by Alan L. Moss
“I understand what you’re saying and I agree with you. This will not be the beginning of a commitment. I just don’t want to let it ride because of my health. According to the Wage-Hour web site, the wage rates in Samoa have continued to fall relative to prices and, given the current administration, I’m sure no one is on the case. All I want to do is fulfill my promise from 2001 and let the chips fall where they may. If they want to question me, okay, but that will be the extent of it.”
Not wanting to pressure Michael in the midst of his promising recovery, Karen conceded, but her instincts told her this would be trouble.
Far down the beach, the couple saw an injured seagull trying to make its way back into the water. As the waves came to shore and pushed it toward dry sand, the bird fought again and again to enter the safety of the sea.
Not able to witness the bird’s distress any longer, they turned and retreated back to the beach house.
CHAPTER 2
ALARM
May 25, 2004
Washington, D.C.
Howard Berger returned to his desk with the usual, a blueberry muffin and decaf coffee. He was a man with a mission. In the federal bureaucracy for twenty-five years, he had no intention of leaving civil service and giving up the pension that would be his in five more.
He was hired under the wire, right before Ronald Reagan became President and began cutting the federal workforce. After two years as a manpower analyst for the U.S. Employment Service, he was moved to the Department of Labor’s Inspector General’s Office to investigate fraud and abuse.
At first, it seemed an exciting position. A flurry of activity found a number of instances where incompetence and crookedness were so obvious it was difficult to believe. Large contracts were awarded with no competi-tion, or on the basis of political connections. Contract money was laundered through cooperating state labor agencies.
The era of easy discovery proved short lived. The federal bureaucracy cleaned up its act in response to Congressional mandates, wild press reports of corruption, and the IG’s aggressiveness. Reform became a matter of bureaucratic survival.
Since the end of the early days, Berger and his compatriots spent endless hours auditing contracts and programs with little payoff. However, the lure of finding the big one, landing an interview on 60 Minutes, and testifying before Congress kept them looking. In any case, they believed without the threat of their presence, things would return to the days of uncompetitive contracts and ineffective administration.
***
“Yo, Berg,” snapped his boss, walking to Berger’s desk carrying a package logged in by the unit’s secretary late the previous day.
“Here’s one for you. This character’s been retired for three years and now he’s decided to blow the whistle on the process used to determine the minimum wage for workers on American Samoa. I’m sure it’ll be a blockbuster.”
The supervisor dropped the file on Berger’s desk, smiling as he walked away without saying another word. Berger finished his muffin, picked up the file, and began reading. Before long he concluded it was a serious matter.
The package contained a copy of a tax certificate that prejudiced the hearings by threatening to deny sixty million dollars in advance taxes to the Samoan govern-ment if the minimum wage rate was raised by more than two percent. A minority report written by a Samoan member of the Special Industry Committee designated to determine the minimum wage documented how another member was coerced into changing his vote away from higher wages. It also described how the Chairman improperly deep-sixed a Committee motion for significantly increased wages in favor of his own, more limited proposal. A letter written to the Secretary by the Committee member representing organized labor backed up that report.
A copy of a newspaper article published during the hearings also described how the Samoan Government had bounced a number of payroll checks, highlighting its need for the millions in advance taxes to be provided by the territory’s tuna industry if the increase in the minimum wage didn’t exceed two percent. Another article written six months later documented a huge annual surplus recorded by the Samoan Government.
The letter transmitting these materials ended with a paragraph that startled the hard-nosed bureaucrat.
“As I mentioned earlier, I was a career federal employee for more than thirty years. During that time, I worked for two agencies within the Department of Labor, and I worked on mobility assignments with a local government and in the U.S. Senate. I have seen much and I can tell you there had to be more to this than the greed of the tuna conglomerate and the complicity of the Samoan Government. If you choose to investigate, I suggest you subpoena the financial records of all those involved, especially the Chairman of the Committee (now Congressman Paul Pecura) and policy-making officials within the Samoan Government.
“I would be happy to discuss these matters with you at your earliest convenience and hope you will pursue this injustice with vigor.”
Berger had a friend at the Justice Department who dealt with Samoa on several occasions. He told Berger the Territory was “a rat hole of corruption.” In fact, he remembered efforts planned to deny grants to the Samoan Government unless rigorous fiscal and managerial controls were established, but every time such moves were tried, the Territory’s Governor and its non-voting U.S. Congressman cried colonialism and racism, and somehow they were given another chance.
Berger figured this case would be different. Admin-istering the minimum wage hearings was the responsi-bility of the Secretary of Labor under the Fair Labor Standards Act. While the Governor of Samoa nominated some of the members of the Committee that determined the rates, the process was not his. While the Samoan Government and some of the Committee members may have played a role in corrupting the process, guarding against such fraud and abuse remained the responsibility of the Secretary.
For the next couple of days, Berger put together an internal proposal to pursue the matter. Then, the day before he was to meet with his supervisor on the subject, he received a copy of a letter to the Labor Secretary from the Chairman of the Senate Labor Committee. The Senator expressed concern over the issues revealed by Dr. Bloom and indicated if the I.G. was not able to pursue these matters satisfactorily, the Senator would propose Congressional hearings.
To Berger, that made it a lock — the proposed investigation would proceed. Three days later, Berger was given the formal go-ahead. He notified the Office of the Secretary and the Assistant Secretary for Labor Standards in writing. Then, he called his contact at the Wage-Hour Division to set up the initial meeting.
To some, news of the coming investigation would sound a terrifying alarm.
CHAPTER 3
NOT TO WORRY
May 28, 2004
Pago Pago, American Samoa
Just as Galeai Matautu served as the Chief of Staff and confidant of Governor Tavale Monia, if the next election went as expected, Joseph Schmuckler would become Chief of Staff and confidant to Governor Matautu. In American Samoa, loyal soldiers rode up the ladder with their captains.
Schmuckler didn’t know everything about his benefactor and he didn’t want to know. What he did know was soon he would be working for the most powerful man in Samoa. Based on the latest polls, Matautu had a thirty-point lead over the opposition, a Pago Pago banker with the personality of an accountant and a platform that promised little for the average Samoan.
After the November election, Schmuckler and Matautu would set the course for the Territory. Anyone who wanted to do business in Samoa would have to go through the Governor. To do that, the first step would be to appeal to Joseph Schmuckler. Undoubtedly, the charge for this service would provide untold power and wealth. That would make him a rich and admired man.
It was seven-thirty in the evening and Schmuckler had just returned to his office from a meeting with the government’s budget director. The telephone rang and his secretary picked up. Then, she buzzed him.
“Sir, Robert Owen, the attorney who represent
s Filet of the Ocean, is on the line. Do you want to take the call or should I tell him you’ll call back tomorrow?”
“No, put him through,” Schmuckler answered.
Schmuckler popped the top of a soda he got from the machine down the hall and greeted his friend with a question.
“How’s the tuna business?” he asked, not expecting a serious reply.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Owen responded, “if the press doesn’t stop harping on mercury in tuna, you and I are going to be the only two left eating the stuff and we can turn the Samoan cannery into indoor tennis courts.”
“Always the optimist,” Schmuckler joked, taking a swig of his drink. “Was there a reason for this call?”
“Look, Joe, you didn’t hear this from me but yesterday I got a call from Greg O’Brien, the Department of Labor’s White House liaison. He tells me the Inspector General for the Department of Labor, the General Accounting Office, and a Senate Labor Committee are going to investigate the Samoan minimum wage process in general and the 2001 hearings in particular.
“Apparently, that goddamned economist Bloom recovered enough from whatever was bugging him to get staff in the Senate, GAO, and I.G. hot on the issue. I’m not sure what there is to do about it, but I’d suggest we get our heads together and come up with consistent explanations concerning the tax certificate and related issues.”
“That’s fine,” Schmuckler answered, unruffled. “I wouldn’t worry about it. The Department of Labor knew all about the tax certificate at the hearings and did nothing then or later. Let me inform Gale and we’ll get back to you in a day or so.”
Unsatisfied but content he did his duty, Owen signed off.
“Okay, Joe, we’ll be looking forward to your call, and say hello to the candidate for us.”
***
The 2001 hearings had been a landmark for Robert Owen. After the Department of Labor’s Samoa Economic Report was released, all observers believed modest wage increases in Samoa would end. The case for significantly higher rates seemed airtight.
However, Owen organized a counteroffensive rallying government and business, and captured the eventual cooperation of the Committee’s Chairman. This success catapulted Owen into a managing partner position at Jones, Margolin, and Sciarotta, bringing millions of dollars in additional business to the firm and his personal bank account.
What Owen didn’t know was that, although important, his efforts didn’t carry the day. In fact, if Michael Bloom hadn’t suddenly taken ill in Tucson, the Labor Secretary would have declared the hearings null and void due to the improper influence of the tax certificate and the biased behavior of the Chairman, the Lieutenant Governor, and the Committee member representing the Association of Tuna Producers.
Inexplicably, Bloom’s illness took him out of the picture. After a week or two, his threat to document wrongdoing was dismissed. The rates were published and the tuna cannery remained grateful to its attorneys and the American Samoan Government.
Now, with the Governor’s election less than six months away, the last thing Matautu and Schmuckler needed was a federal investigation of the hearings. While Schmuckler remained unaware of the details, he suspected Matautu had benefited from the minimum wage process in ways only he and a few confidants understood.
Three months after the new rates went into effect, Matautu vacationed in Tahiti, staying at a resort which served as Marlon Brando’s home. On his return, a custom Lexus SC convertible arrived from Hawaii. These rewards were for the affluent, not a government official from a remote U.S. Territory.
As soon as Owen put down the receiver, Schmuckler called Matautu, who responded to the news with his usual confidence.
“Don’t you worry about Dr. Bloom. We’ll take good care of him.”
CHAPTER 4
TRAGEDY
June 9, 2004
Beach Haven, Long Beach Island, N.J.
There were no obvious signs.
On a clear and breezy spring day, a middle-aged woman made her way down the steps of an outdated but comfortable beach house. She walked to a silver Audi A4, checked her purse for the shopping list, and got in.
She started up, backed out and headed west on Maryland Avenue. Tiny, telltale shavings from silent, middle-of-the-night work remained on the ground. Driveshaft particles and strands of brake-line material rested in cement crevices and in the grass between the pavement tracks of the driveway.
The woman turned right onto Long Beach Boule-vard, the Island’s main drag. Her nose caught a hint of automotive fluid. She wondered if the odor came from the Audi or a gas station across the way. In any case, it could wait.
She glanced in the rearview mirror and examined her features. Not bad. Her blond hair looked classy pulled back in a bun. Her large, soft blue eyes were still attractive with few worry lines for a woman her age.
Approaching the causeway, she turned left onto the road that becomes Route No. 72, leading to several shopping centers. She accelerated to fifty miles per hour taking advantage of the light traffic.
Underneath the car, the surreptitious surgery was yielding its desired results. A strategic cut in the driveshaft was close to severing the main cable that transfers the steering wheel motion to the front wheels. Soon, the unhurried but accelerating leak of brake fluid would eliminate any way to slow down or stop.
The driver spotted the orange Home Depot sign on the other side of the divided road. She moved into the left lane and pressed down on the brake to slow for the turn. The car responded and then the brake pedal fell to the floor providing no resistance. Fighting panic, she moved the car right to return to the regular lanes until she could figure out what to do, but as she swerved right, the driveshaft cable gave way and the car’s direction was turned over to random events.
Desperately moving the steering wheel from side to side, her mind froze. She was helpless in a speeding, out-of-control vehicle, her heart pounding. In a last desperate act, she grabbed hold of the automatic shifter and tried to slam the transmission into low gear.
Locked in drive, the car hit a bump that swung the wheels wildly left and the A4 shot onto the grassy median, heading toward oncoming traffic. Surrendering to the inevitable crash, she gripped the dash, frozen in fear and waiting for impact.
CHAPTER 5
FAREWELL
June 9, 2004
Beach Haven, Long Beach Island, N.J.
“I don’t know. The haze began to clear a couple of months ago. As always, it was because of her. She refused to accept what the doctors said. They claimed I suffered brain damage, that I would never function normally again.”
Sitting in the small LBI police station, Michael began to choke up, the words freezing somewhere deep inside. Tears rushed into his eyes. His head fell into his hands.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Bloom, I just have a few more questions and then we can get you home. Mrs. Bloom was on her way to do some grocery shopping and to buy cleaning supplies at Home Depot. You decided to stay home and work on the computer?”
Guilt overwhelmed him. Since his recovery, he reassumed the role of the couple’s usual driver and took great pride in replacing Karen behind the wheel. However, today, he looked forward to Karen leaving him alone. He wanted to research the lives of those whom he suspected of stealing years from his life and forcing him into disability retirement.
While his wife was fighting for her life in an out-of-control car, Michael was searching the Internet for pictures of the woman he suspected of causing his decline. Was he gathering information to accuse her of criminal acts or was he curious about this woman who still wore the gold pendant he gave her in Samoa?
Coming out of a trance-like state, Michael turned to Officer Kiley.
“I’m sorry, Officer. What was it you wanted to know?”
The policeman rubbed the back of his neck. He seemed puzzled by Michael’s answers.
“I was wondering why you didn’t join your wife this morning.”
“Well,” Michael began, “I’
ve been researching a matter on the Internet and this morning seemed a good time to continue my work.”
Kiley scratched some notes on a pad.
“So, your health is okay?”
“Well,” Michael answered, “I’m at least eighty-five percent.”
“Good, good,” Kiley responded with no emotion. After an awkward pause, the policeman relaxed in his chair.
“Okay, Dr. Bloom, we don’t need to get into all of this right now. We’ll drive you back to your beach house and give you a chance to make the arrangements. You need to call your children and have them come down to help out.”
Michael welcomed the chance to get away, to go over the rush of crazy thoughts cramming into his head.
“Thanks, Officer Kiley,” Michael said, reading the policeman’s nametag for the third time. “If you could get me home, I’ll call our son and daughter.”
Riding in the back of an unmarked police car, none of this seemed right. Karen was a careful driver. How could she have crossed the median of a four-lane road? There had to be more going on; and why did the police question him about his health? What was running through the officer’s mind?
The police car stopped in front of the house; Michael thanked Officer Kiley for the ride and exited the vehicle. Leaning on the carved walking stick Karen bought for him at the Atlantic City Antique Show, Michael made his way to the front door. Once inside he slumped into an overstuffed chair and gazed through the living room window at the entrance to the beach they loved.
He wanted to believe this wasn’t happening, that it was a nightmare, but the hollow feeling, the fear of not being in control was all too familiar.
