by Alan L. Moss
Michael felt pretty good about the logistics. Back at the Government Center, he drove the Escort out of the parking lot and onto the highway. He spotted a sign for the Samoa Press, the Territory’s only daily newspaper. He pulled the car into a space in front of the building.
Michael climbed the stairs and waited his turn to speak with a clerk behind the counter. After a few minutes, she motioned him forward.
“Are you here to place an ad?”
“No, I need to speak with your editor, Lawrence Wolfson. Please tell him Michael Bloom is here from the U.S. Labor Department.”
“One moment, please,” replied the clerk as she walked into a back office.
A few minutes later, a tall, thin man with bushy eyebrows, a ruddy complexion and a pipe in hand came out of the office and asked Michael to follow him. He closed the door and got comfortable behind his desk.
“Have a seat, why don’t you,” the editor said. “So, you’re the infamous Dr. Bloom. Your Samoa Economic Report sure has things popping around here.”
Michael tried to look nonchalant.
“Well, we’re just trying to tell things as they are, to help the Committee make the right decisions.”
“That’s quite a change of pace for us,” Wolfson cracked, lighting his pipe. “So, what do you want?”
Michael cleared his throat.
“Given that you testified in favor of a minimum-wage increase at the last hearing, I thought you might suggest a name or two of individuals or groups who might testify on behalf of an increase.”
Wolfson leaned back in his chair with a sly expression on his face, puffing on his pipe.
“Look, Dr. Bloom, things in Samoa aren’t always as they seem. Some people might claim I favored an increase in the minimum wage to drive a competing paper out of business. Now, I’m not saying that’s true, but a fledgling daily that started up about three years ago just happens to be gone.”
Michael continued despite self-doubt intruding into his perseverance.
“Isn’t there someone who would support higher wages for the average worker? What about church leaders or chiefs? Don’t they want to combat poverty? You read our report. You gave it favorable press, even though it calls for a significant wage increase. This workforce will continue to decline unless someone gets behind change here.”
With a slight nod, Wolfson appeared impressed by Michael’s tenacity.
“We have no organized labor here. The chiefs and the religious leaders like it the way it is. The tuna industry owns this Island. If they leave, they take their wages with them. Those wages go to the workers, who pass on a large portion to the chiefs and clergy. If tuna goes, where would their funds come from?”
Thinking a minute, Wolfson continued.
“There is one possibility. A chapter of the National Teachers Federation was established here last year. If you talk to their president, she might be willing to say a word or two for higher wages.”
Michael brightened.
“Thanks, if you have her number, I’ll call this afternoon.”
Michael shifted in his chair.
“So, how do you like working in American Samoa?”
Again, Wolfson puffed on his pipe.
“You’re wondering how a Jewish boy from New York City, who graduated from the Newhouse School of Journalism, ends up on a remote Island in the South Pacific?”
Bloom didn’t answer but Wolfson hit the nail on the head.
“Well, my wife is Samoan. We have an eighteen-year-old at UCLA and ten-year-old twins in a fine private school here. My wife owns land near the harbor. We built a beautiful home overlooking one of Samoa’s more picturesque areas. The whole family adores the place.
“We have a sailboat called Unwinding. It allows us to explore the clear waters around the Island. If we need sophisticated medical care, the government flies us to Hawaii or New Zealand at no charge, and local income taxes are nonexistent for residents.
“In terms of my career, if I were back in the States, at best I’d be a reporter or an assistant editor. Here, I’m both editor-in-chief and publisher.”
Wolfson cocked his head.
“I dare say with this paper under my control, I’m a pretty influential person around here. While it may not be the New York Times, the Press is a damn good daily.”
Michael agreed and asked Wolfson if he could get the number for the Samoan Teachers Federation president. Wolfson retrieved her number and Michael left, thanking the editor for his help.
Michael wondered why Wolfson failed to ask any questions about the Samoa Economic Report or the hearings. Leaving the sophisticated Northeast for an underdeveloped, unincorporated Territory had to place a strain on the editor, regardless of his sermon on Samoa’s high points.
***
Michael headed east on Route No. 1. Within a minute or two, he spotted the Rainbow Hotel on his right. It was located on the edge of the harbor. He pulled into the parking lot and got out of his car to take a good look around.
The Rainbow was built forty years earlier with help from an international airline. When the airline began to lose money and realized tourism would not take hold in Samoa, the hotel fell into disrepair. The Samoan Govern-ment took ownership and the place continued to go downhill.
The Rainbow consisted of two long, two-story structures and several bungalows built right on the water. Looking across Pago Pago Harbor, Michael noted the terrific view of Rainbow Mountain, the hotel’s namesake. The buildings had touches of Samoan tradition with thatched roofs and open terraces.
The layout allowed tropical breezes to flow gently through the whole complex. Unfortunately, with the tuna cannery and a waste treatment plant nearby, guests constantly complained of foul odors.
Just down Route 1 from the Rainbow, he got an expansive view of the impressive deep-water Pago Pago Harbor. While the water looked blue and clean, he knew better. Reports he read revealed that the bottom of the harbor was covered with years of U.S. military junk — cars, old tanks, cables, and batteries. Misuse of the harbor dated back to pre-World War II days when it served as a U.S. Marine base.
The mud covering the junk was contaminated and full of old plastic bags. Ships carting fish in and out of the harbor were known to spill fuel. Intermittent dumping from the cannery turned the water a sickening yellow. Advisories cautioned not to eat fish caught in the harbor due to lead contamination.
Driving farther, Michael spotted the tuna cannery. Its low gray buildings, constructed of corrugated metal, were scattered along both sides of the road. He pulled over, left his car, and stood at the water’s edge. The factory noise seemed inescapable and the smell turned his stomach.
Michael spotted a number of fishing boats, seventy to eighty feet long, rafted against factory buildings, six to twelve boats deep. There were at least six or seven rafts of a similar size. Most looked like real rust buckets, originally white but now with streaks and patches of other colors, mostly black. Nonetheless, each was decked out with a satellite phone and other high-tech equipment.
Back in the rental car, he proceeded east. Past the tuna factory, the water and air cleared. He turned off the car’s air conditioning and rolled down the Escort’s front windows. Here the harbor accommodated several yachts and sailboats. Expensive homes dotted the hills looking out over attractive coves. Michael assumed Wolfson and his family lived around there.
Beginning to tire, he had seen enough. Michael turned the car around and headed back toward Pago Pago. Driving into town, he spotted Sadie’s Restaurant, a white building under renovation with scaffolding surrounding the entire structure. He remembered from his travel guide that this building might be where Sadie Thompson lived and practiced her profession in Somerset Maugham’s famous short story, Rain.
Now through Pago Pago and just past the airport entrance, Michael spotted the Island’s spanking new McDonald’s. In keeping with the Samoan attraction to junk food, Michael heard the fast food restaurant was an instant hit. Off in the distance,
behind McDonald’s, was a large baseball field with one of Samoa’s more picturesque mountains beyond the outfield, an incredible backdrop for hitters.
It was after three o’clock and Michael was hungry. He pulled into the McDonald’s, finding twenty or thirty school children, some with their parents. Reveling in the fragrance of hot French fries, he got in line and ordered a Big Mac combo. The food arrived fast and hot and he walked outside to one of several umbrella tables on a patio.
Eating his lunch, he looked at the active but well-behaved kids, wondering what kind of future they might have.
Unless real change occurs in Samoa’s economy, given the global world in which they must compete, these children won’t have a chance.
His performance at the upcoming hearings could play a decisive role, one way or the other.
CHAPTER 12
MEETING THE ENEMY
May 31, 2001
Vaitogi Village, American Samoa
Returning to the Parrot and Porpoise, Michael found a message from George Partain.
“Our golf match is set for one o’clock, tomorrow, at the Lanu-eka Golf Course. See you there.”
Michael called Georgia and reserved a set of golf clubs the lodge rented to guests. Then, he dialed the number for Jennifer Bell, President of the Samoan chapter of the National Teachers Federation.
Ms. Bell picked up on the first ring.
“Yes, this is Jennifer Bell. How may I help you?”
“Hello, Ms. Bell, my name is Michael Bloom and I’m Chief Economist for the U.S. Department of Labor’s Wage and Hour Division. I’m in Samoa to administer the minimum wage hearings beginning Monday. Given your strong interest in the welfare of American Samoan children, I thought you might want to testify on their behalf.”
With no response, Michael kept going.
“I’m sure you know the value of Samoan wages has declined during the past several years. With poverty on the rise, I imagine many children have been forced to leave school to help their families make ends meet. If we could raise the minimum wage significantly, it might be a first step in allowing more students to stay in school, and even attend the Island’s community college or get into a four-year college off-Island.”
Michael waited for some response but heard nothing. Finally, she answered.
“Well, Dr. Bloom, I think I should be able to testify. I’ll have to clear it with our Board of Directors but I think they would agree. When would you like me to appear?”
Somewhat surprised, Michael gave her the details without delay.
“We’ve reserved Wednesday afternoon for public testimony. Would that be a suitable time for you?”
“That would be fine.”
Michael thanked her and said he looked forward to hearing her contributions.
This testimony, he thought, could be a real coup. The Chamber of Commerce and many employers would testify they couldn’t afford wage increases. Bell, speaking on behalf of the children, would testify they couldn’t afford not to raise wages.
Feeling pretty good, Michael mixed a vodka tonic from a bar he discovered in the social area just outside the kitchen. He walked out onto the deck and saw the sun falling behind the clear water of Larson’s Cove.
Although it was ten after five in Samoa, which made it twelve ten in Ellicott City, he decided to call Karen and tell her about his day. Using his federal calling card, he dialed their number. After three rings, he began to get that empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. After five rings, the answering machine picked up and he put down the receiver.
She could be asleep, at a movie with a friend, or maybe with a man who doesn’t find it necessary to fly to the South Pacific against her wishes.
Feeling dejected and fatigued, Michael decided to keep busy. Having read about a local discount store fifteen minutes from the Parrot and Porpoise, he decided to drive there to pick up bottled water and snacks for the Committee members, due to arrive in two days.
He found the store with no trouble, and pushed a shopping cart from the parking lot into the building, which had a hot dog stand at the entrance. Cost-U-Less appeared to be a closeout store for Costco, with much of the same merchandise on the shelves. He put several six-packs of bottled water into the cart and found a good variety of snacks and candy.
After he paid for the merchandise, Michael loaded it into the trunk of the Escort. As he began to pull out, he noticed a sign for a restaurant across the parking lot.
Larry’s was a recently opened eatery written up in his travel guide as having good American food and more than adequate service. The restaurant’s owner and manager, Larry, was the son of Sophia, the owner of Samoa’s most notorious watering hole. Michael parked and walked in.
The maître d’, whom Michael assumed was Larry, approached.
“Would you like a table for one, sir? And may I bring you something from the bar?”
“A table for one and an Absolut vodka martini straight up with olives would be appreciated.”
Michael followed him to a table by one of several large windows. Each table was covered with a crisp white tablecloth. The restaurant was almost full.
A waiter brought his drink, carefully placing the full glass in front of him.
“Sir, the gentlemen at the round table across the room asked if you are Dr. Bloom. If so, they’re requesting the pleasure of your company for dinner.”
Michael turned to see two men holding up drink glasses and smiling. He knew who they were.
“Sure, I’d be glad to join them for dinner.”
Although he felt unfit for confrontation, shrinking from their invitation would be a sign of weakness. He had to make a strong showing.
Carefully carrying his full martini, Michael walked over to their table.
“Well, how are you tonight? I’m glad to accept your invitation.”
“Mike, good to meet you,” said Bill Echaveste through tight lips, providing a firm handshake. Michael remembered that Echaveste, a former member of the Army Special Forces in Vietnam, would be representing the Tuna Producers Association.
Turning to his right, Michael held out his hand across the table to Robert Owen, Filet of the Ocean attorney.
“You must be Mr. Owen,” Michael said, looking the tall, athletically built attorney directly in the eye.
“Well, well,” Owen said, “so you’re the author of the new Samoa Economic Report. It certainly is an honor to meet you.”
Owen’s sarcastic manner and cold handshake brought forth images of a Nazi attack dog.
After they ordered dinner and once again began sipping their drinks, they discussed their careers. Echaveste used to work for one of the tuna companies. Now, he was director of operations for a sporting goods chain based in Los Angeles. In a few years, he planned to retire to American Samoa where he had many friends.
After emptying his martini, Owen said he had no intention of retiring any time soon. He looked directly at Michael.
“In fact, I really enjoy representing clients who are the victims of over-regulation and over-zealous bureaucrats.”
Michael smiled at the attorney and quickly countered.
“Well, like you, Bob, I appreciate my current position. In fact, I especially enjoy protecting the public from greedy corporations and their attorneys only interested in the number of billing hours they can generate.”
Owen’s face turned bright red and he ordered another drink.
Michael was amazed by his quick comeback. He wondered if he could maintain that edge for three days of public hearings.
Before an explosion could erupt, Echaveste changed the subject and the men discussed their families.
When Michael talked about his son Mark’s graduation from the University of Michigan and Dartmouth School of Architecture, and his daughter Lisa’s graduation from Northeastern University, Owen countered that his daughter was a Yale graduate and his son a sophomore at Harvard.
As soon as he finished his dessert and coffee, Michael placed forty dollar
s on the table and said he had to be getting back.
“I appreciated meeting you and look forward to seeing you at the hearings.”
Michael left the table and walked to his car. Seething underneath, he viewed Robert Owen as the latest in a long list of adversaries who underestimated his worth based on the size of his bank account. Such condescension jump-started his determination to fight for workers whose rights were disregarded by covetous and callous employers
Driving back to the Parrot and Porpoise, Michael had an eerie feeling the tuna attorney had discovered something to use against him. The next morning he would pore over his testimony and notes one more time.
CHAPTER 13
FOREPLAY
June 1, 2001
Li’ili Village, American Samoa
The heat relaxed him, made him better.
Michael Bloom was hitting practice balls at the Lanu-eka Country Club. The temperature hovered close to one hundred degrees but a refreshing breeze off the South Pacific made the day bearable.
The driving range looked down on the course layout, making it easy for Michael to appreciate the beauty of this place. To the north lay steep mountain peaks and to the east the South Pacific. The course was a deep green with palm trees and white sand traps scattered throughout.
That morning, after again reviewing his testimony and the key findings he isolated in fact-sheet format, Michael felt better about the hearings. If the other side had anything, he couldn’t get a hint of what it was. He wrote off Robert Owen’s brashness to a head game from an attorney contemplating his own defeat.
With a tee time of one o’clock, on a course he hadn’t seen, and playing rental clubs he never used, Michael wanted to get there early and hit some balls.
Arriving at the country club, he found it to be a public course with a restaurant and sports bar. Unfor-tunately, the restaurant and bar were closed due to a sanitation problem, so he downed peanut butter-cheese crackers and a soda from the snack bar vending machines for lunch.
