Everything else sucked, including his studies. Midway
through his second year, he dropped out and returned to Ralston.
He became a student at Ralston Community College. Having
lost baseball, and now totally alienated from his family and
disappointed in himself, he started partying again. He sold
drugs for a while, mostly to himself. His business was growing,
getting pretty big, until he bumped heads with the Mafia. They
gave him two choices. Get out of the business or die. He
decided it was time for something completely different. He spent
the next two years studying the Bible to become a minister for
the Jehovah's Witnesses. Delgado married a woman he met there.
They had two children, one boy and one girl. Now, she helps run
the business.
During those years, many of his friends got out of school
and began making a life for themselves. Delgado noticed that
some, especially those who became real estate agents, were doing
extremely well. He decided to get his license. He opened a real

estate office in the resort area of Pine Crest, above the old
gold rush town of Sonora, 56 miles east of his Ralston home. The
more he sold, the more he realized he could do better buying
property and becoming a landlord. Within three years, he had
purchased several houses, apartment units, and office buildings
in, or near, Pine Crest and Ralston.
He got hooked. This time it wasn't alcohol or drugs. It
was money and power. To earn a little extra, he became a part
of a growing trend just starting in real estate: the

"no-money-down" circuit. He worked first as an adviser and then
as a seminar instructor. As he studied, he found that a lot of
property was being foreclosed on and sold at minimum price. He
started attending sales and auctions of foreclosed property and
re-possessed merchandise. His personal wealth exploded and the
tentacles of his empire reached beyond Ralston.
Early in his indentured career, Delgado was first introduced
to the device that would put him over the top; that would take
his message to a much larger audience: Television. He began
producing a series of "infomercials," or long-form commercials.
They aired late at night and early in the morning on cable
television. It was a new form of communication and distribution.
The cable companies got much-needed advertising revenue and the
suppliers of the programming were able to air what were basically
half-hour, or hour-long, commercials promoting them and their
products.
Quickly realizing the potential for additional wealth and
independence, Delgado kicked off a series of seminars using his

own name and his own information. With the exposure he got from
TV, it wasn't long before he was reaching a larger audience. The
money began to seriously roll in as he sold books and videotapes
promoting the potential profit of cash flow and no money down.
There were obviously a lot of insomniacs out there interested in
becoming entrepreneurs.
During the time between his return to Ralston and his
arrival at the top, two emotions drove Delgado: envy and
revenge. Two sides of the same coin. He was born and raised on
the "wrong side of the tracks." All those cliches. But they
were cliches because they were true. He had tried to get out, to
break through, but too many doors were closed to him. Doors
blocked by the "better people" in town. The "RBs." The "rich
bitches". The "golf and racquet club" set. He almost broke
through with sports. But that didn't work. He tried alcohol and
drugs, eventually to Jesus. And still he couldn't break free of
his upbringing. He finally found a new god: the cult of real
estate. And it took him all the way. To wealth, power, and
influence.
Now he's among Ralston's number one sons. Adopted, perhaps,
in the way that city fathers have of recognizing their mistakes
and welcoming wayward children back in the face of generous
largess. Now he's proudly boasted of and claimed as one of their
own. And it was time for the big pay-back.
"Don't get mad, get even" is a well-worn rallying cry in
this society of rampant status and unchecked ambition. In an
interview once, Delgado spoke of another phrase that worked

better for him. "Don't get popular, get even," he said. "I
remember reading this book about high school a few years back.
In it, they talked with a man much like me who said, 'I can't
deny that I spent a certain amount of my adult life trying to
show the people I went to high school with that I was more than
what they perceived me to be during those four years. No, I
didn't have the money or the status some of them had. But I did
have the brains and the Machiavellian mind to survive them all.
And I used those gifts to achieve a certain amount of success.

I wasn't totally unhappy in high school, but I knew that I wanted
to be better when I grew up. I wanted to achieve the wealth,
power, and status I wasn't born with. And I could only rely on
myself to do that.' I could definitely relate to that."
In the same interview, he talked about how he had been
looked down upon by some of his classmates. When asked if it
bothered him, he answered,, and the anger was visible behind the
words, "They really hurt me. And I swore I would never, ever be
stepped on by those people again. If they didn't like me then,
they sure as hell were going to hate me now. But I'd have their
attention."
He had spent a lot of time coldly thinking and patiently
plotting his revenge; to pay back the class of people that had
rejected him. And through the years, he had methodically and
anonymously ruined a number of them and their families. Now that
he had the money--more than he or his children could ever
spend--the success, the power, and the influence, he just wanted
legitimacy and respectability. He would have those things, and

his final revenge, all at once. Against the people born to
influence. Ralston's ruling class. The Delancys, the
Vanderwalls, the DiGiulios. All of them.
They were listening now and he was preparing for the big
pay-back. He had the motive. He just needed the opportunity.
Something was desperately wrong. The entire system had been
iced down. Each time they brought it up, as soon as they started
to log on, it went down. The director of information services

was shaking; his eyes straining with panic. He was sweating in
spite of the frigidly cold room. He had seen logic bombs before,
but nothing like this. "Must be covering his tracks," he
thought. "Slipped a parasite in, sucked us dry of the
information he needed, and disappeared somewhere in the system."
The implosion was surreal. They all scattered. The screen
of the status display monitor had suddenly turned supple; the
hard surface rippled inward like a wave then shattered into the
room. That was it. "Shut it down! Now!"
Outside, in the blistering heat of a summer's day, the
company trucks of the Westlands Water and Power League continued
to hum in and out of the driveway.
Elliot was stunned by the amount of the check. The masthead
read, "The National Foundation for Independent Living." The
address was Ralston. The cover letter stated that the foundation
believed in the work Elliot was doing and would like to help
contribute to its success. The letter and the check were both
signed by the controller of the corporation. Elliot had no idea
who or what the foundation was or did. He assumed the "work" it
referred to was the documentary.
Recognizing the confused look, Janet explained. "You
obviously don't watch much insomniac television. If you did,
you'd know the foundation is part of James David Delgado's real
estate empire."
"I remember reading something about him in 'Money' or 'Inc.'
Pretty wealthy guy."

"Very."
"What do you think? I mean, how legitimate can a guy like
this be?"
"Depends on what he's got to gain."
"I'm not sure. This is a lot of money. I don't know him
well enough to trust him or trust where this money came from.
Besides, I understand he's got major political ambitions."
"Maybe that's why he's throwing around that kind of money.
Trying to find a launch pad. There have been plenty of
opportunists before him."
"Well, let's at least give him a chance to tell us about
it."
Neither one was intimidated by the other. It was a meeting
of two men who had succeeded on their own terms. Elliot was
finding it hard to dislike the personable man sitting across from
him.
"Had you known who it was, would you have taken my

money?"
"I'd have thought about it."
"Right. Do you need the money?"
"It helps buy independence."
"You want to tell the story, don't you?"
"Of course."
"Well, so do I. I've seen what's happening to our planet.
To the wildlife and the environment. Especially to our water."
Elliot cocked an eyebrow because his tone didn't ring true.

"And if you happen to benefit politically from what I reveal?"
"It wouldn't hurt. I intend to run for office. That's one
of the worst kept secrets around. But I need an issue. I need
an event. I need something to put me in front of the public.
And this could be it."
"IF I decide to cooperate?"
"Of course. I would like to think that we could work
together toward something that was mutually beneficial."
"I'll be honest with you. I don't trust you. I don't know
your politics. And I don't know your motives. All I know is
what I've read and heard. And that's not real flattering or
convincing."
"My closets are open. Do your digging. Then make your
decision. But I'll tell you one thing. I've watched these
people my entire life. They stepped on my parents. And on me.
I wasn't good enough to associate with their daughters. They
screwed me. All my life they told me one thing and did another.
You can understand that. It's sort of like what Hollywood did to
you, isn't it?"
"Maybe."
"Look, it's a reason as old as time. But that doesn't make
it any less real o powerful for me. I want my revenge. And I
will have it. With or without you."
Elliot leans back and crosses his arms to fully appreciate
the rest of the sermon.
"The way I see it, it's do unto others time. For a lot of
things. Besides, it's my home town. And it's your town, too.
It's what I know. What we both know. It's shaped us both. We
are what we are because of that town and its people. And, I'm
tired of what's happening to it and the entire valley. It's
become a company town. DiGiulio's town. Their town. And that
bothers me."
"I can go along with all of that. What your money means to
this project, I'm not sure of right now. So let me think about
it. No promises." Elliot starts to push the check back across
the desk.
Delgado holds up his hand. "None expected. Just keep the
check until you're satisfied. You'll find that I have never
promoted anything illegal, unethical, or immoral. And I never
will. Just check it out. I have a feeling we'll be working
together on this one."
"If I decide to take your money, what role do you plan to
play?"
"Consider me a resource. I'll provide money, contacts, and
information. How you handle it once you get it from me is

entirely up to you."
"No strings?"
"None."
"No interference?"
"Would you have it any other way?"
"There is no other way."
"Fine. Then let's spend our energy on selling the truth."
"I can live with that." Elliot passed the check over to
Janet.
DISSOLVE:

THEME #11: Minor Key Synthesizer Piece
68 INT. LAB - MEDIUM
Shot of EPA lab testing hazardous pesticides.
NARRATOR (v.o.)
The EPA's program to regulate hazardous
pesticides falls under the Federal
Insecticide, Fungicide, and Rodenticide
Act--FIFRA. But it has been manacled by
internal resistance, lack of funding,
pressure from agricultural interests in
Congress, and lack of committed, trained
staff. As a result, it has dealt with less
than one percent of the five hundred
pesticide ingredients suspected of causing
cancer.
CONTINUE SEQUENCE.
A controversial 1972 amendment to the Federal

Insecticide, Fungicide, and Rodenticide Act
required the government to reimburse the
maker of any pesticide that was taken off the
market as a health hazard. The cost of the
reimbursement was often prohibitive, usually
running into the millions of dollars. As a
result, the EPA has been reluctant to take
such action.
CONTINUE SEQUENCE.
And even when the EPA declares a chemical

safe, can its decision be trusted? One
reason for the uncertainty is that many of
the products were approved 20 or 30 years
ago, when toxicology was less sophisticated
than it is today. Another is that some 200
pesticide ingredients were approved based on
data from one testing lab that were later
found to be fraudulent.
69 EXT. FIELD - WIDE SHOT
Tractor sprays field.

Still other hazardous pesticides are

protected today because they have been in use
for decades. They were allowed to stay on
the market by "grandfather" rights. Even
though many do not meet current safety
standards.
70 ECU OF SPRAYING
Of the six most dangerous chemicals

identified in California's 1985 Little Hoover
Commission, review of pesticide
use, two--toxaphane and EDB--are no longer
sold in this state. However, four other
chemicals--C-3 compounds, arsenicals, and
rice herbicides--are used extensively in
California and elsewhere.
71 MONTAGE
Different application of pesticides.
The frightening thing is we cannot see or

taste or feel the poisons. We have only
begun to learn how to design tests to
determine whether they are present and in
what concentrations, let alone the effects of
those concentrations on human life.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
We know that no one, in or out of government,

seems to have the slightest idea what to do.
We know that public
disclosure and outrage hasn't stopped
anything. And we have no idea when we will
start paying the physical and emotional
prices for the damage that has been done.
Shot of tomato harvest.
Typically, the concentration of pesticides in

groundwater and on produce is a few parts per
billion. Some
scientists scoff that this is too little to
worry about. These experts claim people are
getting way too scared about very tiny
amounts of chemicals. The counter argument
is that no amount of a
carcinogen is "safe." Especially since most

fungicides now on the market are known to
cause cancer or birth defects or both.
73 MONTAGE
Shots of handling and applying pesticides.
We are an integral element of the

environment. Current ways of handling
pesticides are spectacular examples of
ignoring this reality. The EPA's pesticide
regulations and the practices of farmers
assume that complex, persistent organic
molecules can be carefully deposited on one
part of a farmer's acreage at a particular
point in a growing cycle without becoming
incorporated into human food chains.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
This attitude overlooks such things as wind-

induced drift, soil residues, runoff into
streams, mistimed applications, deliberate
violations of regulations, and mislabeling
errors. All of these ensure that a
significant fraction of the total
volume of pesticides applied in this country
ends up being ingested by human beings.
74 MONTAGE
Stock shots, file footage, and newspaper articles on asbestos

and other occupational cancers.
We are only forty years into the

petrochemical age and the warning signs are
everywhere. The relationship between
exposure to a wide range of petrochemical
carcinogens and an extensive array of
occupational cancers are well documented.
And such studies are still in their infancy.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
Recent reports suggest that the

concentrations of dibenzofurans, a breakdown
product of PCBs, have had a
significant effect in reducing the sterility
of American males. Other studies indicate
that the average urban child carries much
higher levels of body lead than was

previously thought. And
these levels are often associated with
measurable declines in IQ and other
intelligence measures.
75 MONTAGE
Shots of fishermen and duck hunters.
Many of the chemicals released into the

environment by modern technology possess the
property of concentrating in body
tissues. Of bioaccumulating. So predators
higher up the food chain, including humans,
may end up with millions of times as much of
a given halogenated hydrocarbon as the
environment at large.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
What is much less well known are the ways in

which these different pollutants interact
within the body and the external environment.
And what new and untested breakdown products
they may generate.
76 EXT. CAVE - MEDIUM SHOT
Shots of fresh water in underground caves and grottos.
Human exposure to cancer-causing substances

sometimes does not manifest itself in
observable symptoms for decades. These "time
bombs" may go on in our reservoirs and wells
and inside our bodies long after we have
discovered them.

THEME #12: Ominous Synthesizer Piece
DISSOLVE
77 EXT. CHEMICAL COMPANY- ESTABLISHING SHOT
WIDE SHOT of CARL POPE in front of OxyGene's corporate

headquarters.
CARL POPE
All of the chemicals we depend upon to

survive in this modern, chemically-dependent
world are controlled by a small but powerful
segment of society. A network of industrial
corporations.
78 MONTAGE
Shots of exteriors and interiors of chemical companies. Lab

shots, manufacturing, disposal.
POPE (v.o.)
Companies characterized by extremely short
time-horizons. Companies with a very limited
sense of responsibility. The result.
Inefficiency, malfeasance, and recklessness.
An attitude where all consequences of what
they do are measured by the immediate impact
on shareholder profits.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
Corporate America has shown laxity, to the

point of criminal negligence, in soiling the
land and adulterating the
water with its toxins.
79 MONTAGE
News footage showing late-night toxic dumpers, canisters of

toxic waste, leaking storage facilities.
Industry's treatment of water has been

scandalous and frequently immoral. Those
corporations that have abused this essential
substance of human life have willingly and
knowingly taken the most dangerous
concoctions that their chemists have
perfected and used them in one or another
process.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
They have then taken the leftovers and

routinely dumped them into rivers and
aquifers. And thus into humans' drinking
water supplies and their bodies. And, it is
quite likely, into the lives of their unborn
children. Some of these industries and their
hired hands--lawyers, lobbyists, local,
state, and federal officials--have then
conspired to keep the public from knowing

what they have done.
80 MONTAGE.
Continue shots of interior and exteriors shots of chemical

companies.
It's hard to imagine a more dangerous

guardian for this "Pandora's Box". In
ancient mythology, "Pandora's Box" was
filled with the seeds of all the troubles and
blessings of existence. It also offered
lasting virtue and hope.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
This conjures up frightening images. Images

of the "wrong people" in control of something
that is absolutely essential to human life.
Water. And its quality.
CONTINUE MONTAGE
The "wrong people" are members of the

petroleum cartel. The leaders of the
agrichemical industry. And the other
stalwarts of this great American free
enterprise system that have shown such
contempt for the environment.
CONTINUE MONTAGE.
The opportunities for corruption, abuse,

political and economic gain are limitless.
81 EXT. OXYGENE - MEDIUM SHOT
CARL POPE stands in front of OxyGene's corporate headquarters.
CARL POPE
We know that economics will be the
determining factor in the future. The best
we can do is try to keep that control out of
the hands of the "wrong people." But, even
an extraordinary effort, started immediately,
cannot achieve protection for the American
public for years to come.
AS NARRATOR EXITS, CAMERA ZOOMS INTO CLOSE UP OF OXYGENE LOGO.

OxyGene's Carver Labs is housed in an old brick building.
It sits on a dusty country road outside Ralston. The head
researcher is a man named James Ulysses Daedalus. For years,
the lab had been responsible for developing a line of several new
products for agribusiness. Some were fertilizers, most were
pesticides. All were very effective. One of the labs most
generous benefactors was the DiGiulio Winery. It had funded a

number of projects over the years and was currently underwriting
the development of a powerful pesticide; a nematocide designed to
eradicate the worms that fed on young grape stalks.
There had been rumors in recent years, unconfirmed, that
this lab had been testing the toxicity of pesticides, not on
laboratory animals, but on real people. The illegal aliens they
used were being paid to participate. For what, they didn't know.
But it was extra income. And, if they suspected anything, they
wouldn't report it because they'd be deported.
Pat Walsh and I thought the unconfirmed reports needed some
checking.
In talking with Daedalus, I recognized the type of man who
has been a part of our culture since ancient times. The
artist-scientist. That curiously disinterested, almost diabolic
human phenomenon, working beyond the normal bounds of social
judgment, dedicated to the morals not of his time, but of his
art. The hero of a way of thought, he is single hearted and full
of faith that the truth as he finds it outweighs all else and

shall make us free.
I reached back for my mythology. "Daidalos." The Greek
adjective for "cunningly wrought" and "skillfully made".
Daedalus was a cunning, clever artificer who was taught by Athena
to be skilled in handicrafts. He was later condemned because he
treacherously murdered his talented assistant because he was
envious of the youth and realized that his fame would soon
surpass that of his teacher. In exile, he turned his mind to
unknown skills and changed nature. It was he who built the
labyrinth to trap the minotaur; it was he who fashioned wings to
escape the labyrinth, only to have his son fly too close to the
sun and plummet into the sea.
The more we talked, the more obvious it became that Daedalus
was a firm believer in the phrase: "Better living through
chemistry."
The woman standing next to him is his assistant. Her name
is Barbra Sue Darwin. To anyone seduced by her looks, it's a
wonderful surprise to find that she's also intelligent--a degree

in bio-chemistry from Berkeley--and charming. She reminded me
of all those women of the Sixties; the ones we lustfully called
"bra-less, Berkeley, hippie-chicks". The perfect woman, except
for her devotion to Daedalus.
Beyond the cursory standard tour, which revealed nothing,
Daedalus nor Darwin offered much in the way of time or
information. Pat, ever the conspirator, had spent most of his
time sizing up the security.

CHAPTER 12
History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

-- James Joyce
Mirrors would do well to think before they cast their

reflections back at us.
-- Jean Cocteau
Flying low along highway 99, one of the few things that
makes a mark on the endlessly flat valley landscape are the
hundred or so white, cylindrical tanks running alongside a dry

creekbed. They are part of a huge complex that looks like it
should be in Houston or Bahrain. But the tanks aren't filled
with crude or unleaded fuel. They're filled with Chardonnay,
Cabernet, and ghetto white lightning. One of the largest
wineries in the world is headquartered here. It runs this town.
And much of the valley running north and south. The man in
charge doesn't like having his winery compared to a refinery.
But then he doesn't like much of anything, except manipulating
people and making money. His name is Robert DiGiulio, founder
and owner of DiGiulio Winery. He is The Padrone. The most
influential winemaker in the United States, perhaps the world.
Next to Baron Philippe de Rothschild or Robert Mondavi, he has
probably influenced more people's decisions about wine than
anyone. He relishes the power, the control. He's worked hard
to get it and maintain it.
At first glance, The Padrone looks much like a teddy bear
Godfather. He's a large man, but not fat. He stands tall, over
six feet, and straight. Most of his hair is gone, except at the
sides, which is brown with streaks of gray. He wears a moustache

which is now entirely gray. His eyes are dark-brown, almost
black, but unlike dark-eyed people, his shine brightly. What you
notice immediately is that his head and hands seem larger than
normal. Not too large for his body, not deformed, just big.
For a 77-year-old, he's in remarkably good shape and still
very strong physically. Just shake hands with him. Probably
because he takes in moderation the pasta of his inheritance and
the wine of his legacy. And because he spends most of his days
in the fields. He has a slight limp, courtesy of a cheap hit
taken by a smaller linebacker during one of the first high school
football games held in the valley. He refuses to acknowledge its
existence by carrying a cane. Only in the last few years has he
finally accepted the inevitable and begun wearing glasses to
read. He dresses well, in conservative and traditional
double-breasted pin stripes at the office and work boots, Levi's,
work shirt, and straw hat in the fields.
DiGiulio lives in a splendid home he erected along the creek
east of town. Far enough out that a growing population wouldn't

reach him for decades, yet close enough to the winery to have
lunch at home. When he designed and built his estate along the
banks of John Muir Creek, The Padrone had hoped to capture and
transport a piece of his heritage. He and his wife had spent
several weeks touring the Piedmont region of Italy, searching for
a villa they could purchase. When they found it, they had it
painstakingly taken apart, each piece numbered, then shipped to
California where it was re-assembled. Where once there was an
empty grape field, surrounded by walnut and eucalyptus trees,

there soon stood a magnificent Mediterranean villa.
In the garden, in homage to his heritage and the source of
his wealth, to his humble beginnings, he planted two grape vines
from the original family vineyard, one each for his father
and mother. No one was allowed to touch these vines. He
personally saw to their care; fertilizing them, pruning them,
harvesting their fruit. He often talked to them, as if each had
absorbed the spirit of the person they were dedicated to.
Sometimes, when he was especially troubled, he would simply sit
and stare at them. During those moments of introspective
reverie, the only person allowed near, and this was at a some
distance, was his personal bodyguard. A precaution for a man who
had become paranoid and jealous of his mortality. It was here he
often made the decisions that would affect his winery and his
valley.
Robert DiGiulio was born in the California Mother Lode town
of Sutter Creek, the son of Italian immigrants. They had come to
California early in this century, like many others, seeking

opportunities they could not find in their native land. His
father, Julio, prospered. He soon had enough money to buy some
land in the San Joaquin Valley, near Ralston, where Robert and
his brother David grew up. He planted vineyards of table and
wine grapes on his new land. The business started slowly, but
his hard work soon showed a small profit. The elder DiGiulio
kept the original ranch and bought more land closer in to
Ralston. There, he built a house and planted still more
vineyards.
The same ambition that had driven his father to this country
inspired Robert, while still in high school, to learn more about
the family business; how to tend the vines and get the grapes to
market. By then, the feeble attempt to legislate public morality
known as Prohibition had begun. In the beginning, the small
grape growers, like the DiGiulios, were hit hard. The family
business, like so many others at the time, nearly failed.
Robert's father, an idealist and optimist, had trouble dealing
with the reality. A short time later, he and his wife died in an
auto accident while driving through thick tule fog on their way
home from a wedding celebration in Vernalis.
Neither Robert nor David ever discussed the death of their
parents. When pressed for an explanation, they would lash out at
the interrogator, shouting it was none of their, or anyone's,
business. It was a personal matter; a closed door. The reason
for their overreaction was that some suspected that it may have
been suicide. That Julio DiGiulio had veered off the foggy road
and into the river running alongside the road to escape the
failure he faced. It was a deep wound the brothers had never
dealt with. Or investigated.
Following the briefest period of mourning, without seeming
uncaring, Robert got on with his life. He took over the family
business, with some assistance from his brother. Because
Prohibition did allow the crushing and fermenting of grapes for
medicinal and religious purposes, there was still a demand for
grapes for home winemaking. Noting this, Robert made the first
of many instinctual marketing decisions. He switched from

growing both table and wine grapes to exclusively supplying wine
grapes to this market. Good timing, a little luck, and burning
ambition guaranteed his success. DiGiulio did well.
Early in 1933, as Repeal approached, The Padrone, as someone
had half-jokingly, semi-enviously dubbed him, began his own
winery. He applied for, and was granted, a government permit to
make wine before Repeal was officially enacted. In a small
corrugated tin and wood building, alongside the Southern Pacific
railroad tracks that split Ralston in half, he made his first
wine.
He was a competent winemaker, having watched it made in
his own home and the homes of relatives and friends. But he knew
there was more to the science of winemaking than he had seen
there. So he began spending time at the Ralston Public Library,
researching, reading, and studying the only thing
available--pamphlets published by the University of California
before Prohibition began.
His need to know inspired him to learn more of the science

and refine his craft. His need to control drove him to be shrewd
and ruthless when dealing with suppliers and distributors. He
cut no slack and expected none. As with most successful
enterprises, timing and luck, combined with intelligence and
ambition, assured continued growth. And the winery, named now
after the family, grew steadily into the nation's first major
wine-making organization.
World headquarters for the DiGiulio Winery sits but a few
miles from its trackside birthplace. But it is light years away

in the science and technology of viticulture, enology, packaging,
marketing, and distribution. DiGiulio continued to pioneer in
all aspects of winemaking and did more than any other man to
promote and to educate the palate of the world to appreciate the
wines of California. And he was never afraid to remind people of
that fact.
The DiGiulio Winery is one of the nation's largest privately
held firms, and one of its most secretive. DiGiulio has no
tasting room. It officially discourages visitors. This covert,
all-business tone is set by The Padrone. Nobody knows just how
big or rich the winery is because it is still family-owned and
operated. But it is powerful and it is ruthless.
The Padrone runs the winery and the winery runs Ralston.
The company picnic is the largest community function of the year,
with the exception of the "Annual Water Festival". His
philanthropy is legend in Ralston and the surrounding communities.
The catholic church has received land and money, as
has Valley Catholic High School. Many other charities have

received generous, and often anonymous, gifts. The DiGiulio
Foundation was created to identify and manage all contributions
to charity. It's a relatively inexpensive way to buy community
support. And it does. His money and his favors determine who is
mayor, who sits on the city council and the county board of
supervisors. Not even the "Ralston Record" dares cross swords
with the winery over issues significant. The people and
community leaders will not admit it, but Ralston is a company
town, not unlike the steel and oil towns run by Carnegie and
Rockefeller a century earlier. And from the heart of the Central
Valley, he sits, making decisions that manipulate and influence
people and events throughout the state and across the country.
The unseen mover, he enjoys running, and sometimes ruining,
people's lives from there. And he has those who owe him, in
positions of power, who can mask his every move.
DiGiulio is a focused man. His entire life, every decision
he's ever made, has been based on the single premise of making
money. And keeping it. It's his way, or the highway, as they
say. He leaves nothing to chance. And very little to
imagination. He has no patience, no tolerance, for weak people,
especially people he counts on who fail to deliver. Employees
who can stand the heat, who like the paternalistic style, stay
with the winery forever. Those who can't, are gone in a breath.
The end result is a company run by tough, like-minded
businessmen. Not businesspeople, in the new language of sexual
equality, because there are no women in management positions at
DiGiulio. The old world traditionalist never trusted their

emotional mood swings.
The Padrone is a meticulous and careful man. His attention
to detail is legendary in the business world. Nothing escapes
his attention. He insists that every conversation, every
transaction, anything where information is given or taken, be
written down, reviewed and counter-signed by a supervisor, and
filed. Everything and anything that's ever been done by, and to,
the winery has been recorded somewhere. The result is a tangled
bureaucracy and, until recently, warehouses filled with

documentation. Recently meant the arrival of the computer age.
Always an innovator, which on the surface seems to run contrary
to his old world ways, DiGiulio was the first in the industry to
computerize his entire operation. Now, instead of racks and
racks of manila folders, his MIS and Records Departments are
housed in an entire building, temperature-controlled and
electrically isolated, filled with hard disks, floppy disks, and
disk packs. From there, the electronic web reaches out to every
desk at corporate headquarters and to an entire sales, marketing,
and distribution army nationally and around the world. It's a
wired winery.
DiGiulio takes great effort to cultivate an image of
legitimacy in a business blemished by memories of bootleggers,
excess, violence, and the influence of organized crime. And as
clean as his business appears, DiGiulio hasn't been above
stretching the law to his own advantage. Perhaps it's his
determination to never be poor again. Or maybe it's his Sicilian
heritage; something in his emotional make-up that allows him to

lightly tamper with common morality and ethics without remorse.
He simply looks at things a little differently than most. He has
a different set of values. And he doesn't seem to be upset by
things that might bother others. Just as long as he doesn't get
blood on his own hands; just so long as they can't point the
finger at him.
His tyranny, born of paranoia and a fear of losing control,
inflated by ego and power, has grown worse as he's grown older.
In studying the man more closely, it becomes obvious that he

designed his life to be as different as possible from his father;
a man whom he loved for his spirit, gentleness, and generosity,
but whom he despised for exhibiting those same weaknesses. The
Padrone knew his parents death wasn't an accident. His father
had killed himself and his wife because he was weak. Because he
had lost control of the situation and his emotions. DiGiulio
would never allow that to happen. He was stronger than his
father and the world would know that. He would never show the
scars.
This obsession with success was symptomatic of his greatest
fear. He was determined not to fail in the eyes of others as his
father had. And, on those rare occasions when something slipped
through, he did everything he could to conceal it. He stopped at
nothing to maintain the facade of a perfect game.
His terrors are self-inflicted; his demons of his own
design. His delusions of aggression and ruthless threats implied
by others are simply a mirror of his own impulses. He judges
others by himself; he sees motives in them that are really his

own. Perhaps that is why he avoids mirrors, dodges his
reflection. He refuses to see himself as others see him.
DiGiulio is a man who is used to having his own way. Things
have gone his way for too long, by design, for him to think any
other way. It seems that he will stop at nothing to see his own
vision of success realized. Here is a man who profits annually
from a $500 million "misery market" and feels no remorse. Here
is a man who defames and discredits his own brother in order to
secure the sanctity of the family name and the product that bears
it.
They've got back-street names and a little extra kick of
alcohol, this poison the street people call "cheap" or "jug" or
"grape". Made with inexpensive, mostly chemical, ingredients,
these "wines" have twice the alcohol of--and 10% higher profits
than--table wines. That's one half of the slimy equation. The
other half is the tipsy elderly couple who drink it because they
don't like the taste of the harder stuff; or the bottle gangs,
sporting wine sores, who drink it because it's cheap and it gets
them there. Witnessing this, you suddenly realize that these
"fortified wines" are deadly and, as the sociologists would say,
have no "socially redeeming values".
And the man who has built a business on this foundation of
pain realizes it, too. It's an embarrassment. He doesn't like
to talk about it. He doesn't even put the family name on the
bottles. One industry expert was unforgiving in his assessment,
charging that the "makers of skid-row wines are the dope pushers
of the wine industry".

And then, there's the legal battle with his brother.
The family squabble had begun innocently enough. Over the
packaging of olive oil. A few years before, the younger DiGiulio
had begun marketing a bottled olive oil using the family name.
Robert had already licensed General Foods to sell olive oil under
the DiGiulio logo. Hoping for a quick and amicable compromise,
Robert offered David a licensing agreement that prohibited him
from selling olive oil outside California or advertising on
television. David refused and Robert sued him for trademark

infringement. A few days later, David filed a countersuit in
federal court in Fresno. He charged his older brother with
breach of fiduciary duty, constructive fraud, and deceit. He
claimed that his brother had cheated him out of his patrimony and
had commingled assets from their parents' estate with his own
when he started the winery. David was suing for half of the
multi-billion-dollar empire.
Preparing to defend his suit, David sent his attorney to dig
through the DiGiulio-family records. The lawyer discovered
documents indicating that their father had used the family name
in the wine-grape business before Robert took it for the winery.
That made the name the property of both brothers. More
importantly, the will said that the estate was to be divided
evenly among the two boys. David was astonished. He had always
assumed that what he had been willed was what his parents had
wanted. He was sure that if he had had some interest in the
winery, his brother would have told him.
Once, they had been very close. Robert had raised David
from the age of 13 following the death of their parents. As
brother and legal guardian, Robert offered advice and guidance.
David spent twenty years managing the family vineyards before
leaving to operate his own dairy and grape ranches near his home
south of Ralston. Until the suit, Robert continued to buy grapes
each harvest from his brother.
Robert had some of the best legal talent in the state
already working for the winery. David hired the rest. It
promised to be a long, well-publicized battle. Accusations and

allegations, threats and implications were reported each day in
the local and national press. It cut deeper and deeper. People
wondered how two brothers could become so different, so hateful,
so casual about the other. The answer was not so difficult, or
so far away. Again, they were Sicilian. Brothers of that blood
had killed brothers before, for more or less.
His younger brother had become a nuisance; a distraction he
didn't need. Brother or no. His enemies didn't need any more
allies, or any information he might willingly provide. Silencing
him would be difficult, but not impossible. Attack his
credibility first. Make them doubt his word. If that failed,
simply attack him. The youngest had left the oldest brother no
choice.
His brother was a someday problem. Today, he had more
urgent business to attend to. That's what was bothering him as
he sat there in his garden, staring at the budding greenery
of the grape vines. He was re-playing the entire board meeting,
noting those who had backed him and those who had broken ranks.
The sting of his embarrassment was still warm on his face. The
anger glowed hotter as he thought about it, fanned by what he
knew people were thinking and saying and by his disappointment in
himself for allowing it to happen.
They, the board, half of whom he had gotten appointed, had
the brass to blame him for what had happened. And then, had told
him--not asked him--but told him to take care of it. Because
that goddamned Asian farmworker had worked on one of his ranches
and because Elliot Lincoln--the famous Elliot Lincoln--was born

and raised in the same town. His town they said. A town they
thought he controlled.
The incident with the farmworker could be dealt with. Pay a
few medical bills. Take some food and clothes over to the
family. Help him pull out of it and then get the relief agency
to relocate him.
Mr. Lincoln was another matter entirely. That would take
some thought. And some counsel. It was time for a meeting. He
needed to talk with his two most trusted, and dedicated,
advisors. His lawyer and his congressman: The Mouthpiece and
The Iceman.
Returning to the winery, DiGiulio asked his secretary to
call Thomas Franklin Delancy and John Anthony Borba.
Immediately. Before this day was done, he expected to know what
to do about this slight nuisance.
The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.

--William Shakespeare, "Henry IV"
Prior appropriation. "First in time, first in right."
That's how water rights were determined in the early pioneer days
of California and the Western United States. The first settlers
to get to a stream, creek, or river had a superior right--a prior
right--to the water. Those who came later had to get water from
them. It's a courtesy still practiced today by river rafters.
The first to arrive gets the best campsites.
In more modern times, entire law firms had been founded
trying to explain prior appropriation. Unscrambling and

protecting water rights for the Westlands Water and Power League,
the Marriposa Combine, and the DiGiulio Winery is the job of
Thomas Franklin Delancy and his colleagues at Delancy & Reed, a
legal corporation. Delancy is The Padrone's personal mouthpiece.
Delancy's firm was the primary lobbyist in Sacramento and
Washington for most of the water contractors, factory farms, and
agrichemical companies in the Central Valley. He had lobbied
long and hard for water rights, more water projects, and fewer
restrictions on pesticides. His ally is John Borba. They had
fought side-by-side to raise the acreage limit on water
subsidies. They had also lobbied to keep Masterson open, despite
the pollution and deformities the farmers of The League had
caused. And they had worked to stall EPA bans on certain
pesticides; especially those depended upon by their wealthy and
influential grape- and cotton-growing clients and constituents.
It was not an even match. The lawyers for the EPA and
government departments were not extremely talented. They had
landed in public service because they couldn't hook on with

anyone in private practice. What skills they had were often
rusty from lack of use and any serious challenges. And now they
were going up against some of the best legal talent in the state.
And they were getting hosed. Any lawyer worth his salt could
drag water use, water rights or water pollution cases out in
court for years, while his client continued to receive subsidized
water; while his client continued to pollute the state's drinking
water.
Thomas Franklin Delancy's record against the government was

very good. He had been around for a while and had been
succeeding just about as long. He was old Ralston. His family
had lived near, or in, town since it was founded. He went to
school there, married someone from there, and returned to
practice law there after graduating from the University of Santa
Clara.
Like many before him, his Irish ancestors had fled the
potatoe famines of the mid-1800s to find a new beginning in the
promised land of America. And his family had fallen into many of
the same careers. Some became priests, some became police. Some
became savers of souls, others abusers of power. In him, he had
the capacity to be either saint or sinner. He could serve and
protect the underprivileged class he had been born to, or turn
his back to serve and protect the privileged class he had
scratched and clawed to become a part of.
In the early years of his legal practice, he seemed prepared
to fight the good fight, much like his fellow Irish-Catholic,
John Kennedy, a man he idolized. This affection was something

else he shared with Borba. Influenced deeply by the youthful and
idealistic Kennedy, he dedicated his fledging career to
representing the disenfranchised and downtrodden: first, the
freedom-riders in Alabama and counter-culturists busted for
speaking their minds and smoking pot, then the street people of
the Haight, draft card burners, People's Park street casualties,
a young Farmworkers movement, and other unpopular causes.
Then something changed. The music died. Kennedy was
assassinated. And King. And a son died in Vietnam. Delancy

became bitter, impatient, manipulative, and vengeful. Less
Kennedy, more Nixon. His priorities and his perception of
reality changed. The more he looked at the world through legal
eyes, the more cynical be became. What began as conscious
efficiency and ethical conscientiousness, somehow turned into a
relentless drive to serve any cause that paid well. And what
some were now calling the agricultural trilateral commission--the
triumverate of The League, The Combine, and The Padrone--paid
well; especially well.
Delancy slowly became distanced from, and immune to, the
normal moral accountability shared by ordinary people. And he
callously and impatiently defended his right to do so; to be
above the law. As necessary, he trampled on the rights of the
public to satisfy his powerful clients. Lawyers, guns, and
moneys. A killer equation. Add to that politicians. Often they
were simply negligent. Sometimes just dishonest. They just
didn't seem to mind turning their backs on people's rights just
so they wouldn't annoy the influential. They were legal

terrorists, invoking the veil of client privilege to mask their
abuse of people's rights. Many wondered how that relationship
could be more important than people's lives. Delancy chose not
to answer the question. Colleagues sadly shook their heads and
said he was not immoral, simply amoral. He was not malicious,
simply expedient. It was his job. And he did it. And the
victims left standing on the scaffolding of his legal reign of
terror were the people and the legal system.
Through the years, Delancy had become very well connected

financially and politically. His lobbying and PAC contributions
had endeared him to the Democratic hierarchy. Senators,
governors, and presidents had been guests at his magnificent
Arabian horse ranch outside Ralston.
The family compound was designed as a west coast clone of
the Hyannis Port home of The Kennedys. Delancy's domain,
though, is considerably larger. Casa del Rio Estanislao, named
after the river named for the renegade Indian chief who had been
baptized by Father Serra, sprawls over several hundred acres
along the bluffs overlooking the river, northeast of Ralston, on
the way to the Sierra foothills. It is a working horse ranch,
breeding and selling prize Arabians. During winter and spring,
the hills are rolling in green, summer brown when not irrigated.
White board fences remind one of Kentucky or Tennessee, while the
eucalyptus groves conjure the Big Sur coastside, and the
bougainvillaea, Monterey or the pueblos of Taos. The southwestern
design and decor of the ranch house is strictly Santa Fe.
Each Sunday, all members of the family gather for church

services, held at their own chapel by a visiting church
dignitary, and Sunday dinner. Weather permitting, they even play
a little touch football.
Corpulant is a kind, but accurate, assessment of the man who
reigns here. And sloppy, and untidy. His clothes never appear
to fit him quite right. They're always loosely moving, pulling
and peeking out, as if looking around for their real owner. He
always seems to have a thin veil of cigar ashes all over his
favorite green and red plaid, heraldic-colored bowtie; the one he

wears nearly every day. It is an unflattering combination of
Thomas Mitchell and Orson Welles. He likes to think of himself
as Pat O'Brien doing Knute Rockne. But the smile tips him off.
It, not his eyes, are the window to this man's soul. It can be
frozen thin-lipped in deadly seriousness, or broken and crooked
when he's seriously deadly. Read my lips takes on whole new
realms of meaning when dealing with Thomas Franklin Delancy.
He is usually an uncaring asshole, especially to adversaries
and those he dislikes. Unfortunately, he doesn't know how, or
when, to turn it off when dealing with colleagues, friends, and
family. To the wife he ignores when it's convenient, to the
daughters who live to please him and are rewarded with his
nonchalance, or to those around the office and the family
compound, it is life as he sees it. And there are no dissenters.

CHAPTER 13
We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what

we pretend to be.
-- Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
Truth is a lie.
-- Pablo Picasso
Stephan and I were on our third Beefeaters. The six o'clock
CalTrain had just rumbled past as we sat on the deck at
"Blake's." The blistering Davis day was simmering down to a
comfortable warm breeze. There were smells of tomatoes cooking
far off in the Hunt's cannery, of dry grass, warm wood, summer
roses, and sounds of the approaching night. Here we sat, both
trying desperately to conjure up and recapture a time that had
passed. And like most memories, it was probably better in the
remembering than it was in the living. Although it was a time of
less responsibility. A time of last refuge and isolation before

career and commitment.
We were talking about writers. Stephan, and most of his
friends, considered him one, as did he, although he hadn't really
ever finished anything. He remained satisfied laboring over the
news and postponed finishing the great work until tomorrow. Like
the letters he always threatened to write, Stephan's were all
works in progress, whereas I was near completion. Stephan
worried over words. I worried about finishing. We had never
really discussed the subject at length because I had always been
intimidated; had felt I wasn't sufficiently qualified to discuss
writing with someone who wrote. But now that I had my own
writing working, and after so many years of observing Stephan

making endless notes in trackless volumes of journals and
encouraging him to finish something, I had become less than
sympathetic when he began to complain, as he often did, about
some of the crap he had been reading. Especially when he would
move on to talking about a mutual friend of ours who also
considered himself a writer. And Stephan would muse about how
this man had never finished the adventure novel he'd been working
on for years.
Maybe it was the gin. Maybe it was the fact that I finally
felt superior to Stephan, simply because I had almost
accomplished what he had only dreamed about. Whatever prompted
me, I decided mi amigo was long overdue for a little reality
check.
"I don't think Marlow will ever finish it." He took a long
drag off the unfiltered Pall Malls, took another sip, and stared
out over the railroad tracks toward the trailer houses where he
once lived.
"I don't know. He'll probably finish it someday. Probably

beat us." I twirled the small glass sitting on the black
wire-mesh tabletop, picking at the thin, round napkin.
"How close are you to finishing?" He dusted the ashes down
to a glow.
"I'm pretty much there. Just need to tweak some words and
re-work some situations." I stir. "You know, it's funny."
"What's that?"
"What they say about life imitating art."
"How's that?"
"I'm starting to look at this book like it's some kind of
voodoo doll. It's like, by writing it, I'm foretelling it."
"A chronicle of the immediate future?"
"All the things I write about in the book, all the
possibilities, seem to come true."
"Maybe they're just coincidences."
"Or maybe things happen because we let them happen."
"Beware of what you wish for, you may just get it?"
"Possibly. What about you? Are you wishing for a finished
work?"
"Just a little more work and it'll be ready."
"You know, not that I'm an expert, but when I first started,
I made two notes to myself and stuck them on the computer.
Little reminders. One said, 'When in doubt, write.' And the
other said, "A writer writes.'"
Stephan looked over, the cigarette poised in his fingertips,
that crooked smile on his face.
"Are you saying I'm not a writer? Hell, I write every day
for the paper. I crank out more words in a week than most
'serious writers' do in a month."
"Quantity, not quality. Besides, it's not what you want to
write. It's just a living."
"And a helluva good living. And I don't mind saying that I
think I'm doing some good. Making a difference."
"So did Hemingway. But he knew when to cut himself loose.
Look, I'm just saying you're not a novelist until you finish a
novel. And I'm not even talking about being published. I mean
finishing something. You talk a good story about writing the
great American novel. And you make a lot of notes. But I've
never seen anything finished. I don't think you've ever shown me
anything in progress."
"That's because none of it's ready."
"Bullshit, man!" The gloves were definitely off. "Either
you can or you can't. You do or you don't. There's no
in-between. We both know you're good, but what are you waiting
for? You've certainly had the time to finish something."
"Maybe I'm afraid to."
"Why?"
"Because maybe it won't be as good as it should be. I've
set myself up all these years to be a great writer, a quality
writer, with something to say. I savored that role, ..."
"And played it to the max."
" ... while we were in college, thinking I had years to
complete something. That there were years for me to gather
experiences and observations that would speak to the common

consciousness of people. Then, suddenly, I was no longer a
student, I was no longer young, and I had nothing to show for all
those years of being the starving young artist."
"Except stories and photographs of you living out the
fantasy."
"My aren't we harsh and judgmental tonight? Been saving
this up, compadre?"
"I think it's part envy and part frustration. Envy because
of your talent. Frustration because I hate to see talent wasted.

It's like your painting. Or your music. You had talent in both
and you squandered it. I would have given a left nut to have
either of those abilities."
"Well, I think you're short-changing yourself."
"Maybe. But I do know one thing. Mine may not be great
literature. But it will get done. And it will be a good story.
And if I can communicate any of my vision of the world, unique or
not, I will be satisfied. And I don't think you can say that."
Stephan took another drag and thought about Paris.
In a modern information world, smart governments don't care as

much about what you say as they care about what you know.
-- Richard Reeves/Commentary "Information a Vital Freedom"
Born under a bad sign,

Been down since I began to crawl
If it wasn't for bad luck
I wouldn't have no luck at all
Bad luck and trouble's been my only friend

I've been down ever since I was ten
Born under a bad sign
I feel like a ballgame on a rainy day.
If it wasn't for bad luck
I wouldn't have no luck at all.
-- John Lee Hooker, "Born Under a Bad Sign"
Congressman John Anthony "Tony" Borba, democrat from
Mendota. His home district, the Westlands, stretches from the
agricultural lands on the west side of the San Joaquin Valley to
the dairy lands and vineyards of Ralston to the Fresno suburbs.
Most of the big factory farms and corporate combines are in his
corridor of influence, including DiGiulio. He was hand-picked
and groomed for this job personally by The Padrone. Now he's the
key player on two powerful committees with critical influence in

the state. Those controlling water and agriculture. Money and
power got him where he is. Bundles of both. And lots of favors
have been re-paid to keep him there.
Borba was part of a California congressional delegation that
had become invincible in its faceless obscurity. One political
analyst jokingly commented: "Howard Hughes wasted a lot of
money. If all he wanted was anonymity, he should have joined the
delegation from California." The congressmen liked it that way.
With little or no press coverage, they could fashion their own
image. Not through electronic media or the press, but through
newsletters, which they wrote and mailed and the
government--meaning the taxpayers receiving the mailers--paid
for. In recent years, so few incumbents had been defeated that
no one even bothered to challenge them anymore. This created
continuity in the delegation. But it also caused insularity.
Each member had their own agenda and they were free to pursue it,
regardless of how reflective it was, or wasn't, of their
constituency.
Of this trend, Borba gloated. "We're the power now. We
Westerners. The political dynasties, or should I call them
dinosaurs, of the industrial northeast have had their day. And
they're getting pretty nervous about it. Especially when I told
them I wouldn't treat them any differently than they've treated
us. Nervous? They should be scared to death." Just another
example of a cultivated arrogance that exhibited itself often in
his annoying habit of calling everyone by their last name.
Tony has been quoted as saying, "My business is politics.

It's what I do. It's not a hobby. I like the way it works, its
intricacies, the dealing. And I'm successful because I work the
system. I don't try to beat it. And I know what makes it work.
Communication and marketing. The mass merchandising of a
product. Whether it's a philosophy or a President. It's all
product to me."
He understands the power of presentation and the media.
Walk into his office and you're confronted by a bank of
television monitors. Six TV sets against one wall, tuned to
C-SPAN, NBC, CBS, ABC, CNN, and PBS. Constant electronic input.
He doesn't avoid the media. He courts it. "It's image, not
issues. Sound and fury. Control the image and you control how
your message is presented by the media." To make sure he
controls it completely, he has built and equipped his own
television studio. A complete state-of-the-art facility. To
produce his own video press releases. To show his colleagues and
constituents how to manipulate the electronic eye and mediate the
message.
Sharply dressed in his expensive tailored suits, he leaves
no aspect of his own presentation to chance. Preoccupied with
appearance, it's all very carefully contrived and executed. Not
only how he looks physically, but how others see him--colleagues
and peers, superiors and inferiors. Substance is acceptable, but
appearance is everything.
Short and compact, he's about five-seven or eight. His dark
brown, pinched ferret's eyes shift and dart below black eyebrows
that come to a point at the top of his sharp Mediterranean nose.

His wiry black hair is cropped close, resembling something
between a military cut and a John Kennedy wave.
He doesn't drink or smoke because they cheapen the package.
Running, lifting weights, and playing racquetball keeps him
active and lucid. He plays hard and with a vengeance. It's just
another war. And those who have taken a slammed racquetball off
the forehead can vouch for his battlefield aggressiveness. His
drive toward fitness is a slap in the face of the disease he
inherited; the one his body can't shake no matter how hard it's
worked.
When his wife speaks of her husband, she mentions his
compulsion to organize and his attention to detail. "He's almost
a fanatic in that way. Everything has to be in its place. All
lined up. So he always knows right where it is. Because he
likes predictability. He really hates surprises."
Nancy Borba is bright and attractive, just this side of
bubbly. She was born in the Valley, in Ralston. Her father
worked in the bottling plant at DiGiulio, while her mother stayed

home to raise a family. Nancy was well-liked and did well in
school. She could have been a cheerleader, but chose to pursue
more important things. Her older brother went away to college
and she, being part of the baby-boom, was not about to be outdone
by her brother. But she stayed closer to home. She attended San
Jose State College, got a teaching credential, and returned to
Ralston to teach. She was in her second year when she met Tony
at the annual DiGiulio company picnic. They were married the
next summer and attended that picnic as newlyweds.

She no longer teaches. Her time is fully occupied helping
her husband's climb. She's good at it and enjoys it. She takes
good care of herself, possibly out of a deep fear she may someday
look like her mother; overweight and looking the typical
Portuguese wife. She's still very attractive, though 40 looms.
She's lively, genuine, and generous. If she has one fault, it's
a severe competitiveness. Again because of her older brother.
In school, she competed equally in sports and academics with the
boys. Now she competes in terms of money, stature, and position
in society. She doesn't like anyone, especially her male
acquaintances from Ralston, to do better than she does. She and
Tony make a good match.
John Anthony was born in the Central Valley near Mendota.
His Portuguese parents were dairy-farmers and good Catholics.
Tony is proud to be Portuguese. Although he was born in the
United States to American parents, he promotes himself as very
ethnic, almost Third World. That bothers some of his Hispanic
and Asian colleagues. But he doesn't really care. As long as it

opens some doors.
Rising before the sun every day of his youth, he would do
his chores then walk to school. He was a successful student and
his classmates liked him. He ran for class office often and
usually won. And he liked it.
His parents wanted him to work the farm. He wanted out. He
chose law school as his parachute. He was about to bail out when
his father lost the dairy, to a combination of bad management,
a depressed market, and inflation. That was November 1962, just

before John Kennedy was gunned down. Kennedy was a god to Borba,
as he was to many young people, especially other Roman Catholics.
Tony was attracted to his youthfulness, his dynamism, his "can
do" attitude. His death made him realize how insulated his life
really was. Kennedy's death, and the disillusionment that
followed, affected Tony deeply. Just before graduating, he
decided to re-dedicate his life. He planned to become a Jesuit
priest. Tony was about to realize that his devastation was just
beginning.
As a teenager, he had been in a motorcycle accident. He
wasn't seriously injured, but for years afterwards he complained
of headaches. Occasionally, he suffered convulsions. Then
black-outs. Just prior to beginning the ministry, the symptoms
had become so severe he went to the family doctor. He was
diagnosed as an epileptic.
He was crushed. Not by the diagnosis, but his family's
reaction. His parents were both Old World Portuguese and very
superstitious. They believed that epilepsy was a divine

punishment for an ancestor's sin. Their reaction was immediate:
"No son of ours is an epileptic," and it cut Tony deeper than a
knife.
His parents only pierced the skin above his heart. The
Jesuits plunged the knife to the hilt. They told him he could no
longer join the priesthood. Citing a canon from the Middle Ages,
they said epileptics were "possessed of the devil" and could not
become ordained priests. His world was shattered. His family
and his church had turned their backs on him, basically telling
him he wasn't worth saving. "I hit absolute bottom. The gutter.
I even thought about suicide. Seriously enough to plot out how
I'd do it. I learned what it was like to be abandoned. To be
totally, absolutely alone." Despair became anger. He cloaked
himself in his own isolation as he cut himself off more and more
from his prior life.
Although the ordeal was far from over, it was about to take
an unexpected turn. His fellow Catholics had hurt him deeply.
Two more stepped in to save him. Mrs. Robert DiGiulio, hearing
of the young man's problem from a Catholic relief agency, invited
Tony to tutor her children. Liking the ambitious young man, The
Padrone introduced him to Thomas Delancy. Delancy, in turn,
introduced him to lawyering and politics. Following his
graduation from the University of Santa Clara, Tony went to work
for liberal Republican congressman Loren Van deCamp. When Van
deCamp was called to Washington to work for Nelson Rockefeller,
Tony ran for, and although a Democrat, easily won Van deCamp's
seat.
Coincidentally, or perhaps by design, Loren Van deCamp's
daughter Laura is an associate in the firm of Delancy and Reed.
Tony rose to prominence and power quickly. He learned very
early the impact and influence of Political Action
Committees--PACs. It didn't take long before his "Valley
Education Fund" became one of the most influential in the state
and then the country. He used it to fashion a political alliance
that depended on the farm vote and wielded power with money from
the water lobby, agrichemical corporations, and agribusiness.

Money gladly supplied by The Padrone, The League, and The
Combine.
In his four terms since then, Borba has accumulated twice
the clout of--and twice as many enemies as--lawmakers with three
times the tenure. He's done it because he's ambitious, creative,
fearless, and self-assured. He's known as The "Iceman," because
he's fearless. After all, he had nearly died as a teenager and
he had certainly died in the eyes of his family when his epilepsy
had been diagnosed. He feels he's got nothing to lose because
he'll never be as devastated as he was then. Tony vowed that
nothing would ever touch him again. He would never let himself
be vulnerable again. Never let anybody see him weak again.
He had been to the threshold and it held no secrets, no
dangers. And that made him especially powerful, almost
invincible, because he was not motivated by the most basic fear
driving temporal man. His own mortality. He savored the extra
edge that gave him and used it when that kind of brinkmanship was
the only thing that could control an adversary. He truly

believed in the essence of the "no-guts-no-glory" philosophy.
He sought success, but was neutral about its rewards. The
pursuit excited him as much as the victory. "Besides," he said
with a dark pride of thinly veiled anger, "I'm not worried about
the roll of the dice." And that frightened people.
Some say having nothing to lose makes it easier to sell your
soul. Nothing can touch you because you're already marked.
Tony's epilepsy made him uniquely qualified to be DiGiulio's Dr.
Faustus. So when The Padrone is worried about something, he

calls Tony and The Iceman starts calling in cards.

CHAPTER 14
You wake up every morning still got the sleep

in your eyes
Working for the boss, you never stop to
wonder why
So join the rank, this is the rank, we are th

rank, rank and file and there is no denial
They preach the truth and they don't know

what it means
From left to right--oh it makes me want
to scream
Shift to shift, in and out, I give and

they take
I punch that clock and punch it
hard enough to break
So join the rank, this is the rank, we are the

rank, rank and file and there is no denial
-- Escovedo-Kinman-Session-Miller, "Rank and File"
Death is patiently making my mask as I sleep. Each morning I

awake to discover in the corners of my eyes the small tears of
his wax.
-- Phillip Dow
The Padrone stood with his back to the door, gaze fixed out
the large window overlooking the rolling lawns and the creek
farther below. It was a hazy day. Farmers had been burning the
fruit trees they'd just cleared from their lands to make room for
more houses for people working in the Bay Area. People who had
to work in San Francisco, but didn't want to raise their kids
there. Ralston was growing. It was changing very rapidly. And
that was just one more thing for The Padrone to worry about. The
two men he probably trusted as much as any--Borba and
Delancy--sat across the room.
"It's getting too big to control now."

"What's that?"
"This town. This Valley."
"You'll find a way, Padrone. You'll find a way. It's yours
to rule."
"It was once." The Padrone continued staring. He was
annoyed. Things were not in order. They were getting messy. It
was time for a little housekeeping. But DiGiulio did not intend
to get his hands dirty. He knew his history and his politics.
He remembered Watergate and a weapon from the Nixon arsenal.
"Deniability." A way of insulating and isolating himself from
charges of conspiracy. It worked very simply. He would suggest
to someone else--someone like Borba or Delancy--that certain
actions be taken. That someone might then translate those
suggestions into orders that could be given to still another
person who might then carry them out. That way The Padrone could
later say he was never involved. That he had never directly
given the order.
When he spoke, his anguish was genuine. He was a very good

actor. "I do not know what to do. They have no right to say
what they are saying or do what they are doing."
The two men glance over at each other then back to nothing
in particular.
"I have worked hard to build this. Fought many to maintain
it. Now these baseless accusations from faceless enemies. They
would destroy it for sport. To see the powerful humbled." He
runs his hand along the curtain, moving it so he see a little
more of his land. "Those who stand against agriculture, against

my right to my water, are obstacles. To progress, to growth, to
my ambitions." He didn't say it, but he thought about the iron
archway that spanned the main road into town. "Where the Land
Owns the Water," it read.
Borba bore into his back for a moment, then looked over at
the collection of ceramic roosters caged in glass. It was a
remarkable collection, gathered from around the world, sent as
presents, proffered in peace. Gifts to a man who had everything.
Actually, DiGiulio was quite proud of his ceramic coop. In the
few pictures ever taken of him for publication, when he
grudgingly granted an interview, he was always standing near his
roosters, or holding one that he especially treasured. He liked
roosters. They were very much like him. Especially the
fighters, the killer cocks.
"I trust you understand the problem? The board expects us
to deal with this program of Mr. Lincoln's. As well as the small
problem of this Asian farmworker."
Delancy thought a quick thought of the near past and of

Watergate also. "Engineering the response." That's what they
were expected to do. Just like the Committee to Re-elect the
President. He hoped they would do a better job. They had to.
It was pretty obvious the future of each one of them was at
stake.
"They are very powerful people. They've got the media
behind them. They've got the sympathy of public opinion."
"We'll have to change that, won't we?"
Tony shifts in the chair, his stomach churning.

"Well?"
"Well what?"
The Padrone swivels to face them, hearing a hint of
rebellion. "Something wrong, Anthony?"
"Time for me to arrange something? Something to hide the
truth? Again? Is that it?"
Quietly, pressingly. "No. Time simply to see the truth.
To make it painfully clear, as only you can." The man could be
convincing. He could work you over.
"And just how am I supposed to do it this time? Bribery?
Blackmail? Or simple violence?"
The Padrone limps slowly to where Tony sits and places his
hand firmly on the congressman's shoulder. Not a blessing, nor a
benediction. Just to let him know there's no mistaking the
seriousness of their situation.
"Anthony, my son." The Padrone as Pope. As priest. As
Father Confessor. As the one you cannot deny. Smiling. "We
just cannot let this continue. I think you both understand."

Head bowed. An altar boy, back in the loving arms of the
Church, he slumps in his chair.
"You speak of violence. There need be none. Only the
truth. Our own truth. Placed in the hands of those who can
spread it quickly and widely." He moves over to the glass cage.
"You have the facilities. You have people who owe you. And,
need I remind you, owe you because you owe me."
Borba sits upright. Ruler to the knuckles. The Father
Confessor has become Reverend Mother. The choir boy caught

transgressing, forgetting the boons bestowed upon him.
"Fine. I'll arrange it. No promises, though."
"I do not want promises. Just results. You can go now."
The Padrone opens the glass door and rearranges his collection.
He sees the wooden door close in its reflection. He smiles.
I do not mind lying, but I hate inaccuracy.

-- Samuel Butler
Borba arranged to meet consultant Blaise Santiago in the
V.I.P. lounge at SFO. On the red-eye back to D.C., they began
devising their plan to stop, or discredit, Elliot's documentary.
They would match weapon with weapon, expert with expert. They
started with a list of those in the fields of ground water
contamination and pesticide toxicology. They ended with
congressmen who could ably and credibly defend current water

subsidies to California's agribusiness community. They needed to
act quickly and with deadly, uncompromising force. The truth, as
presented by those in power. Their first video press release

would air in major markets at week's end.
Novelist turned media manipulator, Blaise Santiago is one of
Borba's best hired guns. He once wrote about the plight of the
American Indian. Now he comes down from his mountain in Santa
Barbara just long enough to go "mano-a-mano" in the canyons of
Manhattan and Washington. He's a media gunsel; the man Borba
calls when he needs extra help fixing whatever got broke.
During a television interview once at the University of
California at Davis, Santiago entitled his talk: "Hijacking the

American Novel." After a few meetings with the author and a trip
to his Spanish mansion to finish the remote, the crew re-dubbed
the talk: "Butt-fucking the American Indian."
Santiago resents being called a hired gun. He doesn't mind
the use of the word "gun" so much as the word "hired." His
reaction: "It implies that I'm not the one doing the choosing.
I pick who I want to work for. They don't pick me."
He's demanding and never satisfied; a tough man to work for.
He pushes people to reach down for whatever it takes to win. He
insists on complete personal control, applying the "auteur"
theory to his work. He approaches campaigns like a method actor
preparing for a role, identifying with the campaign to such an
extent that he sometimes gets lost in it; so much so that you
can't tell between the promoter and the promoted.
Santiago likes to use early polling to identify the
strengths and weaknesses of any campaign. The registrar of
voters, the tax assessor, the Department of Motor Vehicles, and
the U.S. Census are some of the sources he uses to uncover

"reduced universes," based on factors like race, sex,
homeowner/renter status, and sexual preference. He has perfected
the technique of "micro-targeting" direct mail. From this data,
he creates a campaign theme, usually simple, direct, and catchy.
He wants something that fits into a phrase, or a couple of
sentences; something basic and memorable that will penetrate the
average American's overstimulated consciousness. Finally, using
computer analyses of voter lists, he designs brochures, targeting
each one for a specific audience. He's been quoted as saying,

"We play with what's already in people's minds. We're not really
interested in putting any new information in there."
He works out of a refurbished, Mission-style triplex in the
heart of old town Santa Barbara. Everything he needs is within
reach. Film and electronic teleproduction gear, including remote
photography and editing, graphic design and layout, typography
and printing, a sound studio for narration and music, film and
videotape screening facilities, and computer links to any data
base around the world. It's a miniature media center; a cross
between Elliot's studio in Marin and Borba's facility in
D.C.
He had surrounded himself with a collection of intelligent
and aggressive young wizards from the worlds of corporate
marketing and advertising. Many were Stanford MBAs, so they
were dubbed "The Cardinal Kids." They were zealously loyal and
righteously arrogant because they were too young and naive to
know any better.
Santiago will be responsible for countering any publicity

before, during, and after the making and airing of Elliot's
documentary. It's up to him to question the validity of the
project; its accusations and experts. He might even be forced to
question the integrity and motives of the filmmaker himself and
his old compadre Daniel Valle. After all, this was going to be a
street fight. And there were no rules when your back was against
the back-alley wall. Santiago would also handle media relations
during the trial that was sure to follow.
Unlike Valle and the days of their dressed-down rebel

poverty, Santiago dresses for success; pin-striped,
double-breasted Wall Street fashionable. He sports suspenders
and longish hair cresting the collar of his silk shirts. His
hair is dark brown, lightly moussed and combed straight back,
parted in the middle. He has a clean-shaven, Kirk
Douglas-clefted chin. His face is square and weary worn. There
is no softness to its edges. There are no wrinkles at the
corners of his eyes from too much smiling. He doesn't do that
often. His skin is adobe light, belying his birth in--and early
exodus from--Los Mochis. He claimed his heritage when
beneficial, like getting a college scholarship or swelling the
ranks of La Raza. But when it became a burden, an obstacle, he
shed his skin and became a chameleon of convenience. For much of
his life, the masquerade fooled most. He became part of The
Establishment he once despised. But there was one who would not
let him forget.
Santiago had once been a very close friend and ally of
Daniel Valle. They had marched in Delano together. They had

performed on the back of trucks with 'La Drama'. Their heads had
been busted by jack-booted "Tac Squaders" in front of the Student
Union at San Francisco State. They had once between
fellow-traveling, counter-culture revolutionaries. Now they were
staring across the line at each other. Once brothers, now
enemies.
When asked once why he owned a swimming pool, Santiago, in
an effort to mask his new wealth from old revolutionary
colleagues; in an attempt to show he hadn't sold out, replied:

"There's lots of fires up here along Coyote Ridge. I need it to
fight fires." Most saw through the smoke screen. It was just
another trapping of the new life he'd forged, along with the
clothes, the house, and the cars.
A swimming pool in California is a sign of wealth and an
object of scorn, especially for Easterners. Joan Didion once
wrote: "When it became generally known a year or so ago that
California was suffering severe drought, many people in
water-rich parts of the country seemed obscurely gratified, and
made frequent reference to Californians having to brick up their
swimming pools."
The fact is, a swimming pool, once it's filled and pumping,
really doesn't need any water. That's the reality. The fantasy
is what the pool represents. Again, Joan Didion, in defense of
our excesses and preoccupations: " ... a pool is
misapprehended as a trapping of influence, real or pretended, and
a kind of hedonistic attention to the body. Actually a pool is,
for many of us in the West, a symbol not of affluence but of

order, of control over the uncontrollable. A pool is water, made
available and useful, and is, as such, infinitely soothing to the
western eye."
And that's why Santiago had the swimming pool. Not simply
because of the overt status it represented, but because of the
subliminal message it carried. He lived south of the Tehachapis.
He was a Southern Californian now. Water was a way of life. He,
like the rest of the southland, had a compulsion to control it.
A mission to mine it, because there was never enough to supply

this thirsty region we call California.
The "politics of water" was of more than a passing interest
to Santiago.
The logic bomb detonated just after 9AM. Investigators from
LAPD's computer crime unit explained it had been inserted at some
point earlier and programmed to go off at a preassigned time.
All the internal files of the giant IBM had been frozen. For
some reason, it didn't touch the intricate machine and system
control software that affected service to their customers. The
chief investigator didn't know yet what to make of what the
department head was telling him.
"I think someone is giving us a warning. They were too good
to just ignore that software or be locked out of only that. They
could have trashed it all."
"You're implying premeditation? Some kind of conspiracy?"
"A prelude to that, perhaps."
"What a nightmare. I can't even begin to imagine the chaos

that would have caused."
"Think about it. The entire system that controls the flow
of water and electricity for all of Los Angeles and most of
southern California gone suddenly mad. Out of control. Whatever
it was, whoever planted it, was pretty specific about their
target."
"Who'd they hit?"
"They basically went after one water contractor only. But
it was the largest."

"Who's that?"
"The Westlands League. The intruder messed with a few
others, but I think they were just dusting their tracks. It
looked like they were trying to permanently reduce the allotments
due to the Westlands' clients."
"And if you hadn't stumbled on it, those people wouldn't
have known about it? How long would it have been before they
suspected?"
"Hard to say. Probably not long. But long enough."
"Because it would have meant no water for a lot of central
valley farmers."
"And, in this heat, that would have resulted in a lot of
dead crops."
"And a lot of very angry, very powerful people."
"I don't think I'd like to be the guy when they catch him."
Outside, the ceaseless fountain continued flowing around the
offices of the Metropolitan Water District, thumbing its nose at
the desert city surrounding it.
Public awareness was beginning to stir as the controversy
and coverage surrounding the project widened. With the consent
of his editor, Stephan Harrington dedicated his entire column
exclusively to the water wars.
EACH COLUMN WILL APPEAR IN THE FORMAT OF A NEWSPAPER ARTICLE.

THERE WILL BE A GRAPHIC DESIGNED SPECIFICALLY TO IDENTIFY THE
BY-LINE "ALTA CALIFORNIA".
ALTA CALIFORNIA
---------------------------------------------------------------
THE WATER WARS
By Stephan Harrington
OF THE RECORD STAFF
A California congressman once said it would be the beginning

of "World War III." Others have referred to it as "a holy war."
Are they speaking of politics? Of religion? Or economics?
No, none of the above.
They are talking about the control of water.
It will now be my job in this column to report from the
front; to detail the battles and the casualties.
This is the first of my communiques. It is short, but, in
it, I would like to repeat the most critical question; one posed
by Karen E. Claus:
"How, in a water-short state, can we justify using precious
water to grow subsidized surplus crops in an area that generates
an effluent so huge, toxic, and unpredictable that it is killing
farming, land, and wildlife on a grand scale?"
It will be my duty to answer.
CHAPTER 15
The crops are all in

And the peaches are rotting.
The oranges are packed
You're flying em back
To the Mexican border
To wade back again.
Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye Rosalita.

Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria.
You won't have a name,
When you ride the big airplane.
And all they will call you
Will be deportee.
Some of us are illegal

And others not wanted.
Our work contract's out
And we've got to move on.
600 miles to that Mexican border
They chase us like outlaws,
Like rustlers, like thieves.
You won't have a name,

When you ride the big airplane.
And all they will call you
Will be deportee.
-- W. Guthrie & M. Hoffman, "Deportee (Plane Wreck at Los Gatos")
Author James Houston describes himself as a "California
journalist." He is a Native Son of the Golden West; an observer
of the Golden State. He was born here and still lives here. He
has made it the goal of his life to know as much as he can about
this place called California. What he has written is why he's
here; a celebrity with something to say.
He's comfortable in front of the camera. He's done this
before. He speaks deliberately, but enthusiastically. With
authority and a little sparkle of humor.
DISSOLVE:

THEME #13: "Deportee"
82 EXT. FIELD - MEDIUM SHOT - EARLY MORNING
JAMES HOUSTON walks toward CAMERA through a vast, flat panorama

of cultivated fields.
JAMES HOUSTON
Economically and ecologically, the history of
the West has been a saga of exploitation,
land abuse, bloody struggle, and enormous
thefts. Of gold, land, water. Like the
Southern Pacific railroad, "The Octopus,"
swindling Central Valley wheat farmers out of
their land. Like Los Angeles, stealing water
from Owens Valley farmers.
83 EXT. FIELD - CLOSE UP
HOUSTON stops. CAMERA holds.
HOUSTON
Like the factory farms, exploiting the
migrant workers.
DISSOLVE:
84 EXT. STREET - EARLY MORNING - ESTABLISHING SHOT
Handheld POV walking through streets.
HOUSTON (v.o.)
It's 4AM. Shape-up time in Kettleman City.
Mendota. Los Banos. Selma. Any number of
cities up and down the Valley.
85 EXT. STREET - MEDIUM SHOT
Groups of migrant workers mill around, waiting. They smoke

and talk and wait.
They stand under sodium-vapor lights along

the main street of these cities. Waiting.
86 EXT. STREET - CLOSE UP
Labor contractor walks into group and points to a half-dozen

workers who follow him to a bus parked nearby.
Until they are selected by one of the dozens

of labor contractors who park their buses in
the gas stations and
fast-food outlets that serve as pick-up
points.
87 MONTAGE
Series of shots of faces. Some look unblinking into the

camera. Others turn away. A few cover their faces.
Those chosen wait in the buses, or stand

around on the sidewalk for hours, holding
their places, shielding their faces. They
are Chicano, Black, White, Asian.
88 EXT. FIELDS - MORNING - MEDIUM SHOT
GROUND LEVEL SHOT of buses pulling up. Series of shots of

workers exiting buses to work in fields.
Finally, they are driven to the fields for a

day's work. They return each afternoon
between two and four. They eat, sleep, and
get up the following morning to do it all
over again. For starvation wages. Without
medical or vacation benefits.
89 EXT. FIELDS - LATE AFTERNOON - MEDIUM CLOSE UP
Worker in field.
WORKER
"Solamente trabajo y duermo."
HOUSTON (v.o.)
"All I do is work and sleep," he says.
90 EXT. FIELDS - MEDIUM SHOT
CAMERA DOLLIES BACK to follow HOUSTON as he walks through a grape

field.
HOUSTON
These are the migrant workers. The ones who
have given their blood to the crops they
harvest. Since the Gold Rush, they have been
as much a part of California agriculture as
the land, sun, and water.
DISSOLVE:
91 MONTAGE
Series of B&W stills of migrant workers from Gold Rush era until
today.
HOUSTON (v.o.)
California agriculture has always needed
large numbers of migrant workers for seasonal
jobs. Such a lifestyle was most acceptable
to nonwhite immigrants. And they came in
waves. And they have been mistreated and
abused for just as long. First the Chinese,
then the Japanese, then the Filipinos. The
Dust Bowl expatriates broke the pattern, but
the Chicanos continued it. Now it's the
Vietnamese. Driven from their home by a war
they didn't start and didn't want.
DISSOLVE:
92 INT. OFFICE - MEDIUM CLOSE UP
Interview with a Southeast Asian SOCIAL WORKER in Mendota.
SOCIAL WORKER (v.o.)

America is an adversary society. Asian
culture is not that way. The part of our
culture that is commendable, that does not
want to complain, works against us. Because
of that, generations have been taken
advantage of, pushed around.
DISSOLVE:
93 MONTAGE
Series of B&W stills of Manzanar and other Japanese internment

camps during World War II.
HOUSTON (v.o.)
This reluctance to complain is just a part of
the willingness to carry one's load. This
stoic acceptance permitted the US government
to intern an entire generation of Japanese
Americans. To take their land and money.
And return neither. To separate families.
And never apologize. "Shi kata ganai," the
elders would say. "It cannot be helped. It
must be endured."
DISSOLVE:
94 EXT. STREET - WIDE SHOT
Series of shots of Southeast Asians living at poverty level

in ramshackle huts at the outskirts of valley towns like
Mendota.
HOUSTON (v.o.)
That is why Southeast Asian renters do not
complain to their landlords. About high
rents. About rats. Why they choose to toil
in the fields for nearly nothing. They fear
something worse. They too have spent time in
camps. Refugee camps. Set
up to handle those fleeing the aftermath of a
war that America
helped escalate.
95 INT. OFFICE - CLOSE UP
Continue interview with social worker.
SOCIAL WORKER
Their instinct to survive is strong. They
adapt very quickly, despite the culture
shock. They have gone through so much
getting here that finding a job is easy.
96 EXT. STREET - MEDIUM SHOT
Shot of HOUSTON standing near housing in Mendota.
HOUSTON
For these Asian immigrants, California was
not the end of a continent. It was a new
land to the East. A land of limitless
possibilities. A new beginning. But the
possibilities were not without their price.
DISSOLVE:
97 MONTAGE
Series of news stories on violence in cotton, grape, and

tomatoe fields in the Central Valley, as well as violence in
schools between whites and Southeast Asian students.
HOUSTON (v.o.)
As before, their story is the story of all
migratory labor. One of violence and
repression. Because they worked cheaply at
anything, they took jobs from others.
Usually Anglos, sometimes Chicanos. The

Anglos really didn't want the jobs, but they
weren't about to admit it. In a time of mild
recession and joblessness, it gave them an
opportunity to vent their anger and
frustration.
DISSOLVE:
98 EXT. COTTON FIELDS - LATE AFTERNOON - ESTABLISHING SHOT
AERIAL SHOT of cotton fields near Fresno.
HOUSTON (v.o.)
Not much has changed in the factory fields of
California, nearly 140 years after the Gold
Rush. The farms have gotten bigger.
GROUND LEVEL shot of same fields. Series of shots of Asians

and Chicanos working side-by-side in cotton fields near
Fresno. In the BACKGROUND, can see a large pesticide spray
rig.
HOUSTON(v.o.)
Agriculture here still relies on the sun. It
still must have land and water. Massive
amounts of both. It still needs large
numbers of migratory workers. The abuse and
misuse hasn't stopped either. It may be
covered less by the media these days, but it
still exists. And the vast majority of the
workers here--the Southeast Asians and
Hispanics--still do not complain.
100 EXT. FIELD - MONTAGE
Series of shots of Southeast Asians working in fields, eating

lunch, using spray rigs.
HOUSTON (v.o.)
They accept what they can get with gratitude.
Despite the fact they live in hovels, eat
food that is often spoiled and water that is
poisoned, and are exposed daily to levels of
pesticides that are considered dangerous,
even for lab animals. In fact, many consider
these field hands to be the real guinea pigs.
101 EXT. FIELD - MEDIUM SHOT

GROUND LEVEL shot of workers. They duck in fear as a

helicopter, spraying in the next field, banks over them and
heads back for another pass.
HOUSTON (v.o.)
They are the ones taking the direct hit,
whether it's from a leaking spray cannister
or from an aerial sprayer. And that's what
is truly ironic. The helicopters doing the
spraying are often the same ones that dropped
napalm and Agent Orange on these villagers
and their families decades ago in a jungle
far, far away. And they're being flown now
by many of the same men who flew missions
then into America's heart of darkness.
After a day in the grape fields near Rolinda

A fine silt, washed by sweat,
Has settled into the lines
On my wrists and palms.
Already I am becoming the valley,

A soil that sprouts nothing
For any of us.
-- Gary Soto, "Field"
You could see the flat-bed trucks coming through the haze on
the highway. The farmworkers kept picking. But they were
watching. And waiting. So were the Bulls. Like they had been
expecting the visit. The field man headed for his truck. He was
on the phone to the field office when the trucks pulled up,
turned around, and pointed the flat-end toward the fields. In a
moment, the scenery was up and the stage set.
After almost twenty years, "La Drama del Coyote" was back in
session. The audience was different. Southeast Asian as much as
Chicano. Home was Hanoi as much as Nogales. But the message

hadn't changed. Resistance. Human dignity. Individual rights.
Protection against inhuman and unsafe working conditions. As in
times past, Daniel and Socorro played husband and wife. His
brother and the rest of "la familia" were costumed as they had
been nearly two decades ago, wearing masks and signs hanging from
their necks.
By the time the ranch manager and the rest of his crew
arrived, the guerillas had begun. The workers had stopped
picking now. They were listening. They were talking. "Los
Coyotes" were also watching. The crowd. Closely.
The first "acto" was innocent enough. It sang of cycles.
It told of migrating birds. It cried for the killing of the
wetlands.
The painted backdrop shows the rolling foothills rimming the

Valley. In the foreground are rows of grape vines. At center
stage, MUNDO and the field contractor HAGGARD stand together. At
their feet is a pesticide spray rig.
HAGGARD: (Gesturing to the tank.) Mundo?

MUNDO: (Looks up, but doesn't respond.)
HAGGARD: You listenin' to me, boy?
MUNDO: (Head down, as if he's about to be hit.) Senor?
HAGGARD: I want you to put on this rig and spray these last 40
rows? Comprendo?
MUNDO: (Looking up, but not into the eyes of HAGGARD.) But,
Senor Field Man, the helicopters only just sprayed, ayer. It is
too soon to return to the fields. It will make me infiermo, si?
HAGGARD: It don't make no difference. It ain't gonna hurt you.
It's only water with a little chemical in it. Shit, you probably
get more poison in that dog-meat burrito you get for lunch down
at the canal bank.
MUNDO: My wife makes my lunch.
HAGGARD: (Moves closer, growing impatient with the Campesino's
resistance.) Do what I say, Mundo, or I make a call to
Immigration and ship you and all your family back to TJ.
MUNDO: (Stepping back.) I was born here.
HAGGARD: Still don't make no difference. They're just looking
for a head count. They'll take you anyway. And then how you
gonna feed that lovely chiquita and all your ninos?
(Silence. They look at each other.)
MUNDO: I will manage.
HAGGARD: (Suddenly grabs MUNDO and shoves him to his knees, face
down against the nozzle of the sprayer.) Put it on amigo or I
kick your ass and then I call the Border Patrol!
MUNDO: (Frightened, but resolved.) Senor Field Man. The
sprayer leaks. And there is no mask. No coat to cover me.
HAGGARD: (Leans down and puts his face next to MUNDO'S.) Like I
told you. It's mostly water. It ain't gonna hurt you.
MUNDO: Senor, the water here is not good. I have seen the dogs
die that drink it. I will die, too.
HAGGARD: That sure as shit don't mean nothin' to me. I got
plenty of you people comin' across the border every day. What's
one more dead beaner to me? Might be better anyway. Keep you
from breedin' like rabbits. (Suddenly kicks MUNDO in the ribs.)
Put it on asshole! Now!
MUNDO: (Still on his knees, slowly puts the sprayer on. He
stands.)
HAGGARD: Right. Now start on row 50.
MUNDO: (Tests the sprayer. It works. The tank begins to leak
down his back, which is only protected by a cotton shirt. He
turns toward row 50. HAGGARD reaches for a cigarette. But his
hand never gets there. MUNDO hits him hard across the face with
the spray nozzle. HAGGARD falls to the ground and rolls over on
his back. MUNDO straddles him and begins spraying into the field
man's open face. MUNDO drenches HAGGARD before he hits him in
the head with the tank. HAGGARD doesn't move. MUNDO throws the
tank away and begins to shout.)
This is los Estados Unidos. I was born here. I am un hombre
libre. I will do ...
Before Daniel can finish his last line, the Bulls, with help
from a handful of county sheriffs, ring down the curtain. They
jump on stage, Louisville sluggers in hand, and start swinging.
Daniel takes a hit on the shoulder and goes down. The Bull who
hit him raises his club and smiles. Then he's airborne. Someone
finally got the truck rolling, barreling down and out of the
fields. As it pulls onto the country road, through the dust,
Daniel can see the field workers, Bulls, and officers hammering
each other. He can only think, this war will not be won with
words. Then he crawls forward to lay against the painted valley.
He said we made a good couple because I had no

expectations and he had too many."
"I don't like talking about my past as much as you guys do."
"I haven't met that many happy people in my life. How do
they act?"
-- Lawrence Kasdan, "The Big Chill"
I dial through the channels. She stares out the window. I
avoid her eyes. Anger without expression or explanation. No
communication. There it is between us. Always happens. We
don't talk, don't lay it to rest. We simply get more angry,
until one of us leaves. How does it start? Why? This time,
like a lot of other times, it was over something stupid,

something petty. She had reached into the cupboard to get us
both coffee mugs. She accidentally knocked one off the shelf.
Unfortunately, it was one of my favorites. A large brown one.
With the name "RALSTON" across the front and a stylized version
of the archway across the top. I liked it because it
represented something of home to me. A tie with the past. A
place and a past she wanted to get away from. Maybe it was a
symbol to her. Maybe it wasn't. I don't know.
As we picked up the pieces, I joked, "Nice try. Can't beat
it, so you smash it." I laughed, but it died pretty quickly when
I realized there was an edge to the joke. She stood up and threw
the pieces in the sink. As she left the kitchen, I said, "Come
on, I was only kidding. It was a joke. Lighten up."
I poured the hot coffee and knew I was in for a chilly day.
Another one in a long line. It was getting worse. It was no
fun. I couldn't even kid her without pissing her off anymore.
So, why try? So, now we're sitting on opposite sides of the
room, deep in our isolation.
Her affair hurt. I won't deny it. I had been betrayed.
Our safe, comfortable life had been breached. It felt like

someone had just robbed the house, or broken into the trunk of
my car and stolen everything inside. I felt violated,
emotionally raped. I knew why she did it. I could understand
it. I couldn't accept it. Our sex life sucked. It was
important to her, inconsequential to me. We'd discussed it,
battled over it, but never resolved it. We talked around it,
with couples over coffee, with friends over drinks. We each felt
justified, righteous in our indignation. I, she, we were not the
one at fault. But we never told each other that.
It's been said, "We choose things by letting them happen."
That certainly was what was happening between us. Her affair
made it easier for me to justify my indifference. If I ignored
this one, and the next, it would be simple to just separate. To
keep living independent lives. To rationalize trying something
else. That's what we both wanted, I guess. Sometimes. But we
didn't want to lose the net. We didn't want to give up fifteen
years of companionship, of memories, shared experiences, of
friendship. That's probably what we both feared the most. We

realized, above everything else, we were still each other's
closest friend. We had known each other, blemishes and all, and
been together longer than we had with most of our closest
friends. It held us together now, although we just couldn't seem
to find the time, inclination, or words to tell the other. Had
we, we might have stayed together. We didn't and ... we
didn't.
Call me naive. Say I'm an innocent. But I trust people.
Perhaps too much. I think that comes from growing up in Ralston,

the insularity of a small town. It's like Bedford Falls in
"It's a Wonderful Life." When you know everyone, you're really
part of their lives. You take care of each other. You give them
the benefit of the doubt. Of course, as a town grows, as Ralston
did, you lose that sense of community. But, until you've been
screwed a few times, you never seem to lose that faith in people.
I never have.
I remember a surprise birthday party she gave me on my 35th
birthday. I was completely surprised. Later, as I thought about
the events that led up to it, it made sense. I could see the
clues. But when I walked through the back door, I had no idea.
I never knew, never suspected about the party. And I never knew
or suspected about the affair. And yet, when I think back on it
now too, all the clues were there. The phone calls. The late
nights. I just didn't see them, or, maybe I chose not to. I
wasn't aware. I trusted her. I gave her the benefit of the
doubt.
That's where Jorge and I used to differ. We're a lot closer

now than we were in college in our attitudes toward women. He
was a raging chauvinist, I made an effort not to be. It would
have been easier, then and certainly now, to play the expected
role. But I wanted to be different. Liberated. I wanted to
treat women as an equal. I wanted it to work. Now that he's
lived with a woman for almost fifteen years, his posture has
changed. But what's really funny is how we find ourselves
back-peddling, reverting, looking for shelter in a forgotten
attitude. Because we've had the fight kicked out of us. And we
keep on talking about it. All the time. Because we just can't
seem to get it right. We just can't seem to please them, no
matter what we do.
As the oldest of friends, we'd had these talks many, many
times over many, many late nights. Sometimes funny. Most times
serious. We'd been here before over the years. Talking about
his first marriage, my mother's death, his planned re-marriage,
my own marriage, and life in the big valley.
"You fought back."
"And you tried to adjust."
"Then it was no fun. The thrill was gone."
"Yea, and the big chill was on."
"The movie?"
"A magazine."
"It's just so damned hard. Sometimes I'd rather play
softball, get some pizza, and go home to the tube than deal with
it."
"And fondle your electronic penis."

"That's what some deviants call it."
"And they wonder why there's no men in their beds."
"Have you ever thought about growing old alone?"
"Sure."
"Does it scare you?"
"Yes. But I don't know what's worse. Besides, it's
different for us, people our age. There's more of us. There'll
be more of us when we get older. We won't be alone."
"At least in numbers."

"Anyway, I've got my family. And the Mud Bowlers." They
laugh at the standing joke. Fellow "Bowlers" always forgive and
forget everything. Especially if it's fantasy. But not this
time. Here I was in Ralston running away from the eyes of
reality and into the arms of illusion. And he was calling me on
it.
"You know, it's not quite working out the way it was
supposed to."
Jorge put "Traffic" on the tape deck, sat down, and popped
open a fresh beer.
"I thought I'd be a hero. Show all these people I had made
it. That I had escaped the valley and returned unscarred. I
mean, I feel I had something to prove."
"Especially after going to our last reunion and seeing
everyone twenty years later."
"That's right. But just the opposite's happening. I feel
like an outcast. I've pissed off so many people, even some
friends, that I can't even live in the town where I grew up. The
place I've wanted to live all my life."
"You mean the myth you've made up all your life."
"Maybe. This is where I feel I belong. This is where I was
going to die. I don't feel comfortable anyplace else. And now I
can't stay."
"You can't go home anymore."
"Literary bullshit. I could have come home. I've done it
before. But I was trying too hard this time. Pushing too hard.
I want desperately to be accepted, to be a part of this

community. To be a leader. To be looked up to."
"The place you remember is history. It doesn't exist. It's
a state of mind. We're not living in a town of 50,000 anymore.
Not even 90,000. Shit, we're almost as big as Albany, New York.
It's a metropolis. With all the problems that go with it. Take
it as it is. You're living too much in the past."
"Yea, but you double your days that way."
"You know, you're like the guy who gets so wrapped up in the
past, he forgets the present. So immersed in what he was, he
forgets what he is."
"Likely won't be the last time."
"Well, you know what they say? Embracing the past is like
embracing death."
"Literary again. I never could keep up with your
allusions."
"Metaphors and parables aside, it's nothing more than a
self-fulfilling prophecy. You came back here because you wanted
to, not because you had to. You made up a reason to return.
Only the ending isn't the way you wrote it. But you can still
live with it. You can still live here."
"I understand that intellectually. Emotionally, I can't
accept it."
"At least my references are literary. Yours are getting
positively Freudian."
"Fuck you."
"No, fuck you."
"How many people do you know that left the valley and
came back?"
"Just about everyone but you."
"Okay. They all came back. People can't escape this place.
They try, but they always come back."
"Remember Jimmie King?"
"Sure. Our senior class president. Berkeley burn-out."
"He thought the same way you do. Felt he had to come back.
Thought he'd lost something along the way. So, he came back.
Tried a lot of things. Tried to fit back into things the way
they used to be. Old times. Figured he could pick up where he
left off. Thought that people would relate to him like they used
to."
"This is all sounding very familiar."
"Despite what everyone said, in spite of all the warnings,
he returned. His wife wouldn't come with him, even though she'd
been raised in the valley, too. She just didn't understand what
was driving him. What the attraction was."
"You sure this isn't another parable, for you know who?"
"Anyway, he's back and it's fun. For a while. But it
sours. Because the town's changed, the people've changed, and
he's changed. It doesn't meet his expectations. It doesn't
really work out. So he starts to drink more. Does more drugs."
"I don't do drugs."
"Then, one night, they find him floating in his own blood.
A suicide. He just couldn't cope. Things had changed too much.
The illusion was shattered. He had created this mythical place
to return to. And when it wasn't there, he was no where. His

expectations were too high. Of himself, his friends, his family,
and this place he once called home."
"So, what're you saying to me? What're telling me?"
"Relax. Don't try to make the present into a new version of
the past. You keep trying to reconcile the past with the present
and you'll wind up alienating everyone you know. Regress too
far, live in the past too much, and you'll stagnate. You'll die
there. It's like a time machine. If you don't hit that seam,
that crack in the mirror, you'll end up in limbo forever."
"Does that mean I can't watch 'American Graffiti' anymore?"
"Smart ass. Look you've heard it before. Sandy's said it.
I've said it. Even you've said it. You can't stay seventeen
forever. You keep trying to go back to a place that exists only
in your mind and you're setting yourself up for a fall. A real
disappointment."
"I'm diein' to try."
"Then you'll die tryin'."
He got me. The last word. And I toast him.

He was right. Wolfe was right. You can never go home again
because you've changed and so has your home town. You don't
recognize it any more. You're a different person. It's a
different place. You've moved on to become something else and it
holds no more lessons. The places and names are the same and
look the same, but, for you, they've definitely changed.
Ralston indeed had a new shape and was seeking a new image.
The farmers were leaving and the commuters were coming. Poverty,
homelessness, mall sprawl, crime, illiteracy, and racism. The

place most travelers remembered as somewhere they passed through
on their way to someplace else was going urban. Once it was
defined by the land. Then water. And the railroads. Now it's
the endless freeway, lost hope, and shattered dreams. There is a
desperate bleakness. People are running each other off the
roads. Women are being raped at the mall. Kids are bringing
guns to school; murdering those who would befriend them.
He remembered the story of a teacher at Dewey High School.
He was a good teacher; a caring teacher. He genuinely wanted to
help his students. Occasionally, he would offer money to the
hard-luck cases. Most of the students thought he was rich. He
was a bachelor. Some of the community thought he was gay. One
weekend the police found him sprawled face-first on his concrete
driveway, his body slashed and riddled with bullets. Turns out
that one of the students he had assisted, his brother and
girlfriend, had forced their way into his home and tortured him
trying to find his hidden fortune. They were looking for the big
easy. They expected it. Life had been hard and they felt
somebody owed it to them. They were angry at a world they never
made. Unfortunately, he had no money. And they killed him.
It was indeed a town without pitney.
DISSOLVE:

THEME #14: Folk Song
102 EXT. RIVER JUNCTION - ESTABLISHING SHOT
WIDE SHOT of point where the Merced River meets the San Joaquin.
NARRATOR (v.o.)
To see where the Merced River meets the San
Joaquin is to see the drawing of the lines.
The two sides of the story. The one is clear
and clean, filled with icy snowmelt. The
other is muddy and murky, gunky brown and
filled with chemicals. During the summer,
when it's hot and dry and the water is low,
almost 70 percent of what flows is
agricultural runoff.
103 EXT. RIVER - MEDIUM WIDE SHOT
Shot of San Joaquin River from its surface.
Floating down the San Joaquin are all kinds

of chemicals. All of them are on the EPA's
list of priority pollutants. A brew that
makes this one of the most heavily polluted
rivers in the state.
104 EXT. FIELDS - WIDE SHOT
Agricultural runoff from fields drains into ditches which dump

into the Delta.
Most of this pollution comes from surface and

subsurface agricultural drainage. The Delta
itself adds more pesticides and herbicides
from agriculture.
105 EXT. FIELDS - WIDE SHOT
Shots of farmers flood irrigating lands.
Most of the contamination results from

conventional application. And an
increasingly common method of irrigation
called chemigation, where water is mixed with
pesticides and then applied. Large farmers
flood irrigate because it's cheaper and
easier. But it makes the drainage problem
worse.
106 EXT. RIVER - MEDIUM SHOT
San Joaquin draining into the Delta.
Every year, millions of pounds of chemicals

that can cause cancer, birth defects or
sterility, even in trace amounts, are
released directly or indirectly into our

waterways. With the
approval, sanction, and authority of state
and federal agencies.
107 EXT. WILDLIFE REFUGE - ESTABLISHING SHOT
AERIAL SHOT of Tranquility Canal near Masterson.
The total runoff could eventually reach

nearly 400,000 acre-feet a year. A virtual
ocean of sludge moving through the valley,
filling up wildlife marshes and ultimately
discharging into the Delta.
Shot of San Joaquin River flowing near homes.
The problem is, the water from the Delta is

the primary source of fresh water for the
state. 55 percent comes from here. 16
million people rely on it for their drinking
water.
109 EXT. CARQUINEZ STRAITS - ESTABLISHING SHOT
And there's only one destination for the

wastewater carried by the Delta. The end of
the San Joaquin sewer line is destined to be
...
CAMERA PANS LEFT to frame San Francisco Bay.
San Francisco Bay. The 5 million people who

live here pollute the bay badly enough
themselves, even if they don't admit it. But
to have a bunch of farmers, grown wealthy on
"their" water and subsidized by their taxes,
sending it back to the bay full of crud--
toxic wastes, selenium, boron, and salt--is
just not acceptable.
110 EXT. SAN FRANCISCO - ESTABLISHING SHOT
AERIAL FLY-BY of San Francisco.
The people of the Bay Area appear to have the

political clout to prevent the drain water
from ever reaching here. And they seem
determined to use it. Because the San
Joaquin Valley farmers asked for water and
got it. Asked for subsidies and got them.

And now they want to use the bay as a toilet.

CHAPTER 16
You men eat your dinner,

Eat your pork and beans.
I eat more chicken
Any man ever seen.
I'm a back door man.
The men don't know, but
The little girls understand.
-- W. Dixon & C. Burnett, "Back Door Man"
The Ice Plant backs onto what used to be the main highway,
running parallel to the original pathfinder: the raised bed of
the Southern Pacific railroad tracks. Businesses once lined both
sides, and thrived, until the six-lane expressway was built down
the spine of the state. Then the doors started closing and the
derelicts moved in. When the downtown renovation began, some of
the older buildings were razed. One that survived was the old
ice plant. A developer with a sense of history turned it into
ultra-modern office space, while maintaining the original
interior fixtures. Now aluminum and plexiglass mixed with iron
cogs and wheels. The production had rented space here for those
days it spent in town; which was rapidly becoming most of the
time.
Elliot was scrunched down in his chair, chin onhand,
reviewing the papers in front of him. I sipped a decaf tea
as I scanned my own. Greybeard Devereaux was pulling at it.
Walsh listened, distracted, but interested. This woman came from
the same world.
--Elliot (preoccupied) "What do you know about Laura Van
deCamp?"
--Devereaux "Lawyer. Republican. Intelligent.
Attractive. Divorced."
--Western (quietly apologetic) "I probably know her a
little better." Heads turn. "She's an old friend of my wife's.
Roomed in the same boarding house in San Francisco. Her ex- and
I see each other once in a while."
--Walsh (surprised) "So why didn't she come to you
directly?"
--Western (visibly confused) "I'm not sure. Maybe she
doesn't trust me."
--Elliot (interested) "What else can you tell us?"
--Western (litanous) "Her Father was a congressman. Borba
inherited his seat. Died a few years ago. Mother's still alive.
Has a younger sister. Laura works for Delancy & Reed in Ralston.
Mostly lobbying in Sac for water and table grape interests."
--Elliot (intrigued) "Delancy & Reed. That's DiGiulio's
law firm?"
--Devereaux (righteous) "Correct. And the law firm that's

keeping Masterson open so the Westlanders can keep dumping shit
into the Delta."
--Elliot "Well, seems she's having second thoughts about
whose side she's on."
--Western (in turn surprised) "What makes you say that?"
--Elliot (smiling, about to let the cat out of the bag)
"Well, I can't imagine any other reason she'd be waiting out in
reception right now."
--Walsh (cautious) "Any idea why?"

--Elliot "Ask her yourself."
Laura, as usual, was in total control of herself. She sat
in the offered seat, relaxed but attentive. Devereaux, after a
quick hello, excused himself. Walsh and I stayed. Laura didn't
seem too surprised to see me.
--Elliot (slightly uncomfortable) "Forgive me, but it
bothers me a little that someone from 'the other camp' would be
visiting our side just now."
--Laura (defensive) "You're making this sound like a
battleground."
--Devereaux (brusquely) "We all know it is."
--Walsh (a little oily) "Your side could certainly use a
'Trojan horse' and you'd certainly make an attractive one."
--Laura (bristling at the sexist remark) "The way I look
has nothing to do with how good I am at what I do. And you'll
soon realize that this is my idea. Nobody from 'the other camp',
as you so colorfully put it, knows I'm here. And I don't intend
to let it become common knowledge. And I suspect you wouldn't
want that either."
--Elliot (continuing) "Just how much do you know about
this project and our plans?"
--Laura (relaxing) "Only what I've heard around the office
and read in the papers, which isn't much. My boss, Mr. Delancy,
and his clients, haven't exactly been spreading the word around."
--Elliot "What's your sense of what we're trying to
accomplish?"
--Laura (conciliatory) "I would like to know more. And
then I'd like to help. You need legal and political help. I can
give you both. There will be a trial eventually. We all know
that. So it can't hurt to have someone like me on your side.
And I've been involved with agriculture most of my life. I've
lobbied for most of these people. I know them well."
--Elliot (a little harder edge) "Tell me why I should
accept your offer?"
--Laura (defensive again) "Partly because I don't like
what I'm seeing."
--Walsh (pressing) "Where? And what?"
--Laura (trying to ignore the edge in his voice) "In this
valley. In this town. Things I'm aware of because I work for
these people. Professional concerns, mainly."
--Elliot (working her very carefully) "Mainly? Sounds like
there may be personal ones, too?"
--Laura (wrestling with something) "Some of it has to do
with my mother and father. Some things I'd like to even up."
--Walsh (sensing familiar territory) "Like?"
--Laura (curious why he's so interested) "Nothing that has
anything to do with this discussion. Just things that happened
in the past."
--Walsh (pushing) "Anything to do with Delancy or Borba?
Maybe DiGiulio?"
--Laura (retreating) "No. And perhaps."
--Elliot (a little impatient) "So why are you here? Why
have you decided to talk with us?"

--Laura (finished with the fencing, takes a deep breath)
"There's this man I know. He's also from Ralston. We've known
each other for years. He and my ex-husband were part of a thing
called 'The Mud Bowl.'" (she looks over at me)
--Western (breaking my silence) "That's the 'once in a
while' I was talking about earlier." (Elliot's confusion prompts
further explanation) "It's a football game. A bunch of guys,
people I've known most of my life, who went to high school
together, get together every Thanksgiving morning and play a flag
football game. Revert to being seventeen again."
--Elliot (absently) "I know something about that."
--Laura (smiles and continues, addressing me) "One of the
participants, someone you used to know, is the real reason I'm
here."
--Western "Your ex?"
--Laura (protective) "No. Someone a little crazier. Paul
Daniels."
--Western (off-guard) "You're kidding me? I thought he

was on the road doing Kerouac or something. He hasn't been to a
Bowl in years."
--Laura (off-handed) "We've been seeing each other off and
on for a short while now. And I'm a little worried. Not about
us. We're not serious. Just good friends." (Walsh gives me a
wink that doesn't go unnoticed) He's been telling me some things
about his past. He's in real danger, but he won't ask for help.
Or let me. Won't even tell his friends." (she looks over at me
again) "What he's told me, if I understand what you're doing,

might help you. And him. He could use a little help from his
old friends right now."
I used to call him by his poker-playing nickname: "Billie
the Kid," this sometime friend of mine. He grew up, like the
rest of us, in Ralston. He, comfortably, in a perfect, upper
middle-class neighborhood in the All-American city. His mother
was a teacher, his father an architect. He never went without.
Always wore the latest clothes, dated the most popular girls, got
one of the first and fastest cars. He did well in athletics and
passably well in school. He was a diver and swimmer on the first
team Davidson High School ever had. He won state titles off the
short board and in the individual medley. Through hard work, he
carried the tone and grace of a swimmer into the approaching
years of middle age.
Growing up, life was not completely "Ozzie and Harriet." He
lived in the shadow of an older brother he couldn't stand.
Little Rickie and brother David this was not. There was only
five years difference in their ages, but they were generations

apart in their attitudes toward careers, women, the races, sex,
politics, and, especially, the military and Vietnam. They never
really got past the rift caused by the last one, particularly
after his brother Dennis started calling him a coward and a queer
for not wanting to serve his country.
Billie reminded me a lot of Jim Morrison, the lead singer
for the "The Doors," who died of a drug overdose in a Paris
hotel. Always living on the edge. Lighting fires with his
sexuality and sensuality. As Morrison sang, "The boys don't

know, but the little girls understand." Billie was a rebel
rocker, not in the style of a Fifties Dean or Brando, but more in the
style of those who lived too intensely in the sixties and
died from the heat. Morrison. Hendrix. Brian Jones of "The
Stones." The experimenters. The iconoclasts. The ones who saw
this new freedom as their ticket to ride. The boy was simply too
outrageous. And that kept the rest of his friends honest. It
was surprising to find that the show, the craziness, masked a
basic shyness, insecurity, and self-doubt he tried to embarrass
out of existence.
Billie survived the years of experiment, but not without a
few burns on his fingertips and a few scars on his heart. When
the revolution got quiet, he just kept blazing, kept his freak
flag flying. When it got too uncomfortable, too predictable, he
just disappeared. Took some time off. Went to Europe. Traveled
to Japan, where he developed a taste for oriental art and women.
He began collecting both. He dabbled in middle eastern religions
and lifestyles. He didn't stay with them, but they affected his
attitude toward life. We thought it was all just one more life
experience. Turns out he was actually running for his life.
Laura's request for a cup of coffee reeled me back to
reality. She began telling what she had been told by Paul over
many nights and cognacs.
In 1967, Rosario Huerta died while striking for the UFW;
struck down one night in a vineyard owned by The Marriposa
Combine and sub-contracted to the DiGiulio Winery. The death was
never solved. But it provided a much-needed martyr, a death for

"La Causa," at a time when the movement was faltering. There was
no case because there were no witnesses. No one came forward to
testify.
But there was evidence. There was an "eye-witness." The
telephoto night lens of a Sony "Porta-Pak." Its unblinking eye
videotaped the beating that led to the grapeworker's death.
Behind the camera was a long-haired, burned-out, hippie drop-out
from San Jose State. His brother-in-law, who worked for DiGiulio
in Ralston, had gotten him a summer job to help straighten him
out. He was hired to videotape all the UFW demonstrations
against DiGiulio; instructed to get close-ups of the leaders.
The tapes would be used later to build court cases against Chavez
and the UFW. The cameraman was Paul Daniels.
Earlier on that day, Billie decided a little recreational
drug-taking might help him through the night. When the murder went
down, he was so strung out on acid he could barely see
straight. The brutality snapped him out of it, but he still
couldn't believe his eyes, watching as the big guy kept hammering
the farmworker with a baseball bat until he was motionless. The
playback made him sick to his stomach. The sweating, wrenching
nightmares kept him awake most of the night. And the next
several.
He never told anyone. Never said anything. He was too
scared. Probably way too wired still. He didn't give any reason
for quitting, which pissed off his brother-in-law, and left
town for the family cabin in Strawberry, above Sonora. But not
before he had safely vaulted the videotape.

It went on for a long while. The nightmares. For Billie,
most of it was a purple haze. Too many drugs. Too much alcohol.
He just kept moving. He stayed lost for years. Traveling the
world. Making music. Hanging out. Avoiding the responsibility
for another person's life and the guilt he always felt. During
those years, he came back to Ralston a few times, usually around
Thanksgiving. Many times he thought he was being followed.
Maybe it was paranoia. But he was. Paranoid and being followed.
They knew he knew. The death and his departure were too
coincidental.
It had taken a long time, but he had finally grown up.
Finally faced up to the burden of what he'd seen. And run from.
Now it was time to tell the story. There were rumors that others
had died. That the same people were getting away with the same
things all these years later. It was way past time.
Now abuse-free, his self-worth had become as clear as his
head. He could finally face the demons that had chased him out
of town and around the world. Now, twenty-plus years later, it

was time to share his secret. Time to unload the guilt. He
returned to California and settled under a new name in the urban
anonymity of San Francisco. He re-established contact with a few
of the friends from his previous life, including me and Laura Van
deCamp.
Like the song, Billie believed women were the only true
works of art. That woman is life and man the servant of life.
He worshipped them, feasted on a smile, the curve of a breast, a
turn of the wrist, the slope of back to buttocks in silhouette

against a full moon. He loved them all. And they, in turn,
appreciated his attention. His tenderness. His genuine concern. He
seemed to care. Unusual for most men, even in the
post-feminist eighties.
But he found Laura to be a true revelation. She seemed to
be the mate, the match, that we know is in this world for us.
Friend, lover, companion, confidant. She was also gun-shy. Her
first marriage, and subsequent affairs, had seen to that. She
asked Billie to take it slow; that she was ready to be a
listener, not a lover. And he accepted that. For the time
being.
Then he told her. Comfortable he knew her and could trust
her, he shared his secret. About the murder, the tape, and where
it was. And that he was worried about what they would do. He
could feel the wolves closing in.
And, suddenly, he was gone again. On Friday, he had told
her he wanted to get gut of town for a while. To think about
things--about them and the future. He said he was going to the

cabin to do a little fly-fishing. He never made it. He called
early Saturday to tell her he was fine, but it was necessary to
become scarce again. That was the last she had heard. And now,
she was sitting here, with them on Monday, looking like a
different person than the one who started the story.
--Elliot (exhaling) "I thought you said this guy was a
friend of yours?"
--Western (defensive) "I didn't say we were close."
--Elliot (incredulous) "And you didn't know about this?"

--Laura (in his defense) "It only just happened."
--Elliot "No, I mean about everything. All of it."
--Western (a little angry at himself) "Hell, I see the guy
once a year. How am I supposed to know every detail of his
life?"
--Walsh (needling) "Some kind of friend."
--Western (angry) "Back off."
--Elliot (concerned) "So, where is he?"
--Laura (resigned) "I really don't know."
--Western (anxious) "Have you heard any more from him?"
--Laura "Not since the call on Saturday. Not at work or on
the machine at home."
--Walsh "What about the tape? Did he take the tape?"
Laura pulled a black plastic box out of her briefcase. It
held an antique. An old half-inch, reel-to-reel tape. A relic
of the video revolution.
--Elliot (almost laughing) "This may take a miracle."
--Western "Probably hasn't been played in twenty years."

--Elliot (sensing her concern) "We'll make a clean
protection copy. Then we'll vault it at the Ranch. It'll be
safe there."
The technician cleaned off most of the oxide that had
accumulated over the years and threaded up the tape on an ancient
Sony 3650 half-inch machine. It clogged the heads the first few
times through. But, finally, the image tracked and became clear.
They began the transfer. Twenty-some years and poor resolution
couldn't soften the brutality; or mask the identity of the

murderer. I leaned in closer.
--Western (blown away) "That's Jon Henry Miller."
--Walsh "Who?"
--Western "One of the valley farmers I interviewed."
There was no doubt about it. A bit younger and carrying a
few less jowls and bellies. It was his Louisville Slugger that
put Huerta down ... for good.
--Elliot (excited) "This is incredible."
--Western "Let's hope it'll help Billie."
--Laura (serious) "I've done what I can to keep this visit
a secret. I'd like you to do the same. I need their confidence.
I need to know what they know. I can only do that if they don't
know I was here."
--Western "I wonder why he never told me?"
--Walsh "Fear might have had something to do with it. And
the fact that back then nothing would have been done."
--Laura "I hope that's changed."
--Elliot "I guarantee it."

CHAPTER 17
late November: a sixty-knot

squall through Carquinez
Strait breaks
levees, backs salt water miles
inland to preserve
what it kills. ...
... only the doctor

salt-stained
like us in boots & overalls
scares us. our daughter crawls
through fever one week
then her mother the week after
dies. my wife,
still my wife, what I have
of you, this residue, this love-
salt, ...
-- Dennis Schmitz, "Delta Farm"
In Sausalito, there is a model of the Bay-Delta water
system. It is so large that it fills an entire warehouse along
the waterfront. It is used to visually demonstrate the Bay-Delta
ecosystem. The man in charge, Felix Davenport, resembles a high
school history or geography teacher. He's big, with an open face

and large nose. He has a large head, bald, with bushy, white
sideburns and eyebrows. He talks in a flat, non-accented,
monotonic valley voice, like all the rest of the transplanted
mid-westerners who live here. He sounds like Hal Holbrook doing
Mark Twain.
On camera, Davenport looks good. Looks believable, even
comfortable. Felix Davenport had once been a very influential,
very powerful bureaucrat in California's Department of Fish and
Wildlife Services. The FWS. He had worked twenty-nine years

there. He was a "lifer," well on his way to pensioning out when
they told him they were transferring him out of Sacramento, to
the equivalent of Siberia in the Federal Bureaucracy. Because he
knew a little too much and wasn't afraid to talk about it.
In the spring of 1982, a series of memoranda from the Office
of the Solicitor placed a gag order on FWS personnel, prohibiting
them from speaking about Masterson to reporters, legislators, or
environmental groups. Davenport hadn't stopped, so they
re-assigned him. Instead, he chose early retirement. He moved
to San Francisco, then went to work for the "Bay-Delta
Institute," a satellite facility of San Francisco State
University; the only teaching and research institute dedicated
exclusively to San Francisco Bay and the delta.
But Davenport wasn't done with them yet. He had been a
company man all of his life, had given his life's blood to the
government. And for all his time and dedication, he'd been
screwed. For being honest. Now he wants to tell what he knows
to someone who would get the word out and who could be trusted.
We talk a while as the crew set up to shoot the interview
in front of the model. Elliot decided to come along because it
was close to home.
"What happened?"
"The whip came down."
"How?"
"Intimidation. Threats. They tried to scare us into
keeping our mouths shut."
"Who did?"
"Officials in the Interior Department."
"Why?"
"Because certain powerful people, very powerful people, told
them to."
"People in agribusiness?"
"People with money and influence."
"What'd you do?"
"I sang."
"About what?"
"Contamination of the wetlands. Poisoning of birds in our
wildlife refuges."
"More specifically?"
"Westland farmers dumping agricultural runoff into
Masterson."
"What else?"
"People at the state and federal FWS covering it up."
"What were they doing?"
"Destroying documents. Slowing the process. Hiding

evidence. Threatening anyone who talked to the press."
"With what?"
"Firing or transfers."
"What else?"
"They told us not to write our representatives. They warned
us not to join any kind of environmental association or talk to
anyone in those groups. And we weren't allowed to join any
professional organizations."
"Why not?"
"Didn't want us sharing information with our peers. Word
might get out."
"You said hiding evidence?"
"Any evidence we gathered that threatened the big farmers or
their political allies was systematically deleted or changed."
"What kind of evidence?"
"Evidence that they were exceeding the legal acreage limit.
Evidence that they were getting more subsidized water than they
were legally allowed. That they were polluting the refuge with
their runoff. That they were over-irrigating and creating a
selenium problem. That they were not using pesticides correctly.
And that maybe some people had gotten sick, maybe even died,
because of their misuse. Or possibly what they knew."
"And what happened to the people who collected this
evidence?"
"They were threatened or muzzled."
"You said documents were being destroyed or altered?"
"Some of our staff biologists said their reports were being

edited."
"By who?"
"Staff attorneys from the Regional Soliciter's Office."
"What were they editing?"
"Any facts that might be politically sensitive."
"Facts that pointed to the League and the big growers?"
He nods.
The crew is ready and we start shooting.

DISSOLVE:

THEME #15: "Magnetic Fields"
111 EXT. WEST SIDE - ESTABLISHING SHOT
AERIAL SHOT OF west side farms.
NARRATOR (v.o.)
More than a million acres of dry, alkali land
have been made fertile in the western San
Joaquin Valley this century.
Yet, the government was told in 1928, 1941,
and 1956 not to till the land because it was
seleniferous. There are already twenty years
of studies concerning inappropriate
agricultural irrigation on the west side.
Yet it continues.
112 EXT. WEST SIDE - MEDIUM SHOT
GROUND LEVEL shots of west side irrigation.
Most of the land on the west side is owned by

factory farms. Growing surplus crops on
marginal land, they are over-irrigating and
flushing selenium out of the earth. As the
irrigation water moves between fields, it
picks up still more
pollutants. Insecticides, herbicides, and
pesticides.
113 EXT. CANAL - WIDE SHOT
Shots of Tranquility Canal.
Under pressure, the valley farmers built a

drain to take the runoff away. The
Tranquility Canal is an 85-mile long
open sewer ditch. It carries a deadly
witches' brew that, in addition to being
toxic, could also be a hatchery for
"Andromeda Strains" of biological agents
capable of creating future nightmares.
114 EXT. CANAL - MEDIUM CLOSE UP
Unfortunately, the canal was never finished.

The end of this sewer line became the
Masterson Wildlife Refuge. It was supposed

to be temporary. It wasn't.
115 EXT. REFUGE - ESTABLISHING SHOT
AERIAL SHOTS of Masterson.
Marshes and wetlands are essential recharge

areas for groundwater supplies. They are
also stopping-off points for
migrating wildlife.
116 EXT. REFUGE - MEDIUM SHOT
GROUND LEVEL shots of Masterson.
That's why the poisoned pond at Masterson,

which is not only a wetland but a wildlife
refuge, is really a dual
problem. It's not only killing the wildlife
that stop there, but it's polluting the
groundwater below it as well.
117 EXT. REFUGE - MEDIUM SHOT
HAND-HELD shots of Masterson.
Wetlands like Masterson are being used as

collection areas for agricultural runoff.
Runoff carrying contaminants like selenium
and boron. Thus, contamination of these
surface waters directly affects the quality
of local groundwater and the health of the
wildlife living there.
118 EXT. REFUGE - WIDE SHOT
Right now, at this moment in time, there

appears to be no simple, quick-fix solution
to the problems of salinity and
runoff. Or the threat posed by selenium and
other toxic contamination. It's a double-
barreled shotgun pointing right in
the face of our future.
119 EXT. REFUGE - ESTABLISHING SHOT
FELIX DAVENPORT walks along the edge of Masterson.
FELIX DAVENPORT
Masterson was our canary in the cave.
DAVENPORT stops walking. CAMERA begins a slow ZOOM in on this

face of reason, of credibility.
Now, the canary's dead. The question is, are

we going to do something about it, or keep on
with business as usual?"
CAMERA ZOOMS in closer still, drawing us into the truth in this man's
eyes.
It's a symbol of all that's gone wrong in

thirty years of aggressive exploitation of
water in California. Agriculture in the San
Joaquin Valley is at a turning point. And it
may never recover. We may never recover.
CAMERA holds on an ECU of his eyes. They do not blink.
Was there a cover up? Yes, I believe there

was. People aren't saying anything, inside
or outside the FWS, because they're subject
to political pressure from farmers and their
politicians. Besides, as one of my
colleagues once observed: 'Ducks don't
vote.'
120 WIDE SHOT
As DAVENPORT exits, CAMERA frames a duck settling down on the pond.
The shot is done, the emotion captured. The appeal made.
Elliot and Davenport talk a little while longer before they leave.
In passing, Elliot mentions that the some of the same
people responsible for poisoning Masterson had also polluted the
well on his family's ranch. "They will pay," he says.

THEME #16: "Salt of the Earth"
DISSOLVE:
121 EXT. FIELD STATION - ESTABLISHING SHOT
GROUND LEVEL SHOT of UC Extension Service Salinization Project at the

Westlands Field Station near Fresno. Walking into frame and along
the dusted white hedgerows is PROFESSOR ANDRE LAUCHLI, head of the
Salinity/Drainage Task Force, Department of Land, Air and Water
Resources, University of California, Davis. He kicks at the salt-
encrusted earth.
PROFESSOR LAUCHLI
Salinity. Many experts consider it to be the
most neglected, long-term problem facing
California. Already, there are thousands of
acres near the southern end of the San
Joaquin Valley that look as if they had been
dusted with snow. Nothing
grows in this snow. Not even weeds.
122 MONTAGE
Shots of causes of salinization and desertification.
PROFESSOR LAUCHLI (v.o.)

'Salinization' is mostly the result of poor
drainage. And it's threatening this Valley.
The San Joaquin is suffering
from all the forces that work to produce
'desertification'. Poor drainage of
irrigated land, overgrazing, cultivation of
highly erodable soils, overdraft of
groundwater, and off-road vehicle damage.
Shot of salted field. CAMERA slowly PANS LEFT.
'Desertification' is a broad, loosely-defined

term. It encompasses a variety of ecological
changes that make lands
useless for agriculture or humans.
124 EXT. DESERT - MEDIUM SHOT
Deserts rarely spread along well-defined

frontiers. They spring up in patches where
abuse destroys the thin cover of
vegetation and fertile soil, leaving only
sand or inert earth.

Irrigation of water-intensive crops like cotton or rice.
The source of the problem is agriculture's

high consumption of water. Their waste of
water. The relative
cheapness and abundance of water, even in
regions that otherwise would be deserts, has
led to agricultural practices that would
normally never be allowed. But these farmers
are supported, even encouraged, by
politicians and federal subsidies.
GROUND LEVEL SHOT of forage crops like alfalfa.
Forage crops are being cultivated in

California because the economics of Western
water encourage the wanton use
of this precious substance. Because the
economics of the federal pork barrel favor,
even demand, the continuous construction of
dams and ditches to catch every possible drop
of fresh water before it finds its way to the
sea.
127 EXT. AQUEDUCT - ESTABLISHING SHOT
AERIAL SHOT of California Aqueduct at the Edmonston Pumps.
Then to transport that water to the drier,

southern portions of the state, where it will
be used to create cropland
or enable Los Angelenos to wash their cars,
top off their hot tubs, or fill their
swimming pools.
128 EXT. FIELDS - ESTABLISHING SHOT
LOW ANGLE TRACKING SHOT as MARC REISNER enters frame and walks along
hedgerows dusted with salt.
MARC REISNER
We really know surprisingly little about
vanished civilizations whose majesty, and
ultimate demise, were closely linked to the
liberties they took with water. The same
could be said about any number of desert
civilizations throughout history.
Assyria, Carthage, Mesopotamia; the Inca, the
Aztec, the Hohokam. Before they collapsed.
And it may not have been drought that caused

their fall.
129 MEDIUM CLOSE UP
CAMERA frames shot of ground as he stoops down into frame and picks
up a handful of salted earth.
It may have been salt.
He holds his hand up and lets the salted dirt cascade down, like
sands in an hourglass.
This is how it will end. Not with a bang,

but a whimper. This is our fate if we don't
do something. And do it soon.

CHAPTER 18
Many adults feel adolescence is a mistake to be corrected or a

sorrow to be alleviated rather than a wonderfully direct
apprehension of the truth too soon poisoned.
-- Norman Kiell
I met my old lover

On the street last night
She seemed so glad to see me
I just smiled
And we talked about some old times
And we drank ourselves some beers
Still crazy after all these years
I'm not the kind of man

Who tends to socialize
I seem to lean on
Old familiar ways ...
Now I sit by my window

And I watch the cars
I fear I'll do some damage
One fine day
But I would not be convicted
By a jury of my peers
Still crazy
Still crazy
-- Paul Simon, "Still Crazy After All These Years"
Jorge and I were reeling from the beers and the years we'd
covered. The softball game was over. It was just us and our
cooler sitting on the steep side of the hill, waiting for the
timer to turn out the park lights.
"You know what I think are the major burdens of our
generation?" The drink made me Irish eloquent and profound.
"Too much money and not enough time. No, it's maybe too
rich and too thin?"
"Butt-face. You're never fucking serious about anything."

"And you're too seriously fucked."
"Listen. I'm on a roll. It's three things. 'The unreality
of expectations. The absoluteness of loneliness. And the
inevitability of change'. For me, those phrases define life in
these times. Think about it."
"How can I not, shithead? You're shoving it up my ass."
"Cute. Anyway, we were brought up to expect that good
things would come our way. Our parents set us up for disappointment.
Then there's loneliness. Again, most of us grew
up in the traditional nuclear family."
"An endangered species."
"Fine. So we weren't prepared for the fact that the freedom
we had and the expectations, together, meant we were going to
spend a lot of time alone."
"Because we expected too much of ourselves, this world, and
other people?"
"Right. We had the freedom to choose. To move on without
making the commitment. And we ended up alone. Look at us.

We're both alone right now. There's nobody in our life. And
neither one of us is in the active pursuit mode."
"Too much trouble."
"There's a front end to expectation that's created its own
problems."
"Yes?"
"Think Carly Simon."
"Songs again. Which one?"
"'Anticipation'."
"So, let's finish this. What about the last one? The
inevitability of change?"
"That's the key one. And the one we were probably least
prepared for. We never grew up. A lot of our generation stayed
in high school mentally and emotionally. We resisted change. We
wanted life to be as safe and secure as it was in high school.
But it wasn't."
"And probably more so during that era than any time before
or since. A lot of change went down while we grew up."
"And it changed the world."
I stared across the park toward the parking lot lights at
the winery. I am obviously not alone in the way I feel. It
seems to be the curse of everyone my age. Our generation is so
self-indulgent. We've gazed so long at our collective navels
that we feel everyone else wants to know what we've found. Our
baby boom bubble is moving through that phase of life when we
control everything. So we hold the mirror up to each other and
write or talk about ourselves and all the joys and sorrows that
we seem to have suddenly discovered for the first time.
Multi-media masturbation. Baby boomers beating off.
It seems like every newspaper or magazine article, every TV
program or movie we watch, talks about our generational malaise.
We feel disconnected, our lives impersonal. We have time only
for acquisition, not compassion. It's disconcerting when you see
your personal problems broadcast on "LA Law" or "thirtysomething".
It's really only a mental circle jerk. Do we
really have anything to say, or are we just jerking off? Are

there really no new ideas. The Sixties are history and it's time
to cut a new path. Yet, here I am, perpetuating what I'm
thinking about.
"Have you noticed how much stuff there's out now about
Vietnam?"
"Time to exorcise the demon, I guess. Shed the guilt."
"Probably true. I bet most of the people doing these
programs are our age. Vietnam-era."
"Trying to deal with what happened. Cleansing the body
public. Our generation's way of saying we're sorry to those who
fought and died."
"Yea, but most everything that's out is about the war.
About the guys who fought. What it was like over there."
"Or after they got back."
"I mean, very little of it talks about the people who chose
not to fight. The home front. The ones who stayed here to fight
the blind ignorance."
"'Gardens of Stone' covered some of that territory."

"But it was still from a military angle. I'm talking about
conscientious objectors. I'm talking about the students. I'm
talking about the people who didn't believe in the war, who
didn't want to serve. Who didn't burn their draft cards, didn't
flee to Canada, didn't demonstrate, didn't trash buildings."
"You mean the people like you and me."
"Yea. The main-streamers. And there were a lot of us. We
stayed in school. We tried to educate people. Especially our
parents and our friends. We wrote letters. We tried to get

people to understand that even though we didn't agree with the
war, we still believed in our country and the democratic system.
Still believed in the process."
"'The Children's Crusade' of Clean Gene McCarthy."
"That's right. We both worked for his campaign. The first
and last time for me. But what bothered me was that people
didn't see the difference. Whether we were in the parks of
Chicago or in the streets of San Francisco protesting the war,
people saw us no differently than the Weathermen, the SDS, or the
Panthers. They lumped us all together as radicals and
terrorists determined to bring the establishment down. They
certainly didn't see us as patriots. Sure, I definitely wanted
to change the status quo. But I didn't want to tear everything else
down with it. The fact is, I was just as patriotic as the
guys who went there and died. I believed in this country as much
as they did. I just got lucky. I didn't have to go. But I
didn't want them to die. I wasn't one of those assholes that
yelled at them when they came home, that called them

'baby-killers'. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong
time and they had to go. And by the time they got off that
plane, they probably believed in the war about as much as I did."
"Until people started calling them murderers."
"So when are they going to tell our story? We put our time
in, too."
"I guess nobody feels like they have to apologize to us."
Memory is a fickle friend. It's there for you and yet it's
not. My memory tends to flatten all events and memories to the

same plane. Things that happened long ago appear to have
occurred simultaneously with events much later in time. I pride
myself on my memory, on my ability to recall minutiae. But there
is no depth to it, no perspective.
"You really think memories and trophies last longer than
friendship and love?"
"Well, considering that's all I have right now, I would say
yes."
"That's pretty cold."
"And pretty true. How many athletic trophies do you have in
storage?"
"More than I've got dust to cover them."
"And what about the memories? Do you have enough to keep
you warm at night or to keep you company when you're old?"
"Sure."
"How many lovers or wives or girlfriends or close friends do
you have?"
"Not as many."
"And which are more fun? Or, should I say, less of a pain
in the ass?"
"It's pretty obvious."
"You see, I'm trying to be realistic not self-pitying, but
the memories are really all I've got right now."
"You wouldn't trade them in for a nice soft, heavy-breathing
woman to keep you warm?"
"Sure, until it got to be a problem. And then I'd be right
back where I am now, talking to you."

We seem to have suffered through a prolonged adolescence.
By choice or circumstance, I don't know. The demographic bubble was
approaching middle age and we were letting everybody know
about it.
Memory is incomplete experience.

-- J. Krishnamurti
Photographs and memories,

Christmas cards you sent to me.
All that I have are these,
To remember you.
Memories that run and hide,

Take me to another time.
Back to a happier day,
When I called you mine.
But we sure had a good time,

When we started way back when.
Morning walks and bedroom talks,
Oh, how I loved you then.
Summer skies and lullabies,

Nights we couldn't say goodbye.
And of all of the things that we knew,
Not a dream survived.
Photographs and memories,

All the love that you gave to me.
Somehow it just can't be true,
That's all I've left of you.
-- Jim Croce, "Photographs and Memories"
"Is There Life After High School?" The name of a book and a
critical question for our generation. I think there is, but I
survived it. I learned to look at it from the right perspective,
with just enough humor, and not enough serious grimness.
I find myself still dealing with people I grew up with in
much the same way I dealt with them in high school. In my mind,
they're still jocks, cheerleaders, class presidents, nerds,
dopers, hoods, or "hard women". I still find myself tongue-tied
when confronted with one of the cheerleaders I never really knew,
but lusted after for all those years. Or scared shitless when I
run into one of my coaches or gym teachers. Do I measure up?
Did I succeed? Could I be part of their clique now because I
certainly wasn't then? Do we ever escape these adolescent
expectations? Of others? Of ourselves? I think not. Just look at
all that's been written about reunions. About the trauma and
fear paralyzing people contemplating attending their own.
Most of the kids in high school shied away from our group.
Not because we were so cool and unapproachable. Or because we
might batter them with our fists. We were dangerous in a
different way. We lashed them with our tongues, with our humor.
They couldn't stand our ridicule, our sarcasm. The fact is, most
of us were fairly bright, not unattractive, and even popular at
times. But we were the first to enter THAT era of rebellion.
When it was cool to not care; to distance ourselves from the

traditional rites of passage and lampoon those who took any of it
too seriously.
We were the first, other than the rockers and the kids from
"Highway Village," to experiment with drugs. That made us
especially dangerous and attractive. We laughed at the jocks,
particularly the coaches, although most of us were decent
athletes. A few even lettered. Not as a symbol of
accomplishment, but as yet another way to attack the system. I
think deep down, our style was just another disguise, another way
for us "outies" to attack the "innies." If they wouldn't accept
us, we'd ridicule what they considered important and humiliate
them in the process.
I think many of us still see ourselves the way we saw
ourselves in high school. A lot of us stopped there, though.
Especially the ones that didn't leave. It's amazing how some of
the more popular ones, the ones voted most likely to succeed,
when they couldn't cope with the disappointment of real life,
became alcoholics, heads, or born-again Christians. They just
kept trading one crutch for another. They wouldn't call it that.
And I probably shouldn't either. Am I any more successful or
well-adjusted? Do I have any fewer vices? Do I have the
answers? No. But I do have a power they don't. The power to
shape things the way I see them. I can create my own reality and
then present it as the truth. That's what I do with the "Mud
Bowl" videotape I produce each year. I define it and it becomes
real because it's on tape. It's been recorded for posterity.
It's been formalized, canonized. And those who participate in

the experience make it legitimate. It's a wonderful device for
exorcism. It's vicarious. It presents us as we would like to
see ourselves. It can be painful, especially seeing the before
and after shots, then and now. But it sure feels good.
The videotape I made for our reunion was my perception of those
years. You could accept it or not. But you couldn't
change it. It was my statement. I'm sure it embarrassed some.
Outraged others. But it touched everyone. Everyone had a
reaction.
It's been said that most of our tastes were set during high
school. The music, movies, dances, and drugs of preference were
shaped then. Even our sexual preferences and problems; all our
insecurities. I think that's why some of our friends, including
me, still prefer the oldies. We were probably happier in those
times than we are now. Certainly that's part of the attraction
of the Mud Bowl. To be seventeen and carefree again. Worried
more about copping a feel than getting a raise.
Many wives and girlfriends, former wives and girlfriends,
and parents may disagree, but I think the bowl is healthy. It's
cheaper than analysis and probably just as effective. Most
psychotherapists say that re-living our teenage years helps us to
become better adults. And that's exactly what we do each
Thanksgiving. Over a two to four day period, depending on how
much we need it and decide to indulge it, each of the "Bowlers"
consciously become what we were in high school, or act out what
we would have liked to be. We're often accused, by the
aforementioned significant others, of being juvenile and

immature. Instead of recoiling from the accusation, we revel in
it. It is shameless adolescent indulgence. But it helps to keep
us sane the rest of the year.
We all know there's a high schooler just under the surface.
But we're supposed to be sober professionals. We can't afford to
be compromised by that pimply-faced grinning visage of
immaturity. So, one weekend each year, we let him loose to run
wild. To wreak havoc on relationships new and old. And, through
the years, we've learned to look objectively at him without

shrinking in embarrassment. After all, we've been regressing for
over twenty-five years now.
Maybe the Bowl is a convenient way for many of us to remain
teenagers most of the year. Since most of us seem to like
who we were then, we don't mind spending more time with that
person. Of course we only do it when we're with another Bowler,
because only they can appreciate it and not hassle us about it.
Some of us handle this return to adolescence better than others.
Some, I think, are afraid of what might emerge from this
"Pandora's Yearbook" of regression. They might fear the reality
of what they really were and have become. The gathering can be
an intense time. Like any reunion, any re-evaluation, emotions
and expectations run high.
For years we've been told by people what a great idea the
Bowl is. How unique it is. And these same people lament the
fact that they hadn't, and now couldn't, do the same thing.
Because they weren't from a close-knit community. Or because
they were too mature. The latter ones we had to worry about.
They were the ones that would someday end up on top of a building
in Texas shooting innocent bystanders. One thing the Mud Bowlers
would never be accused of. We weren't tight-asses.
There is a saying of Goethe's. Beware of what you wish for
in youth because you will get it in middle life. And so many of
us have spent our entire lives trying to achieve that.
Reeling from the beers and the years we covered, I still
decide to have another beer before going to bed. I get one and
flip on a music television station. It's "Sweet Baby" James

Taylor, a cadaverous Henry Fonda. There's no life in that smile,
no vitality in that song. Is it another arm-chair casual
reflection? Why am I sorry for him, for me, for us, for a moment
in time. The boom is bust. We're dancing in our wheelchairs.
Old friends,
Old friends
Sat on their park bench
Like bookends.
A newspaper blown through the grass
Falls on the round shoes
On the high shoes
Of the old friends.
Old friends,
Winter companions,
The old men
Lost in their overcoats,
Waiting for the sunset.
The sounds of the city,
Sifting through trees,
Settle like dust
On the shoulders
Of the old friends.
Can you imagine us

Years from today,
Sharing a park bench quietly?
How terribly strange
To be seventy.
Old friends,
Memory brushes the same years.
Silently sharing the same fear. ...
-- Paul Simon, "Old Friends"
Time it was,
And what a time it was,
It was ...
A time of innocence,
A time of confidences.
Long ago ... it must be....
I have a photograph.
Preserve your memories;
They're all that's left me.
-- Paul Simon, "Bookends Theme"
It was time to test-drive his latest design. He cut in and
headed for the back door. Had you seen him then, you would have
thought him dead, or frozen in cryogenic journey. He was part of
the system; the soul of the machine. The jock was running the
silicon strip, shooting straight for enemy territory.
Destination: D.C. and the secured d data vault of the Valley

Education Fund; Borba's own PAC. This run was going to be a
bitch. He hoped he wouldn't fry his brains getting in and
wouldn't get his butt busted heading back out the door.
He was riding a hot-rodded piece of parasitic software. It
was pretty nasty. It could the usual stuff. Destroy disc files,
interfere with memory, reproduce itself ceaselessly. Just
generally be a pain in the ass. But he'd modded this shit so it
could slice through any security system and do a little spying.
Very selective spying. From the inside. On all the
interconnects linked up to the PAC, including, he hoped, The
League, OxyGene, DiGiulio, and most of the other corporate
combines. He had a feeling they were all wired. Because that
was everybody's safety net. They all knew it.
They were all linked. The pathways were there. He just had
to fly them. It would take a little time, but he'd find the
combination. Then it would be showtime. The parasite would copy
itself onto the main system and all the subsystems; attaching itself
to ancillary devices and storage media. Then the file protection
override would kick in, as well as the cloaking device. Once in
place, he' drain them dry. Accessing an autodial modem and a

modified internal FAX machine, the parasite would start transmitting
files to a network of safe storage devices around the state. The
Mole didn't want them coming down the lines after him, so all the
data went out into this
make-shift network, where it could be retrieved later. Some of the
data would travel down phone lines, some over satellite, fiber optic,
and microwave links.
Everything was in place already, courtesy of innocuous and
innocent user's groups, bulletin boards, and professional
organizations. You just had to know where it was and how to get to
it.
Next thing he knew, he was downtown; knocking at heaven's door.
The holographic projection above Icarus displayed a 3D grid of the
entire building, complete with communication, security, power, and
computer systems. It was like playing three-level chess with Spock.
Now he just had to run it undetected. He took it slow at first,
easing in and along. Didn't want to push too hard, like some horny
highschooler. Gently, he slid deeper and down farther. Then he was

there. He hovered at the brink. She opened like a flower and he was
inside. He shuddered with relief.
Pretty sloppy security, he thought. Pretty careless. He found
it under a file entitled, "Special Projects Fund." A little
historical homage; Nixonian humor. They just couldn't let the man
alone. It was a record of all the cash disbursements made by the
fund. Probably the only copy around. Shredded the hard copy if they
were smart. In an adjoining file, he stumbled on a little unexpected
bonus: transcripts of conversations between Borba and a host of

other players. The Mole's fingers were burning the stuff was so hot.
He hit the transmit command. Satisfied the code was flowing, he
punched the eject button and headed for the surface.
ALTA CALIFORNIA
-----------------------------------------------------------------
COASTAL BATTLE
The coming conflict between the two coasts.
OF THE RECORD STAFF
The next decade is going to see the beginnings of a major battle

between the two coasts. Not the snobbery of the east coast literati
and cultural dowagers versus the crude and brash upstart westerners.
It'll be over what we've got and they want. Over water. We want
more and they want better.
The infrastructure they built to carry water to their homes and
businesses is rotting away. And when they're not losing the water
through the cracks, the ancient pipes are polluting it with lead.
Or, the wastes of hundreds of years of industry, dumped into the
ground or pumped into the sky, are poisoning what good water they've
got left in rivers and lakes and underground.
So, where are they looking to get more? Out west. And who are
they looking to to help them get it? The same people who corralled
the water and gave it to the westerners. The federal government.
The Bureau of Reclamation. The Army Corps. They've given the west
cheap subsidized water for years, so why can't they do the same for
the east? It's only a matter of time before they begin reversing the
flow.
There's a smaller battle being waged within this larger war. A
civil war between the north and the south. Not between states, not
interstate, but intrastate. And the numbers tell it all. 72 percent
of the state's runoff water is north of Sacramento. 77 percent of
the demands for water are south of it. There are twenty-four
California congressmen representing California south of the Tehachapi
Mountains. There are nineteen representing everything else. You
tell me who has a better chance of taking home the water?
CHAPTER 19
I am a lie that always tells the truth.

-- Jean Cocteau
White Fang was a Siberian Husky. Named after one of Soupy
Sales' co-stars, he had been a wedding present. Now he was part
of the family. Since they couldn't have children, they had been
satisfied just raising Fang. Whenever Maryanne went to the store
or drove into town, Fang would always sit next to her, riding
shotgun.
Fang looked a little unhappy as they drove away, headed for
a concert in the city that night. He knew they'd get lost
without him navigating. How could they leave him behind?
Disappointed, he trotted around the back of the house, looking
for a stray cat or jackrabbit to chase. Nothing. No diversions.
No amusement. Just an empty brown bag with a few white granules
in it, billowing open and shut in the early evening breeze.
Curious, he nosed it open, snorting.
They returned around midnight, exhausted from a little too

much wine and an unusual amount of culture. They were too tired
to realize that their usual welcoming committee was not there
barking his greeting. When they finally did, they got out of the
car and started calling for him. No answer. No movement.
Nothing. They looked at each other. They pulled into the garage
and got out.
"Guess he chased a rabbit over to Arnold's place. There's
probably a message on the machine that he's there and spending
the night."
"Sure. It's not like he hasn't done it before."
"Right. I'll take a quick look around back before I come
in."
"I'll start some tea."
"Make mine a brandy."
Elliot shut the garage and went out the door into the side
yard and around the corner of the house. He saw Fang lying
there, quietly, next to his water bowl. His nose was in the
water, his tongue hanging out, over the side. His eyes were
open. Elliot stopped.
"Hey boy! Hey Fang!" Nothing.
"Maryanne!" The back porch light came on. Elliot ran over
to the dog. Maryanne came up behind him. White Fang was dead.
He had been for a while. He was stiff. Maryanne started crying.
"He was poisoned. Died of convulsions. Overloaded the
nervous system. Someone mixed the granules you found in that bag
with his dog food. He ate it. Got a very high fever. Tried to
drink water to quench his thirst and stop the heat. That made it
worse. The death would have been very painful."
"What was it?"
"Temik. Generic name Aldicarb. Made by, ..."
He looked at the bag. " ... OxyGene. I think it's a
nematocide. Used by grape farmers to kill worms. Pretty deadly
if it's eaten or inhaled."
"Someone killed our dog with a pesticide."
"I'm afraid so."

"I didn't know they were that lethal."
"In the right dose, anything is lethal."
I had been experiencing mild nausea, a slight dizziness, and
some balance problems for a few months. I attributed it to too
much caffeine, alcohol, and stress; to a ragged lifestyle. So I
let it ride. When it got worse, I went to the doctor and then
the specialists. A physical, blood tests, ear, nose, and throat,
and opthamology all drew fluids or poked instruments into me.
Nothing showed up. Nothing "leapt out at them," as they put it,
so they sent me to a neurologist.
During his exam, Doctor Albert Horshak asked me what I did,
all the while thumping reflexive parts of my anatomy with a hard
rubber hammer.
"I'm a writer and a television producer so I spend a lot of
time using my eyes, looking at televisions, staring at CRTs, or
doing research."
"Does the balance get worse?"

"Sometimes. And sometimes when my sinuses flare up. It's
funny because the symptoms are a lot like a project I'm working
on. Nausea, dizziness, pinpoint pupils."
"What's the project about?"
"The central valley of California and the 'politics of
water'. And pollution."
He stopped thumping. I thought, Christ, I've tipped it now.
This guy could be friends with any number of people. People who
shouldn't know.
"What kind of pollution?"
I figured I'd gone too far not to finish now. "Pesticides."
"Interesting." He started thumping again. "I have a bit of
an interest in that."
"What?"
"Pesticides. And the neurological damage they cause. In
fact, I've often been called as an expert witness in cases
involving pesticide contamination."
I had to ask because I had to know. "By whom and against
whom?"
"Environmental Defense Fund and Pesticide Action Network.
Against OxyGene and some rather large farmers." He looked up and
smiled as I exhaled a sigh of relief. "Does that make me okay?"
We had our medical expert.
A story should have a beginning, a middle, and an end ... but

not necessarily in that order.
-- Jean Luc Godard
He had one last run to make. Down Thunder Road. He licked
his lips in nervous anticipation. They were proud of the toys
they had accumulated there. They had always been innovators; had
always stretched the limits of the possible in their own
business. So it wouldn't be too surprising to expect some pretty
hot code at the end of this road.
He kicked in and fast-forwarded down the line. The security
code started detonating as he neared the target, like land mines
or anti-aircraft. Nothing serious or damaging, just a warning to

the faint of heart. Fuck your envelope, Chuck, he silently
shrieked as he throttled up and screamed toward oblivion.
When he flattened out, he didn't think he had made it there.
He started scanning. He was a little disappointed. They made
some good wine, but this code tasted like Red Mountain. It was
easy pickins. He got to it all, including DiGiulio's
confidential personal files. Then something started picking at
his neck, scratching at his attention. It was some kind of
watchdog. It smelled new and dangerous. Then he instinctively
knew that the smell was Icarus burning. Time to bail. He
somersaulted.
The Mole felt like Von Richtoven. Icarus resembled the
remains of the "Flying Circus." Both pilot and ship had survived
the binary dogfight, but they had returned battered and bruised.
The Mole hadn't slept in over a week; Icarus hadn't been powered
down for almost as long. He was wired the entire ride,
mainstreaming data lines. Now it was come-down time. The
back-side of the flight was about to begin; the real drudgery.

Collating. Synthesizing. Analyzing. Reviewing all the
confidential corporate files, public and private legal records,
scientific data bases, doctor's reports, FBI Form 302s,
top-secret government files, and confidential congressional
hearings.
He finished at five the next morning, showered, downed a Tab
and took one for the road, then drove across the Golden Gate.
Elliot had called in Western, Walsh, and Devereaux. They all sat
quietly in one of the edit suites. It was cool and dark, just
the way The Mole liked it. A little too cool for Elliot. The
laptop, already lashed to the mainframe, sat between them, the
scan lines moving up and up, slowly, inexorably. Each of them
quickly scanned their own hard copy, turning pages in nervous
anticipation, as he called up the first file and began walking
Elliot through the maze.
It was a labyrinth of conspiracy and cover-up. Corporate
farmers had illegally irrigated thousands of acres with
super-subsidized water supplied by the larger water contractors.
They had invented complicated lease-out, lease back arrangements
to control excess land through dummy corporations. Aided by the
agrichemical conglomerates, they had illegally, or at least
incorrectly, used chemical insecticides and herbicides. They had
pumped out of existence, or contaminated, vast amounts of the
state's ground water supply. There were records of migrant
worker abuse, purposely inadequate housing and medical care,
collusion to keep wages low and deport any dissidents. There
were records of bribes, or at least "contributions", to keep the

Tranquility Canal open and to keep certain pesticides on the
market and the acceptable residues on food and in water at a
level acceptable to the growers.
It wasn't clear yet how much the BuRec, the Army Corps, DWR,
or FWS knew and how much they had helped. Reading the reports
and between the lines, it was obvious most of the people at each
agency were simply too afraid to not help, or at least look the
other way. They didn't want to tangle with the giant farming
corporations and the politicians they helped elect. One thing

was clear. They had done little or nothing to stop it. And it
looked like some had even gone so far as to conspire to cover it
up.
The tangled web included chemical companies, agribusiness,
politicians, private citizens, city, county, state, and federal
officials. They had all been responsible for the contamination.
They had all been part of the cover up. They had conspired to
keep the public in the dark, and to keep officials and law
enforcement quiet. All for their own benefit. To put money in
their own pockets. To secure their own positions. And, along
the way, they may have even killed some people. And they had
denied Elliot the family he wanted.
During his raid on The League's files, The Mole discovered,
like Walsh had before him, a number of violations of the
excess-lands provision and several violations of the Clean Water
Act and Proposition 65. The transgressors included DiGiulio and
The Combine, as well as numerous members of The League. Most of
the big west side farmers had been granted exemptions from the
solicitor's office of the Interior Department. That meant no
acreage limit on the amount of subsidized water they were
getting. There was evidence that those exemptions were the
result of political pay-offs. Pay-offs in the hundreds of
thousands of dollars. Some of the growers had contributed up to
$100,000 to the Valley Education Fund. And Borba had used that
money to buy them exemptions.
While browsing a data base from the Toxicology Information
Center at Purdue, he had run across a reference to OxyGene's

Waterston plant. Sterility caused by DBCP. Nothing he hadn't
already seen. But it triggered another connection. He
remembered something about DiGiulio; something in an FBI file
he'd cracked. A confidential file about an investigation into
the dumping of contaminated grapeskins and possible ground water
contamination. There was a Mafia connection and charges of
illegal dumping. That triggered another reference. In March of
the previous year, the state water board had fined DiGiulio for
not meeting the deadline for cleaning up some contaminated ground
water. The fine came as part of a civil liability complaint.
The complaint alleged "negligent or intentional" violations of a
cleanup order. The water board had given the winery thirty days
to find out how far ground water contamination had spread, and
six months to devise a cleanup plan. The order was ignored.
Simply forgotten. By both parties.
Walsh knew something of that and another pair of files on
DiGiulio. The first was innocuous enough. It was in the papers,
but only locally and not for long. The second was far more
serious. No one knew about it because it was still under
investigation. The bureau file was still open.
The FBI's Form 302 was the interview report filed by agents
immediately after talking with a witness. The information in
them wasn't always reliable. It was simply a storage device for
a data dump. Anything that was said was recorded.
When he left the Bureau, Pat had taken copies of all the
302s, and as much of the case files, as he needed and could
manage. He wasn't about to waste all the time and energy he had
spent. He figured he could probably use the information some
day. It was a federal offense--copying and removing documents.
He, and everyone in the room, could be jailed, especially now,
following The Mole's joyride.
The first incident had to do with a bunch of contaminated
bricks. The bricks had lined a kiln the winery used to fire the
glass for their bottles. When they built the new plant, they had
to get rid of the bricks, so they figured they'd make a little
extra money by selling them. What they couldn't sell, they
dumped into the local landfill. Turns out the bricks were
contaminated. If company officials knew it, they didn't let on.
So here are all these people, building fireplaces and patios with
"dirty" bricks. Not to mention the landfill, where a bunch of
other people worked, and more people came in each day to dump
their own garbage. Even though it wasn't that serious, it just
showed their attitude toward their own liability and concern for
the public's safety.
The second one had turned up during The Mole's cruise;

evidence that they had been dumping wine skins tainted with
pesticides and herbicides into open pits. Without permits and
without notifying the proper authorities.
As they dug deeper into the data, following the information
trail, the picture of the valley began to resemble medieval rural
feudalism, complete with absentee landlords and serf labor. Many
owners lived in Los Angeles, Houston, London, Tokyo, or Bahrein.
Most of them didn't give a damn about the land or the people
working it. They were only interested in profit. And some

people suspected a few of these landlords wouldn't even mind
undermining the economy and depleting the resources on purpose,
in preparation for the last battle.
--Elliot "Followed the money. That's all The Mole did.
And he dug us up an agribusiness Trilateral Commission."
--Walsh "Try what?"
--Elliot "Trilateral Commission. Like "The Star Chamber."
The world's most powerful businessmen and politicians. All
working together to control world politics through economics."
--Western "Sounding a little conspiratorial, aren't we?"
--Elliot "We've got our own version right here.
Agribusiness uses the banks, the politicians, food processors,
the university extension system, cheap imported labor, and
subsidized water to generate wealth so they can control this
state and assure that the flow continues."
--Walsh "It's a conspiracy. We're talking about foreign
ownership, hidden partnerships, holding companies, interlocking
directorates, vertical integration."

--Devereaux "Using our water, our universities, and our
elected officials to put Americans out of work and put money into
their Swiss bank accounts."
--Elliot "You know what their philosophy is? Use it, then
lose it."
--Walsh "That's like castrating your stud bull, or letting
your prize heifer run dry."
--Elliot "They don't care. There's plenty more land
available around the world, even here in this state. I think

it's part of a master plan. If they can't conquer us militarily,
they'll start destroying us from within. With drugs. Or
economically. By buying and then developing, or destroying, the
best of our farm and ranch lands."
Elliot knew he had the ammunition he needed. This
information, plus everything they'd gathered so far through
interviews and their own research, there was enough
circumstantial evidence to build a pretty convincing case. The
gun was leveled. Right at their heart. Now it just had to be
fired. But the information was still circumstantial. Some of it
had been pirated. He could use it in the documentary: to
allege, to hint, to suggest. But it was inadmissable as evidence
in court. And it was unprofessional; even unethical. The best
investigative journalists knew that. He needed the hard
evidence. Beyond a reasonable doubt. He was encouraged, but a
little exasperated.
--Devereaux "I think it's pretty clear what's been going
on. What's been happening."

--Western "There is a pattern. It's money."
--Walsh "But it's more than that. It's conspiracy. It's
cover-up. And maybe murder."
--Devereaux "And that's what we're going to prove. It's
Borba and Delancy and DiGiulio and The League."
--Western "And for them, it's over."
--Elliot "Not until we get the smoking gun. Look, we
can't afford to be charged with making baseless accusations. I
refuse to have this branded as just another one of my naive

crusades."
--Devereaux "Naive or not. Pirated or not. The public has
a right to know what we've found. That's guaranteed under the
First Amendment and common law practices. Even if we don't point
any fingers, if all we do is say, 'Here it is, judge for
yourself,' we've got to do something about it. Right now. It's
a destiny we can't deny."
--Elliot "Fine. Agreed. But I still say we need their
fingerprints on the gun so there's no doubt who fired it. We've
got to get those fingerprints. Get me those fingerprints."
--Devereaux "The principle of it. We're doing this for the
principle of it."
--Western "You know, you can get away with anything for the
principle of it."
--Walsh "Yes. And in the right dose, anything is lethal.
Even water."
--Elliot "Even principles."

CHAPTER 20
... I saw the sun take

Its first step
Above the water tower at Sun
Maid Raisins
And things separate from the dark
And lean on their new shadows ...
-- Gary Soto
There were no songs

when scorpions did
their dance to a
whirlwind tune and
a desert promise.
No water wells then.
A dry-farming stake
was the way before
canal hopes grew
in the caterpillar dust.
-- Art Cuelho, "Those Cook Shack Days"
Marc Reisner, author of "Cadillac Desert," suggested we
meet near where the Delta-Mendota Canal crosses the Highway
580/132 cutoff when I called to get some background information
prior to shooting his segment for the program. I asked Robin
Devereaux to join us.
We stood now on rolling hills near the Altamont Raceway; a
vantage that delivers views of both the Delta-Mendota, the
California Aqueduct, and the freeway. Irrigated agriculture and
the automobile. The two things, Reisner tells us, that have done
more than anything else to shape California. He reminds us of a
forgotten fact.
--Reisner "California is a desert. It needs water. An
entire culture, an entire value system, has been born and raised
on the desperate need for water. Those who control it, who rule
it, also rule California. That means power. That means

influence. And that means money."
--Western "Water is everything."
--Reisner "It's a big issue. Maybe the biggest. Because
you can't live without water. You can have a gas shortage and
you'll live. A food shortage, you'll still survive. But run out
of water and you're dead in a few days."
--Devereaux "They say that in California, water flows
uphill toward money."
--Reisner "And you can bet that when it comes to something
as important as water, the rules of accepted behavior are going
to go out the window. Honesty and legality will be ground into
the dust."
--Devereaux "You get the water, you get the money. It's
that simple."
--Reisner "Water delivers wealth. And that wealth goes
back into the political machine that delivers the water. The
farm lobby and agribusiness spend almost a million dollars a
month fighting water reform and the environmentalists."

--Western "They're the people who keep electing Borba and
his cohorts. And those are the guys we're fighting. They're
the front men. The guys trying to block us at every turn,
legally and otherwise."
--Reisner "The issue is not a poisoned pond. It's
politics. The old-fashioned expedients of politics and
economics."
--Western "And this time, they're the same thing."
--Devereaux "Masterson is what you see. Money is what you

get."
--Western "Let's talk a little about federal water
subsidies."
--Reisner "The federal government began subsidizing water
projects in 1982. On the grounds that growth in the West
depended on cheap water."
--Devereaux "To make the desert bloom?"
--Reisner "Since then, hundreds of thousands of acres of
marginal farmland in the arid West and Southwest have been
cultivated."
--Western "Only because the water was cheap?"
--Reisner "It was sold by the government to the farmers for
much less than its true cost."
--Devereaux "With all the subsidies they had, it was
cheaper to use it and get more than to conserve it."
--Reisner "It was also cheaper to irrigate the hell out of
drainage-poor land and let it run into swamps like Masterson than
it was to install drainage systems, or simply not cultivate the

land."
--Devereaux "And the resulting water shortage each year
created pressure to find more cheap water."
--Western "Political pressure to dam more rivers? A roll
on the old pork barrel?"
--Reisner "The ultimate. Water projects create jobs. The
unions like that. So do engineering and construction companies
like Fluor and Bechtel. Water projects grease the political
machinery."
--Devereaux "And because of all this growth and wealth, the
politicians get re-elected and keep the cycle going."
--Western "So enormous amounts of taxpayers' money have
been spent for the benefit of a few? On land of marginal value
and for crops that aren't essential?"
--Reisner "The rice, cotton, barley, canning tomatoes,
pistachio nuts, almonds, and melons they produce aren't feeding
the world. Much of what's being grown is in surplus supply. And
there have been repercussions reaching beyond the state. The
feds used taxpayer's money to provide illegal subsidies so rich
farmers could grow richer planting rice in California. In the
process, they produced more for less."
--Devereaux "And put the other rice growers living in Texas
or Louisiana out of business."
--Reisner "And what's ironic is they didn't even sell the
rice here. They shipped it to fill the rice bowls of Japan."
--Western "You mentioned earlier that there was another way
to use water better, beyond conservation, reduced use, and

recycling. What were you referring to?"
--Reisner "Selling it. Farmers could sell their
entitlements at market the same way they sell their produce."
--Western "Who would buy it?"
--Reisner "Cities, who would pay a premium for it.
Industry. Even other farmers. That would give these farmers
another market and another source of income."
--Devereaux "Which couldn't hurt them at a time when more
and more farms are failing because of default."

--Reisner "And, if they were efficient, they'd still have
enough left over to irrigate their own crops."
--Western "Couldn't they decrease their consumption still
more by planting different crops?"
--Reisner "Definitely. Instead of cotton, tomatoes, rice,
and alfalfa, which use a lot of water, they could switch to beans
and wheat or barley, which use a lot less."
--Western "Let me ask a question that's sort of related and
not. Do you own any water stocks?"
--Reisner "No, I don't. To be honest, I hadn't even
thought about it, but I imagine as water gets more scarce, owning
stock in companies that own, or control, the sources of water
would make sense. I didn't even know there were water stocks."
--Western "There are. And once the quality and quantity of
water combines with more people and industry, the companies that
control the water are going to do quite well."
--Devereaux "So everyone's happy."
--Western "And no one loses."

--Reisner "Except everyone living in California. Because
they're running out of water."
--Devereaux "Good water."
--Reisner "Any kind of water. And, remember, there are
still droughts ahead. After all, this is a desert."
--Western "Is there really enough water in California?"
--Reisner "There's enough. What there isn't enough of is
much incentive to use it wisely."

DISSOLVE:

THEME #17: "Equinoxe"
Shot of MARC REISNER standing near irrigation shut-off valve in a

west side tomatoe field. He reaches down and turns on the valve.
Water begins rushing into the irrigation ditch.
MARC REISNER
Over the course of 50 years, a few thousand
farmers will receive a billion and half
dollars' worth of taxpayer generosity that
was never supposed to be theirs. They were
supposed to get the water cheap. Instead,
they're getting it for almost nothing. And
the biggest subsidies are going to the
members of the Westlands Water and Power
League.
131 EXT. IRRIGATED FIELDS - ESTABLISHING SHOT
AERIAL SHOT of irrigated fields in Westlands district.
The federal water subsidy to the farmers of

the Westlands amounts to almost $217 per acre
per year. The average annual revenue
produced by an acre of Westlands land is only
$290.
GROUND LEVEL SHOT of west side cotton fields owned by The

Marriposa Combine. CAMERA slowly PANS RIGHT TO LEFT.
This means that 70 percent of the profit on

what is supposed to be some of the richest
farmland in the world, comes solely through
taxpayer subsidization, not crop production.
Not only that, but the main west side crop is
cotton, which has become a surplus crop.
HIGH ANGLE SHOT of field worker tending ditches in Westlands

tomatoe field.
Why the League should receive subsidized

water in the first place is a good question.
It's hardly worth mentioning
that their irrigation runoff is the main
source of the valley's high levels of
selenium.
Shot of REISNER standing near shut-off valve.
So here's the situation. Illegal subsidies

enrich big farmers. Their excess production
of surplus crops depresses crop prices
nationwide. Their contamination and waste of
cheap water
creates an environmental calamity that could
cost billions to solve. And the American
public knows little, or nothing, about it.
It was Sunday evening. The network news had ended. Elliot
was too busy reviewing his week's worth of ignored correspondence
to see that a television special on animation had begun.
Reflecting off his glasses, behind which his eyes intently
scanned words and numbers, were images ranging from traditional
animation to contemporary computer imaging.
A voice, or a piece of music, must have roused him. He
pushed his glasses up, rubbed his eyes, then looked over at the
TV. He smiled. It was his favorite cartoon of all time. Not
because of the style of animation, but because of the content.
He remembered it well. The grasshopper, relaxed, not worrying,
while the ant scurried around, preparing for the coming winter.
"I'll never be the grasshopper," he thought, "but am I scurrying
around for the right reasons?" The phone rang.

CHAPTER 21
Just like the sun over the mountaintops,

You know I'll always come again.
You know I love to spend my morning times,
Like sunlight dancing on your skin.
I've never gone so wrong as for telling lies to you.

What you've seen is what I've been.
There is nothing I could hide from you.
You've seen me better than I've been.
Out on the road that lies before me now,

There are some turns where I will spin.
I only hope that you can hold me now,
Till I can gain control again.
Like a lighthouse you must stand alone,

And mark a sailor's journey in.
No matter what seas I have been sailing on,
I'll always roll this way again.
Out on the road that lies before me now,

There are some turns where I will spin.
I only hope that you can hold me now,
Till I can gain control again.
-- Rodney Crowell, "Till I Gain Control Again"
As I listen, I realize it could be my theme song. I have
this compulsive need to control everything and everyone around
me. I became a manipulator. I became selfish. I knew what I
needed to do to run things and I used people and situations to do
that. One of the reasons I finally gave up drugs was because I
always felt out of control. And that scared me. I didn't want
to blow it, to look like a fool, to fuck up. And drugs did that
to me. If I was with a group of close friends and we stayed
inside, I was fine. But if there were strangers, and we decided
to go somewhere, I became absolutely paranoid. So I finally just
stopped.
This compulsion to be in charge made my sex life a little
sporadic. If I couldn't determine when, where, and how, I wasn't
comfortable. And that affected my attitude, which had a string
tied directly to my dick. If it wasn't right, neither was I.
And that didn't help the marriage. Because Sandy liked being in
control, too.
I liked making love with the lights out and my eyes closed.
I don't think I ever kissed a woman, or made love to her, and
looked her straight in the eyes. I never wanted to see her
reaction, to share that moment of complete vulnerability. And I
certainly didn't want her to see me at my weakest, when I was
least in control. Unfortunately, doing that is like driving with
your eyes closed. You'll miss a lot.
You could tell by looking at my home. The magazines neatly
stacked on the coffee table, perfectly arranged. The shoes all
lined up in the closet. The canned food in alike-minded aligned
rows. Everything anally clean and in order. Nothing out of
place. It was hard to tell if this was someone's home or one of

the houses on "The Tour of Homes." But I lived there and I was
proud of the order I had established and meticulously maintained.
But there was no passion, only organization. I had died
cubbyholing my life. Instead of allowing the chaos of feelings
into my living room, I had dust-busted them out of existence.
I plead guilty to it. I am an organizer. A facilitator. A
catalyst. That's not to say I'm a workaholic. Unlike many of my
peers, and certainly our parents, I know there are more important
things in life than work; like love, health, family, friends, and
sanity. That's also not to say I hate to work. I actually enjoy
what I do because I get a chance to move people. I realized long
ago that my role in life was to get people together and keep them
together. And that is what people look to me for. I've always
been the one to stay in touch; to make contact and to keep
friends from drifting too far away. It was up to me to make us
all a little crazy so we wouldn't go insane.
I guess that's why John Mayall's "Broken Wing" is playing
now. For no reason other than conjuring old memories and putting
them in flight.
I sit drinking a gin and tonic and start thinking of a girl
I once knew. A high school sweetheart. The first girl I ever
made love to. We used to share a different vice back then. We'd
get really stoned and make love outside somewhere, in the open.
Someplace we shouldn't be; somewhere we weren't expected to be if
someone were out walking. It was childish, even reckless, but it
was another form of freedom, sort of like "nothin' left to lose,"
like all the others we, and the rest of our friends kept seeking
and experimenting with. Unfortunately, she dug deeper into the
counter-culture and I booted myself out of Ralston. I figured it
was time to move on or I'd never get out. Like she didn't. We'd
see each other once in a while, usually during college breaks.
Then I heard from a friend of mine and hers--a policeman--who
told me she'd killed herself. Blew her face away with a shotgun.
He found her. She was married then and had a baby. The baby was
in the next room when she did it. He quit the force the next
week.
She was just another victim of circumstance. A casualty
of self-inflicted loneliness. Maybe it was the casual neglect,
or implied disinterest, she felt from her parents; the same that
many of us felt. All our parents had raised most of us to be
independent, free-thinking individuals. They had always advised
us to use our best judgment. Then they kicked us out of the
nest. Maybe not physically, but certainly emotionally. It made
it easier for them if their kids grew up sooner, went solo
faster. Then they wouldn't have to be parents anymore; wouldn't
have to be responsible. They could raise the rest of the kids,
then get on with their own lives. Sadly, some of us were more
ready than others to take wing.
It was twenty years ago today,

That Sergeant Pepper taught the band to play.
They been goin' in and out of style,
But they're guaranteed to raise a smile.
So let me introduce to you,
The band you've known for all these years,
-- The Beatles, "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band"
There's a saying. Our mortality is measured by the
celebrities we grow old with. That movies help mark out our
lives. Do you remember who you were when you first saw
"Casablanca," "Citizen Kane," or "2001?" In the Forties and
Fifties, perhaps even today, that was true. That's always how
it's been with Elliot. All he knows is movies. His only
reference is movies. He carves his reality from the movies he's
seen or the ones he's made. Sometimes it seems the only way he
can communicate an idea is by referring to a similar one from a

film.
For me, it wasn't the movies. It was the music. I
remember exactly who I was and what I was doing by certain songs.
And every time I hear that song, I'm back to what I was then, at
that moment. In the Sixties, when I was growing up, especially
twenty years ago during "The Summer of Love," in San Francisco,
at the height of the Haight, music really did mark the time of
our lives. All the events, all the experiences, all the memories
from that time are linked forever to a mesmerizing melody or
smashing power chord, a mobilizing lyric or communal chorus.
There's another saying. Everything is changeable. Only
change is eternal. It is inevitable. It is persistent. As
predictable as time. As tyrannical as the downbeat. The Sixties
were a time for change and a time of change. And rock & roll
provided our anthems.
Because I lived in the Central Valley, I wasn't always a
part of what was happening in San Francisco, The City. So I
participated, vicariously, on my time machine--the radio.

It seems we always begin and end these travels with the same
band. A group that keeps the decade alive for thousands. The
Grateful Dead started us down the golden road and they're still
truckin' today.
But The Herald who signaled the real beginning of our trip
was, appropriately enough, a music critic: Ralph J. Gleason,
with a little back-up from Ben Fong-Torres and local disc
jockeys. Some on AM, but most on the first underground,
free-form, FM stations, like KMPX, then KSAN. It was "Big Daddy"

Tom Donahue, or Creedence playing the long version of "Suzy Q" at
a street dance. The official journal of the journey was not
Gleason's "Chronicle," but a "rock tabloid." A new publication
that commented on the counter-culture by writing about the music
it made. A rag dedicated to printing "All the News That Fits."
Why fate chose The City as the location for this flowering
of music and gathering of tribes will never be known. But it
did. And it gave us an incredible amount of music and musicians.
The Charlatans. Moby Grape. It's A Beautiful Day. The Beau
Brummels. The Jefferson Airplane. The Steve Miller Band. Big
Brother. The Youngbloods. I hear Quicksilver's "Pride of Man"
and I think of Chet Helms and "The Family Dog."
I remember "Live For Today" and The Grass Roots playing at
my high school. I went back once following graduation, for old
time's sake, wearing my first pair of wire-rimmed glasses; my
first visible attempt at rebellion. When confronted with my
classes and facial hair, a senior football player I'd known for
years couldn't handle it. Almost got in a fight over a pair of

glasses. It wouldn't be the last time.
The new children will live,

For the elders have died.
I wave goodbye to America,
And smile hello to the world.
-- Tim Buckley, "Hello/Goodbye"
I remember the first "official" outdoor rock concert.
"Magic Mountain" at Mt. Tamalpais in Marin. Tim Buckley backed
by Carter C.C. Collins. I wondered if I should wear flowers in

my hair.
"Pushin' Too Hard." Sky Saxon and the Seeds. The first
time I smoked dope. I was a little less than enthusiastic about
the initiation, but it was time to experiment; to join my peers.
All I remember was staring at an aquarium for hours watching a
fish spitting rocks.
"The Loner." Neil Young's first solo album and my first
experience with psychedelics. We were all counter-culture
cowboys, denim Indians like him. Fringed, buckskinned, and alone
in our melancholy.
"Feel-Like-I'm-Fixin'-to-Die-Rag" will always be Vietnam and
a long bus ride to Fresno for my induction physical. I was
terminally healthy. Then, there was a longer trip to the Oakland
Draft Resistance Center, knowing that if I didn't do something I
was going to die. After all, when the numbers were called the
night of the lottery, I was number twenty-four.
"Light My Fire." The flip side of the awakening. The
Doors at a roller skating rink. On the inside, Jim Morrison was

smoking and sultry. On the outside, two gangs were beating the
hell out of each other. The old and the new; one living, one
dying, in 4/4 time.
"Long Time Gone." The Polo Grounds. The Moratorium. The
first taste of revolution, of defiance, of togetherness. CS&N
wearing those furry coats. I remember walking by them and
thinking how short they were.
There was a point when music and movies did come together.
"Easy Rider" broke new ground in many ways. But I remember it

especially as one of the first movies to really use rock & roll
to help tell the story. "Born To Be Wild," "Ballad of Easy
Rider," and "Don't Bogart that Joint". Reality at twenty-four
frames per second.
Watching "Top Gun" the other night--the latest rock & roll
movie--I hear Tom Cruise say his Mom's favorite song was Otis
Redding's "Dock of the Bay." It's a little unsettling. We are
now the parents we warned ourselves about. But it's really no
surprise. It's predictable. Just like time. It's persistent.
Just like change. It's inevitable. Like the downbeat.
Lately it occurs to me,

What a long, strange trip it's been.
-- The Grateful Dead, "Truckin'"
A roundward curving cobblestone driveway runs up to the
gabled white Victorian that houses the library. There are
casement windows along the front and a wide staircase stepping up
to a small porch. An expansive green lawn fronts the building.
In the middle is a small stand of birch trees. More lawns spread
away in all directions from the house.
Rolling up behind the library and the other buildings are
rounded hills, brown from the summer's heat. A few deep-rooted
madrone trees are the only patches of green. Peeking over the
edge of the foothill's rim is bright azure blue sky. It's a warm
breezy afternoon. Welcome to summer in Marin County.
Inside, it's Victorian gaslight cozy. Intricate stained
glass windows of amber and ocher Art-Nouveau lilies cast

dusky-colored shafts of light on the polished hardwood floors.
Redwood panels cover the walls and surround the fireplace. The
vaulted ceilings peak at various points throughout the building,
dangling crystal chandeliers. Each ceiling is painted white,
with a trace of magenta or blue to give it a slightly tinted
glow. Stained redwood book shelves, filled with multi-hued,
leather-bound books, climb several walls. A few high-backed
wooden chairs stand idly around Persian rugs.
Sitting at the large oak conference table, littered with
coffee mugs, 3X5 cards, scraps of paper, videocassettes, and
lined yellow note pads, the production team was assembled. A map
of California's water system lay at one end of the table.
More and more, as the production moved along, Elliot began
to see the commonplace as reflections of his past readings; his
research into the mythology of the hero. Looking at the people
in this room, gathered each day, he perceived them as a host of
familiars, armed with amulets and talismans, to help him achieve
this quest.
They were discussing style, content, and structure. Elliot
was explaining that he wanted the show to be designed as a
"docu-drama". Interviews and voice-over narration would supply
most of the content while computer-generated images and live
action sequences would visually illustrate the information. To
avoid charges of libel and slander, he suggested that they
present the most damning evidence and controversial accusations
as futuristic scenarios.
--Elliot "I would like to open with a couple of scenarios.

The way things might be if we don't do something."
--Western "Live action? Miniatures? Or CGI?"
--Elliot "Technique doesn't matter right now. Just content."
--Janet "What if they mistake the illusion for the reality?"
--Western "The shadows for the substance?"
--Elliot "Fine. What's wrong with a little tension? Keep
them guessing. Fool them a little. I think we need more tension
in our lives. After all, the existentialists say man's condition
on earth is one of being caught between insoluble tensions. Keeps us
on the edge. Keeps our skin tingling. Keeps us alive."
--Janet "It's a meta-metaphor. A metaphor of a metaphor."
--Western "A reflection of a reflection."
--Elliot "Now you've got it."
--Janet "How about this one? Clean water is in short supply.
People are hoarding it."
--Elliot "Sort of like 'Mad Max?'"
--Janet "Right. Nuclear desperadoes. Instead of hauling
gasoline, they're hauling water."

--Devereaux "Others could be stealing it. Killing for it.
The good water has been rationed. As usual, the powerful have
most of it."
--Janet "Those who don't have it start killing those who
do, so they can get water for themselves and their families."
--Elliot "Like the immigrants in 'Heaven's Gate?'"
--Walsh "Butchering the ranchers' cattle to feed their
starving children."
--Western "Like any have-not. If they want it, they have

to take it. Start a revolution."
--Valle "And sides are taken."
--Devereaux "Agribusiness and the water lobby against the
small farmer, environmentalists, and us."
--Valle "Many have died fighting those people."
--Elliot "I suspect a few more will this time."
The conversation continued into the night.
--Elliot "I want to close with something chilling. Like
something from the movie 'On the Beach.'"
--Janet "They're playing 'Waltzing Mathilda.' The captain
of the submarine is looking through the periscope."
--Western "At downtown San Francisco."
Everyone feels a chill, looking around to see if a door or
window is open, remembering the scene. Too close to home.
--Elliot "And it's empty. Completely, deathly empty and
silent."
--Valle "Because everyone's dead."
--Elliot "They dropped the bomb."

--Janet "They let the one guy leave."
--Western "The one who was born there."
--Elliot "Because they know they're all going to die."
--Valle "It's inevitable."
--Western "So he might as well die at home."
--Elliot "That's the kind of numbing reality I want.
People have got to realize they're going to die." Stops for a
moment. Let's it sink in. "I want people to panic. Then I want
them angry. Then I want them committed."


CONTINUATION OF THE SCENARIO DESIGNED BY THE INSTITUTE. IT MAY BE
DESIGNED AS STORYBOARD OR COMIC BOOK PANELS.
SCENARIO OUTLINE:
CHAPTER 1:
CHAPTER TITLE: "AND SO BEGINS THE TASK"
SCENE 1: The Flatlander watches a Havenot stealing water from one of

The League's secure wells.
SCENE 2: We follow The Flatlander across the dusty, barren Flatlands

as he travels home to Watertown. His stream-of-consciousness
interior monologue sets the physical context and historical
background of his journey. It introduces his life, his background,
and his world.
SCENE 3: In town, he goes to see The Mole, who tells him that The
League has drawn up a hit list of water rustlers and is hiring The
Barnestormers to carry out the executions.
SCENE 4: Members of the John Muir Brigade carry out a nocturnal,

amphibious assault on The Operations Control Center of one of the
nine Water Districts.
CHAPTER 2:
CHAPTER TITLE: "THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON"
SCENE 1: The Flatlander visits The Commodore at League headquarters.

They discuss the hit list and The Brigade raid.
SCENE 2: In the street outside, The Flatlander confronts The

Colonel. The Colonel almost taunts him into a gunfight.
SCENE 3: The Commodore and The Colonel visit the lab of Daedalus.
The Commodore orders the scientist to add a new weapon to his
bestiary. He wants an aquatic creature to battle the frogmen of The
Brigade.
SCENE 4: The Flatlander spends the night in the arms of Creole

Tattoo. They talk of The Commodore, the hit list, and how The
Colonel has been abusing some of her hostesses.
SCENE 5: In his AgriChem office, The Commodore and The Colonel watch
The Deacon's 24-hour electronic ministry. The Commodore wants to
know why The Colonel hasn't done anything to rid him of The Rounders.
They hatch a plan to infiltrate and discredit The Rounders, who The
Commodore suspects is collaborating with The Brigade.
SCENE 6: Following the unpleasant meeting with The Commodore, The

Colonel visits Creole's place. He gets wired on drugs and alcohol
and goes looking for a hostess to keep him company.
SCENE 7: Creole secretly meets with The Flatlander. She gives him a
copy of the surveillance videotape of The Colonel shot earlier that
night.
CHAPTER 3:
CHAPTER TITLE: "IN THE REALM OF THE POSSIBLE"
SCENE 1: We watch as The Colonel nonchalantly dresses following his

night with one of the hostesses.
SCENE 2: In his office, The Flatlander reviews the videotape given

to him by Creole. He watches as The Colonel murders the hostess.
SCENE 3: The Flatlander finds The Colonel in a saloon and tries to

arrest him. In the ensuing battle, The Flatlander is shot in the
back by a Barnestormer and killed.
SCENE 4: The Mole watches the previous scene on a monitor. Another

person watches from over his shoulder. We discover it's The
Flatlander. The previous scene was a computer-generated "scenario"
created by The Mole.
SCENE 5: The Puppetmaster and members of The Calafia Institute watch

The Flatlander watch The Colonel.
CHAPTER 4:
CHAPTER TITLE: "DREAM TIGERS"
SCENE 1: The Flatlander visits Creole's Parlor for a surreptitious

attitude adjustment.
SCENE 2: The Institute sends out a "dream weaver" to initiate and

monitor his dreams. The Flatlander begins dreaming. He dreams of
caves, of shadows, of The Commodore, of wide rivers. When he
awakens, he decides to visit Serious Moonlight and have his dreams
interpreted.
SCENE 3: The Flatlander arrives in Boomtown on his way to the

Shaman. The town is tense because of the confrontation between The
Holy Modal Rounders, who are trying to save the souls of The Ratz,
and the security force of AgriChem, who are trying to stop them.
SCENE 4: The local sheriff tells The Flatlander that an important

member of AgriChem's upper management team has been murdered by The
Rounders in Watertown. It is the same man who framed The Deacon and
ousted him from AgriChem.
SCENE 5: The Flatlander insists on finishing his journey before

returning. He finds The Shaman, who interprets his dreams. He
is told that The Commodore is his brother and that they will share
the same destiny.
CHAPTER 5:
CHAPTER TITLE: "#1 WITH A BULLET"
SCENE 1: Upon his return, The Flatlander learns from The Mole that
The Colonel and his Barnestormers have begun murdering the people on
the hit list, with the sanction of The League and The Territorial
Chairman.
SCENE 2: The Flatlander begins investigating the murder of the

AgriChem manager. He discovers that although Barnestormers were
ordered by The Colonel to do the killing, The League infiltrators
planted evidence that points directly at The Deacon. The Flatlander
chooses to ignore this and to use this knowledge instead to keep The
Deacon in line.
SCENE 3: Realizing that The Flatlander is stretching the law and

doesn't intend to prosecute The Deacon, The Commodore adds his name
to the hit list.
SCENE 4: The Flatlander travels to River Junction to visit The

Chairman at The Territorial Seat to discuss the vigilante action of
The League. The Chairman tells him not to worry and assures him that
all will be well.
CHAPTER 6:
CHAPTER TITLE: "GUNFIGHT AT THE GATE"
SCENE 1: During his absence, The Muirs kidnap and hang several
Barnestormers for the murder of the Havenot families and a handful of
AgriChem managers for their misuse of natural resources and the abuse
of Mother Earth.
SCENE 2: Seeking revenge, The Colonel challenges them and their

leader to a mob duel. The Muirs accept and agree to meet at mid-span
of the Golden Gate Bridge to do battle to the death. The Muirs lose.
SCENE 3: In the ensuing battle, The Muirs lose. The leader of the
Muirs is wounded in a duel with The Colonel.
SCENE 4: The leader of The Muirs escapes. Returning to water, we

discover that Creole Tattoo is the leader of The Muirs.
CHAPTER 7:
CHAPTER TITLE: "IN THE NAME OF LOVE"
SCENE 1: In dire need of an attitude fix, The Colonel goes to

Creole's. Following a monster hit from the "Dial-A-Mood" machine, he
begins making rounds of the house looking for Creole. Finding her,
he notices that she's wearing a sling and bandage that looks very new
and very much like something that would be covering a wound similar
to that inflicted on the leader of
The Muirs.
SCENE 2: He forces her into revealing her true identity. Enraged,

he drags her to her room where he rapes her then beats her senseless.
He leaves her unconscious and, he thinks, dead.
SCENE 3: The Flatlander, just back from River Junction, finds her
bleeding and dying. Before she dies in his arms, she admits to being
leader of The Muirs and whispers the name of her murderer: The
Colonel.
CHAPTER 8:
CHAPTER TITLE: "PROMISES IN THE DARK"
SCENE 1: Seeking revenge, The Flatlander begins his return journey.
SCENE 2: Enlisting the aid of The Mole People, The Rounders, and
some Havenots, he begins preparations for the final battle. He plans
to storm The Center and take it away from The League. If necessary,
he will destroy it.
CHAPTER 9:
CHAPTER TITLE: "THE FINAL COUNTDOWN"
SCENE 1: The Flatlander and his motley crew storm The Center.
SCENE 2: The Flatlander and The Colonel engage in a duel to the

death. The Flatlander wins.
SCENE 3: The Flatlander storms the barricaded office of The

Commodore. Face-to-face, he tells him they are brothers.
CHAPTER 10:
CHAPTER TITLE: "CRISTO REDENTOR"
SCENE 1: Resolution, triumph, and reward. The Commodore, unable to

face failure and the fact that he nearly murdered his brother,
commits suicide by drowning himself.
SCENE 2: Daedalus escapes underground.

SCENE 3: The Barnestormers are jailed or dispersed.
SCENE 4: The Mole People, The Rounders, The Havenots, and The
Barons, with the assistance of The Mole and The Flatlander, begin to
establish a new order.
SCENE 5: The Puppetmaster and The Institute look on in bemused

wonder.
BREAK POINT IN SCENARIO
Inside the office, the monitors are flickering, casting
silver-blue shadows on the walls. An electronic fireplace.
Playing on one is the "CBS Evening News." On another is CNN.
The third is almost too dark to see anything.
"Where was this shot?," Borba asks.
"Near Mendota."
"Night scope?"
"Yes."
As we get closer, we can vaguely make out a shape. A human

silhouette. It raises its arm and strikes. A second figure,
carrying a gun, falls.
"Any idea who it is?"

"We think it's one of the Vietnamese migrant workers living
near Masterson."
"Why's he stealing water?"
"The well on his land is poisoned with selenium."
"So he's stealing it?"
"He's not the first."
"He won't be the last." Borba reaches for the remote and
turns off the reality. The image collapses into a white hole
then slowly fades out.

CHAPTER 22
We're not afraid to run.

We're not afraid to die.
So, come on wheels, take me home today.
Come on wheels, take this boy away.
Come on wheels, take this boy away.
-- Chris Hillman & Gram Parsons, "Wheels"
The request was more than a surprise. It was a shock. An
aide to Congressman John Anthony Borba had just phoned to make an
appointment to meet with Elliot. They had agreed to breakfast at
the Mark Hopkins.
Entering the suite, both men had to smile at the amount of
back-up each carried. Santiago and an aide backed Borba, Western
and Walsh flanked Elliot. Forever entrapped in his analogies,
Elliot must have felt like Burt Lancaster playing Wyatt Earp at
the OK Corral.
Following coffee and cordialities, Borba wasted little time
getting to his agenda. It was obvious he was here to assess his
adversary.
"I know about your project. Probably more than you
realize."
Unprepared for, then angered by, the presumption of the
question, Elliot, tensing for the fight, tried to casually mask
it. "Seems you're aware of everything that happens in this
state."
"I try to be. It's part of my job."
Elliot surveyed the room and smelled the tension. "Is part
of your job trying to intimidate me?"
"You realize that I represent a very large and influential

constituency? One that is very concerned about what you've
uncovered doing your so-called 'investigative reporting,' as well
as what you intend to say and how you intend to say it."
"I don't really think it's any of your business. Or
theirs."
"It affects their business, so I guess it is. Besides, they
think maybe you don't know what you're talking about. That you
don't really know what's going on."
"And what's really going on is what you say is going on."
"They feel, and so do I, that by looking at the situation
from the outside, without an understanding of the internal
dynamics--the way things really work--that you may go for the
largest common denominator. As anyone in your business would do.
To reach the most people with the simplest message."
"You underestimate my skills and you insult my audience."
"The bottom line here, Lincoln, is we're afraid you might
draw some conclusions that are unfounded, misleading, and
damaging."
"And I suppose you intend to help me understand the
situation better and draw the right conclusions?"
"Let's just say we can help you with your perspective."
Elliot had reached the end of the line. "Look, don't be
throwing your power in my face. I know who you are and what
you're capable of. The same for your constituency."
"We have nothing to hide."
"They say a clear conscience is nothing more than bad
memory."
"And what if your program doesn't reach your audience? What
if the word doesn't get out?"
The veiled implication was very obvious. Everyone in the
room sensed it. The color disappeared from Elliot's face, as if
someone had turned the hourglass over and all the sand had
drained away. He grasped the arms of the chair with his shaking
hands as he leaned toward the congressman's face. "You're not
going to stop me. I believe in what I'm doing. I believe in the
intelligence of my audience. I believe in my films. Their
integrity and my own. This program will have an impact or I
wouldn't be doing it."
"Should I consider this a threat?"
"Consider it anything you want. I won't let anything, or
anyone, get in my way once I get started. I finish what I start,
no matter what."
Borba leaned in, going face-to-face, and snarled. "No
matter what?"
"Now who's threatening?"
After seeing Elliot to his car, Pat and I stopped off at the
Eagle Cafe after the meeting. We needed something to slow the
adrenalin. The showdown had frayed my nerves a little.
"That was amazing."
"Why?"
"He's usually no good at that kind of thing."
"What?"
"Confrontation. He really hates it. It's like having to

fire someone."
"'Can't hit a moving target?' Seems like he handled it
pretty well to me."
Nods agreement. "He's lousy at that stuff for a reason.
He's shy and insecure and just a bit of a coward."
"He does the walkin' and his movies do the talkin'?"
Nods again. "I think we've reached a turning point. It
could get real strange and ugly from here on out."
"I guess he doesn't like being challenged?"
"No, and especially not by people like that."
"Like that, what?"
"Men in charge. Men in power. Men in control. Have you
ever seen that button behind his desk? The blue one with the
white letters?"
"I think so. But I don't really remember what it says.
Guess I never looked at it that closely."
"He's had as long as I've known him. Jane says he's
probably had it since high school."

"So what does it say?"
"Two words. Just two simple words."
"Well?"
"'Question Authority'. Elliot may be easy. Even a little
naive. But he has a strength he's never really drawn upon. He
has his own code that he lives by. His own set of values. And
he can be ruthless in their defense. It's his vision of what's
right with the world. It can't be changed. He won't let it be
corrupted or denied. That's why he's been so successful."

"Like a pit bull. Locks its jaws so tight you have to kill
it before it'll let go?"
"Something like that."
"Sounds a little like frontier justice."
"That's his code. It's in every one of his movies. He's
real easy until you cross him, or piss him off."
"Holds a grudge, does he?"
"To the grave."
Driving home across the Golden Gate, Elliot, calmed by the
bay, thought about Borba; how they were so different, yet so
alike. Elliot, like the rest of the young men born in the early
forties, had been prepared to defend his country. Vietnam was
still a brush fire, and no one was yet questioning our presence
there when he went in for his induction physical. He figured, if
he had to go, he'd serve in the Signal Corps as a communications
man, shooting training films, or recon, for the army. Then
they told him he had diabetes. He was 4F. The temporary

interruption, the mental plans, the preparations to do battle,
were over and he got back to his life.
He had that in common with Borba. Probably the only thing.
Borba's epilepsy had kept him out of the service and would
probably keep him from becoming governor or President; ambitions
he certainly had. That was the bond; of men whose lives had been
changed because a genetic code had gone awry. And there wasn't
anything they could do but try to control it and live their lives
around it. It would never be cured. It would never go away.

What their diseases did for both of them was constantly, daily,
remind them of their mortality. For Borba, it became an edge.
For Elliot, a destiny.
There was another connection; the two joined at the hip by
adolescent misfortune. Elliot, too, had died in a previous life.
He survived the wreck on that summer's afternoon, but the old
Elliot died in the debris. Unlike Borba, Elliot's brush with
death had made him more compassionate, more introspective. He
had chosen to dedicate his life to the positive aspects of
humanity, not their dark side.
The lines had been drawn, the gauntlet thrown. Elliot now
had a much clearer idea of who he was up against. And it was a
pretty powerful alliance. Water contractors like Westlands,
agrichemical companies like OxyGene, factory farms like DiGiulio
and the Marriposa Combine, legal corporations like Delancy &
Reed, and politicians like John Anthony Borba. They were
influential enough to keep the water cheap and flowing. Their

lobbying, litigating, and contributions to campaign and PAC war
chests kept loopholes open and official eyes closed. State
government, the governor, and the legislature--the entire
bureaucracy--just couldn't say no to the money. The water just
got dirtier and more deadly. And it was all beginning to really
stink. It was money and power against ethics and environment.
It was life and death. And everything was fair, even acts of
sabotage and espionage. They were going to fight dirty and they
were going to take it all the way to the end, no matter who got
hurt in the process.
Beware of what you wish for in youth for you will surely
achieve it in middle age.
-- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Why do birds sing so gay,

And lovers await the break of day?
Why do they fall in love?
Why does the rain fall from above?
Why do fools fall in love?

Love is a losing game,

Love can be a shame;
I know of a fool you see,
For that fool is me.
Tell me why?
Tell me why?
Why do fools fall in love?
--Frankie Lymon & Morris Levy, "Why Do Fools Fall in Love?"
It had been a killer day. The uneasiness clung; the stress
sweating through my shirt. And I was too exhausted to think
about it anymore. Pat had sense enough to go home. I didn't.
So I stayed at the Eagle for another drink. Or two. It was
avoidance time. Of all forms of reality.
It was at times like these--and during those all-night edit
sessions--when I realized that Sandy had become a video widow.
It was like being the wife of a rock-n-roller. The hours were
always too long, you were never in control of your own destiny,
and she could never go out on the road with you. Someone else
was always pulling the strings. So you could never really make
plans. Because somebody, usually the one with the money, would
invariably change things. She accepted it, but didn't understand
it. And no amount of explaining ever seemed to satisfy her. It
was one of the reasons she finally started looking around. For
something, or someone, that might be a little more dependable, a
little more available. Someone who would just be there.
And it was at times like these, as I ordered the fourth
drink beyond the two I figured I'd have, that I realize I have a
drinking problem. It's part of our family tradition. Just like
Hank's. My Mother died because of it. A few of her sisters and
brothers died alcoholics. My Dad likes his cocktails. And I'm
hopelessly addicted. I know that now because it's easier to have
a drink and deny there's a problem. It's more enjoyable to be a
little addled than it is to face the world stone sober. I
realize now what a drug alcohol really is. And I realize how
difficult it is to quit. Especially since there's so much
pressure, from colleagues and friends, to have a few drinks.
There are simply too few social situations anymore where you
aren't expected, or given the opportunity, to drink. So I ignore

the problem and have another.
When I confessed to it one weekend at Gover's, he and Walsh
laughed. It became the theme for the weekend, like the "Rock
Hudson Memorial Weekend" and the "Pick Ax in the Door Weekend."
Every time the conversation would stall, or the fun would stop,
everyone would toast my drinking problem. Needless to say, the
rest of my friends had a problem, too.
I'm not sure how I got home that evening. My eyes were
open, but I was driving blind. The day and the drinks had
exacted their tribute. She was waiting. It was time to talk. I
should have known better. Alcohol made me more honest--and
belligerent--than either of us really liked. We couldn't stand
the heat and light it could sometimes generate.
We both went through the preparation ritual, fixing drinks,
lighting a cigarette, going to the bathroom, turning on the
answering machine. We didn't want any interruptions.
The alcohol kicked me into gear. "Marriages break up
because people stop communicating. So, let's communicate. Let's
have a conversation."
She's defensive but she knows it's past time.
"Where do you want to start?"
No response so I'll have to initiate.
"What about what's right with our marriage, our
relationship?"
She picks up an edge of the magazine lying between us.
"I guess I'll start, then. I think one of the best things
we've got going is that we're friends. We get along. We seem to

enjoy each other's company. We like the same things."
She looks out at the pine trees.
"Besides, we've built a good life together. There's a lot
of good memories here, things to cherish. But memories can't
sustain a relationship."
Her eyes shift to the floor.
"You know, we don't know how to tell each other when we're
dissatisfied. Have you ever thought about that? We're both
afraid to express negative feelings. We're both

non-confrontational. It's easier to create this monster in our
own mind and then react to it than it is to deal with it. It's
easier to justify having an affair or leaving because, in our
minds, we believe the other person no longer cares for us, or has
already given up on the marriage."
She takes a short sip from her drink.
"Instead of wasting energy on these mind games, we should be
talking. I think there's real truth to the statement that we
choose things by letting them happen. It's much easier to be a
fatalist, to say it's meant to be, instead of looking at why's
it's happening and trying to stop it. Or at least looking
closely at whether we want to stop it or not."
She lights yet another cigarette and begins toying with her
lighter.
"What else? When I don't want to do something, don't
harangue me. Talk me into it. Don't stop talking. I mean, you
talk about me getting my way, but whenever I don't jump at
something you want to do, you put on 'that face' and you stop
talking. You know what face. The stone face. The angry face."
She's wearing it now.
"I think we bicker too much. Like your parents. You act
just like your Mom when you get angry. You shut down. You make
'smart-ass' comments. And then you say you don't know what I'm
talking about when I call you on it."
She's doing it now.
"I think we view people differently. We act on things
differently. I trust them, you don't. I give them the benefit

of the doubt. You're too negative sometimes. Too critical. No,
that doesn't mean I don't care for you and respect your opinion.
I have to deal with my friends my way, like I have to do with all
the others you've grown to dislike or distrust. Yes, I know
that when we got married, you inherited all my friends, whether
you wanted them or not. And I made the mistake of assuming,
because I got along so well with you and that these people were
close friends, other people I really liked, I thought you'd get
to know them, too. Problem is they're my friends, not yours.
And I can't expect you to like them or even want to see them.
It's taken me a long time to realize that, but I do now."
She turns on a light because it's getting dark.
"I guess I want to live my own life. I want to be able to
do what I want to do without reporting to someone. I know that
sounds selfish. And I know you think I always get my way. Maybe
I do. But that's because I go after it. Because I know what I
want and can make a decision. Maybe I'm just more independent
than you are. I don't rely on you totally for support and
sustenance. I know you're getting better at it. But I can't
always be stopping to think if what I'm doing is better for you
or someone else. I'm just not wired that way. I'm going to look
out for myself. Maybe that comes from being raised in a family
of five with no money. You get what you can for yourself and you
hoard it, because there may not be anymore for a while."
Now I take a long drink from my beer. Because I'm dry and
on a roll. "You complain too much about things you can't
control, like eating and drinking too much, your weight, how old
you're getting, how many wrinkles you've got. People who are old
were born old. It's an attitude. It's got nothing to do with
wrinkles. All you're doing is stressing yourself out. You push
yourself too hard. You can't seem to relax anymore. I mean
that's why we went to Hawaii. Remember?"
I'm sure she's thinking about Hawaii. About how well we got
along then. For a while.
"And yet you fell back into the old routine. You still
worry too much about money. I know we wouldn't be in the
good financial shape we're in today if you didn't. No, I do
appreciate it. But you can share your concerns with me. You
really can't do anything about money or getting older, so just
lighten up a bit. I mean, you don't even laugh anymore. I think
you've lost your sense of humor and your sense of perspective.
Don't forget, those were part of our marriage vows. Right. I
never let you forget."
She shifts in her chair, getting defensive.
"Damn it, I am being supportive. I'm being so supportive we

don't do anything together any more. You don't like Mexican
food, so I go alone. You don't like my friends, so I visit them
alone. You don't like Ralston, my parents or the rest of the
family, so I go alone. You don't like going to movies, so I go
alone. We even have sex alone."
That one catches her off-guard.
"You remember when we had the big blow-out with my Father?
They gave us a list of your so-called 'crimes.' Every one was
pretty petty. I know it hurt you worse than anything. But I'm
just trying to tell you that the crimes you accuse me of are just
as petty. No, there isn't a difference because you're hurting
me, too."
She adjusts her hair before bringing up the main issue.
"Yes, our sex life sucks. But I just have a different sex
drive than you do. And I'm not gay. I'm not abnormal. I really
hate it when you say that. I'm offended by it. I just don't
have the same interest as you do. Did you know that over 60% of
America's marriages are sexless? No, that doesn't make it okay
for us then. I'm just pointing out a fact. Contrary to what you
may think, I'm comfortable with my sexuality. And I know this'll
hurt, but I really enjoyed sex before we got married. Even up to
a point in our own relationship. Then it got bad and it's been
no fun since. I think you should have fun when you make love.
It should be enjoyable because you're sharing something special
with someone special. But it hasn't been that way for us for a
long while. No, it's not because you're getting old. And it's
not because you're not attractive. I still find you very

desirable. Until I start to think of how every time we make love
it becomes a marathon and a bed of nails, a mine field. Then I
panic and can't get it up."
I can see the lines of panic spreading around her eyes.
"And you're no help, because no matter how hard we both try,
you just get angry. I don't want to have to perform in the
bedroom when I perform all day at work. You know, 'quickies' are
nice, too. Maybe they just seem that way because the longer we
wait, the more time that passes between our lovemaking, the
harder it is to make it casual. It takes on a greater
significance than it deserves. Sure it hurts. If I can't get
excited and stay excited, it's not something about you that's
causing it. It's not something you're doing or not doing.
That's your low self-image talking again. You need to have
confidence in yourself and your attractiveness. And that's got
to come from you. Not because you think I don't find you
desirable enough to make love to?"
She keeps shaking her head.
"I also need reinforcement of my attractiveness. I
fantasize. I'd like to see if I could attract someone. Try
something new. Fall in love and be loved. No, I'm not looking
any more than you are. Maybe I can't make love without being
drunk or stoned. Sure, that's the way it started. I was always
too nervous, so I got fucked up. That made it easier. Of
course, it also made me associate the two. I couldn't do one
without the other. In fact, if you remember, on our first date I
was so drunk I couldn't get it up at all. Maybe that was a

sign."
She laughs sharply.
"Maybe my problem is that I like making love to strangers.
Something new, unusual, exciting. I can't seem to make love to
friends, to someone I respect and care about. I still look at it
as an act of violation. It's like hurting the one you love. I
don't like that. And I'll tell you something else. As sexually
liberated as I may be, I do like to play the dominant role. I
like to control the lovemaking. That's probably why I don't like

you on top. I'm not in control. This may sound contradictory,
but I shouldn't always have to initiate. You could start it once
in a while. Entice me into bed. That would be nice."
An embarrassed shrug.
"One of the biggest problems, and it's the one that'll never
go away and will probably break us up, is the fact you hate
Ralston, while I seem to still have a fascination for it. We'll
probably never resolve that one. I think it's like my friends.
Even though you were raised there, it's like you inherited it all
over again when you married me. So, like my friends, I accept
your attitude, like you must accept mine, and I will get my
Ralston fix when and how I can without you. I'm not saying I
want to move back. Have you ever thought that moving to Ralston
might get rid of a big problem? The disagreements and resentment
attached to it? Why can't you try it? Isn't the relationship
worth it? Haven't we tried every place in between?"
She just rolls her eyes and shakes her head, hearing the
same arguments yet again.

"I think you're jealous of my family and friends. That I
have as many as I do and that I get along with them as well as I
do. You really don't have either. You really don't like your
parents. You tolerate your sister. And you've got about three
really close friends. I'm sorry if that's true, but I can't do
anything about it. I miss my friends. I miss that sense of
community, that sense of 'connectedness' to a place I know and
people I care about. I have friends and a family I like, some as
much as you, and they like me. But I can share my affection. It
doesn't mean there's not a place for you in my life. Don't make
me to choose one over the other. You certainly have put me in
that position before. What you're forcing me to do is choose
between a place and a person. No, it's NOT a state of mind.
It's a very real place with very real people. But as far as
you're concerned, it's gotta be either or, one or the other. And
that's not fair at all."
She leans back into the couch, staring into the fireplace.
"I think there's a 'sleaze' factor creeping into your life.
And I'm not sure it wasn't there before we met. I'm sorry, but
you wanted to hear what was wrong so I'm telling you. I don't
like it when you stay out late. I really hate it when you go to
the Miramar. I realize you just want to have some fun. And I
know you're looking for reinforcement of your attractiveness.
But I think you're hanging out with those losers to feel needed.
Because you think I don't need you. That I can survive on my
own. Well I can't. I want you here, at home, with me, with the
things we share. You shouldn't have to hit the bars. If you do,
something is wrong. And if we can't change it, it's gone. Sure,
it's boring sitting at home watching TV. You'd rather be out.
But what's so wrong with spending some time with me? And you
know I don't like hanging out in bars. I like my home. Sure, we
may be watching TV, but at least we're in the same room for a
change."
She takes a furious drag, exhaling very, very slowly.
"Part of what I don't like about it is that you're drinking
too much. I think it's avoidance. You're not alone there. We

both drink too much and for all the wrong reasons. It's easier
to have a few and go into neutral instead of worrying about the
fact that life's slipping by, that you're not doing what you want
to do, or any number of other things. That's part of the
problem, too. I think there's more emphasis in our life on
quantity not quality, on doing not being. We spend more time
doing some things than being some things."
She agrees.
"What do I want to do? I don't know. Look, I get hurt,
angry and disappointed. But I'm not ready to chuck it. I care
about you and I'd like to think we could make it work. People
make mistakes. People admit mistakes. People forgive mistakes.
Sure I should have thought of that before. I just want to make
sure when, and if, I do leave, it's for the right reasons. That
we've done everything we could and that I'm not making a mistake,
something I'll regret. Maybe I have already made my decision. I
don't think you should stay with me because I'm safe and
convenient. That doesn't do either one of us any good. Stay

because you want to, because you care about me and respect who I
am. You have to decide if you want to be a part of my life, of
this life, or not. If you do, you have to fight for it."
Her body flinches as it continues to take the body blows.
"You know, sometimes I wonder why you seem to dislike and
disrespect me so much. I don't drink. I don't beat you up. I
don't cheat on you. I don't steal money. Am I just too fucking
nice? You've called me 'The Saint' before? Is that how you see
me? That I can do no wrong? You said it. I've gotta live it.
No, I'd like to know. Do you really respect me? I think that's
important, especially as a marriage gets older, more settled into
routine. Without respect, there's no love. Without love there's
no sex. It's just fucking. I'm sure you'd be glad to have that
right now. Maybe you have already."
That get's a response. These are the jibes that try our
patience.
"I trusted you and how did you repay me? With abuse. With
fucking around. What I am supposed to think and do? I'm sure
you figure I'll just sit and wait. That I'll just keep taking
it. And when I get fed up, I'll leave. But that's fine, because
you think I want to leave anyway and go back to Ralston. Then
you can't blame yourself. It won't have been your fault."
She drains the last of her drink.
"Once I thought I knew you. But I guess you really don't
know someone, because the more we talk, the more you tell me, the
more I think I know you better now than when we got married, the
more I realize I really don't know who you are or what you want."
Her lower lip starts to tremble.
"Look, if you're really my friend, you'd know where the
boundaries are. Don't expect any more or less of me because I
can't give it. It's inconsiderate of you to expect it. You'll
find that just about everyone else in this world is a lot less
forgiving and a lot harder than I am. And I really hope you
don't discover that too late."
The tears are beginning.
"All I'm trying to do is live my life the best way I know

how. I can't live yours. I'm not selfish. I'm not evil. I'm
not uncaring. There are no secret plans. I'm just a kid trying
to get through this life without too many scars on his knees."
Suddenly, it's done. We're staring at strangers. They say
truth has very few friends and those few are suicides. We are
obstinate in our silence, unbending in our ridiculous refusal to
embrace the other; to hold them and tell them that we care. She
decides she can't stand the sound of the silence any more. She
leaves the room. I know she's gone to bed. To her emotional
refuge. I pick up the remote and turn on the television. Then I
put it to my temple and commit electronic seppuku.
Met my old lover in the

grocery store
The snow was falling Christmas Eve
I stole behind her in the
frozen foods
And I touched her on the sleeve
She didn't recognize the

face at first
But then her eyes flew
open wide
She went to hug me and she
spilled her purse
And we laughed until we cried
We took her groceries to the

checkout stand
The food was totaled up and
bagged
We stood there lost in our
embarrassment
As the conversation dragged
We went to have ourselves

a drink or two
But couldn't find an open bar
We bought a six-pack at
the liquor store

And we drank it in her car
We drank a toast to
innocence
We drank a toast to now
And tried to reach beyond
the emptiness
But neither one knew how
She said she'd married herself

an architect
Who kept her warm and safe
and dry
She would have liked to say she
loved the man
But she didn't like to lie
I said the years had been a

friend to her
And that her eyes were still
as blue
But in those eyes I wasn't
sure if I saw
Doubt or gratitude
She said she saw me in the

record stores
And that I must be doing well
I said the audience was
heavenly
But the traveling was hell
We drank a toast to innocence

We drank a toast to now
And tried to reach beyond the
emptiness
But neither one knew how
We drank a toast to innocence

We drank a toast to time
Reliving in our eloquence
Another 'auld lang syne' ...
The beer was empty and our

tongues were tired
And running out of things to say
She gave a kiss to me as I got out
And I watched her drive away
Just for a moment I was

back in school
And felt that old familiar pain
And as I turned to make
my way back home
The snow turned into rain.
-- Dan Fogelberg, "Same Old Lang Syne"
ALTA CALIFORNIA
---------------------------------------------------------------
WATER HEARINGS BEGIN
The fate of fresh water to be determined.
OF THE RECORD STAFF
"Riparian rights" became the phrase of the week as hearings

opened today on the issue of water in California. The state
began its investigation into its use, distribution, management,
and quality.
"Riparian rights": Anyone who owns the land running along a
stream has a right to use the water from that stream any way they
want. They can fish it, divert it for irrigation, or do nothing
with it. As long as what they do doesn't conflict with the
rights of others downstream.
The subject is critical because the state is reviewing the
sources that supply water for drinking and agriculture.
The list of participants includes officials from local,
state, and federal agencies; associations representing water
suppliers and users; reporters, experts, consultants, and, of
course, a league of lawyers.
The hearings are expected to continue over a three-year
period. It is anticipated that the findings will then form the
basis for new salinity, pollution and water rights policies.
It is very obvious from their opening remarks that the
opposing groups do not agree with the findings and evidence
presented by the other.
There are many points--some critical--that are simply
conflicting or downright contradictory. Which only proves, once
again, that when searching for, and compiling facts and
evidence--especially in science--one can invariably find what
one is looking for.
The opposing sides are well-defined and have been since the
first rivers and creeks were claimed and diverted to irrigate
fields back in the late 19th Century.
On one side are the water suppliers, like the state
agencies and associations of water contractors, and the
water-users, the factory farms, and municipalities, like Los
Angeles, who have something to gain, like water and more water.
On the other side are the scientists, the

environmentalists, and the municipalities, like San Francisco,
who have something to lose, like good water and unpolluted bays.
And in between are the local, state, and federal agencies
who get their money and power from one side, but whose charter
and stated goals predispose them toward supporting the other,
like the Department of Water Resources and the Fish and Wildlife
Services, both state and federal.
And each side sees the issues very differently, sometimes
even among themselves.
One key issue moved to the forefront immediately and it
became obvious that it would likely be critical throughout the
hearings.
Not since the very first water rights were originally
determined has there been such a definite threat to water rights
holders, even those with riparian rights and appropriations
granted before 1914. They face nothing less than radical changes
and, possibly, loss of their rights to divert and use water.
So it will not take long for them to muster the political
and monetary forces necessary to avoid, or minimize, potential
losses.
The looming battle reminds me of the book "The Octopus": a
novel by Frank Norris about the war between farmers and ranchers
in early California. Instead of wheat, the two sides today are
line up over water. "The Octopus" was originally intended to be
written as a trilogy. Drought. Water. Flood. It did drought.
We were living water. Who would do the flood?
This anecdote says much to me about the attitude of those
now controlling the water out here. In Reno, gambling and
prostitution are legal. For years, one thing wasn't. Water
metering.
CHAPTER 23
Night and morning are making promises to each other which

neither will be able to keep.
-- Richard Shelton
We were all grateful for the well-insulted walls of The Ice
Plant, and at least the illusion of coolness, while the sun
fried anything that moved outside. Elliot had made the run down
the valley to see his parents and to update the rest of the
production team about the meeting with Borba.
Everyone was there who wasn't on the road. He gave us
all a quick report before cautioning us that it was time to take
a few precautions; at work and at home. He said he had strong
reservations about reaching into our personal lives, but
explained that these were unusual times. He didn't want the
project jeopardized because one of his people--especially any of
the key staffers--were partying on the wrong side of the law
during their off-hours. He didn't want anybody rung up on
charges of possession, DUI, or anything. After the meeting he'd
just had, he was sure these people were not above crippling the
project any way they could. So he asked that we all keep our
personal lives clean and just be careful out there.
Devereaux, Walsh, and I wanted to talk with Elliot so we
waited until the room had cleared.
--Western "We've been talking with some of the direct
action groups. 'The Sea Shepherds,' 'Earth First,' and 'The John
Muir Brigade.'
--Elliot "I don't think I know them. Are they

monkey-wrenchers?"
--Walsh "Some of the first. They are deep ecology's
army."
--Devereaux "Their goal is, and these are their words, 'to
subvert the dominant paradigm' through direct confrontation,
passive resistance, and vandalism."
--Western "They started by tearing down billboards, pulling
up survey markers, clipping fences, lying down in front of
bulldozers, and spiking trees so they can't be harvested for
lumber."
--Elliot "Hasn't that been happening a lot lately to
Georgia-Pacific?"
--Devereaux "Yes. The Sea Shepherds are their navy. They
sank part of Iceland's whaling fleet."
--Walsh "Now that they've had some degree of success and
media attention, they'll probably become more visible and more
confrontational."
--Elliot "And more influential?"

--Western "The John Muir Brigade is the most militant of
these Eco-Revolutionnaires. It's likely they'll be the first to
really escalate this scattered ecological terrorism into a
full-scale environmental guerilla war."
--Elliot "That means attracting more media."
--Devereaux "And that means more supporters."
--Elliot "Can they help us?"
--Western "If we want to showcase romantic revolutionaries.
They're the closest thing this generation's got to the Yippies

and Weathermen of the Sixties. It just might give our show
another dimension. Idealists fighting insurmountable odds.
Jeeps and bows and arrows against helicopters and semi-automatic
weapons."
--Walsh "David and Goliath."
--Elliot "It would be emotional and it could be very
effective. Would they cooperate?"
--Devereaux "Hard to say."
--Elliot "Can they hurt us?"
--Western "Even harder to tell."
--Elliot "Can you meet with them? I'd like to see if there's
any common ground."
Well, she's fashionably lean

And she's fashionably late
She'll never rake a scene
She'll never break a date
But she's no drag

Just watch the way she walks
She's a Twentieth Century Fox
She's the queen of cool

And she's the lady who waits
Since her mind left school
She never hesitates
She won't waste time on elementary talk
-- The Doors, "Twentieth Century Fox"
I wasn't prepared for what I encountered. I don't mean the
location, which was in an old Wells Fargo way station in San
Andreas, but their leader. As we talked, I found it difficult to
separate her reality from my fantasy. I kept phasing in and out.

Faysoux Starling is Duchamp-angular descending a staircase.
Her eyes are hypnotic. (Bewitching, violet cat's eyes. Hooded,
heavy-lidded arrogant angry eyes.)
Her mouth is large. (A gaping bloody wound of vermilion
lips and lizard tongue held in a sneer.) Her teeth are seamless,
without blemish or break or crack. They look like one continuous
comic-book perfect denture. She never smiles, only sneers.
Her hair is jet black. Maybe blue-black. Dyed I'm sure
because it is more lethal. It is razor short, running parallel
with the straight edge of her jaw. The bangs hang long, below
the brows and into her eyes. (She could tease you from behind
them, peeking out seductively sideways or parting them and boring
straight into your eyes, smoldering with anger or passionate
heat.) If you didn't look away you could be caught in her
widow's web, hypnotized by the unwavering steady stare.
She is not tall. (She doesn't walk, she prowls, slinking
along walls, feeling the walls with her hands and shoulders.)
Her arms and legs are slender, faultless, pleasant. (She

can stride, she can strut, she can slit you in two.)
Her skin is translucent alabaster opalescence. She never
goes out in the sun. And when she does, she wears long black
gloves and carries an umbrella. (She has razor edges to her body
you want to be cut by, to lie bleeding there, to die. Her
breasts are small; the breasts of a Catholic schoolgirl, enticing
in their innocence. Excited, her nipples will slowly rise in
anticipation, upward turning, stretching, and straining their
pointed urgency piercing your bare chest.)

Her finger-nails are scarlet claws she loves to slowly draw
against her forehead, drawing long, straight bangs out of her
eyes. (Or slice along the inside of your thigh, tickling with
pain, in anticipation. She is dangerous. And her men like that.
How does the song go? "If you like it now, you'll learn to love
it later.")
She wears black; a clinging second-skin mini-skirts over
leotards, black nylons, and patent leather shoes with ankle
wraps. (An apache dancer. A leotardess leaning forward on
elbows enticing with ass stuck high in the air. A black siamese
cat in heat. Perhaps she becomes one at night. A cat, I mean.
A panther. Stalking the streets at midnight murdering
unsuspecting sweat-scented sailors, then slipping back into your
bed without a sound.)
Did I say she is French? Deliciously, tantalizingly so.
Cajun, I think. (The accent, the way she tongues the words could
melt the silver on a rodeo rider's buckle.) There is no humor
here. Only business.

"We named The Brigade for John Muir. He is our spiritual
leader. He is the father of our movement. The father of
environmental activism. We do not all agree on the legacy he
left us. We do agree on what he began."
"Who are we?"
"Our movement ranges from conservative groups like the
Sierra Club to radicals like 'Earth First!'."
"'No compromise in the defense of Mother Earth!'"
"You know of them."

"I've done some reading. Where do you fit in?"
"It will be hard to believe, perhaps. We are more militant
than 'Earth First!'."
"Why can't you let the Sierra Club and some of the other
mainstream groups lead the battle? You realize that violence is
going to compromise your effort?"
"They became soft. They became what they beheld. They
became what they once fought. They fight brush fires. They
react. They no longer act."
"How are you and 'Earth First!' different from the Sierra
Club or the Environmental Defense Fund?"
"We have rejected science and technology. We have abandoned
rationalism for a love of nature. We accept the aesthetic, not
the material. We allow Nature to exist for its own sake."
"Sounds semi-religious."
"Perhaps it is. We are all connected. To understand
Nature, you must be a part of it. It can only be found in the
wilderness, not in science books."

"Where do you find your people? Where do they come from?"
"Many are college students. Disillusioned with the system.
Many more were recruited from the ranks of the California
Conservation Corps. For them, the damage was personal. They
lived it every day as they worked in the national parks. We also
have members of the Peace Corps. They have also witnessed the
crimes of corporate America across our borders."
"Who else?"
"Our compadres from 'La Raza.' Those who tired of peaceful

non-violence. The ones who grew weary of working within the
system. The ones whose heads were bloodied. The ones who breath
the pesticides. The ones whose children may one day have
cancer."
"Do you consider us an ally or an obstacle."
"We have little use for your slow-moving, ineffectual,
pedestrian techniques. We will pursue our own plans in our own
way. If we benefit each other, so be it. But don't count on
it."
"So I guess dinner is out of the question?"
She smiles and the light glints.
It was her business not to compromise the movement. And
she hadn't. But she didn't mind compromising me. I was real
easy, especially then.
We had Chinese, then I followed her back to her small house.
I waited while she parked her car. As she walked toward me, I
could see her inside thigh muscles rippling. Nutcrackers. Her

mini-skirt just covered the minimum. The streetlight shined
brightly between her legs.
It was her ass that moved me. It sashayed, working against
the second skin of her skirt, sending off sparks of static sexual
electricity. It might have been oversized for her body if it
weren't so perfectly shaped and tight. Any man who saw it could
only dream of her before him, down on all fours, that lush and
luscious butt moving in circles, her face turned back and staring
with those eyes glazed over, like a cat's membrane eyes.

Taunting, tempting, teasing, inviting, daring you to enter.
It was hot inside. Very hot. Her skin was sizzling. It
was oppressive. We couldn't breathe through the heat. Her
nakedness wrapped within the loose garment, brushing lightly
against stiffening nipples. Her kimono swayed open slightly, a
glimpse round and soft; the smooth line of a long leg ending in
dark curls. She touched herself where my eyes rested, seductive
and beckoning. Her eyes, heavy-lidded, seeing and not seeing;
her attitude influenced by emotion no longer rational. Her
sweating teeth were bared in orgasmic grin. Dusky, musk-scented,
dangling breasts and swaying hips, moved moistly with the music.
She lay on her back, face turned to the window hoping for a
breeze. I stood over her, legs apart. She shivery-flinched as
the drop plopped on her nipple. I held the ice high above her;
an erotic water torture. Tired, I stooped to lick salted sweat
from behind her knee, inside her elbow, at the back of her neck.
Sweet breath blew warm against my neck and the tide began to
rise.
She sensed pale fruit, scimitar-shaped and slender,
peeled back. She cradled the cactus, watching the smooth purple
crown dilate and stretch and strain. Uncontrolled spittle-speck
at the corners of her mouth, her tongue too stuck to bared teeth
to care. My fingers slid in and out, along and around. The
pressure continued to build. She took a sip of ice water,
filling her mouth with crushed ice. She began slowly sucking.
She filled her mouth with more water. She never took her eyes
off mine.
All I could think of was "psychogenic polydipsia."
Compulsive water drinking. You drank until you died. I hope she
suffered from it.
She was gone the next morning. I was left with the fantasy.
I took her message with me. But I don't remember what she said.
Reality is bad enough. Why should I tell the truth?

-- Patrick Sky
Frank Cunha is a Portuguese rancher. He wears an old brown,
sweat-stained, beat-up Stetson hat. The creases in his
weather-beaten face, across his forehead and around his eyes, are
as deep as the cracked earth. Four generations of his family
have lived on this land. Now he has to leave. You can hear one
of the reasons in the background. The crack of shotgun shells
and whistling explosions. His ranch lies between Masterson and
the San Joaquin River. Bookended between toxic flows. When the
wind blows his way, the stench is overwhelming.
Ambling in his sagging-butt Levi's and brown, rough-out Acme
cowboy boots, he points to where some of the water has percolated
onto his property and into his well. After months of headaches,
upset stomachs, and nausea, he and his wife moved into town.
Most of his horses and cattle died. He doubts he can get
anything for his property now. And the local and state officials
laughed in his face when he asked them about compensation. He
couldn't believe that they would turn their backs on him--a
veteran and a patriot.
There is a family living in a small central valley town who

had eight girls. Not unusual for a good Italian family
scratching out a living. What is unusual is that seven
contracted cancer. Six died. One is in remission from leukemia.
Their father claims there is a cluster of cancer in his town. A
chemical spokesperson said there was no hard scientific data to
support that there are cancer clusters in the valley. The father
suggested that she should go to the hospital and hold the young
girl down when she screams out in pain from the leukemia
treatment. He wants to know what makes her think there's no
reason to suspect cancer when the best scientific minds still
don't know what causes cancer.
County health officials traced them to their home--a
collection of holes dug into the side of a low, rolling hill.
Their youngest, a sixteen-month-old girl was dead. She had
cried. For a long time. They couldn't stop her. They didn't
know why she cried so much. They had no money. They were
migrant workers, once homeless street people, chased from the
city by violence and drugs. They couldn't pay for the doctor, so
they let her cry. Then she was dead. The autopsy later revealed
it was leukemia.
When county public health officials interviewed the family,
they complained of headaches, nausea, and stomach problems.
Asked when the problems started, they thought, looked at one
another, and replied it was pretty soon after they arrived. Had
they eaten any tainted food or water? No, they'd eaten a few
ducks they'd snared from the wildlife refuge downslope. And the
water they drank was from a well on the ranch where he worked
part-time. The foreman allowed him to take home a canvas
bag-full each day.
These three cases are but a few of the many similar cases
in the files of Dr. Donald Lazarus, a physician in Merced County.
He believes without a doubt that the last priority of public
health officials and the government is defining what the public
health consequences are, and will be, of what these agrichemical
companies and corporate combines are doing. He feels there's a
public health problem here that's not being properly defined and
addressed. And compounding the problem is the fact that public
health records are a "Bermuda Triangle"; a black hole of
non-information. Records were never kept on the number and types
of cancers, or their possible causes.
There's a cover-up, he claims, because counties like his
want to attract new and more diversified industry. They can't do
that if word gets out that the water is tainted and children are
dying of cancer. Lazarus tells me how the health officer for the
county recently suggested that he use a little "creativity" in

interpreting his test results so the county could get a clean
bill of health. Lazarus wanted to conduct more tests. The
health official said no, finish the report. Lazarus resigned.
As evidence, he points to a recently published study of
cancer rates in nine central valley counties. Their findings:
no surprises and no answers. Though it's considered "the most
accurate and comprehensive report ever produced on San Joaquin
Valley cancer," the study's director compared it to a "snapshot"
of cancer rates in one year. He mutters that government

officials are using statistics again to camouflage what is really
happening in the valley.
He points out that people are being exposed to toxins in
their food and water, or they're being hit by drifting
pesticides as they play or work. The synergistic, or combined,
effect of all those exposures could very well be deadly. The
problem is, we aren't testing for these kinds of combined
effects, nor do we know even where to begin.
"Pesticides were designed to have an adverse effect on
living, metabolizing organisms."
"In straight talk, they were designed to kill living things,
including humans?"
"Quite right. There are both acute lethal doses and chronic
lethal doses for all chemicals. DDT kills by accumulating in
body fat. Organophosphates--pesticides--can kill almost
immediately, in the proper concentrations, by overloading the
nervous system. Other pesticides, called fumigants, specifically
EDB=Ethylene Dibromide, causes testicular cancer in almost

100% of all cases exposed to it."
"Sterility?"
"Yes."
"How do these chemicals enter the body?"
"Chlorinated hydrocarbons can be absorbed into the body
through the lungs, the gastro-intestinal tract, or the skin."
"So you could even be contaminated while showering?"
"Very definitely. Chlorinated solvents and pesticides can
be absorbed readily through the skin, yet bathing is rarely, if

ever, taken into consideration when levels are set. Since
volatiles evaporate quickly, one fifteen-minute shower can provide as
much chemical to the body as drinking eight glasses of
water. Infants are especially vulnerable."
"Why's that?"
"Fetuses and children are at greatest risk because their
systems are working at full pace while growing and the chemicals
interfere with that process."
"What happens following exposure?"
"Like I said before, when absorbed into the body, some of
the chlorinated hydrocarbons are not metabolized rapidly, but are
stored in the fat."
"What are the symptoms of poisoning?"
"Regardless of type or route of exposure, the symptoms are
similar, but vary in severity. Mild cases are characterized by
headache, dizziness, gastro-intestinal disturbances, numbness,
and weakness of the extremities, apprehension, and
hyperirritability."
"What about more severe cases?"
"Muscular fasciculations spreading from the head to the
extremities, followed eventually by spasms involving whole muscle
groups, leading finally to convulsions and death from cardiac or
respiratory arrest. The severity really depends on the
concentration of toxins in the nervous system, especially the
brain."
"We've learned from asbestos that exposure may not show up
right away."
"That's correct. Short-term effects include dizziness,
nausea, a condition called 'pin-point pupils,' and severe skin
rashes. Long-term might include sterility, cancer, and birth
defects."
"You were speaking of cancer clusters. I'm sure you're
familiar with the cases of Matt Hazeltine and Bob Waters? Two
men who played football for the San Francisco 49ers? Hazeltine
died of ALS and Waters is suffering from the same. Lou Gehrig's
Disease. Both men practiced on a football field sprayed with a
fertilizer/pesticide containing cadmium, a heavy metal. One is
dead and one is dying, some thirty years after exposure."
"That's how long it sometimes takes."
"But the symptoms could appear in a much shorter period of
time?"
"Yes. In fact, another case again involves football. Three
players for the New York Giants were diagnosed as having cancer.
One died. The other two are receiving treatment."
"And the source of the problem?"

"The stadium in New Jersey where they practice and play was
built on the site of a former landfill."
"A landfill that was probably used for illegal dumping of
toxic waste?"
"Probably."
"I understand that a lot of cities are now adding chlorine
to their municipal water supplies to make the water safe to
drink. Does it work?"
"Yes and no. It purifies the water, yes. But if there are
any agriculturally produced materials in the water, ... "
"Agriculturally produced materials?"
"Pesticides, herbicides, selenium, boron. Any chemicals
captured in the runoff from irrigation. They can combine with
the chlorine to produce potentially harmful substances like
trihalo methane."
"In one of my interviews, a spokesperson for the Western
Agricultural Chemicals Association assured me that the newer
pesticides break down rapidly and completely in water."
"They once said that about the earth, too."
"That person also said that people have absolutely nothing
to fear from the levels of pesticides in their food and water.
While one corporation's vice-president for engineering and
environmental affairs said there was no scientific evidence that
chemicals caused childhood cancer."
"So why is the Valley Children's Hospital's cancer ward
filled with children dying of leukemia?"
They don't know because they really don't know.

CHAPTER 24
Years grow shorter not longer

More you've been on your own
Feelin's for moving grow stronger
So you wonder why you ever go home
Wonder why you ever go home
You wonder why you ever go home
People are moving so quickly

Humor's in need of repair
Same occupations and same obligations
They've really got nothin' to share
Like drivin' around with no spare
Years grow shorter not longer

More you've been on your own
Feelin's for moving grow stronger
So you wonder why you ever go home
Wonder why you ever go home
You wonder why you ever go home
-- Jimmy Buffett, "Wonder Why We Ever Go Home"
The corporate headquarters of the DiGiulio Winery straddles
a small, rolling knoll overlooking John Muir Creek. The creek is
dry most of the year, but it still creates a very serene, pastoral
scene. The building itself has been referred to, in jest and praise,
as "Parthenon West." It is stately, if not overwhelming. It is
definitely out of place. But it satisfies the conqueror in its
owner.
The executive dining room is not overwhelming. It is
elegant and comfortable. It is here that heads of state and
multi-nationals, celebrities and Popes are dined and wined with
the latest vintage. It is here that guests are lulled, by the
setting and the grape, into confessing or volunteering
information, under the gracious, but probing interrogation of
DiGiulio, or one of his lieutenants.

When Laura received the invitation to lunch, she assumed it
was to discuss the international trade conference she had just
attended in Canada. Much of what was discussed there would have
an impact on the DiGiulio operation. She was sure all the
division heads would be there to charm the information from her.
She smiled at her own subliminal thought. They were all men.
Not one woman executive in the entire company. Ever in its
history. I guess I've got them outnumbered.
Phil Seidemann, VP of Public Relations, met her at the
reception desk, situated near the entrance to the vaulted inner
court and the lush and lavish koi pond, and escorted her to the
dining room. Everyone else had arrived and were enjoying a new-
release Pinot Noir. She nodded hello to those she knew as she
was guided to the center table. Phil pulled out the center chair
and motioned for her to sit. Arrayed down both sides were
executives of varying title and importance. Every seat at the
head table was filled except one. The one directly across from
her.
She recognized the scene. She had survived this gauntlet
a few times before. It was an ordeal affectionately known as
"passing lunch." Many would-be and current executives, as well
as consultants and heads of ad agencies, had been in this seat.
Some had passed. Many had not. This was where "the velvet fist"
of Robert DiGiulio could make your career or break you.
She really didn't expect a personal appearance from The
Padrone. Oftentimes, the seat remained empty. Part of the mind
game he played to soften up whoever sat sweating in that chair.

A person might suffer through several unappetizing lunches, not
because the food was bad, but because their stomach was boiling,
in fear and dread anticipation of "the appearance."
Laura had sat through a handful of chaired lunches, because
she often had information he needed. And apparently she had
something he wanted this time, as well. Robert DiGiulio quietly
settled into his chair before the salad was served. A panicked
thought hit her. Perhaps he knew she had visited Elliot.
He poured her some wine. Asked her how she liked it. His
old world charm and grace releasing the tension; his Italianesque
English soothing. Then he began his questioning. Very precise.
Penetrating. His eyes never wandered from hers. They talked
about the conference. Discussed tariffs and embargoes. Reviewed
what it would mean to the wine grape industry. It didn't take
long. He knew exactly what he needed to know. He tasted his
salad. Took a sip of wine. She relaxed. That was the usual
signal that the session was over.
He caught her off guard. "Laura, I understand you might be

involved in a project of some interest to me."
Her hand trembled slightly as she placed the wine glass on
the table. Her voice was steady. "I'm involved in a variety of
things now, as you know. Some affect you. Some don't."
He changed the subject. Never a good sign. "Your Father
and I were very close. Did you know that, Laura?"
She nodded, but couldn't speak.
"Very close. On more than one occasion, he was very helpful
to me and all that I have built here. Just as you have been
helpful. I would like to keep it that way, wouldn't you?"
Her lips tightened. She put her hands together in her lap
so he couldn't see them shake.
"I would also like to keep the memory of your Father and the
kind of man he was intact. Without blemish, wouldn't you?"
She leaned forward. Her anger at this man's words about her
Father overpowering her fear. "Don't you ever talk that way
about my Father. Maybe he did some things for you he shouldn't
have, I can't say. But he will always be known as a good, honest
man. You will never change that."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I hope we never have to find out.
It might embarrass your Mother. You might even ask her about it
sometime. She and I were once very close." Responding to the
reaction he knew that would make. "I guess you don't know
everything, do you?"
This time the conversation was over. He picked up his wine,
swirled the glass, sniffed the aroma, smiled, put it down, and
quietly left the table.
Elliot, Walsh, and I were talking politics. Generally
dangerous ground for people who were colleagues rather than close
friends. But even friends can disagree on this turf, as I had
learned a number of times talking with Pat.
"Borba's an anomaly. But he's also a weather-vane."
"Would you mind explaining that?"
"The Democrats are working class reformers. They want to
create a better world for the most people, but they insist on
doing it without the assistance of the elite and the wealthy.
And yet, they can't achieve the kind of radical change they'd
like without money. So they've changed their tactics. Now the
picture you get is this Democrat standing at the podium,
bad-mouthing special interests, while behind his back he's
holding out his hand to take money from the same PACs he's
condemning."
"Might make you a little schizophrenic."
"The dichotomy doesn't seem to bother them. They've even
legitimized it by devising a new phrase for it. They've clothed
it in a wonderfully confusing term. They call it 'interest group
neoliberalism'."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means they've abandoned their tradition of liberal
constituencies and values, not for a better way to serve the
general good, but just to get close to the special interests and
get at their money."
We were talking politics because one of Borba's biggest

opponents had just offered his support to the project.
Stewart Grossman, congressman from Beverly Hills,
represented the interests of the well-intentioned and idealistic
rich of Southern California and the philanthropists of Long
Island; those with a tradition based in history, culture, and
religion of caring for the less fortunate. The two things he
cared the most about were the environment and health care. He
was especially vocal when it came to the care and confidentiality
of AIDS patients. He was also a supporter of family planning and

migrant health care.
A graduate of Stanford and Harvard, he did a short stint in
the Peace Corps before turning his legal skills to such unpopular
causes as the environment, the farmworkers strike, illegal
dumping of toxics, wild and scenic rivers, against the Peripheral
Canal and for Planned Parenthood's pro-choice position. He was a
leader of the attempts to save the Estanislao, Lake Tahoe, and
Mono Lake. Now, he's the current chairman of the House
subcommittee on water and power resources.
He, and a handful of like-minded liberals, controlled one of
the most powerful Democratic machines in the country, located in
the Beverly Wilshire Hotel at the foot of Rodeo Drive. Their
machine ran on three things: a power base in west LA, liberal
politics, and lots of money. He was entrenched. Like many of
the rest of the California delegation, there had been no serious
challengers to his seat for years. And thanks to a little
incumbent gerrymandering and an unblemished electoral track
record, they had created a number of safe districts whose power

was also unassailable.
Their liberal politics were closer to New Deal Roosevelt
than New Frontier Johnson. Grossman's machine existed to promote
liberal causes, whether it was supporting Israel ,or raising
money for the poor and for protection of the environment.
And then there was the money. Plenty of it, courtesy of
their wealthy Jewish constituency and the entertainment industry.
Enough for themselves and enough to spread around to other
candidates to assure additional support and power. He liked the

political power his machine, or "coalition" as he preferred to
call it, gave him.
He and Borba had both called up to the big leagues at the
same time, representing the two valleys that ruled California:
the San Fernando and the San Joaquin. And they had been going
head-to-head ever since.
The two men were very similar. Neither liked to lose. Nor
did they mind making a few enemies if it meant protecting the
right issues. They were both ruthless in their impatience. They
really didn't like each other and they certainly didn't trust the
other. That's why there were bitter political enemies. Plus the
fact that they were on a collision course to see one of them--and
only one--the future Speaker of the House. One had built a
powerful PAC, the other an influential Machine, with this
ultimate goal in mind. They had danced around each other for
years. Now they would be locked in a battle that only one would
survive.
Elliot knew of him; had met him at various industry parties

and fund-raisers in L.A. He had even contributed to some of his
causes. They really didn't know each other. They certainly had
never really discussed politics. Now they were. And they
realized they felt the same about a lot of things. Farmworkers
and pesticide poisoning were issues that cut as close to home for
Grossman as any. Especially when Borba was standing on the other
side of the line. He was ready to back his commitment with time
and money.
Not since those late nights in the apartment house on Fulton
Street, when Laura was still married and Sandy was about to be,
had they taken the time to just sit and talk. They had been
friends now for a number of years, having first met through
Laura's sister while they both were still in college. They
had spent a lot of summers and holidays together. Then, when
they both moved to San Francisco--Laura to law school and Sandy
to work--they both moved into the Fulton building. The San
Francisco years lasted a few. Sandy married me, Laura separated.
Sandy stayed in the city, Laura returned to Ralston.
Maybe Sandy was feeling something in the air and she needed
reassurance; someone to listen. But Laura was doing all the
talking.
"We had problems. I'm not going to hide that fact. Most
marriages do. But why he just left, I'll never know."
"There wasn't any warning? No clues?"
"None. And if there were any, I ignored them. I wanted to
believe we weren't having any troubles. This isn't the first

time I've talked, or thought about it, either. I've played it
over and over again in my mind, looking for reasons. It was a
Sunday afternoon. I was reading the Chronicle and he was
wandering around the house. Finally, he sat down. I could tell
something was wrong. He played with his coffee cup. He wouldn't
even look at me. Then he mumbled this torrent of words, like
he'd been holding it back for years. 'We've got problems.
There's nothing to talk about. Nothing you can do. I just don't
want to be married to you anymore. I'm leaving today, this

afternoon.'"
"That was it?"
"I felt like I'd just been kicked in the stomach. He got up
and I couldn't move."
"And he was gone?"
"I blamed myself. I tried to find all the things I might
have done that would have forced him to leave. I really beat
myself up. I felt like dirt. Then, once I felt strong enough to
start dating again, I punished myself by going out with real
losers. It was very ugly."
"That really scares me because I don't have a fraction of
the confidence you have."
"I've perfected that cover. But it didn't help me much.
The rejection really hurt. But you know what cut the deepest?
His indifference. It was like we never lived together, never
shared anything. He was so coldly indifferent."
"Did you see someone? Did they have any ideas?"
"Certainly. One counselor attributed it to panic. His

father had married young and had a large family right away. He
had planned to go to college, but had to give it up to support
his family. He always regretted that decision and probably held
it against his wife all those years. He was an intelligent man.
He could have done well. He could have been something more than
an insurance salesman, which is what he became. His one chance
to be something had been taken away. He lived the rest of his
life frustrated and unfulfilled. He never said anything, but his
wife sensed it and so did the kids, especially my John, who was
the oldest."
"So, what did that have to do with his leaving?"
"The counselor said that one day John probably realized that
what was happening to him was the same thing that had happened to
his dad. That he was living a life of compromise; a life he
didn't want to live. So he panicked and ran. For himself and
his father."
"Did the two of you ever talk about it? Try to change
things?"
"Not really. Men aren't too good about discussing their
feelings. Despite what we women have done to liberate them."
They smile at what they both realize is part of the problem
and part of the solution.
"So, by the time he decided to leave, he had convinced
himself that communicating his desperation wouldn't help,
wouldn't change anything."
"Maybe he just didn't want to look that closely at himself
and how he felt?"

"I really think that was part of it. Being the oldest, the
burden was on him to take care of the others; to be the one in
control. Feelings only got in the way. They were unnecessary
distractions. It was easier to ignore them and get on with life.
But, again, I blamed myself because he didn't feel comfortable
enough to talk with me about what he was going through."
"Did he ever talk to a counselor before or after? Did he
ever understand why he left?"
"Not that I know of."

"So it's possible he could do the same thing again? That he
could make the same mistakes again?"
"And blame it on the woman again."
"I think we've taken the 'disposable society' a little too
far, don't you? It's becoming as easy to dispose of a mate as it
is to discard a can."
"I don't think people can be recycled as easily."
"There are a lot of damaged people out there right now.
They look fine on the outside, but once you try to get close,
they act like you've pulled a knife on them. They can't back up
fast enough."
"Why so curious about my ex? Do you think that's what
Travis is feeling?"
"I don't know. He's certainly capable of it. You know how
much he hates confrontation."
"Are you at least talking about it?"
"We're trying. But there's a lot of anger."
"That's a defense."
"I know that. But I guess it's just easier to break loose
if you convince yourself you really don't care."
"But you seem to have the perfect marriage. You look like
you still care about each other. He touches you. He doesn't put
you down. He even cooks and does the housework."
"That shows how little people really know. All you see is
the surface. You see the smiles, but you can't see behind the
bedroom door."
As part of his ritualistic, month's-end file purge, Stephan
Harrington ran this series of observations; his attempt at "three
dot journalism".
ALTA CALIFORNIA
-----------------------------------------------------------------
WHAT'S NEW IN THE WAR?
A grab-bag of water politics
OF THE RECORD STAFF
Where's the Dirt?
Everyone's got a little dirt under their fingernails, even

our eldest senator, the leading liberal in the Senate.
Here's a man who has battled vested interests, fought for
the rights of the disenfranchised, staked his reputation on
unpopular causes, and what has he done? He has teamed up with
the rest of the ag and water lobby to get more water for the
biggest factory farmers in the state; the ones that have made no
attempt to hide the fact that they are way over the acreage
limit.
Basically, he has used his power and influence to legalize
the illegal: to sell more subsidized water to the factory farms.
The sad thing is that it is water that should be going to
the small farmer who was supposed to get it in the first place
and who has the legal right to it.
By taking the water, he's denying the people he supposedly
champions, their right to make a living.
Did You Say What I Thought You Said?
A couple near Masterson presented data to federal officials

long before they filed a complaint with the State Water Resources
Control Board. They were sure a terrible mistake had been made
on the potential effects of the agricultural runoff draining into
the refuge.
When they were told to keep quiet, or it would cost them
more than their ranch was worth, they had their first inkling
that this problem may have been what one California congressman
called a planned accident.
The Real Bottom Line
Here's the real bottom line on ground water contamination.

Most of you "experts" just don't know what is going on.

They say the selenium problem at Masterson is a dead issue.
That there is no contamination in the ground water below the
refuge.
Certainly there isn't. That's because it has moved on and
into the aquifer. Water flows you know.
We can see it in your eyes and hear it in your words.
You're scared. You fear the worst. Many of you believe, but
will not go on record to say that in the next decade we will
begin to see the first of the real catastrophes.
Compared to what's coming, "Love Canal" and "Bhopal" will
look like walks in the park.
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.

So I called up the captain: "Please bring me my wine."
He said, "We haven't had that spirit here since 1969."
And still the voices are calling from far away;
Wake you up in the middle of the night just to hear them say:
"Welcome to the Hotel California.

Such a lovely place, (such a lovely place) such a lovely face.
They livin' it up at the Hotel California.
What a nice surprise, (what a nice surprise) bring your alibis."
-- Don Felder, Don Henley, & Glenn Frey, "Hotel California"
Canadian-born forty-two years ago, but now stars and bars

through and through, Dewey Palmer was in search of the latest
cause. He had been a part of the "No Nukes" MUSE (Musicians
Against Nuclear War) concert. He had performed for Amnesty
International and helped organize "Farm Aid."
He had always been active, always been involved, always been
aware. At least one song on every album he'd done since going
solo had a message, whether it was against drugs or against
musicians selling their art to the highest bidder. And when he
decided to become part of a group again, with his old band-mate
Stephen Young, their band became the political, activist voice of
the Woodstock generation.

As with everything, especially in the music business, timing
was everything. And, coincidentally, Elliot needed another
highly visible, highly influential supporter. Someone a younger
audience might listen to. Someone who could attack from a
different angle. Through the radio and on record. It was a
natural alliance, especially since Dewey was now living and
recording down the San Francisco Peninsula, near La Honda.
Whenever an interviewer catches up with him to do a session,
it's usually rolling down the road in one of his restored
hearses, which is where I found myself at the moment, doing a
little front-end for Elliot. We were talking about monkeys and
selling out.
"Would you sing for a product?"
"No fucking way. I mean, that's the line I will not cross.
It's nothing more than singing for money."
"Why have you become so active lately? Other than Woodstock, I
don't remember you being particularly political."
"I never stopped doing stuff. Most people never saw it.
But, recently it's because of the excess. If you ask me, we've
traded ideals for bucks. And that bugs me. Whether it's drugs
or dollars, any monkey that's bigger than you are, I'm ready to
take to the floor."
"What does your audience think about this outspoken
attitude?"
"I don't know. I've got a lot of audiences now. Some see
me as an old hippie still trying to play folk music."
"Like your record company."

"Like my past record company. My newer audiences, I think,
or at least hope, see me as someone who cares about where we're
going. I think it's important that we take charge of our own
future. I'm not talking communes. I'm talking family and
community. We've got to stop relying on the feds and the state
to keep an eye out for us because it ain't gonna happen."
"Why you? There are plenty of other political musicians and
bands out there?"
"I've always felt that I was singled out to make things
happen. That I was in the right place at the right time. And I
feel that way about what I understand Elliot Lincoln's trying to
do."
"We're taking on some pretty heavy hitters. Do you think
we've got a chance?"
"I think you've got to be aggressive. You've got to take
the high ground. If you don't, then you're trying to bargain and
persuade from a position of weakness. And that's never worked."
"What do you think of collaborating with Elliot?"

"I've always been fascinated by his films. By his return to
pure storytelling. The creation of new myths. I even stole an
idea for a character or two from one of his movies for one of my
road shows."
"How much do you think you have in common?"
"He and I cross paths in a lot of ways, but especially one.
We're both intrigued and repelled by machines and computers and
the thought that they may take over our lives. It bothers me
that people think they can live their life by pressing buttons.
That they can talk to people using computer voices. We both need
machines to do our work, but we won't let them run our lives."
CHAPTER 25
I am a child
I last a while
You can't conceive
Of the pleasure
In my smile
You hold my hand

Rough up my hair
It's lots of fun
To have you there
I gave to you
Now you give to me
I'd like to know
What you've learned
The sky is blue
And so is the sea
What is the color
When black is brown?
What is the color
Of the rain?
You are a man

You understand
You pick me
And you lay me
Down again
You make the rules
You say what's fair
It's lots of fun
To have you there
I am a child
I last a while
You can't conceive
Of the pleasure
In my smile
-- Neil Young, "I Am A Child"
When Elliot and Dewey finally met, they liked each other
immediately. For two people who had become very successful in
two separate branches of the entertainment business, they were
understandably wary of anyone, and of one another. They had both

been taken advantage of, had been lied to, had seen their visions
compromised by the deal-makers and marketing mavens. But now
that they were both hugely successful and independent, they could
follow their muse and tell the rest of the parasites to kiss
their asses. They were both artists with a vision that had
weathered the lashings of commercialism. They recognized it in
each other and appreciated it. The bonding created by this
common experience was immediate and soon ran very deep.
As they talked, they found yet another chord that struck
responsive and profound. Unlike Elliot, Dewey was a father. He
had two children, both boys. And both had cerebral palsy. Of
course, Dewey and his wife had been devastated each time and had
spent a lot of time and money working with their sons and working
with specialists and private schools to seek a cure.
It was difficult, but they never gave up trying to bring
some joy and enthusiasm into the lives of children who spent most
of their days frustrated when their active and healthy minds were
thwarted by the dead shell they inhabited. Dewey was always

available to perform at benefits, even to cook pancakes at an art
fair held annually by a local volunteer fire department.
Anything to raise funds and lighten the guilt and anger he felt.
Something Elliot knew about.
Dewey blamed himself because he was the common denominator.
Each son was the child of different mothers. So the lives of
quiet desperation his sons were living had to be his fault and
his alone. He had seen the specialists, been probed and
punctured, but they had found nothing. The doctors told him
there was no explanation, no rational reason. No way to tell
what caused it. That it really had nothing to do with anything.
Which was hard to accept considering there was so much, and yet
so little, in this world that couldn't be explained
scientifically.
For a long time following the birth of his second son, Dewey
performed less. He didn't totally abandon his music, but he
chose to spend more time with the family. During that time, he
began to recognize the inter-connectedness of it all, the entire
planet, and its people. He felt the need to believe, to care, to
promote our common humanity. That's when he hooked up with
Amnesty International and "Farm Aid". He realized then that it
was up to the individual, the family, and the community to come
together and take care of themselves at the local level.
As he spent more time with Elliot, he knew it was the
absolute truth. Because the attitude that once hatched the
phrase: "What's good for General Motors is good for the
country!" had re-surfaced and seemed stronger than ever, though

it probably had never really disappeared.
And now that he's discussed Elliot's sterility and what
caused it, Dewey began to wonder if maybe there wasn't some kind
of connection. Perhaps he too had been exposed to something
during his childhood in Canada, in the streets of Los Angeles, or
in the hills of Northern California; something that had grown
inside him over the years and had spawned a bad seed that
deprived his children of an active, productive life. Here were
two men, one who couldn't have children and one who could and
did, who were linked forever by the real possibility that someone
they didn't know had knowingly and without remorse polluted the
water they drank and the environment they lived in simply for
profit.
Dewey and Elliot were linked in yet another way; one that
would affect their lives immediately and likely for years to
come. They were both fatalists. They both had commented many
times since meeting that their paths were meant to cross. And
they both felt they had been singled out, that all of their life
experiences to this point, were orchestrated and building to an
unknown cataclysm, an unforeseen climax. They both spoke of
overcoming obstacles, of believing, of turning the negative into
the positive, of experiencing a sense of destiny. They both
sensed that they were now on that path, embarked on that journey,
that would reveal their fate.
Dewey was no novice when it came to film and video, or
propaganda and the manipulation of media. Early in his solo
career, he had experimented with visual montages and anthologies

for his songs. He had even affectionately lampooned some
characters from Elliot's first really successful movie. He had
already produced two of his own films when he became fascinated
with the new electronic technologies assaulting both music and
the motion media. He produced an entire album of electronically
manipulated songs and themes, and then produced his own road
picture; a rough-edged chronicle of video verite.
Dewey Palmer would write and perform the soundtrack for the
documentary.
Stephan Harrington had first met Len Maddox when Maddox won
the congressional seat in Fresno. He had campaigned for all the
"right" issues; all the issues supported by the local power
structure: more water subsidies, agriculture subsidies, tariffs
against foreign imports, and relaxed environmental standards for
pesticides and water pollution. He had served for two years,
expanding his own power base and consolidating control for the
Westlands Water and Power League.
Then, one day, he suddenly changed his views. He softened.
He stopped backing most of the issues he had previously
supported. That was the second time he'd invited Harrington to
meet. Maddox had just had a heart attack. Too early for a man
his age. While he was in the hospital, he began evaluating his
life and his accomplishments. He started questioning his
priorities. He found he didn't really like himself as a
politician. So he decided to change things in the two years he
had left in his term. The man who had once been John Borba's
strongest ally--who had handled Borba's bid for majority
whip--had now turned on everything he and Borba had fought to
achieve.
That was over a year ago. In the time since, he'd angered
and alienated almost all the members of the League. He had
pushed hard to reduce the acreage limit for subsidized water.
He had succeeded in stopping bills to authorize more unnecessary
dams; dams that would destroy the few remaining wild rivers and
would create holding ponds for water only the rich farmers would
get. But he'd been toughest on the polluters. He seemed
determined to single-handedly clean up the drinking water in his
district. No matter who it implicated. No matter who suffered.
And, invariably, it was the League and the big farmers that took
the heat. And they, in turn, spent money and time trying to
undermine his power. They even tried to get him recalled. But
his constituency had rallied behind him.
Then the threats began. He had been threatened and so had his
family. He'd even been run off the road one day. When he had the
DMV trace the plate, he found out it belonged to a small
rancher who sold his cotton to the League. That's when he called
Harrington again, to give him an exclusive interview. Maddox
asked that it be kept confidential. He had begun to worry for
himself and his family. More for his family. His heart attack
had resigned him to his own mortality. But his family was young.
He wanted people to pay if anything happened to them. So he
named names in the interview. And he asked Harrington to vault
the tape until it was time to let the other shoe drop.
Now he was dead. Harrington had to admit the bastards had
an ironic sense of humor. Maddox had drowned, or been drowned,
in his own swimming pool. The coroner explained to
Harrington--and to me, since Stephan had called, thinking I might
be mildly interested--that it looked like an accident.
"A lot of alcohol in his body. Way past tolerance.
Literally falling down drunk. Hit his head and rolled into the
pool."
"Sure it was an accident?"

"Very professional murder if not. Very well orchestrated."
"But possible?"
"Sure. Anything's possible."
Maddox was an obstacle that had to be removed. He had
stopped the flow of water. He had blown their cover. The
farmers were like addicts, he said. They were self-destructing
and didn't even know it. They had been getting away with
robbery. The biggest growers in the state; with the help of the
BuRec and the Army Corps. They were getting all the water for
almost nothing. There was too much money involved to even think
about regulation. And anyone who mentioned it, even if he was a
highly visible and outspoken politician, was a threat.
Now, he was the first casualty of the war for water.
Harrington's confidential interviews were mine. And, had Elliot
been there, he would have related it to his own reality; to
something in the movies, like he always did. He'd say it was
like something out of 'Chinatown.'
96 OUTSIDE MORGUE
Gittes stops by a body on the table, the toe tagged with Mulwray's
name. MORTY is standing near it in a doorway to an adjoining room.
A RADIO is on, and with it the announcement that they're about to
have another chapter in the life of Lorenzo Jones and his devoted
wife, Belle. Another Coroner's assistant sits at the table,
listening to the radio and eating a sandwich.
97 Gittes ambles into the room.
MORTY
(a cigarette dangling out of
his mouth)
Jake, what're you doin' here?
GITTES
Nothin', Morty, it's my lunch hour, I thought
I'd drop by and see who died lately.
Gittes picks up the sheet and pulls it back. CAMERA GETS ITS FIRST
GLIMPSE of Mulwray's body -- eyes open, the face badly cut and
bruised.
MORTY
Yeah? Ain't that something? Middle of a
drought, the water commissioner drowns --
only in L.A.
Politics everywhere, but especially in a continental and wired

nation, is part theater, an art of communication with gestures.
-- George Will/Commentary, "Television and the Image Tuners"

SCENARIO DESIGNED BY THE INSTITUTE. IT MAY BE DESIGNED AS STORYBOARD
OR COMIC BOOK PANELS.
The Fractus screens dance with disparate images. The
engineer is umbilicalled to the engine through Sony headphones. He

watches perfect leaders marketed to the masses, consumers wired to
electronic fireplaces, newscasters emoting entertainment as news, and
men in shadows, men in flames. He videolas through the encyclopedia
of images, re-editing, and refining a potential
future scenario.
SCENARIO: #880808
CLIENT: INTERNAL
ENGINEER: D. DOLAN
STATUS: IN-PROGRESS
CLASSIFICATION: PRIORITY
DATE: 08/08/88
TRT: TBD
WORKING TITLE: "THE ENGINE OF CHANGE"
SCENARIO OUTLINE:
It is the Fall of 1991. The world is in a state of flux. The power

elite of all nations is beginning to sense that real social change is
about to take place.
A group of visionary terrorists determines to use the power of

the electronic media to alert the American public to dangers posed by
the existing economic/political power structure. They
choose the 1992 Presidential election as their electronic platform.
During that event, they plan to take control of the
nation's airwaves.
For some time now, there has been paranoid speculations about the
possibility--ever since business and government began dealing
with each other. The connection between economic and political
elites. The military-industrial complex. The influence of the
corporate-military matrix. People have long speculated about the
notion of a select group of privileged men orchestrating events
around the world to benefit and consolidate their own power and
wealth. Writers, reporters, philosophers, scientists, and
academicians had all seen interconnections and intimacies that
led to coups and revolutions.
Combined with this specter of the power elite is another

Twentieth Century phenomenon that has become very real. The
Global Village. With every home wired to a telecommunication
grid, many have begun waving the Orwellian flag anew, claiming
that it is now far easier, and more effective, to control opinions
and populations. For these people--and their numbers
are growing--manipulating the media means controlling the public.
With more avenues of access to information available through

mass media, especially electronic media, and with the advent of
narrow-casting, there is a trend toward demassification and media
specialization. The result is sometimes confusing, oftentimes
conflicting views, and a fracturing of public opinion; a strict
segmentation of philosophies.
Into this void steps what one commentator terms "the most important
institutional innovation in recent American politics".
The Political Action Committee, or PAC. The PACs, with the aid
of the electronic media, have assumed the responsibility once
played by the political parties, that of informing and motivating
the voting public.
In these last years of the Twentieth Century, the primary means of

communication, whether used for commerce or politics, is controlled
by a wealthy and powerful interconnection of corporations and
government officials. And their conspiracy is
being masked by, and controlled through, equally influential PACs.
In this world, in this time, the established civic, social,

political, and economic elite is the recognized Order of Things.
Electronic media, especially television, has made markets and

money for people in business and government. It has given these same
people unprecedented power and influence. And they use this control
and wealth to manipulate the system and perpetuate their own
predominance. Because they realize that this network of
teleconnections is vulnerable and could be used against them, they
take steps to prepare the tools and resources to short-circuit any
attempt to broadcast something other than the party line, or to
topple them from their position of control.
In this society, the integration of television and telecommunication

technologies has created a consumer society
without precedent and without parallel. Entertainment and
commerce are interchangeable and are the primary focus in the
lives of the majority of the nation's citizens.
In this time, television has created markets and unimaginable

fortunes for the elite of government and commerce. It has given
The Order the influence and access to assure its position no matter
who holds official power.
The Order owns the hardware of telecommunication, defines its

uses, and reaps great wealth from the avenues of influence it
offers the corporate/political matrix of the nation. The Order
has grown accustomed to the luxury of buying technological access
to the nation and using it as a one-way conduit of impressions,
images, and pseudo-information.
To The Order, telecommunications, in all its forms, is their prize

and their means of self-preservation. That is why the
window on the world presented by television provides such a
limited vision of the world.
A significant, and potentially dangerous, aspect of the rise of

electronic media is the power of The Order to present citizens with
their own picture of the world. To create perceptions that
sometimes go counter to firsthand experience, yet supersede it in
people's minds. The Order has designed and perpetuated this. Far
better, they think, that the public confuse images with
truth.
Though the world is on the brink of transformation, the

representations of reality by the political and marketing elites
become even more rigidly and narrowly defined. The Order perceives
change as a mechanism of marketing to stimulate profits, not as a
process of social evolution.
In reality, electronic media is a secondhand form of

communication. That is both its appeal and its danger. What
people see and hear has already been perceived, interpreted,

translated, packaged, and re-transmitted by someone else, as
objectively as they can manage, with as few of their own biases
and prejudices as possible. But it is, nonetheless, someone
else's view of the world. And the majority of the public takes
it as reality. Because reality is what we perceive.
It has been rumored by some experts and analysts that the

existence of certain political movements, or martyrs, continents
away may be nothing more than electronic fabrications, like the
shadows on Plato's cave walls. For all the media participant
knows, because he is not experiencing their existence directly,
these philosophies and people are a reality because that is what
they believe they are perceiving as they passively participate in
world events comfortably encased in their armchair.
There exists a group of men and women who work hard at blurring the
line between real and perceived. They are the professional image
manipulators. They sell canned foods as well as they sell
predictable Presidents. They clearly understand the capabilities and
powers of the electronic arts, including video and computers,
telecommunications, and marketing. Their imagination and skill
create the images of the marketplace, the political arena, and the
social-civic orders. Utilizing leading edge technologies, they
process, edit and link together fragmented ideas, places, and things
into common perception.
They sift through the daily avalanche of "information" in search of

any facts that might link disparate events into continuity. They
represent a spectrum of experience, talent, imagination, and command
of their respective crafts at the leading edge. The power elite pays
them well to target the public's perception of reality and create
images to cater to that perception.
Their first-hand knowledge of creating and projecting images

and ideas in a technologically complex society gives them a special
vision of The Order and the powers used to shape the
opinions and emotions of a people. They recognize that The Order
has long abused the privileges of their wealth and has used these
electronic tools and images to achieve narrow and selfish motives.
In a world in dire need of leaders capable of perceiving the motives

and emotions below the surface and outline of events, it
is a tragic paradox that the two-dimensional vision of The Order
commands the equipment, finances, and implementation of such a
powerful tool.
In spite of the short-comings inherent in the "packaging" of news and

information, certain telejournalists begin to enjoy a credibility
that the populace has rarely granted to other spheres
of influence within the society. Though this network of continental

teleconnections is a selfishly manipulated giant of
social and economic influence, it is vulnerable.
The Order understands, and fears, the power of the electronic

media and its popular personae. In an information-rich and
-addicted society, the news and its telecommentary might be used
against The Order, should the attitudes of these popular
telejournalists come to resonate, or reflect, the aspirations of
the populace.
In anticipation, The Order has readied avenues to by-pass the

interpretive processes of the fourth estate should the need arise.
They have special knowledge of the tools they will need
to keep their image of the nation in place. They will be ready
with any means to short-circuit the channels of information access to
their advantage.
BREAK POINT IN SCENARIO.
It gradually becomes clear to this group of common conscience, that

only through their own imagination and special knowledge of
these tools, and their ability to recognize new purposes for them,
can there be any hope of deflecting the momentum and
dethroning the power of The Order. These individuals also share
a perception of the possibilities and dangers the telecommunications
matrix might offer to a specific message at a
critical juncture.
This committed group of diverse, yet commonly inspired individuals,

join purposes to become "The Info-Visionaries".
They band together to weld the technologies of communication,
computers, and video into a new tool; one capable of piercing the
veil of shallow perception that controls, in many subtle ways,
the scale of imagination for a people.
Many special pieces of information and equipment are gradually

combined into the working schematic of a revolution in perception.
As the pen proved mightier than the sword for
generations previous, an event of real time images and
imagination will rise above the existing Babel of
Telecommunications.
The Info-Visionists will create a resonance between the power of

ideas and images and use that synergy to trigger the imagination
and vision of a nation.
The Info-Visionaries realize, despite the intimations and

accusations of a shadowy puppetmaster organization, that in a
democracy, public opinion is still the most powerful force. To
mobilize the power of the people and bring it to bear on one issue,
they have to use their own skills, and those of people
like the image-makers.
In the end, victory for the Info-Visionists and the power of

human imagination will be measured by a people's ability to
recognize, and step back from, the "electronic hall of mirrors"
they have come to look upon as truth. In a time of change, in a
time of confusion, it will take one voice to pierce the veil of
shadows.
As is the case with many of the technologies which have changed

the workings of this world over the last quarter century, the
application of scientific research to war and defense strategies
has opened unimagined avenues for the development of new processes
and innovations.
Defense researchers become aware of a nuclear blast effect

called the "Electromagnetic Pulse," or EMP. EMP soon becomes the
ultimate threat to effectively waging technologically intense
warfare because a single nuclear burst could neutralize much of
the computer and telecommunication matrix our defense system and
economic order depends upon.
In the process of developing a technique to shield this delicate

electronic dependence, researchers discover an effect which becomes
known as the "Pulsed/Polarity Inversion Threshold," or PULPIT.
The power of this unique discovery resides in the fact that at a

certain signal threshold, a waveform could be propagated which
could dampen and neutralize all radio, television, and radar
signals within an effective radius of one thousand miles. If
located properly, it could affect three quarters of the continental
United States. At the same time that it suppresses
any and all signals within its sphere of influence, the PULPIT
waveform could also act as a universal open channel to all
receivers for any transmission coupled to it.

CHAPTER 26
I used to see you on every T.V.

Your smiling face looked back at me.
Then they caught you with the girl next door,
People's money piled on the floor,
Accusations that you try to deny,
Revelations and rumors begin to fly.
You wake up in the middle of the night.

Your sheets are wet and your face is white.
You tried to make a good thing last,
How could something so good, go bad, so fast?
American dream, American dream.

American dream, American dream.
-- Neil Young, "American Dream"
John Anthony Borba shared an affliction with many of his
fellow Democrats. Unlike the Republicans, who always seemed to
get into trouble over money or abuse of power, the Democrats
always became ensnared because of women. Like many of his
compatriots on Capitol Hill, Borba was a hopeless womanizer. He
was obsessed with their pursuit. This preoccupation had often
been attributed to men with immense egos; men who enjoyed living
on the edge and boys who were frustrated race-car drivers.
Perhaps it was the search for adventure; a way out of boredom or
an escape from routine that drew them to the flame. Or maybe
they simply enjoyed the attentive applause of women.
Whatever the initial attraction, it was perpetuated by ego,
power, pride, and discretion. At first, such men were protected
from embarrassing exposure by their staff. The more they were
able to succeed without detection, the more daring they became.
The transition from tentative experimentation with the unknown to
blatant disregard of conventional behavior was very swift and

often undetectable. Before long, emboldened by their success and
sheltered from the whispers, they began to consider themselves
invincible, sexual supermen, above the law. Their hubris, their
sense of self, became overwhelming and, eventually, became their
downfall.
In Borba's case, the applause was flattering, but the
conquest was the name of the game. When it came to women, he was
arrogant and full of himself. He felt they were there to serve
him. He tolerated little independence, except in his wife who
had painfully carved it out for herself. He loved to let them
dangle; to twist in the wind emotionally. He liked to play with
them, to lead them on, then leave. This disdain, coupled with
his power and influence, made him irresistible. Even to his
wife, who loved him still--and who, rumor suggested, had been
subjected to more than emotional abuse--silently suffered and
helplessly hoped he might soon stop, or at least wouldn't
irreparably scandalize himself before he did.
The number of notches on Borba's bed was known only to his

closest aides. There was one he preferred to forget, not because
it was unpleasant, but because it was one that had started as a
result of business and now couldn't go away because of business.
Affairs were one thing. Affairs with co-workers another.
Affairs with clients, something to be completely avoided. But
the timing had all been in Tony's favor and against Laura. She
was willing, rebounding from divorce, ragged and ready. He was
able. It had begun following a week of hearings in Sacramento.
They had worked closely for the month prior, then spent almost
fourteen hours per day together for a solid week. They were
exhausted. She was lonely. He was horny.
The night the hearings ended, they had a quiet dinner at the
Sutter Club. They laughed in relief of the pressure and the fact
they actually enjoyed each other's company outside the office.
For a while, they seemed to have gotten beyond the masks each
presented the other. And they liked what they saw. When they
returned to her room, she invited him in for a brandy. He
gratefully accepted. The grueling week and the wine were
beginning to take effect. They slumped down at opposite ends of
the couch and began talking about future plans. Each time one or
the other got up to get another glass or open a window, they sat
down nearer to the other. As they got closer, their clothes got
looser. He touched her arm, she touched his face.
The next morning, as they gathered up the debris of the
night and prepared to carry on with their routine, there were no
apologies, no remorse. They still liked each other and wanted to
see one another. And so they did. For six months. In Ralston,
Sacramento, D.C., and New York. Until he suddenly stopped
calling. When she finally confronted him, he just told her he
couldn't see her anymore. No explanations. No apologies. End
of story. It wasn't that hard for her. She was already
beginning to dislike a lot of what she saw. They ended it with
no regrets and some additional knowledge of the other.
Women. Mysterious, exotic, deadly. You could live a
lifetime in their eyes, or die broken, still anxiously trying to
please them. In the mythologies of civilizations, they

represented the totality of could be known. Each man fancied
himself the hero who would come to know. Seductive, exotic
sirens, they beckoned, urging you to break the bonds of the
day-to-day, the expected, in anticipation of the unknown; to
undergo another trial along the trackless journey.
Musing on this, John Anthony rationally knew the risks--
realized the threats--but remained furiously attracted
nonetheless to the forbidden. She worked at Carver Labs;
assistant to Daedalus. He was there because DiGiulio wanted him
to be; he needed some background for one of his press releases.
She was happy to give him what he needed. Their meeting was all
business. The single drink afterwards was justifiably a way to
get to know the other better. But to leave together would be
stepping over the line, crossing the threshold. Was it worth the
risk? Was it ever?
Barbra Sue Darwin was a woman of syrupy beauty; languid
golden honey. She moved slowly and sweetly; a sticky odor in her
wake. Lounging, languorous, she was a Renoir crossed with a

Helmut Newton model. Her body was smooth, voluptual, earthy,
sensual. And her liquid was made sweeter by the melodic South
Carolina accent that oozed out of her rounded lips. She was born
with it and had made it more affected over the years. It matched
well with her lethargic sensuality.
She was neither short nor tall and certainly not dumpy.
Ample, but not wasteful. Solid. An Amazon. She was full-bodied
but solid. Her breasts were large, full, heavy, brimming with
unselfish love and waiting to suckle. Beneath a nylon bathing

suit, stretching her arms to the sky, they didn't sag, but stood
proudly, firmly at attention. The areola were large and round
and very sensitive to touch. Unlike many large-breasted women,
she liked being touched there most of all. Her waist was
amazingly small; her butt full, but firm. She was someone you
wanted to fall into, to be swallowed up by, never to come out.
The ultimate earth-mother.
Her skin was lightly tanned, as if she spent just enough
time in the sun to keep it healthy-looking. There was a fine
fuzz of golden-brown hair on her arms and legs, and in her
armpits when she chose not to shave. Her hair was also
golden-brown and cascaded to her waist, but she usually wore it
in a long pony-tail, caught half-way down her back in a casual
bow, or piled luxuriously on top of her head.
She was the most patient and forgiving of lovers, almost
mothering her men to death. She gave and gave and expected
little in return. Because she was so honest in her selflessness,
men were disarmed and never took advantage of her. They could
perceive no other motive in her generosity but the desire to give
pleasure. And she gave it gladly and often.
The air was barely moving. And after the summer's rain,
unusual for that time of year, it was humid. You could smell the
moist fertility of the earth. There was something about a
surprise summer's storm. That moist, decomposing scent of wet
earth is the valley. In it is the smell of water and life.
Sultry, yet dangerous. Something was going to happen this night.

He had a tequila, straight with a lime. It felt like Mexico,
this night. She chose champagne, fluted tulip glass, and a short
snort of snow. Deliberately, she slipped on some music. Dark,
passionate rhythms of reggae. No matter where she was in the
room, she stared into his eyes. She began to dance. He could
see every bulge and curve and cutting line beneath the white silk
dress she wore. He was staring at her waist, working his way
down her legs, when the dress dropped away.
As she danced, she watched him watching her. She reached
up, rubbing her stomach and then her breasts and then began
tugging at her nipples. They responded as he did, stiff and
eager. She danced closer, gazed more deeply. She put her hands
on his shoulders, his on her breasts. She tasted of wine. He
opened his eyes and she was still watching. She took off his
coat, his shirt, and his belt, still moving to the music, still
licking the back of his throat, still digging into his eyes.
Her body felt warm as she slowly straddled the chair and
him. One hand rubbed his nipples, while the other rubbed him
against her, in and out, up and down and around. He reached one
hand to touch her ass. They moved back and forth. She
shuddered, then smiled a wide smile, as she pushed him back on
the chair. He flinched as she scraped her claws along the inside
of his thigh, nicking the flesh. Then there was no air blowing,
only her, only a feeling of lips, tongue, and mouth moving warm
and tight. He wanted to see her, watch what she was doing. All
he saw were wide-open eyes.
He told her he couldn't wait. She said he should. She

tipped a spoonful onto the top of his straining cock. Cocaine in
the eye of the rooster. His back almost snapped as it arched
forward, spraying the silk. Then he doubled back, eyes slammed
shut, just trying to catch his breath. Now, it's my turn she
said. She placed the powder between her open legs and pushed it
toward him. Rub some on me. Right here. She reclined on her
elbows and lifted her legs, never once letting go of his gaze.
He touched her, kissed her lips and breasts, teasing before the
finish. His fingers, honeydrippers, adhering with white
fingertips, gently grabbed her clit, rubbing and squeezing, but
not long, before she yowled and screeched, closing her legs and
turning her body away from him. But not those heavy-lidded eyes.
When the sun hit his eyes, she was already gone. He
dressed, satisfied with his night's work. As he pulled onto the
frontage road leading to the freeway and passed the Holiday Inn,
he didn't see the white limousine parked near the pool. Or her
car standing next to it.
Each moment is a place you've never been.

-- Mark Strand
A seed of dissension was seeking light. A rebel that would
shatter the facade of unity and control that DiGiulio, Delancy,
and Borba had carefully cultivated. He was a transplanted local
boy, born in Wisconsin and raised in Ralston. He went to law
school back East, specializing in environmental law, and
practiced there for several years before returning home and going
to work for Delancy & Reed. He had been the point man on most of
Delancy's cases dealing with the environment, including
Masterson. His name was Michael Olbrantz. He knew what was
going on. He didn't like what he was seeing. He had become
disillusioned. And he wanted to do something about it.
Michael Olbrantz and I had known each other since third
grade, when he moved out from Wisconsin. His Father had been
transferred by Marathon paper company, a subsidiary of American
Can, to their plant in Ralston. Western could still remember
Michael's lunch sandwiches wrapped in the Rainbow bread paper his
Dad had gotten from the plant. I still remember riding home
after school, going over to Mike's to watch American Bandstand)
and plan our future. It was only fourth grade, but we'd already
decided we were going to be friends forever. And when we grew
up, we'd raise thoroughbred racing horses. We'd own a huge ranch
with weeping willow trees and white board fences.
We had competed against each since the day we'd first met.
It was friendly, but it was fierce. Whether it was doing the
most book reports, getting the lead in the school play, or being
the best baseball player, we always seemed to be going
head-to-head; through elementary school, junior high, and high
school. Even when we went our separate ways to college, we still
used the other as an absent antagonist. It was never malicious,
never vindictive, because we were bound together by who we were
and where we came from; what our family background was and the
schools we attended. Although we both succeeded, and well, at
everything we attempted, we could never become part of the elite;
equals with the kids who got there because of their parents'
money and position. Our parents were lower middle class working
people. Our fathers were laborers, our mothers stayed home
and raised a house-full of kids. There was always just enough
money for food, but not enough for extravagances. Clothes were
hand-me-downs. Luckily for both of us, we were the oldest.
The competition we both remember well was the competition
for our little league coach's approval and affection. Though
we both had loving, caring fathers, the coach was our hero. Not
only was he our teacher, but he was an athlete. We wanted to be
like him. We went out to all his games and cheered for him. We
jostled for the right to ride home in the back of his sports car
We laughed now at the memory as we finished our drinks. I
was really enjoying the memories.
"Remember when we played the last game of the 'A League'
playoffs?"
"And he called a balk against their pitcher?"
"And all the parents and kids threw rocks at his car."
"They did not know what a balk was. Nobody had ever called
a balk in Little League."
"He did."
"He certainly was competitive, wasn't he?"
"And we're not? You know, I played softball with him the
other night. I was scared to death. I'd been wanting to play
ball with him ever since he coached me on the Babe Ruth All-Star
team."
"Did you pass the test?"
"I think so. It's funny. I was telling some other people
about the game and my Dad was there. I was goin' on about how
it was my dream to play with the coach. How this guy had taught
me everything I knew about baseball. And I notice that my Dad's
not listening anymore. That's he's talking to someone else. And
I suddenly realized that during all those years I'd been saying
how the coach had been my hero, I was cutting my Dad to the bone.
I was really hurting him. He had spent as much time, maybe even
more, not only teaching me the game, but teaching me how to deal
with winning and losing. How to be competitive without being
combative. It had never dawned on me."
"That's because we both took our parents for granted. We
expected them to be there. To help us. To teach us. And then
we left them."
"Well, at least I can make it up to my Dad."
"I can't. At least not that way."
I realized the conversation had changed direction and his
face said it had changed emotion.
"I am extremely concerned."

"About?"
"What is taking place at the office. Laura looks like she
hasn't slept in weeks. She's very jumpy. Things seem very
tense. And it becomes especially so every time John Borba comes
by to see Thomas. Now they meet behind closed doors. That never
happened before."
Mike was an old friend, but I wasn't about to help him
through his concern right now and maybe compromise Laura's
ability to help us.

"Maybe I'm overreacting. Perhaps I'm seeing something that
isn't there. But I do not like what I am sensing. I went to
work for Thomas Delancy because of his reputation and his
commitment to certain issues. I'm not sure his priorities are in
order any longer."
"I wish I could help you Mike. I wish I knew more. But I
don't. I see Laura very seldom and I really don't talk to anyone
else in the office but you."
"But we both know that the project you're working on has
something to do with Delancy and Borba. So you must know more
than you're telling me."
"Sorry. If you're concerned, you've got to decide for
yourself what you need to do. I can't decide for you."
"And you won't have to."
Robin Devereaux had invited me to breakfast at "The Vintage"
restaurant. The coffee had arrived and we had ordered before
Robin got to what was bothering him.

"They never give up. Don't you see what they're doing?"
"Who and what?"
"The League and the rest of the big farmers. They're
undermining our position, compromising our allies, dividing and
conquering."
"Wait. Can you back up a bit? It's still early and you're
way ahead of me."
Leaning back, taking a breath, he starts again. "All right.
Slowly. From the top. You've heard they're thinking about

closing Hetch Hetchy?"
"Yes. Something about draining it."
"And adding it to the National Park Service."
"Not a bad idea. I'm sure most people in the state will
love it."
"That's right. So when we, and the other environmentalists,
start bitching, we won't have any support at all. How can
we, who fought to save the Yosemite Valley from development and
pollution, complain when the government's going to set aside more
of it. To preserve and protect it so more people can enjoy it?"
"You can't."
"But it's only a diversion. A red herring."
"I'm lost."
"What happens when they drain Hetch Hetchy."
"You already told me."
"Not that. What about the people of San Francisco?" He
stops as the waitress brings our food. "The people who get most
of their power and drinking water from Hetch Hetchy?"

"I guess they'll it get from somewhere else?"
"Where?"
"I don't know. You're the expert."
"That's right. And I know it's not going to come from
anywhere because they've got no place to get it. All the water
that's stored behind existing dams is already claimed. It's
already being used by cities for drinking, industry for
production, and agriculture for irrigation. And everyone's
yelling for more."

"But there's enough water, isn't there? Between rainfall,
snowmelt, river runoff, and the ground water?"
"Sure there is. But it's not controlled. It's wild. If
people want more water, they've got to have more dams. With
Hetch Hetchy closing and all the others maxed out, some new ones
have to be built."
"But no new dams are even under construction. Are there
even any on the boards?"
"There are plenty on the boards, including the Auburn
Dam. But each time they've come up for funding, or been placed
on a ballot in recent years, they've been defeated. Narrowly,
but stopped nonetheless."
"Because of lobbying and pressure from environmentalists and
public opinion?"
"And because there wasn't an overwhelming need."
"Except Los Angeles. They keep trying to get the Big Ditch
built, or some variation of it."
"Right. But they've never had enough allies, especially in

Northern California. And they've never really had sufficient
public support to pass any of their water grab attempts."
"So, if all of a sudden there's one less dam and a lot less
water for San Francisco, ... "
"And you combine that with a drought."
"Which we've had a few of in the last couple of years. And
Los Angeles runs up the flag to build the peripheral canal, ..."
"Or they graciously offer to compromise and settle for a dam
or two."
"Then they've got all the allies they need and you can't
stop them. San Francisco gets the water. The public gets more
park land. Jobs are created. The BuRec and Army Corps get a dam
to build. And Los Angeles gets even more water."
"Most of which will go to the big farms in the San Fernando
and San Joaquin Valleys. To the people who started the whole
thing to begin with. They lobbied for it. They pressured the
politicians. And they paid for everything."
"One dam goes away and several others take its place."
"We trade Hetch Hetchy for a few more rivers."
"You're right. They've got us."

CHAPTER 27
It's a man's world

It's a man's world
But it wouldn't be nothing, nothing
Without a woman or a girl
Man made the car

That take us over the road
Man made the train
To carry the heavy load
Man made the electric light
To take us out of the dark
Man made the boat for the water
Like Noah made the ark
Man can make everything he can

But a woman makes a better man
-- James Brown, "It's A Man's World"
Walsh and I had spent most of the morning meeting with
ground water experts from the Water Resources Center at UC Davis.
We had both volunteered to do the interview just so we could
spend a day hanging out together in our old college haunts.
Some were still around. Many were not. Most seemed awfully
small. Following the interview, we cruised the campus, checking
out the co-eds, then headed over to "The Graduate," shot some
pool and some beers, then went downtown. As we passed the site
of what used to be "The Lantern," a student, or someone at the
right age to qualify, walked between us, resplendent in his
tie-dyed shirt, lost and listening to his headphones.
I sniffed the air, then sniffed again. "Holy shit!
Patchouli Oil!"
Walsh turned, then looked back at me and broke out in his
hyena laugh. "Fuckin' pop into the Twentieth Century, dude!"
We both laughed at this mutual exorcism of our communal

past.
"Probably listening to the Grateful Dead."
"No, I'd say it's some of that 'New Age' shit. Fucking hot
tub muzak for Yuppies."
"Give me a break." We didn't always agree on our tastes in
music. "I like it. It's cinematic."
"Take some more drugs, dude."
"Better'n Dwight Yoakum, cowboy. How's it so different from
Respighi's 'Pines of Rome,' or Vaughan Williams' 'The Lark
Ascending?' Or Rodrigo or Stravinsky?"
"Who are they? Harpists?" He laughed that laugh. He knew
who they were. He was just busting my balls.
"It's backlash. Those who can't participate in the baby
boom monopoly. They're envious of what we supposedly were. What
we supposedly accomplished. If you can't be a part of it, they
figure, then trash it. Trivialize it. Maybe it'll go away."
"I'll help it get on the bus. Just give me Merle any old
time."
I sucker-punched him in the ribs as we swung into "The
Club"--the last bar on our last tour--and heard "Silver Wings" on
the juke box.
We settled into a couple of seats at the bar, ordered two
long necks, and turned to watch the pool players. Being back a
the site of much of our "coming of age" pranks had us both
thinking back on how it was we got here and what had happened
along the way.
Sometimes I think I think too much. I over-analyze. I'm

always thinking about my life and what I'm doing that's good or
bad. I should probably just leave it alone. But I don't. I
keep picking at it. It's like having a chipped tooth, or a piece
of food stuck in your teeth and your tongue keeps playing with
it, touching it, exploring it, aggravating it. I can't seem to
leave it alone. And here I was again, picking at it, Wilson.
"Are you lonely, Wally?"
"In what way?"
"Alone. On your own."
"That's pretty difficult. I've got a family. I can't even
take a shit without an audience."
"Well, when I look at Jorge, Billie, me, and others our age,
I see a lot of lonely men and women. Disillusioned."
"Shit, you shouldn't be lonely. You're a seller in a
buyer's market. You're in your prime. Just forty. Attractively
mature. A successful professional with money. And you're only
semi-ugly."
I flip him off. "So why aren't I selling?"

"Too much of a hassle, I guess. Too much of an emotional
drain."
"Anticipation and expectation. That's what I told Jorge.
They expect too much. They want something I'm not. So, if I
like someone and want to stay with them, I've got to accommodate.
And, right now, I kind of like not having to tell anyone about
anything I'm doing."
"It's easier just to have a few beers with the boys." He
salutes me with his Bud.

"While she sits at home wondering why I haven't asked her
out."
"You don't mind being alone?"
"No. And why should I? The only one it should bother is me
and I really don't give a flying fuck. There's a bunch of us out
there, men and women, living alone. The one's who would be doing
the judging are the ones who are doing it alone. It isn't a
problem any more. The days of the spinster aunt and kindly uncle
are long gone."
"You were talking about expectations. That's part of it.
The problem is that when you expect things to be a certain way,
you're not as likely to compromise. And that's got men and women
sleeping alone at nights."
"I think that's why I like being around my family, and
friends like you so much. And that's probably why Sandy resents
all of you."
"Because we accept you the way you are?"
"That's right. It's non-threatening. I have too few

expectations and she has too many."
"But your family's pretty unique. You all seem to really
like each other and really care about the others. And you share
it with the extended family. People like me and Jorge and Gover.
Even assholes like Stevie."
"That was my Mom."
"Don't discount your Dad. I'm sure he had a lot to do with
it, too."
"Didn't it use to be simpler?"

"Hey, when it comes to men and women, it's never been
simple."
"Maybe I just don't want to understand them. Maybe it's
easier to not explain the unexplainable. That gives us an edge.
A way to maintain the mysterious. That way I don't have to make
an effort. I can just sigh and say it's impossible to know them,
or know what they really want."
"Sure. Besides, a lifetime commitment was easy when you
married at eighteen and died at forty."
"The myth of Helen Gurley Brown and the "Cosmo woman".
It's emotional masturbation. They did it to themselves and for
themselves. You know, I really had no problem with the spirit of
women's lib. I believed it. Guess I still do."
"Then they changed the rules."
"Right. They wanted room to be themselves. To be
independent."
"We said fine. Then they wanted to get close, intimate."
"Great. They wanted freedom, then got pissed when we

wouldn't get close and wouldn't commit."
"And when we finally did, they freaked out when it went
sour."
"And they say we're confused."
"It's their own damn fault. They're sending out the
smokescreen."
"I sometimes think they forget that everything they're
saying, we're hearing and believing."
"And when we talk to them about it, they're only seeing our
lips move. They're not hearing a word we're saying."
"Yea. They never talk with us, only at us. Maybe if they
started talking, we might finally get a better idea about what
they really wanted. Then we could get close and they'd stop
getting angry."
"You know what they say? The trouble with men is men and
the trouble with women is men."
"That's good. You know, I really don't feel believe they
feel deep down that we like them or want to be with them. That's
what's so frustrating about their anger. Because I do like being
with them. I don't know about you, but it's a broader landscape
seeing the world through a woman's eyes. I mean, after the poker
games, it's time to go home to mama. Living only with men, in a
man's world, in spite of what James Brown says, is pretty
boring."
"And smelly."
"You know what I still like in a woman? Intelligence.
That's number one. Clever, with a good sense of humor, is a

close second."
"Danger zone."
"Why?"
"Now you've got a competitor who doesn't feel or smell like
one. Better pocket your self-image. It may not be where you
left it when you get done."
"Sure, it takes a little more work to live with a strong
person. But that's part of what attracted me to Sandy."
"And me to Jane." That one caught me off guard, but wasn't

a total surprise.
"Right. Their independence."
"But that's part of the problem isn't it?"
"Sure. She doesn't want to be barefoot and pregnant. And I
don't want her to be. She's got the freedom, money-wise and
mind-wise, to leave when she wants."
"That's a double-edged sword. You want them self-reliant,
but you also want them dependent. You want to be able to take
care of them so they can tell you to go to hell."
"I want a co-conspirator, not a concubine. We can both
contribute friends and money to the relationship without cashing
out our individuality. Besides, Sandy's not totally dependent on
me. But I don't think she's independent enough yet to live on
her own."
"Jane is." He obviously is looking for a conspirator and a
confidante on this issue.
"Sometimes I wish I'd married someone without any brains or
ambition. Someone whose entire life revolved around me. When I

wanted to eat, she'd fix it. When I wanted to screw, she'd ask
how."
"Oriental women."
"It can get suffocating, though. There's no place to go and
they're always there."
"What a fantasy, though. I'd at least like to try it."
"Here am I worrying about my own sexuality, my own adequacy,
my own ability to please them and yet they're the ones that
fucked everything up."

"They get angry and they want us to deal with that, but we
have to do it with tenderness and sensitivity."
"They want to kick our ass in racquetball, then they expect
us to open the car door for them."
"Why do they get so angry? What do they want? Is it
because we're men? Because we supposedly have it made and
they've been denied admission to the club?"
"It's their own conflict. It helps them keep their
distance. It keeps them from becoming too dependent on us. But
it's also part of their own conflict and frustration. Created by
society. By us and by themselves. We want 'em smart and
pretty."
"Tough career women by day. Doting mothers and gentle
lovers by night."
"Do they want kids or a career? Commitment or freedom? I
feel I've really tried to understand her needs and do what I can
to make it work. But then so does she."
"And you keep defending her just like that. You try to
please her and she kicks you in the nuts. Do you think she, and
the rest of them, appreciate what you're doing? No way. You try
to please them and they think you're a pussy. It's a no-win
situation, cowboy."
"What am I supposed to do? Take my marbles and go home?"
"I'd take my nuts, instead."
"Okay, so I leave her. There's no way I'm going to hit the
singles scene. I'm too old for that. Everyone in the bars is
twenty-one, with a full head of hair, a flat stomach, and

pectorals. All I've got is a brain and a sense of humor."
"So get friendly with your recliner again."
"But I could get stuck in that rut. I could get used to
living alone. I know that. But it could get real lonely. And,
then, one day, one of the little neighborhood girls would point
at me, this old, bald-headed, single guy, and say I molested
her."
"You know what we're both facing? What all men and women
our age are facing? Being alone the rest of our lives or making
a commitment."
"Because of our expectations."
"Because we were set up."
"And if I don't learn to deal with it, I'm going to end up
an old man sharing a frozen turkey TV dinner with one of my
'Mud Bowl' buddies."
"That's a frightening image."
"You think that's bad. Think about being the last man,
sitting there for the newspaper, toasting all my dead comrades,

drinking alone."
"How come you and Sandy never had any kids?"
"We both decided we liked our lifestyle the way it was. We
didn't want to be tied down. I mean we don't even have a dog or
a bird."
"Nice comparison. You really think having a kid's like
having a pet?"
"No. It's easier to take a dog to the kennel when you go on
vacation than it is to get a babysitter."

"Ugly asshole you are."
"You know what I mean. We just liked being free to come and
go. And besides, if the marriage ever went bad, I didn't want to
have to deal with custody. Or, worse yet, I didn't want to be
in a position of keeping the marriage together just for the kids.
My parents did that and I admired them for it. I don't think it
made emotional cripples of us. But I know there were times they
both wished they weren't married. But they kept it together for
the kids."
"So what was their outlet? Did they have any affairs?"
"Dad's outlet was work. Mom's was us kids, pills, and,
later, more pills and alcohol. As far as affairs, I really don't
know, but I have a hunch that something happened between them and
some close friends of theirs once."
"Why?"
"Because one day they were big buddies, did everything
together, then, the next day, they were bitter enemies. Stopped
seeing each other. Didn't talk to each other. Then, when the
husband died, my Mom didn't go to the funeral. She said it
was because she hated funerals, especially ones with an open
casket. She always said she wanted to remember people the way
they were when they were alive, not dead in a casket. But
his wife never forgave her."
"So something definitely happened?"
"Yeah, and I never asked my Dad. Never talked to my Mom,
either. But the fact is they kept their together for us kids.
No matter how badly they wanted out. And we're better for it.
We know what it means to make a commitment and stay with it. But
I'd hate to have kids and then try to keep it together like my
parents did, only to see the kids get fucked up. And that's the
norm. That's happened to a lot of people I know. And I never
wanted to deal with that so we never had any kids."
"But isn't that really a lack of commitment? I mean, if
you're saying you don't want kids because you don't want to screw
them up if you get divorced, you're saying from the start that
you don't have much hope for the marriage."
"Can't hit a moving target." Always the joke to dodge the
reality.
My child arrived just the other day.

He came to the world in the usual way.
But there were planes to catch and bills to pay.
He learned to walk while I was away.
And he was talkin' 'fore I knew it, and as he grew
He'd say "I'm gonna be like you, dad,
You know I'm gonna be like you."
And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon

Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you comin' home son?"
"I don't know when, but we'll get together then,
You know we'll have a good time then."
My son turned ten just the other day

He said "Thanks for the ball, dad, come on let's play.
Can you teach me to throw?" I said "Not today
I got a lot to do." He said "That's ok."
And he walked away, but his smile never dimmed.
And said "I'm gonna be like him, yeah.
You know I'm gonna be like him."
Well he came from college just the other day

So much like a man I just had to say
"Son, I'm proud of you can you sit for awhile?"
He shook his head and said with a smile
"What I'd really like dad is to borrow the car keys.
See you later. Can I have them please?"
I've long since retired. My son's moved away.

I called him up just the other day.
I said "I'd like to see you if you don't mind."
He said "I'd love to dad if I can find the time.
You see my new job's a hassle and the kids have the flu
But it's sure nice talking to you, dad,
It's been sure nice talking to you."
And as I hung up the phone it occurred to me--

He'd grown up just like me,
My boy was just like me.
And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon

Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you comin' home son?"
"I don't know when, but we'll get together then.
You know we'll have a good time then."
-- Harry Chapin, "Cat's in the Cradle"
I thought about my Dad. He didn't talk much. Never did.
We had never really sat down and talked. We did a little right
after Mom died. But it was uncomfortable. Awkward. Mandatory.
Like something we had to do. Here was two people who weren't
that good at showing their emotions or opening up, trying to let
the other one know how they felt. The only way we could even get
started was after a few beers. We talked a couple of times after
that. Again, after a few beers. During one of the later talks,
after he'd started seeing the woman he later married, he made a
comment that threw me. We never really discussed it. He just
said it in passing and we moved on to other silences. He said he
hoped his kids didn't stay married because he and my Mother had.
He didn't elaborate.
Later, I started thinking. Obviously, he hadn't been happy
the last few years with my Mom. And he had kept it together for
us kids. And he was feeling like maybe he'd set a precedent for
us that he wasn't too comfortable with. Because he knew, even
though we--or at least I--never said anything, that we loved and
respected them both for basically sacrificing their lives for us.
He could see there were cracks in each of his kids' marriages.
And I think he really didn't want to be responsible for our
staying together, just because he had.
As I looked back on it, I was glad to finally hear him be
honest. We all knew they had both felt that way during the
marriage, but they had never said anything where we could hear
it. But his life had changed and he had become much more honest.
And I guess he was feeling he didn't want us to make any of the
same mistakes he had. I understood his concern, but was still
surprised by the honesty. But I think he was giving us far too
little credit. They had both raised their kids to be independent
people with good sense and sound judgment. And, although we
probably patterned some parts of our lives after them, we were as
influenced by what they said as what they did.

So, yes, we loved them for not divorcing while we grew up.
But each of our own decisions to remain married were independent
choices. We each stayed for our own reasons. Some were the
same, others were not. But, for all of us, the key one was
commitment. And we had learned that from our parents. They had
made a commitment to each other, to the kids, and to the family.
They felt the need to honor that. And each of us kids had done
the same. We had made the commitment and were determined to stay
with it, short of major infidelity, abuse, or some crime. And

even then, it probably would have taken some time for us to make
the decision to clear out. We had not, and did not, take our
marriage vows lightly. And we were not about to throw something
so significant away unless, and until, we'd looked at it very
closely and made sure we weren't making a mistake.
Of course, there was always the flip side. It may have been
that the decision to stay was probably due as much to inertia as
anything else. Like our Father, none of us were confrontational.
We didn't like exposing our feelings. So it was often easier
just to let it ride, to let the wound fester inside, instead of
opening it up and airing it out.
I don't know which side of the coin was keeping us together.
But we were. And we were examining the marriage. We were giving
it the benefit of the doubt. We both had problems to deal with.
Problems we had brought to the marriage and problems that had
undermined it. Now we were dealing with each other alone. And
here we were, living alone together.
I think Sandy and I were different from most couples. I was

the one who kept jumping through mental and emotional hoops
trying to figure her out and make some sense of our marriage.
It's usually the woman who spends all the time talking the
relationship to death. With friends and analysts. But it was
me. I wanted the commitment, the intimacy, the definition. She
seemed to just keep cruising along.
I think she thinks I'm a wimp because I don't stand up to
her. I'm inconsistent. Only drinking gives me backbone. But I
just don't feel like fighting her. I don't know if it's worth
the effort anymore. Besides, what does she want? Rambo?
Probably for one long night maybe. I haven't found it yet, but
there must be a happy medium between these two extremes of
manhoodity.
I've said it before and I'll say it again. She needs to
take life less seriously. She needs to laugh with me, not at me.
I mean we are the ultimate source of folly. And if she hasn't
got the sense of proportion to see that, then I guess I don't
have the good sense to keep it going.
The most effective prescription for curing stress was
published over 250 years ago by Jonathon Swift, who wrote: "The
best doctors in the world are Doctor Diet, Doctor Quiet and
Doctor Merryman."
I mean, does anybody remember laughter? It seems we're
taking ourselves much too seriously these days. I used to hear a
lot more of it when I was younger. Now everyone's face seems
frozen in a mortis of mock-seriousness, not mock-turtleness.
Their asses are so tight that their faces are constipated with
righteous indignities. Ooh, you're so severe. So pinched.
Doctors and jesters tell us it takes more muscles to frown than
it does to smile. Is it perplexity or nuclear holocaust?
Lighten up, people. Let the jester out. Let him tell the king
he has no sense of humor.
Someone once said we can never love anyone with whom we've
never laughed. Sharing good times, sharing bad times is one
thing. But sharing a laugh keeps everything in perspective. It
says you and your co-conspiratorial chuckler share the same

vision of life, absurd or whimsical. And most important of all,
that you don't take it too seriously. I must have known this
somehow. I certainly felt that way about life, because I did put
it in our marriage vows. My contribution to the solemn occasion
were the playful admonitions to never lose our sense of humor and
to always maintain our sense of perspective. Two faces of the
same Olympian laugh as far as I was concerned.
So, what was I doing wrong? Why had every relationship I'd
ever been in failed? Why had I always been the one left behind?
Was I thinking about it too much? Too much cerebral and not
enough emotional? Someone said I should challenge her. Maybe I
should challenge her. I shouldn't roll over so easily. I should
stop protecting her. Maybe I should stop sheltering her. Maybe
I lack compassion. I'm too selfish to see what she needs. Maybe
I should be less selfish. Maybe I should just stop thinking
about it. Fuck it. Maybe I should stop worrying about things I
can't control.
I lit my purest candle close to my,

Window hoping it would catch the eye,
Of any vagabond who passed it by,
And I waited in my fleeting house.
Before he came I felt him drawing near,

And as he neared I felt the ancient fear,
That he had come to wound my door and jeer,
And I waited in my fleeting house.
Tell me stories I called to the hobo,

Stories of cold I smiled at the hobo,
Stories of old I knelt to the hobo,
And he stood before my fleeting house.
"No," said the hobo,"No more tales of time."

"Don't ask me now to wash away the grime,"

"I can't come in 'cause it's too high a climb."
And he walked away from my fleeting house.
"Then you be damned!" I screamed to the hobo,

"Leave me alone," I wept to the hobo,
"Turn into stone," I knelt to the hobo,
He walked away from my fleeting house.
-- Tim Buckley, "The Hobo"
CHAPTER 28
Happiness is being able to speak the truth without hurting

anyone.
-- Federico Fellini
Laura's secretary buzzed her. "Mr. Delancy would like to
see you right away, Laura." Though there was no obvious reason
to be concerned, her own guilt and paranoia kicked in. She had
been very careful in her clandestine dealings with Elliot, but
she was sure many more now knew and she wasn't sure about them.
She picked up her legal pad and crossed the expanse of expensive
gray carpet to his corner office. She was surprised to see
Michael Olbrantz sitting upright in one of the chairs. She sat.
He offered her a cup of coffee. She declined and looked over at
Michael, who was looking extremely uncomfortable.
"How's Chloe?"
She knew this conversation was not going to be good. It
never was when Thomas asked her about the everyday events in her
life. Those were things he just really didn't care a thing
about. "Fine. A little slow because of the heat. But it's
getting to me, too."
"Yes. Another 100-degree-plus day might start making
everyone a wee bit crazy." He knocked the ashes off the cigar
butt he was dangling over the ashtray. He shoved a few papers
around, straightening them out on his desk.
Here it comes. He's so predictable. So readable.
"Laura, we've decided to make a change in the caseload."
She crossed her arms and leaned back. The defensive body
language didn't go unnoticed.
"I'm taking you off the Masterson case and assigning it to
Michael."
That's why he was here. She shot him a hard glance. Her
eyes asked him why he had sold out to the other side. He kept
staring out the window. "Care to tell me why?"
"That's why we hired him. He's stronger on environmental
law. And he's handled most of the hearings in Mendota."
She decided to make him twist a little. "But why now? Has
something changed?"
"Yes, it has. His case load has gotten lighter and he's
available."
"Is that all, or is there another problem?" She wants to
know what he knows.
He pauses, takes a puff, and plunges forward. "You realize
that Robert DiGiulio is our biggest account. I'd rather not lose
his business." A significant pause. "He called me yesterday.
He feels we're not ... "

"Meaning I'm not?"
"He feels that we're not representing his best interests on
the Masterson issue. And he'd like a change of attorneys and a
slightly different approach."
"More like a cover-up?"
He doesn't like the direction this conversation is
taking. "No, more like a change in emphasis."
"Because I've uncovered a smoking gun?"
"Knock off the Watergate crap. It's not funny."

"You and your Democratic cronies once thought it was."
"Your father didn't." Again, the veiled threat. She
bristles, surprised and curious about what else he knows. "You're
taking the firm, my firm, onto shaky ground. And our number one
client doesn't like it. And, quite frankly, I don't like it."
"And I don't suppose the recent visits by our esteemed
congressman has anything to do with this?"
"Let's just say they don't know where your allegiances lie.
Nor do I."
"It's getting a little warm in here, isn't it Thomas? I'm
beginning to feel some real heat. Who else is pressuring you?
How about OxyGene? How about the water lobby? Or the Westlands
people? That's a lot of powerful people to disappoint."
His eyes are beginning to smolder. Partly because she's
right. Mostly because he can't, or won't, do anything about it.
Because he will buckle, as he has so many other times.
"It's beginning to look like a lot of people don't want the
word out. I think they've got a word for it. What do they call
that? Conspiracy, I think."
Time to try the reasoned approach. "Laura. You're in way
over your head. You don't know who you're dealing with, or
what."
"And if I refuse?"
Steely. "I would like your cooperation. I would like you
to remain part of this family." She laughs. "But, if you force
me to, I'll ask for your resignation." That brings Michael back.
He glances over to see the color going from her face.

Realizing this kind of baiting brinksmanship won't help her,
or the truth, she decides to change course. "I see. Would you
like me to give Michael all my files?"
Relieved, profoundly, he smiles his broad, winning, best old
country smile. "Yes. Then we can get things back on track."
"Yes," she smiles. "Back the way they used to be. The
files are in my office. I'll have them organized and on his desk
this afternoon."
"That'll be fine. And thanks for being so level-headed,
Laura."
"That's always been one of my finer traits, hasn't it?"
It didn't take long for her to organize the files and clean
out her office. She had them in a box and in her car before
anyone knew that she was gone. She took one last look at the
office before pulling onto "I" Street and leaving this part of
her life behind.
She didn't want to, but she felt she owed her mother an
explanation. It would have been easier to leave without a word.

"Laura, do you have any idea what you're throwing away? Any
idea what's involved here? Any idea!" Bordering on hysteria.
"Only the most successful career you'll ever have."
"And the most advantageous, socially acceptable
affiliation?"
"Don't be smart with me, young lady. You know I care about
you."
"I'd say you care more about what your friends at the
club will say." The slap rings sharply against her cheek.
"No! I'm sorry Laura! I didn't mean it. I couldn't help
myself."
"How many years have you waited for that, Mother? How long
have you kept it inside?"
Her mother quickly lights yet another cigarette and draws it
deep, looking for shelter, a break.
"I'm doing this because it's what I believe. Not what you
consider acceptable. I didn't want to hurt Thomas. I didn't want to
let him down. He's done too much for me. But the man who took me
off that case today was a man I don't know anymore. Any more than I
think I know you now." Her mother's back is all she has to speak to.
Then, very slowly and deliberately, Laura
continues. "I'm doing this for me. For once, I'm doing it for
me. For what I think is right."
Her Mother, back still turned, isn't satisfied. "How can
you associate with those people? Media people.
Environmentalists. Revolutionary riff-raff. They're no better
than terrorists."
"Then I guess I'm a terrorist, too. You asked me if I know
what was involved? Do you have any idea what's involved?"
Her mother takes another drag and tightens her shoulders.
"I really don't think you do. It's conspiracy. It's
cover-up. My God, Mother, it may even be murder. And all for
money." There's almost a reaction, imperceptible. "Some people
may have died because of what these people have done. Borba,
Thomas, DiGiulio. Maybe even Billie."
"Why do you defend him? He was good for nothing."

"At least he tried to tell the truth. Very few of your
better class of friends would have done that."
"He's gone. Let it be."
"No, not ever again."
"I can't help you then."
"You won't help me."
"If that's the way you see it."
"It is." Thinking out loud, she crosses over the line into
the unspoken. "And I just have to wonder whose side you're on.
I have heard some things in the past few weeks that make me
wonder about your relationship with Robert DiGiulio." Her mother
grasps the window ledge as she turns. Laura can't tell whether
shock or anger is winning the war of her emotions. Her need to
know has pushed her to the abyss and she needs to look inside.
"What happened between you and him and my Father?" She's
beginning to see the scenario. "Did you do something that
compromised him? That forced him to sell out to DiGiulio?" Her
Mother's reaction is beginning to say more than she wants to

hear. "I can't believe this. I don't want to believe this."
She steps toward her Mother, grabs her, and begins shaking her.
"You couldn't have."
"It's none of your business. You'll never understand. It
was between your father and myself. I never wanted to hurt him."
With some of the story at least out in the open, Laura
reeled between shock and vindication. She was right in her
decision and it was time to play it out. "I am disappointed.
Father would have backed me. He would have seen the justice in
it. He always did."
Her mother's shock finally streaked into anger. The old
battle was out in the open again. Through clenched teeth, "Do
not, I repeat, do not use your Father to justify your actions.
You can't hide behind him. Despite what you may thinking of me
now, I loved him. He was an honorable man. He would have fought
the good fight. For what was right! He would not have sided
with ... (sputtering) ... with anarchists!"
"You forget. He was a rebel once. One of the turks. He
fought the established order of things. And he would have stood
right here, beside me."
"I think you should leave now."
"I think you're right."
The door shut slowly behind Laura, closing off yet another
part of her life. She glanced back, one last time, only to see
her Mother pick up the phone. Sounding the alarm.
We stood along the long wall of the field office, reviewing
the storyboard sequence--Devereaux, Pat, and I--when Laura came

in loaded down with boxes and files. To no one in particular,
she said, "The rest are in the car. There's been a slight
change."
In Mendota, tensions between local officials, west side farm
families, the environmentalists, and the production crew were
getting uncomfortably tense. One afternoon, about twenty local
roughnecks, mostly teenagers, blocked the main street and kept
the production vans from leaving town. One waved a pistol in the
air. A pickup truck peeled out in front of another van as it
tried to leave and then crept at five miles per hour in front of
it. The sheriff's department, finally and reluctantly, dispersed
the locals.
Late one night, a free-lance grip pulled into town. He'd
been sent to Sacramento to purchase some expendables. His van
gave him away. As he passed the local honky tonk, five or six of
the young locals partying there, yelled at the truck, calling him
a fag, and flipping him off as he drove by. He pulled into a
convenience store to buy a pack of cigarettes. When he came out,
the insults, fueled by alcohol, had turned into dares that became
threats. The grip was part of that other world that didn't suit
these flatland cowboys. This drunken gang of kids couldn't
change much, but they could make someone pay. And they did.
They jumped the grip, pinning his arms, and pulled him behind
the truck and out of the store's lights. He was punched several
times, then dropped to the ground, where he was kicked in the
sides and in the head.

He woke up bleeding from the ears, nose, and mouth. When he
was released from intensive care, bandaged but coherent, he
didn't waste any time before heading straight back to San
Francisco.
The sheriff's department told me they would look into the
incident. They figured it was just some kids blowing off a
little steam on a hot summer's night. I had to accept their
explanation because I still had miles of stuff to shoot. Next up
was Kevin Tyler, a toxicologist from the Stanford Research

Institute--SRI. We shot the interview standing in a field near
the offices of the Marriposa Combine.
It's very hot and dry and flat around here. Much of the
ground is covered with dried clods of parched dirt. The rows
above the furrows are salt-encrusted. The ground at the bottom
of is parched, like huge cracked lips, jagged in their thirst.
Kick it with your feet and it breaks into chunks of dried clay,
suitable for throwing. And that's what some of the crew was
doing to beat the heat and the boredom as we nailed down the
details of the interview. While a thin veil of dusty silt
settled on the dark blue production van, I could easily see how
people could get crazy from the heat.
DISSOLVE:

THEME #18: Koto/Single Flute Theme
WILLIAM TYLER stands in a flat, dry, open field. The cotton plants
are just beginning to come up. In the background, we can
see farmworker hand-spraying.
WILLIAM TYLER
The incident involving Jimmie Quon is not an
isolated one. There was a case last summer.
About 100 or so farmworkers
suffered chemical burns while working in a
field that had just been sprayed with
miticide. Then, last July, a 32-year-old man
with a heart condition. He collapsed and
died after he was ordered to return to a
field that had been sprayed with a highly
toxic pesticide.
136 MEDIUM SHOT

The EPA has set specific time periods after

which workers can go back into the field to
work. Time needed to reduce
the risk of exposure. Unfortunately, the
times are not always followed. Many times
the farmer will convince the EPA to shorten
the return period so workers can go back into
the field sooner.
Shot of farmworkers in same field spraying crops.
NARRATOR (v.o.)
It's obvious that by shortening the return
period, the farmer can get more work done and
get the crops to market faster. So the
farmers, with the consent of the EPA, are
really putting a price on the heads of these
workers. All in the name of profit. If the
grower hadn't needed his crops sprayed so he
could make
money, the workers wouldn't have been in the
fields. Victims of pesticide misuse and a
regulatory system unable to prevent it
because of bureaucracy, money, and influence.
138 EXT. FARM - ESTABLISHING SHOT
Shots of chemicals in garage and being loaded on trucks for

delivery to the fields.
Who's to blame? Partly the EPA. Because it

hasn't got around to checking up on Dinoseb
and the dozens of other products that pose
similar risks. And they still do not require
the manufacturer to put a warning on the
label. And the owner.
For not protecting his employees. For not
maintaining his equipment in good working
order. And for not requiring that his
workers wear protective clothing.
Everybody in town knew what the crew was shooting. Word got
around very quickly. They also knew it could mean their

livelihood if the wrong things were said or implied. They had
watched "60 Minutes." They knew that truth was relative. It
could be told any way the camera wanted. They liked their quiet
life. Liked their isolation. They didn't trust these outsiders.
And they were afraid. And with enough alcohol and bold talk, the
fear became anger, the anger action.
There was only one restaurant in the small town outside
Mendota where the crew was staying. It doubled as the local
tavern. It's where the boys went after working from six to six
to knock back a few cool ones and talk rodeo, baseball, women,
and cars. Anything but their day-to-day drudgery. Now they had
a new topic of conversation. "All them 'Frisco fags."
One group of young Cat drivers, employees of Marriposa,
seemed to be drinking more heavily than usual. Another man,
someone not part of their group--a large man--sat in the shadows.
He was buying the beers with Tequila backs. And talking. He'd
say something and one of the boys would turn to look at whoever
he was talking about. At one point, all three turned to look at

Tyler, who sat alone drinking his coffee. They turned back to
the man in silhouette, who gestured for another round before he
went out the back door. The drivers finished their drinks and
followed him.
When Tyler left the cafe, he left alone. He didn't feel
like staying to have a few with the crew. He was tired and he
was leaving the next day for Palo Alto. He couldn't understand
how these people could maintain the pace they did. Massive
amounts of carbohydrates all day. Standing or sitting for hours.

A big dinner, too much to drink, then to bed at midnight and up
at six. Young, he thought. Lots of energy. More than I've got.
Passing an electronics store, he lingered for a while,
watching a "Monday Night Baseball" game. Mets and Cubs. Always
the same teams, he thought. The arrogance of the East Coast
media. Both could be last place teams and it would still be the
national telecast. In the glass, he saw someone light a
cigarette across the street, in the alley beside the hotel. He
had heard about the incident with the grip, so he was a little
jumpy. He felt a cold sweat start. Guess I'll take the long way
around, he thought. As he moved off down the wooden walkway, he
tried to appear nonchalant. But he kept glancing over at the man
in the alley. As he started to cross the same alley, directly
across the street, his eyes were on the lone figure when
someone's calloused hand covered his mouth and a pair of thick
arms wrapped his. He was much too old to fight this.
The two men in black Cat hats drug Tyler behind the
buildings. They hit him once. They stuffed him into a feed bag
and tossed him in the back of the truck. By then the third man
had joined them.
"This canary won't be singin' for a while," he laughed.
They drove out to the river, parked the truck, and dumped
Tyler at the foot of a cottonwood tree.
"Time to teach this egg-head fag some lessons about local
hospitality."
They didn't even bother to take the sack off. They just
kept kicking him and hitting him with their shiny new baseball
bats as he rolled along the ground, closer to the river.
"Look at me," one slurred. "I'm Jose Canseco." He took a
stride and grand-slammed into the sack.
They were too drunk to tell how hard, or how many times,
they hit him. When they were too tired to continue, they kicked
the bundle one last time. It rolled to the edge of the river and
stopped.
The flashing red of the emergency light whipped across the
faces of the crew as they watched Tyler being lifted into the
ambulance. His shirt was off, his sides tightly bandaged. The
blood had dried where it had dripped from his nose. He still had
bits of twig and brush in this dirty hair. He was aware, but
barely. He weakly gave the thumbs up as they slid the door shut.
At the edge of the crowd, no longer hidden in the shadows and
smoke of the bar, stood Jon Henry Miller. He looked around for
the drivers. Not seeing them, he quietly left town.
"They almost killed the old man. They weren't supposed to

be so enthusiastic."
"They never are."
"They were just supposed to scare the shit out of him."
"I guess they beat it out of him, instead." He smiled that
dirty smile through crooked teeth.
"Anybody see you?"
"No. I left before Western or any of the others who know me
got there."
"The boys know who you are?"

"No. They thought I was part of the crew. Just someone who
didn't like fags anymore than they did."
"Can they identify you?"
"No. I sat in the dark. Kept my face covered. They were
too fucked up to remember anyway."
"This could be embarrassing?"
"Embarrassing my ass! It could be my butt!"
"And it will be if they find out. I guarantee it."
Jon Henry looked a little cut down to size as he stepped
out the back door of the white limousine and pulled away in his
truck.
CHAPTER 29
In my little town
I grew up believing
God keeps His eye on us all
And He used to lean upon me
As I pledged allegiance to the wall
Lord I recall
My little town
In my little town
I never meant nothin'
I was just my father's son
Saving my money
Dreaming of glory
Twitching like a finger
On the trigger of a gun
Leaving nothing but the dead and dying
Back in my little town
-- Paul Simon & Art Garfunkel, "My Little Town"
We were all still a little shaken by the beating. The truth
was beginning to hurt. I was telling Laura what I knew, as she
was settling into the office. Though she and I had been friends
now for a number of years, and though I had come to her before
for legal advice, we had never worked together as colleagues on
any kind of project. So this was a first and an entirely new
situation. We respected each other enough, and trusted each
other enough, to know we could work well together. But now that
she'd come over, something was bothering her; something she
needed cleared up right away, before we moved ahead.
"Travis, what we're doing is important. As important as
anything I've ever done."
"Same here."
"So we probably both agree that we don't want anything to
jeopardize its success. Anything that might compromise its

credibility."
He starts to smile. "You want to know if I plan to pull a
Geraldo Rivera? If I'm doing this only for the story, only for
the glory. Regardless of who gets hurt, or who gets
compromised?"
"Can you blame me?"
"No. Not if we're going to work together." I pause,
thinking. "So? Is it a team effort, or a solo shot?"
"Honest?"
"Always."
"When Elliot first called me and I started doing background
on it, I did initially think about myself. How I could benefit
personally. How I could even the score for a lot of things
people did to me and my family over the years. Things your
'people' did to my 'people.'"
"Please. Not the 'class' struggle."
"How would you know? It was never an issue for you. It was
all there. Spread out like a banquet."

"Oh, the cliches. You know me better than that. I hope."
"Yes, now I do. But you are definitely different. Just
like your Father."
"I thank you for that. But what did you hope to do? What
did you expect to accomplish?"
"I figured if I could bring down just one of the 'big boys,'
one of the ruling class, the score would be even."
"So, revenge with a little envy and disappointment thrown
in for seasoning."
"Why not? Besides, I honestly wanted to make an impact. I
wanted to make a difference. I even wanted a little notoriety
among the people I grew up with. What's wrong with that?"
"The conquering hero. Returning home in a blaze of glory."
She smiles. He does too because the truth can be humorous. "And
now?"
"Now, it's just to make a difference. To right a wrong.
There is still some revenge involved. I won't lie to you. But
now it's not for the past. It's because a friend of mine is
gone, perhaps dead." That blind-sides her because she was trying
to forget him. "Because people I know have been hurt. And more
will be until the truth gets out and they're stopped."
"That's ambitious."
"And optimistic."
"So, let's start by telling the story first."
DISSOLVE:

THEME #19: "Cool, Clear Water"
DISSOLVE:
139 EXT. RIVER - ESTABLISHING SHOT
TIM PALMER wades knee-deep in the middle of a shallow rapids.
TIM PALMER
There's this thing about flowing water.
People love it. Maybe it's because we're 75
percent water ourselves. Maybe it stems from
a heritage of gills and webbed feet.
140 CLOSE UP
PALMER dips his hand into the rushing water. CAMERA follows as he
lifts it into the air. Silhouetted against the sun, the water
streams from his hand.
The naturalist Loren Eiseley once said, "If

there is magic on this planet, it is
contained in water."
GROUND LEVEL SHOT of CARL POPE on levee bank of Sacramento River.
CARL POPE
No longer will we be able to count on a
guaranteed supply of water. Of unlimited
quantity and high quality, at a price that is
very close to scot-free.
CAMERA PANS left to reveal housing development under construction.
No longer can we build wherever we want,

confident that if the water isn't immediately
available, we can just pipe
it in from somewhere else.
142 EXT. DAM - ESTABLISHING SHOT
AERIAL FLY-BY of Folsom Dam and Folsom Lake.
POPE (v.o.)
And no longer can we continue to 'solve' our
water problems by merely finding new sources
to exploit, new streams to
dam.
Helicopter swoops down to water level almost dipping CAMERA into

the water.
"The Global 2000 Report" paints a fairly

bleak picture of the world that is just
around the corner. It predicts that water
shortages will become more frequent. And
their effects will be more widespread and
more severe.
Helicopter skims along top of water.
The notion of water as a free good, available

in essentially limitless quantities, will
have disappeared
throughout much of the world.
DEFOCUS CAMERA.
DISSOLVE
143 EXT. WATER - CLOSE UP
DEFOCUSED ECU of water. REFOCUS and ZOOM back to frame water

fountain in front of Metropolitan Water Department in Los
Angeles.
It's a terrifying prospect. Those who

promote technology as a magical solution for
all our problems may someday successfully
convince the policy makers that every facet
of human life and the environment can be
conveniently figured
into a cost-benefit ratio.
144 EXT. WASHINGTON - ESTABLISHING SHOT
Shots of homeless against backdrop of reflecting pool beneath

Washington Monument in D.C.
In such a scenario, clean water for the poor

and minorities will somehow not be as
important as clean water for the well-to-do
and white.
GROUND LEVEL SHOT of field being irrigated.
Agriculture's need for water will somehow

outweigh the right of a stream to run free.
146 INT. LAB - MEDIUM SHOT
Table-top DOLLY of scientists testing water in lab.
Scientists and bureaucrats will suddenly

discover that a certain predictable amount of
cancer in the water supply is
cost-efficient and tolerable in our growing,
vibrant society.
147 EXT. CITY STREET - ESTABLISHING SHOT
CARL POPE walks along sidewalk in a nice suburban area. Behind

him we see rows of nicely manicured lawns being watered. CAMERA
DOLLIES with him as he walks.
CARL POPE
We know, or should know, that the era of

cheap water, like the era of cheap energy, is
over.
CAMERA ends DOLLY and ZOOMS to follow as POPE crosses a lawn and
kneels beside a water faucet.
It was nice while it lasted. This assumption

that a turn of the faucet handle would
produce pure water in boundless quantity.
But that time is gone. Economics will
control the
future of water. And those with money will
have it.
He turns the faucet handle and there is no water, just a few drops.
CAMERA ZOOMS into an ECU of the dripping water.
John Anthony Borba flew into Santa Barbara on his way to a
fund-raiser in Los Angeles. It was time to stoke the fires; to
crank it up a notch to counter the publicity that the beating in
Mendota had caused. Both John Anthony and Santiago were
beginning to show signs of battle fatigue. Tony's anger was just
a sign of his frustration.
"You know what's so hilarious about this project? It's a
collaboration of a bunch of goddamned 'do-gooders'. Naive,
sixties-type revolutionaries. They think they can change the
world with a song and a few heartfelt images."
"A classic case of a little knowledge being a dangerous
thing. Long on fiction and short on facts."
"They really don't know who they're going after. Just that
they've got to get them."
"The establishment, they say. Just like before."

"The problem is they have no idea what they're talking
about. They're taking a little surface knowledge, adding some
transitions, linking unfounded accusations and innuendos, and
using the power of the media to present it as truth."
"They have good intentions."
"And those good intentions are getting people damaged. It's
irresponsible journalism. It's misinformed, prejudicial."
"Is it any different than what we're doing, and have been
doing?"
"At least we've got politicians and public officials behind
us."
"They say they've got public opinion. And if they can get
the people to take time to look a little more closely at us and
our affairs, they will have succeeded. We certainly don't need
the scrutiny. That always means money."
"But we know the masses better than he does."
"I'd say he's done pretty well predicting what they like."
"For entertainment. For fantasy, not reality. I don't

think they'll listen to him. I don't think they'll take anything
he does very seriously."
"Let's make sure."

CHAPTER 30
We do what only lovers can ... make a gift out of necessity.

-- Leonard Cohen
You have to wake up a virgin every morning.

-- Jean-Louis Barrault
The Ralston Water Festival began in 1910 in celebration of
the founding of the Ralston Irrigation District. It's been held
over the July 4th weekend every year since. It was a great
party, combining the best of Independence Day, county fairs, and
a company picnic. There was a parade, a carnival, floral
displays, crafts, food booths, music, a softball game, and other
contests for "children of all ages" as the carny barker liked to
remind us. I looked forward to it each year, hoping I could
finally win the over-35 three-legged race or the horse with a
clock in its belly; the one I had spent five years and nearly a
hundred dollars trying to win at the carnival concession that
combined pinball and horse-racing.
The production had shut down for the week-end and most
everyone had dispersed for the three-day weekend. I stayed, and
so did Pat, although the long weekend would have allowed him a
quick trip home. Sandy decided to stay away, not surprisingly,
so I invited Laura to join us.
I picked her up and we met Pat at the parade, which started
at City Hall, on the eastern edge of town, and wound its way up
Dewey Avenue and then down John Muir Boulevard to the river and
Legion Park. The parade included local merchants advertising
their business, Laotian and Cambodian societies, Hispanic

equestrians, Shriners, and car clubs. Local notables included
the queens of fruit and flower, as well as councilmen and local
mayors. This year's marshal was John Anthony Borba.
The day was so hot the black asphalt was molten. Car seats
were too hot to sit on and the air didn't move at all. But there
was to much fun to be had to let old sol slow you down. It was a
day of too much chicken and too many beers. Having failed at
winning the race or the horse, I hit the bricks. I was one tired
boy. Pat and Laura decided to stick around for the fireworks. I
said adios and cast my best sidelong glance at Pat, then said to
Laura, "I suppose you'll find a ride home?" He just gave me that
crooked "What the fuck?" smile. I packed up my sun-fried brain
and headed for the parking lot.
As the sun began to drop, they spread out a blanket on a
rise near the road. The river swirled below. Most of the
festivities had moved to the main hall--where the dance would
be--and the grandstands--where the kids waited for the
pyrotechnics. Pat lay on his back, staring up through the trees

at the deep purple sky and the scatter of stars. Laura sat with
her knees tightly held under her chin. They both felt good,
actually relaxed for the first time in weeks. The wine and beer
had helped. But it was probably the easiness and security just
as much. Whatever it was, Pat reached over suddenly and touched
her back. She flinched, then shivered, before looking over.
They were both running on impulse now. She leaned down and
kissed him. He pulled her on top of him and they kissed until
they couldn't breath. She pushed him away and rolled off onto
her back. He reached for her again, she stood and began brushing
the dead grass off her back.
"I think we'd better go." The fear was back. She just
didn't trust herself.
Pat pulled out of the lot as the fireworks erupted behind
them. He could see them reflecting on her face.
He walked her to the front door to say goodnight and make
sure she was safe. Like most of us, he wasn't too good at this
anymore. And especially now, since he'd been married and out of
the game for so long. We were always afraid we'd blow it, so we
were never aggressive at that critical moment. If the green
light was on, we'd never see it. And we certainly never ran a
red. And yet, he wanted her to know he was interested. He
wanted to be more than a colleague. It was enough that it was a
bad idea, but the high schooler was also toying with his resolve.
They stood in the doorway We stood in the doorway, like
kids, waiting for the other to make a move so they wouldn't be
embarrassed if it was the wrong one. He took her hand and

stepped forward to kiss her on the cheek. Innocent, chaste, good
friends. They hugged, but he didn't let go. She didn't seem to
care. Impulsively, he put both hands on her soft butt and pulled
her towards him. He flashed on proms and dances with chaperones
and dancing so close you could feel her crack below the layers of
skirt and little girl panty-hose. As you'd dance, providing the
teacher didn't come by with a ruler to separate you, you'd dance
closer, working tighter, until you could feel yourself wedged
into that crack. It was called "dry fucking" and he was doing it
now, standing still.
They still hadn't kissed. Then she pulled him just inside
the door, closing it, and lifted one leg up and pressed against
him. He lifted her skirt, reaching inside her panties, down her
butt, and into her cunt from behind. Back-door man. They
finally kissed. Tooth to tooth, tongue to tongue. He followed
her inside and into the bedroom. There was no time for slow
undressing. He wanted to look just for a moment, as she stood
there, street light on her hair, flat stomach, ripe breasts.
She lay down on her back and he lay on top of her.
Desperately naked, he slipped off to one side and held her back
and butt against him, kissing her neck and ears and hair. He
cupped her breast, then brushed back and forth lightly over the
nipples until they became taut. He lifted her top leg, and with
her still backed up to me, he began rubbing his prick against her
ass and cunt. She was warm and softly furry. To break the
rhythm, he slipped inside of her, deep, and then out again.
Playing. Taunting. He slid down her side, as she lay flat on

her back again. He began kissing her breasts and nipples.
Biting and sucking, twirling his tongue slowly around and around
the nipple. He started finger-fucking her with one hand, while
the other worked up and down between the back of her cunt and her
asshole.
Celibate for too long, they were both too far gone to
continue foreplay. He asked her to turn over on her stomach and
raised her up on her hands and knees, while his fingers continued
massaging. On his knees behind her, he started rubbing her butt

and teasing her. Slowly, he slid inside. She moaned and caught
her breath. He pushed easily until it felt like he was touching
the back of her stomach. He began sliding in and out and she
began moving with him. He reached for one of her breasts as it
dangled free and reached under and along her belly, rubbing her
as they moved. She reached back with one hand and felt him inside
her. The faster they moved, the higher her butt lifted into the air,
until they were banging hard against each other and pounding inside.
She fell forward, face-down, biting the cotton sheets as he collapsed
on top of her, heavy breath against her neck and hair.
There is a character, the gypsy's daughter, in Tennessee
Williams' play "Camino Real." She is a whore. But she feels, in
her heart, that with each moonrise, she is a virgin. And, in the
morning, the summer sun is an optimist. It makes all the world
bright and innocent, safe and right. As it poured through the
breakfast room window, it was very warm and comforting. Patrick
felt like a lizard on a rock, sunning himself and waiting. Laura
kissed his upturned face, warm from the light. She sat down
across from him and smiled. The sun, her face, the breakfast,
even the paper. It was all very domestic. And he loved it. At
that moment in time, reality was on vacation. There was no
death, no threats, no wife, no nothing.
"You know how easy this is?," Laura asked over the top of
her coffee cup.
"I can guess." He looked back, then away.
"I'm sure I'm getting way ahead of myself, but do you know
how impossible this would have been if you'd been someone else?
If you weren't involved with what I'm doing?"
"You know it usually works the other way?"
"No kidding. It still might. Just ask my ex." Reality
peeked in through the back door. "Or my mother. She'll think
I'm crazy. Again."
"Aren't parents wonderful? I wonder what my father would
think of all this? If I was talking to him."
"How long's it been?"
"Thirteen years. Ever since I married Diane." He tries to
reel the words back in, but they're gone. They're on the table.
"Sorry."
Laura looks down at them and then out the window. The sun
hits her full in the face and she squints. "Why?"
"Ask your mother. Is she so different?"
She reaches across and touches his hand. "Right now, it's
just you and me. Let's get through this battle and face the
reality later. We're going to need all the energy and support we
can get."
He nods and drinks his coffee, she looks hard at her
reflection in the window. Too many expectations. And not enough
compromises. That's why marriages don't last anymore. People
are too ready to bail out and blame it on irreconcilable
differences. That's what Laura was thinking as she wondered if
it would last, or turn bad like the rest. She and Pat really
seemed to have something going; a real strong beginning. But
then ... Maybe she was overreacting.
Laura's first and only husband was handsome, selfish and

uncaring. The type of man all women seem to alternately idolize
and despise. They had dated in high school, married in college.
The couple voted most likely to marry. Once out of college, and
after a few years working in San Francisco, he convinced her to
return to Ralston. With comfortable jobs and a cozy house, too
few friends and too much family, the marriage started to show the
cracks that had been transparent in San Francisco. He embarked
on a number of affairs and, eventually, left her. She got the
house. He got his freedom. She got the cat. He got the
friends. Thankfully, there were no children. It made the
divorce much less complicated, though no less painful. They
still saw each other around town and attended the same
professional and social functions. But they'd cut each other
pretty deep, so their interaction remained pretty business-like.
Ralston was a romantic desert; a vast wasteland for a single
woman seeking eligible men. If they were the least bit
intelligent or attractive, they were probably married. Sometimes
they were too young, other times too arrogant. Most of the time
she didn't want to be around them. Sure there would never be
anyone for her, and not really caring anyway, she became an
emotional desperado. She was determined to get over it and to
have a damn good time in the process. She drank too much.
Started smoking again. Stayed out too late. Slept with anyone
who smiled and offered a kind word because, as the song says,
"The boys all get sexier at closing time."
Before she strayed too far into the sexual DMZ, her sister
and a few close friends convinced her to take the job in

Washington. It was good for her career, but no better for her
emotional life. When she returned to Ralston, she finally went
into therapy and tried to work through her feelings of rejection
and worthlessness. The sessions were going well. She seemed to
be regaining control. Then she met Billie. And then, ...
"Typical," she thought, cruel as it was. "I finally find someone
and he disappears."
And now there was this man sitting at her breakfast table.
And what's worse, he was a colleague. Love and careers don't
seem to mix any better than money and family. In both cases, it
was always better to keep business business and friends friends.
She knew that, but she was attracted to Pat anyway, despite her
own cynical misgivings. Maybe she was kidding herself, but it
really felt possible. Maybe she was just seeing things; reading
intentions into his actions. After all, she was still on the
rebound, probably too shattered and damaged to know any better.
Besides, like so many other times, he was married. And they were
working together. And it doesn't get much worse than that.

She thought back to that first meeting, when she came to
offer her help to Elliot. And the second time, at the field
office in Ralston. There was a disinterest the first time.
The second was more of a fencing match. The physical attraction
was there. But the distrust, the territoriality, and the fear
was stronger. He was courteous, even chivalrous. And he
actually held the chair for her. Which she refused, sitting in
the one next to it. She was flattered, but cautious. He smiled.
She got angry. Then confused. Then the meeting started.

After that, she spent some time reviewing her reaction and
the emotions that had caused her to withdraw. She had always
been self-sufficient, free-thinking, independent. All her life.
Most people considered that one of her strengths. It had been a
struggle to maintain her self-worth with her first husband, but
they had both survived, with a few nicks and bruises. She
honestly felt relationships should be equal. Partners. Two
people striding through life arm-in-arm. But that attitude
hadn't been real successful. Not for her; not for most of her
friends. So maybe it was time to try something else. Turn back
the pages. Consider trying it the way it was before she'd taken
up arms in the "sexual revolution."
Of course her mother wouldn't be anywhere near supportive on
this one. Especially not now. At least he was from a good
family. That was important to her mother. Hell, the man could
be a felon, but if he had the right lineage any indiscretion
could be excused.
Laura could rationalize everything away except for the fact

that he was married. And happily, so it seemed. What the hell.
No pain, no gain. The biological clock was ticking away. Time
was running out. There was a certain desperation in the air.
She wanted a family and she refused to be a single parent. She
was looking for a man. And this one had all the qualifications.
The assault force began working its way into the building as
people started arriving for work. They looked and acted like
everyone else driving in from the outskirts of Sacramento:

lifers working in the service of the Golden State. Instead of
memos and apples, their briefcases and lunch bags were carrying
plastic gloves, walkie-talkies, tranquilizer guns, and assault
tools. Security wasn't too tight because there really wasn't
anything of real value in the building. As the morning faded,
they took up their positions. Some to protect the rear, others
to prepare for the assault. Their target continued to hum
mindlessly and efficiently one floor below.
The Operations Control Center is closed to the public, but
it's easy to get to because there's no reason to suspect anyone
would want to. But it had become a symbol to these trespassers.
A symbol of the power elite who controlled this vital resource.
And the ones who didn't. The ones denied this resource. The
ones now preparing to make this symbolic strike. They wanted the
public and their elected officials to know they were angry,
frustrated, and serious.
The first tear gas canister filled the entryway, allowing
the twenty men of the primary assault force to easily overcome

the few employees on duty during the lunch hour. It was obvious
the men heading for the control room knew where they were going.
They began punching up codes to change the flow of water
throughout the entire state. They weren't going to waste any.
Just going to move it around a little. Let someone other than
the members of The League get the water. By holding back just
enough, they could destroy many of the crops sitting in the
fields, thirsting. If reason wouldn't work, maybe economic and
ecologic terrorism would.

They were gone before the alarm was even sounded. They
melted back into the faceless phalanx of civil servants. By the
time order was restored, millions of dollars of this precious
natural resource had been siphoned off and untold millions of
crops had been destroyed. The Combine would not be shipping its
surplus cotton right away, nor would DiGiulio harvest the
expected tonnages of grapes.

CHAPTER 31
The basis of optimism is sheer terror.

-- Oscar Wilde
Sleep faster. We need the pillows.

-- Yiddish Proverb
Elliot heard the news on KCBS on his way home.
"This bulletin just in from Sacramento. Our state capitol
bureau chief has the details."
"We have just been informed that an unidentified group of
men stormed the Operations Control Center of the State Water
Project near the capitol building this afternoon. The intruders
gagged and bound the employees and re-routed the flow of water
throughout the state. In a pre-recorded videotape communique, a
group calling itself "the John Muir Brigade" has claimed
responsibility."
It felt like someone had just punched him in the stomach.
He pulled off the road and turned up the volume.
"To our knowledge, this is the first recorded incident of
'environmental terrorism' to occur in the United States. We
should have more details later in the hour."
He wasn't sure what to do next. Or even if he wanted to do
anything. Maryanne had told him many times. He just didn't want
to believe her. He was too naive, too trusting. He always gave
people the benefit of the doubt until it was too late. People
were always taking advantage of him, manipulating him,
controlling him. And they had just done it again. They had used
him to get media exposure.

He took refuge in what he knew. He thought of Robert
Redford in "The Candidate." Redford had played an idealist
manipulated by the reality of politics. Someone whose ideals
were very slowly compromised, until they were no longer
recognizable. He had lost his way. Lost the truth. Lost the
focus of his vision.
Elliot wasn't about to let that happen to him. Would he be
compromised, or would he maintain his vision, disassociate
himself, and continue the quest? Ironic. He had become what he
beheld. He had become one of the mythological heroes he had made
so many movies about. He was at the crisis point of his own
journey. The supreme ordeal was at hand, staring him straight in
the face.
While Elliot felt betrayed, the rest of us were shocked and
concerned. Especially me. I had given them the opening. It was
this kind of maverick behavior we had tried hard to discourage,
because people might think we were behind it. And that could
irreparably damage our progress and credibility.
The other side obviously thought the same because it didn't
take them long to let their opinion be known. In a video press
release, they linked the terrorists directly to us, claiming
that, as fellow-travelers and "card-carrying" members of the
counter-culture, we had the money and the motive to promote this
kind of behavior.
Elliot was subdued as we put the finishing touches to our
response statement. He startled me.

"Looks like someone's trying to turn the tables."
"The John Muir Brigade?"
"It's a 1988 version of the original Vigilance Committees.
With a twist. Back in 1850 and 1856, the first Vigilantes were
organized to stop crime and anarchy. You know why?"
"Because people were getting killed."
"Partly. But it was really because it was bad for business.
The Vigilance Committees were made up of merchants and land
owners."
"Crime in the streets didn't help cash in the coffers."
"Some of the time, the merchants used the vigilantes as
their own weapon against organized labor. For a period of time,
they were the law. They took over the duties of government,
defied the Governor, held trials, and had their own army. The
vigilante tradition is an important part of the California
businessman's heritage."
"And it probably wouldn't take them long to resurrect the
committee if anarchy threatened."

"Not long at all. Except someone beat them to the punch.
In reverse."
"Guess we'll have to start running twice as hard now just to
stay in the game."
"The other side certainly won't let the media or public
forget it right away. They'll keep hammering away."
"Who's to say they didn't set it up just to pin it on us?"
"I think it's time to turn up the heat. I was willing to
settle for showing the public what was happening without naming
any names. But that's changed now. Time to go for the throat."
That night, excerpts from the terrorist communique led into
every national and local news broadcast, as everyone began
exploring and explaining the newest pop culture buzz-word:
"environmental terrorism".
It was becoming a familiar scene. The old, iron, ice-making
apparatus framing the hi-tech conference table. But the numbers
around the table had grown considerably. Laura was official. So
was Michael Olbrantz, who had followed her lead shortly after the
encounter with Delancy. They sat there, discussing past cases
and reviewing precedents, looking for the hook they needed.
Laura and Michael had done most of the digging, but they had asked
Carl Pope, Marc Reisner, and Tim Palmer--those who knew and might
soon be on the stand--to contribute their accumulated hours of
research and experience. They all knew there would be a suit
brought and a court battle, or at least an injunction to keep the
program from airing. Walsh, Devereaux, and I were there to make

sense of the legalese first-hand.
--Western "Why is it that none of the major chemical
companies, or farming corporations, have ever been prosecuted for
polluting our drinking water?"
--Laura "Successful prosecution requires expensive lawyers
and experts. Volumes of scientific research and information.
And it always ends up in court. In protracted, burdensome, and
expensive litigation."
--Walsh "So, justice is only for the few who can pay the
high costs of pursuing a case to the end?"
--Michael "Or at least presenting a credible threat of
doing so."
--Devereaux "So it's an endless cycle. To get the rich,
you have to be as wealthy as they are?"
--Laura "The problem is, even if you have the money, you
might not win. For many kinds of medical and economic damage,
current legal doctrine makes it virtually impossible for those
injured by toxic waste or chemical contamination to collect for
their damages."
--Devereaux "Haven't some independent farmers and some of
the farming combines been taken to court? Sued for negligence?
for willfully destroying a natural resource? I mean, it's not
any different than cutting down redwoods or spilling oil off our
coasts."
--Pope "Yes, people have been taken to court. But the
results haven't been encouraging."
--Walsh "High-paid corporate lawyers outgunning

bureaucrats?"
--Laura "Partly that. But mostly, it's that environmental
law is still uncharted territory. And groundwater protection is
a relatively new environmental issue."
--Michael "There is no developed body of law, established
institutions, or formal administrative policies and procedures.
Laws, institutions, and policies are developing at the federal
level and in many states. But at varying rates and degrees."
--Laura "What about the superfund? Any grounds for

recovery there?"
--Carl Pope "Well, the superfund law of liability is
pretty weak when it comes to the chances for financial recovery
for those who suffered."
--Marc Reisner "Especially in those cases where no private
party can be found to bear the liability."
--Carl Pope "That's right. The final version of the
superfund prohibits most victims from recovering damages from the
fund."
--Marc Reisner "Except maybe for costs of relocation and
water-supply replacement."
--Michael "So, out-of-pocket medical expenses, any wages
lost because of related illnesses, reduced property values, or
pain and suffering can only be redressed by private litigation?"
--Carl Pope "And that kind of prosecution, even against a
defendant who could be found and held legally liable, is
pretty unrealistic."
--Michael "And, as we all know, successful prosecution

requires expensive attorneys and experts, compilation of tomes of
scientific information."
--Western "Is it really necessary to have a lawyer, or can
a private citizen represent him or herself?"
--Michael "Although an attorney isn't essential for citizens to
bring a lawsuit, it's usually advisable to have one.
Historically, unrepresented citizens have rarely been successful
in litigation. Environmental lawsuits are complex. Even an
experienced attorney frequently resorts to legal references for

substantive, procedural, or strategic advice."
--Devereaux "Now I know some companies have been
apprehended. What's happened in the past?"
--Michael "Most of these companies' defense has been that,
however bad their practices were, they were established and
standard at the time."
--Laura "And a lot of the others that were found
responsible for contamination frequently escaped through
bankruptcy courts."
--Western "If you were able to build a case against a
corporation, what are the realistic chances you could
successfully prosecute them for criminal negligence?"
--Laura "If there was sufficient evidence that could prove
negligence beyond a reasonable doubt, I think there would be a
very good possibility for successful prosecution."
--Walsh "What type of penalties might be assessed?"
--Michael "In one landmark case in Massachusetts in 1986,
several families filed a personal-injury suit in the U.S.

district court in Massachusetts. They were hoping to prove that
several deaths and illnesses in their families had been caused by
pollution of the local drinking water contaminated by local
factories owned by two major corporations. It was the first
personal-injury case to come before a jury."
--Walsh "Was there a favorable verdict?"
--Michael "The jury awarded huge damages to the plaintiffs.
At the same time, a federal grand jury was also investigating
criminal charges that some company officials had lied to the

EPA about the quantities of toxics they had dumped."
--Walsh "Anything come of that investigation?"
--Michael "It is still in court. I would like to mention
another case that was tried in Spain. A class action suit
brought by the citizens of an entire town against a corporation.
The corporation had manufactured and sold a product that was
supposed to be cooking oil but was actually kerosene. Several
people died and many others are still suffering the
after-effects. If convicted, the officers of the corporation
could spend up to twenty-five years in jail and could be fined up
to $100,000.00 each."
--Walsh "The penalties can be severe, then?"
--Western "Can we actually prosecute the officers of a
corporation, or the board of directors?"
--Devereaux "They are the decision makers. The rest are
just employees."
--Laura "And because they take the lion's share of the
profits, because they write the bylaws, because they make the
decisions that affect the company, they should also have the
burden of the liability."
--Devereaux "They're making the ultimate decision, not the
manager at the plant. Sure, they're listening to
recommendations, but they're making the call. No one else is."
--Laura "But there must be sufficient hard evidence that
proves negligence beyond a reasonable doubt. And that means the
case has to be absolutely air-tight. Any holes and the lawyers
for these corporations, some of whom are the best in the world,
would cut the plaintiff to pieces."
--Devereaux "What about reckless endangerment? How is
this any different than the drunk who plows his pick-up into a
school bus and kills twenty kids?"
--Laura "Maybe no different."
--Devereaux "I mean the drunk knowingly puts himself, and
anybody else on the highway, at risk, endangered by his drinking
and driving."
--Western "And the chemical companies knowingly produce
toxins."
--Devereaux "And the farmers knowingly apply them. And the
politicians and officials knowingly let them get away with it.
Even cover it up if necessary."
--Walsh "The drunk gets twenty life sentences with no
possibility for parole, maybe even the death sentence. Why
shouldn't the others?"
--Western "What about Bhopal? Think it might help us?"
--Devereaux "If it ever gets settled."

--Walsh "Wasn't the chairman just arrested on criminal
charges?"
--Devereaux "And released on bail shortly after that?"
--Western "Have we got anything there we can use?"
--Michael "Let's see. $3.3 billion in civil damages. A
civil liability trial in India. Criminal homicide charges field
in India."
--Laura "There's a laundry list of charges. Fraud,
misrepresentation, suppression of facts, interference with

business relations, failure to provide warnings, strict
liability, breach of warranty, breach of implied warranty of
merchantability, breach of implied warranty of fitness, and bad
faith."
I exhaled for everyone.
--Michael "The liability case hinges on defective design."
--Laura "There was a 1986 Supreme Court of India decision
that declared corporations running hazardous operations
automatically liable when any injuries occurred as a result of
accidents."
--Michael "Most people expect that once a cash settlement
is reached, the criminal charges will be dropped."
--Laura "Public interest groups want the cash settlement
and a criminal trial leading to punitive damages."
--Michael "When we mention punitive damages we're accepting
a five- to ten-year trial. That is why some people are lobbying
to settle the civil case then move to criminal proceedings."
--Devereaux "Justice delayed is justice denied."

--Laura "A lot of opposition groups see this trial as a
symbol. As a way to end the humanly and environmentally
degrading practices of multinationals in third world countries.
A way to stop their callous attitude toward industrial safety and
environmental pollution."
--Western "Industrial genocide."
--Devereaux "Death by oversight."
--Michael "The U.S. attorney for Carbide doesn't seem too
worried. It is predicted the trial will take place in India.

However, all evidence of a willful act is in documents in the
United States."
--Laura "He's also said repeatedly that the company has the
patience and due process devices to prolong the trial
indefinitely."
--Devereaux "The Indian people may have the last laugh,
however. In their traditional criminal law, they have sanctions
where you atone publicly. It comes from the Hindu belief in
karma. If you do not atone, you return to life in an inferior
form."
--Western "A cockroach."
--Walsh "A flea."
--Laura "A rat."
--Michael "A politician."
--Devereaux "A lawyer." Laughter came easily when things
got too serious.
--Western "So what you're telling me is that unless we
can find the weapon with their fingerprints on it, we're in for a
long trial with no sure outcome?"
--Walsh "Part of living in a free society, cowboy."
--Laura "We may have a precedent we haven't explored yet."
--Western "And that is?"
--Laura "The one time the Bureau of Reclamation used its
power against the rich farmers it helped to make."
--Devereaux "You mean they actually got off their fat
bureaucratic BuRec asses and busted one of the big farmers?"
--Laura "It was The DiGiorgio Corporation of Southern

California. At one time, they were growing more tomatoes on
their lands than any other state, with the exception of Florida.
They were among the first 'farmers,' and I use that term loosely,
to receive water from the Central Valley Project."
--Devereaux "The rest of the 'farmers,' and I use the term
laughingly, included Southern Pacific, the largest private
landowner in California, Standard Oil, Richfield Oil Company,
ANDCO, and the J.G. Boswell Ranch Company."
--Western "Those are some of the biggest farming combines
in the valley."
--Laura "As I was saying, the Bureau proved that DiGiorgio
had been falsifying records about the number of acres they had
under cultivation and that they were receiving subsidized water
for."
--Western "So they were receiving illegal subsidies?"
--Laura "Exactly. And the Bureau simply broke up their
holdings. Made them divest some of the land if they wanted to
keep getting subsidized water."

--Devereaux "Which they couldn't do and still survive.
Especially a water-intensive crop like tomatoes."
--Western "So the Bureau made an example of them, probably
to take the heat off their own backs?"
--Laura "What that means is we might be able to use this
case as a precedent to go after DiGiulio's lands and the rest of
the factory farms?"
--Devereaux "Anything that would cause any kind of
financial harm is worth checking out."

--Carl Pope "What about the Birth Prevention Act of 1984?"
--Western "What's that?"
--Laura "A California law that requires testing of all
pesticides in California for possible links to birth defects,
cancer, sterility, or other health problems."
--Western "That certainly hits home for Elliot."
--Marc Reisner "What about Proposition 65?"
--Laura "Ah, yes. The 'Safe Drinking Water and Toxics
Enforcement Act of 1986.' It prohibits the discharge of certain
chemicals into actual, or potential, sources of drinking water."
--Devereaux "Prop 65 was passed by a California public
worried about the future. A state frightened by the findings of
Love Canal and other toxic disasters. Worried about the purity
of the air they were breathing and the water they were drinking."
--Michael "Its power is based on the public's right to
know. It stipulated explicit, precedent-setting enforcement
procedures. It put the burden of proof on the person, or
company, charged. It provided two ways to charge violations.

Through official channels, litigated by government officials, or
through a citizen's lawsuit."
--Walsh "A bounty system."
--Laura "Some call it that. If a government prosecutor
fails to act within 60 days, the citizen stands to collect 25% of
any penalty."
--Western "Sounds exactly like something we could use."
--Michael "Except that it's a bureaucratic and regulatory
nightmare. Any kind of precise definition is nearly impossible."

--Walsh "So where does that leave us?"
--Laura "Well, let's step back a moment and look at a
broader issue. One that's maybe a little political. Is this a
federal or states' rights issue? The groundwater doesn't
recognize any state lines. Who has responsibility here?"
--Carl Pope "According to Marion Mlay, director of the
EPA's Office of Groundwater Protection, it's a states' rights
issue. She says the states are responsible because they have the
laws that directly protect groundwater."
--Marc Reisner "Pretty much all land-use policies and
resources are considered state-controlled."
--Michael "There is a precedent. At least in California.
In 1983, the State Supreme Court ruled that the 'public trust'
values of Mono Lake's unique ecosystem must be balanced against
Los Angeles' need for Mono water. Los Angeles is appealing."
--Devereaux "What are the chances this issue could get lost
between federal and state jurisdictions?"
--Laura "We would have to be very careful about that. If

we bring a civil case, it would be prosecuted at the state level
because the states control their water."
--Western "What does a civil case buy us?"
--Michael "In a civil case, we can sue for damages and an
injunction. A 'cease and desist' order."
--Devereaux "To stop spraying certain chemicals?"
--Walsh "That would create all kinds of problems and
uncertainty for the growers."
--Devereaux "Just what they love best."

--Western "What about a criminal case?"
--Laura "That is more difficult. We need someone at the
state prosecutor's office who would be willing to prosecute."
--Michael "What about a more basic issue. The whole
concept of water rights." He flips through some pages and begins
to read: "A water right is permission to use water for one or
more reasonable and beneficial purpose. The standard of
'reasonable and beneficial' use requires that water be put to
beneficial uses without waste or unreasonable method of use."
He stops reading. "The 'reasonable and beneficial' standard is
not rigidly defined or fixed in law."
--Laura "So might be able to use it to fix liability based
on misuse?"
--Devereaux "It's a starting point."
--Laura "Along with riparian rights. You can use the water
on your land any way you like as long as it doesn't infringe on
someone's downstream rights."
--Devereaux "That's how they got it in the first place and

that's how they'll lose it."
--Michael "What if we combine both of those with another
doctrine? The old English law doctrine of 'Public Trust.' The
idea that a state is required to hold in trust for future
generations the values associated with certain resources,
including the purity of its groundwater?"
The entire group looked around the room from one to the
other and began to smile. They seemed to have found something
they could work with.

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 see waiting in front of me
And I know I just can't go on
With these changes in latitudes

Changes in attitudes
Nothin' remains quite the same
With all of my running
And all of my cunning
If I couldn't laugh
I just would go insane
If we couldn't laugh
We just would go insane
If we weren't all crazy
We would just go insane
-- J. Buffet, "Changes in Attitudes, Changes in Latitudes"
I'm not sure why women find me easy to talk to. Perhaps
it's because I really care about them, about what they have to
say. Or because I'm usually attracted to them at first because
of who they are, not how they look. Maybe I'm not a threat.
Whatever the reason, they've always confided in me, always been
able to open up. So over the years I've generally been the
sounding board for failing marriages and shaky relationships.
Why my own wife never felt that way I'll never know. But then I
probably brought some barriers to most of those conversations.
Though I was definitely considered part of "the other sex",
I remember having many "I hate men" conversations with my women
friends. To some, we were insensitive. All we wanted was sex.
We didn't respect them. We felt threatened by their own
ambitions and success. We couldn't be faithful. We were selfish,
which to some I was, and juvenile, which I also plead
guilty to. We were fags or animals. Given a choice they felt,
we would choose doing something else instead of doing something
with them. Certainly, all of us were guilty of one or many of
these crimes. But the vehemence, the depth of their anger,
sometimes startled me. Yes, to be upset and frustrated because
we exhibited these attitudes was one thing, but to hate us for
them I felt was a little extreme.
Often we talked about the unending and unsatisfying search
for our "soul mate," the perfect match. But such an attitude
begins with expectation, shades into anticipation, and inevitably

ends in disappointment and frustration. There is no ideal man,
or woman, because none of us can offer that. So we would end
most of these conversations with me offering my standard
philosophy of life. Don't have expectations. Be flexible. Keep
a sense of perspective. And, above all, have a sense of humor.
Don't take it too seriously. We really aren't that bad on either
side and, in most cases, given an opportunity to show it instead
of being forced to fall back on our traditional roles, we, the
male baby boomers infected by feminism, could be quite caring,
generous, and loving. Of course, I couldn't speak for the large
number of total assholes lying in wait out there. They existed.
And they were assholes. Not even I liked them.
Then it occurs to me that I, too, am looking for something
in Sandy I can't find. What I think are problems with her may be
my own expectations; my own way of dealing with women sexually
and emotionally, which means it won't change unless, and until, I
do. So I choose to ignore that voice, that possibility, and
decide to take the path of least resistance, plunging ahead

without looking back at what I may be so casually discarding.
I wonder what it means. Maybe it's connected somehow. I
don't like going out anymore. I don't like dancing. I like
sitting here, where it's comfortable and the territory is known.
I can have a drink and watch TV. I don't have to talk to anyone.
I don't have to ask them if the program I'm watching is okay with
them. It's even better late at night when it's quiet and it's
only me. And now I find that I don't even like going out for a
walk or a drive in the car. I avoid it. I've even begun to shop
without leaving the house. I use the telephone, the shopping
network, or mail order catalogues.
'Agoraphobia'--morbid fear of (crossing) squares or open
places. 'Agora'--Greek for marketplace. 'Phobos'--fear. Just
like Howard Hughes. Just like my mother. The only way she could
leave the house, or leave her chair towards the end was by having
enough drinks to get up the courage to venture out. Does it just
creep up on you until you've got it and you don't know you do?
Maybe you never do. You finally just stop going out.
It seems the things I like to do most now are things I do
alone. We are really living separate lives; literally when she's
there and I'm here and realistically when we're together. But we
don't seem to want to acknowledge it so we can cut the other
other loose and set them free to start over again. Instead, I
resort to my usual defense mechanism. I try to exorcise the
guilt I'm feeling--for possibly causing all this--by not siding
with her, by not letting her know how I really feel, by pushing
her to this position--by having forced conversations that will

trap her into assuming the blame. Then I can get pissed off and
hate her so I can somehow deal with it all.
Baby used to stay out

All night long
She made me cry
You know she done me wrong
She hurt my eyes open
And that's no lie
Table's turned and now
It's her turn to cry
But then I used to love her

But it's all over now

But then I used to love her
But it's all over now
-- B. Womack & S. Womack, "It's All Over Now"
I begin this round with a solitary monologue because she's
not ready to talk yet. "Isn't that Michael Bolton?" (Of course
it is.) "Didn't you say you liked that song?" (Of course she
did. I know that, but we're trying to communicate here any way
we can.)
In her silent stubbornness, she won't begin, so I do. "Do
you find me attractive? Sexually exciting?"
No answer.
"Am I boring? Predictable?"
Still none.
"Do you respect me? Who I am? What I am? Do you even like
me anymore? I mean as a friend?"
Without a response, there are no guidelines. It's like
trying to run in quicksand. So I shift into gear.
"Are we ever gonna make love again?"
"It'd be nice."
"Should I wear a condom?"
"Excuse me?" That made contact.
"Look, I'm gone back and forth on the project for a few
months. I come back and find men's shaving cream in the bathroom.
When was the last time I needed shaving cream? There are condoms in
the nightstand and you're back on the pill. Husbands and wives don't
need condoms."
"Why are you always snooping around my stuff? It's none of

your business."
"Oh, really? The possibility that my wife's screwing around
isn't any of my business? Besides, I wasn't snooping. I was
looking for something. I was also looking for something when I
found this." He pushes the Christmas card toward her. "And
these." He sets the photos next to the card. "So, who's Scott?"
Angry, cornered. "What are you doing going through my
things?"
"They were in my dresser. I found them when I was putting
some of my stuff away. Did you sleep with him?"
"No. He's just one of my bar friends."
"Shit, the guy's in his underwear in our living room. You
telling me he's dressed like that just for the picture?"
"Look, you told me before that I could go out and find
someone to have sex with since you obviously weren't interested.
So I did."
"I didn't mean it and you know it."
"So why'd you say it?"

"Because I had no other answer. No alternative. Neither of
us wanted to see a counselor and I've told you before, it just
isn't that important to me."
"Sex, me, or the marriage?"
"What about Gene? You ever gonna tell me about him?"
"Gene was just someone I met at the Miramar."
"Was he here at Thanksgiving?"
"No."
"You invited him didn't you?"

"How'd you know?"
"I saw the letters. All of them."
Lighting a cigarette and taking a drag. "Those are private
letters. They are none of your goddamn business."
"God. We're talking about our marriage and it's none of my
business. Look, I'm not condemning you. I just want to know."
"Why?"
"Part of it's justification. I need to know I'm not making
a mistake by forcing the issue. I sometimes feel like I drove
you to do this. That if I'd payed more attention to you and your
needs, this wouldn't have happened."
"That's definitely part of it."
"On the other hand, I feel like I gave you everything I
could. That I wasn't totally to blame for our sex life being so
bad. You were partly to blame also."
You see, there was this red flag early in our relationship.
It bothered me a little. I told her about it, but it slept in
our beds the next fifteen years. She talked a lot about a former
lover and how good he was in bed. She'd go on and on about what
they did and how all they had between them was good sex. Nothing
else. And she'd talk about how they made love, where they made
love, as if this was supposed to get me more excited so I could
fill this void. No pun intended or allowed. I would get angry
and pull back. She would get confused. I couldn't get it up
because I figured the yardstick of sexual performance was being
used each time we crawled into bed. Then she got pissed. It
never got better after that. The ghost of this guy was always
there. And I kept thinking, I can't wait until she tells her
next lover how her last relationship was. Purely cerebral,
emotional, not sexual. For his sake, I hoped he only uses the
brains below his belt.
"So, what do you want to do?"
"I want to know what your expectations of this marriage are.
Where do we go from here? Do we keep it together? Or try
something new?"
"I don't know. What do you want? It's obviously bothering
you, too."
"It is. Some of the time it's good and some of the time
it's not. It's getting to be less and less fun. I mean, we
don't even do things together anymore."
"You don't give me any time to be alone. To be by myself."
"How about the rest of your life?"
"You're such a bastard!"
"I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to say that."
"I just don't want to depend on you for anything right now.
I need to take care of some things. And I can only do that by
myself."
"I don't buy that. What do you think marriages are for?
What do you think friends are for? They're there to help. No
questions. I mean, you're about to self-destruct and I can't let
you do that."
"Why? Couldn't stand the guilt? What would people think?
Your wife kills herself and you're nowhere to be found."
"No, I want to be there. If it comes down to a choice

between the depression and the dependency, please take the
dependency."
"Where do we go from here?"
"I don't know. But I don't want to give up fifteen years of
time together. You don't just throw that out the window. But I
need something else. And I think you do, too. I want some
romance in my life, not routine. I want someone who doesn't take
me for granted. Who likes being around me. Who respects me and
doesn't run me down when they're in a bad mood."
"I don't run you down. And, besides, all I do is work."
"That's just it. Stop stressing yourself out. You're
trying to do too much."
"I need to make the money."
"We'll take it out of savings if we have to. Besides, I'll
be making some soon enough. Just stop worrying about the goddamn
money."
"And who'll make it if I don't? Where's it going to come
from?"
"You know, I was telling Laura that you were stressed out.
You know what she said?"
"What?"
"'Are you surprised? That's the way she is. She'll always
find stress.' That's what she said."
She doesn't answer, but I've just taken another nick out of
her. And I know it. I realize that now as we sit not talking.
I told her what Laura had said knowing it would have this effect.
She doesn't want to hear her best friend running her down. But I
know by doing it that I isolate her just a little more. I'm
making her more dependent on me by cutting away all her allies.
But that's not what I want. I want her independent. I want her
to have her friends. Because if I ever do pack it in, I don't
want her so dependent she can't survive. And yet, here I am,
cruelly and knowingly doing just that. And then, I make myself
more remote. I pull away. Make myself more distant. It's no
wonder she's confused. No wonder she doesn't trust my motives or
emotions.
"I'm just tired most of the time. I don't always think
about what I say or do."
"But that's always been the problem. When you're tired,
when you just react, you're doing what you really feel, deep
down. The fact is, I think you just see me as a security
blanket. A convenience. I think if you could stay married
and have your flings, that's what you'd do."
"And you wouldn't?"
"No, I can't do that. I'm not wired that way. It's one or
the other."
"So you're saying it's over."
"I think we're both looking for a fresh start with someone
who doesn't know us, but would like to. A way to get rid of all
the excess baggage we carry when we're together."
"Is that it? Is that what this has become? Baggage?"
"No. I'm just saying the next time I leave, we should both
think about being without the other. To see if it isn't time for
a change. And if it is, then we make it. If it isn't, we stay

together and work it out."
"What if one of us finds someone and the other doesn't?"
"That's a risk we're gonna have to take. And it could
happen. Let's not fool ourselves. If we're looking, we're going
to find what we're looking for."
"Then I guess that's the way it's meant to be."
"I guess so. Maybe it's fated."
"And you're willing to give up everything we've built
together, everything we've done together for the past several
years."
"Not easily. But I don't know what else to do. All I know
is I'm not happy. Something's missing. Hey, I don't want to
grow old alone. And I know if we break up, that's a real
possibility. And I don't want to leave this place. It's
comfortable."
"Maybe that's the problem. It's comfortable. We've become
comfortable. There's no challenge, no excitement."
That was one thing about living in the tropics, whether it

was Los Angeles, Key West, or Honolulu. It was an invitation to
atrophy. Too much sun and too little tension made it easy to put
your mind in neutral and coast on the waves. The animal instinct,
the drive to survive, relaxed. It became too easy, then it became
expected.
"If it did happen, if we did go our separate ways, could we
stay friends? Could you do that? I mean others have, could we?"
She starts to cry. I think, here it comes. I can't handle
this. How can I hate her when she cries.

"Sounds like you've already made a decision. I don't know
if I could stay friends. At least not right away. I think it
would take some time."
Softening, weakening as I always do about this point in
our talks, I reach for her hand. "Let's at least think about it,
all right?"
She nods.
Once I was a soldier

And I fought on foreign lands for you
Once I was a hunter
And I brought home fresh meat for you
Once I was a lover
And I searched behind your eyes for you
And soon there'll be another
To tell you I was just a lie
And sometimes I wonder

Just for a while
Will you ever remember me
Though you have forgotten

All of our rubbish dreams
I find myself searching
Through the ashes of our rooms
For the days when we smiled
And the hours that ran wild
With a magic of our eyes
And the silence of our words
And sometimes I wonder

Just for a while
Will you ever remember me
Ever remember me
-- T. Buckley, "The Hunter"
Had I seen something? Heard something? Smelled or touched
something? Whatever it was, that something had triggered a
remembrance of things past. Deja vu. Because I was doing it

again. I couldn't help myself. Thinking too much.
Reconstructing reality. Phasing in and out; a waking dream.
We approach a nice looking guy. He might be black. He's
dark-skinned. Probably a local. He looks up as he passes a
building and smiles, then looks back at us. Just before he walks
by us, he smiles again. Then she looks up to see what he was
looking at, if he was smiling at a lady. And, if so, what she
looks like. Just measuring up the competition. Always checking
the competition.
We watched as the old couple bickered, embarrassed for them.
I didn't want to end my life that way. I had hoped we would be a
romantic couple; a complete team respecting and dedicated to the
other. Not two people tied together out of necessity, frustration,
and fear of dieing alone; fighting an empty battle
the other doesn't hear.
She walked ahead of me, not waiting, angry about something
I'll never understand. Now I'm angry because there's no reason
to act like this. I treat her well. I've obviously not done
anything to be treated this way. She just got up on the wrong
side of the bed and I was the first available target. I won't
let her do it. I won't let it happen. Just like my mother did
to my father. I won't be castrated with guilt.
They thought I was asleep. Or maybe she hoped I wasn't. It
didn't matter, even though they attempted the illusion of secret
confidences by whispering. But I heard it all. I should have
sat up in bed and startled them into letting me join the
conversation. But I'm too much of a chickenshit to do that. So

I just lay there listening to her share, in desperation, the last
of her frustration before this new-found friend would be a
long-gone friend of letters and phone calls without the eye
contact that showed genuine concern.
It wasn't a new issue, but it angered me that she would
tell it so soon to this person, her friend not mine, while I lay
there just a few feet away. She wanted her freedom. She wanted
her independence. She liked coming and going as she pleased,
without having to tell me, or anyone else, where she was going or
why. But in a marriage, that kind of freedom often meant the end
of security, especially if a third person, another friend, a man,
became involved. And that's what she was worried about. She
didn't want to lose her golden parachute; the life of comfort and
ease we had built together. But she was terribly attracted to a
future of freedom. How could she have both? Her friend didn't
know, but she did say to hang onto both for as long as she could.
I didn't know either, but I did know she didn't have a monopoly
on the feeling.
There is a metaphor here, I think; an acknowledgement of
the inevitable. I am standing in the middle of the copy shop,
xeroxing my marriage license, copying the original. For what
purpose? She has asked for it. So she can get a social security
card, she says. She needs her own copy. Again, married but not.
Our life together had been reduced to a xerographic copy.
As we left the extended care home and walked to the car, I
asked my nephew if he'd ever done any time-traveling. He was
young enough to want to, but getting old enough to realize the
difference between fact and science fiction. So he replied with
a hesitant, questioning no. Well, you just did, I replied to a
face of confusion. Your great grandfather sitting in that
rocking chair. When he tells you stories of his life, talks of
things he once knew, he's transporting you into the past. The
light was beginning to flicker behind his eyes. I know he's
taken you to the Civil War, marching by his father's side at the
Battle of Bull Run. I even think you rode in the back of a
conestoga wagon, sleeping next to him and the rest of the family,
as they crossed the plains to California. Fighting Indians,
watching people die from small pox and animals from lack of water
and food. You worked the gold mines of Sonora. You saw
3-Fingered Jack and Joaquin Murrieta as your grandmother served
them lunch in her cafe. She remembered them as generous, kind
men. Robin Hoods of the Sierra, not the murderous thieves as
painted by Wells Fargo. You rode with Black Jack Pershing in
Mexico and again in World War I. You survived the Great
Depression and three more wars. World War II, Korea, and the
Vietnam Conflict. So, you see, you are a time traveler, just
like Orwell predicted. Just like Michael J. Fox. Only your time
machine isn't a modified Delorean or a Rube Goldberg contraption.
Yours is made of flesh and blood. It has eyes and a voice. Most
of all, it has a memory. And he's passing it on to you. So you
can pass it on to your children. That's how storytelling began
and how it will continue.
Continuity and tradition and generations. Just different
words for friends and family. It's an important part of our

lives. To be able to look into the eyes of a grandmother or gaze
at the fading photo of a great grandfather and see yourself is to
realize the thread that connects us all. It's sons of fathers
who are brothers and friends, who once were grandsons and will
soon be grandfathers. It's seeing a nephew or your best friend's
son brought home from the hospital then suddenly finding him
playing third base for your softball team. It's watching the son
of a drug-overdosed drummer playing drums with his dad's old band
at a record label's forty-year anniversary celebration jam
session. To avoid it, deny it, to run and hide from it is to
reject who you are, what you are, where you came from. To turn
your back on it is to cut yourself loose from your moorings, your
stabilizers. It'll make you crazy. And it'll make you alone and
lonely.
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
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 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 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:

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.
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

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 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 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?

You better stop, hey, what's that sound?
-- 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 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.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My heartfelt thanks to:
David Dolan for contributing "The Engine of Change."
George Rogers and Brenda Martinez for their diligent and patient
research.
Lillian Vallee for taking the time to take a look.
Roman Loranc for his spectacular photography of the Central Valley.
The poets, writers, and songwriters whose words inspired me.
And Robin Johnson for being there.

Tyranny of The Downbeat

Enviado por

Dados do documento

Título original

Direitos autorais

Formatos disponíveis

Compartilhar este documento

Compartilhar ou incorporar documento

Opções de compartilhamento

Você considera este documento útil?

Este conteúdo é inapropriado?

Direitos autorais:

Formatos disponíveis

Tyranny of The Downbeat

Enviado por

Direitos autorais:

Formatos disponíveis

TYRANNY OF THE DOWNBEAT

"Crucified Landscape" – Roman Loranc, Two-Hearted Oak ©2003

THE FIRST PAGE:

A man does what he must--in spite of personal consequences, in spite

Salus populi suprema lex.

The Great Unwashed Valley. This is where it ends.

Rising up over the Sierra foothills, a helicopter shot,

down a heat-rippled, two-lane blacktop. Inside, the driver dials

through the radio, searching for a song to match his mood. He

It's nature's way,

My name is Western. I'm a flatlander. I was born here,

I'm a television reporter. In the myth-making jargon of

today's American pop-culture, a "telejournalist." A video

gunslinger. A free-lance hired gun. I've been taken on by a

well-known filmmaker. He's responsible for some of the biggest

money-makers of all time. Movies filled with pure entertainment.

Plenty of thrills and fantasy, but little substance. Or so his

town. A town called Ralston. Once, we both called it home. Now

Ralston is small town. The local Chamber of Commerce is

proud of the signs proclaiming it an "All-American City." Not

many got out alive. I had to leave to grow up, to see it

clearly. Many of my friends didn't. They're still seventeen and

Another Valley refugee once wrote that a place belongs

forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most

obsessively, shapes it, loves it so blindly that they remake it

in their own image. I believe that. Ralston belongs to me and

flatness, unending. I like the people, uncomplicated. I like

the sun and where I'm going.

This valley after the storms can be beautiful beyond the

I in the vineyard, in green-time and dead-time, come to it

The Central Valley Heartland. There is no other place on

Jedediah Smith, explorers like John Fremont, and naturalists like

It's flat. It's dry. It's desolate. Once, though, it was

a sea, filled by rivers of the Sierra Nevada. Now it's the

world's most fertile, most productive farmland. Crops can be

for farming. Some have even suggested that it be used

exclusively for cultivation. That all residents be uprooted and

moved to the foothills that rim the valley.

What was once a sea of water is now a sea of grass. Lying

of clay, impermeable. Nothing gets through. In some places it's far

below the surface, in others very close to the top.

Skimming the valley, as a marsh hawk would, hunting, it's

dusty monotony. Except the Masterson Wildlife Refuge, lying

the wetlands. Once there were thousands. Stopping-off places

there are flashing lights and explosions. There are scarecrows

and men firing shotguns. Not as hunters, but protectors. They

sink to the bottom of a poisoned pond.

beginning of the story. Only part of the reason I'm headed

there. I'm heading home, back to familiar territory, because

someone is dead. Not too unusual, you think. Perhaps. A

farmworker. Maybe still not worth the drive. Vietnamese, not

Chicano. Now you're listening. Poisoned. By a pesticide.

You're awfully quiet.

I think it's all connected. So does the filmmaker. Just

another unsuspecting victim. And he's tired of it.

"Kathy, I'm lost," I said,

Jimmie Quon was born to the highland tribes known as Hmong

in his native Vietnam. He had lived in tunnels and holes. Hiding.

were as tightly packed as the boats were. After months or years of

themselves in a HUD housing project on the east side of some city

like San Jose. Strangers in a state of shock in a strange land.

Jimmie's odyssey was no different. His began in Galveston,

ended near Mendota. For a short time, he lived in a housing