Barefoot in Babylon
Page 30
It had taken Pomeroy almost a full two months to finally select the upper echelon of his security pyramid, all men he felt had the emotional flexibility to hold down the fort and whom he trusted to respond to the hippies’ whirlwind animus with equally disarming finesse. Their real test of equanimity would come in the week immediately preceding the show when a force more potentially destructive than anything the hippies presented to them threatened the festival’s peaceful existence. Their reaction to that danger would be viewed with varying opinion; some would accuse them of falling down on the job while others would see their behavior as the only rational way out. But for now, the top law enforcement minds in the country were pondering the festival’s fate, and Pomeroy’s cell seemed, for the most part, positively charged.
Slowly but surely, a definitive security plan came more clearly into focus. Pomeroy, who, in the past, had been reluctant to prepare an unyielding departmental budget for Lang’s approval, now set to it with a prompt, methodical willingness. The greater perspective afforded by the days spent on the site and in observation of the Wallkill community provided him with new enlightenment on which to base his calculations. Security now meant not only protecting the local residents from the hippies but had expanded to include protecting the hippies from the irate townsfolk. Extra men would have to be put on shifts to keep an eye on Cliff Reynolds and his sympathizers to make sure they did not attempt to sabotage the festival’s tranquility.
The first draft of the security budget called for only seventy-five officers of “patrolman” rank (sixty-four men and six women) to report for four days’ work at $75 per day and an additional stipend of $20 a day for expenses. Ten first-grade supervisors, three shift supervisors, an assistant chief (Fabbri), and an attorney made up the rest of the team with graduated increments in pay based upon rank and tenures beginning as much as two weeks before the weekend. This estimation was, of course, drastically conservative and, when examined a few days later, abandoned.
Pomeroy went back to his room and drew up a revised budget, a headier document which reflected a more realistic assessment of what the situation called for. This time, the itemization of manpower included 215 “monitors” (formerly “patrolmen”) at a lower base rate of $50 a day with a per diem of $17.50 for expenses. The number of supervisors was, likewise, bolstered to 25 and the number of command officers to 6, bringing the combined payroll of 246 Peace Service Corps employees to a wolloping $72,100. The price of hiring the four consultants alone (Pomeroy, Ganoung, Fabbri, and Kimble) added roughly another $15,000 to the package. Simple arithmetic at this stage in the budget’s preparation made security appear overblown and excessive. Still, Pomeroy increased the total by $69,000 more before everything necessary was accounted for. That figure accounted for additional personnel (three secretaries, forty radio operators, six radio dispatchers, five social workers, a social worker supervisor, three doctors, five nurses, four firemen, two fire captains, a personnel coordinator, and six security advisers starting on July 15), and related equipment (two rented ambulences, a rented helicopter, a tow truck, radios, several security vehicles, bullhorns with sirens, barricades, telephones, medical equipment, fire extinguishers, plastic handcuffs, plastic whistles, flashlights, rented trailers and furniture for the trailers). Social security, workmen’s compensation and insurance premiums brought the final figure to $156,156, approximately one third of the initial financing figure for the entire festival submitted to Roberts and Rosenman by their hip partners back on February 6.
Money did not matter much anymore to the technical crew. It had no real value; like Monopoly money it was acquired from an amiable banker and mindlessly spent. “Only the best” became the crew’s slogan. Why buy Baltic Avenue when Park Place could be had with almost as little effort? Why not roll out the red carpet and pass “Go” with revolving-door regularity? The cost of what it was taking to get the Woodstock festival into production had moved far beyond reality. As Ticia told a friend over the phone, “We’re involved in a true cosmic experience, man. This show belongs to the people.” And when Wes Pomeroy placed his security bill under Lang’s nose, it was approved without so much as a simple question. It was, after all, only money.
3
Those who awoke early on the morning of July 2 were treated to a satellite-relayed broadcast from Great Britain. Queen Elizabeth bestowed the crown of the Prince of Wales on her son Charles, thus designating him her heir apparent. Michael Lang slept through the ceremony. He awoke at 10:30 A.M. to a phone call from Ticia Bernuth begging him to “get his ass into the office.”
He was worried about the apparent turn of events in upstate New York. Mel Lawrence had called him to coordinate Michael’s arrival in time for the town meeting and to fill him in on the latest news, neither of which bespoke propitious solutions.
The Times Herald Record, a last bastion of support, had run an article that morning that aired a wide range of opinions from county residents and Mel read it to him with reluctance. Aside from a few meek voices that accused the town board of railroading the promoters, angry residents were lining up to get a clear shot at the hippies.
Michael winced on the other end of the line. From the sound of things, they could expect more of the same when the town board convened its special session later that evening. Mel couldn’t have agreed with him more. What should have been a moderate debate on the ordinance, he contended, was destined to be a three-ring spectacle.
He was pleasantly surprised, then, when only seventy-five Wallkillians filed into the paneled assembly hall to hear both sides of the argument present their case. The room was filled with an unmistakable air of apprehension as the executive staff of Woodstock Ventures arrived and took their seats together, in the first row of the spectators’ gallery. Almost immediately thereafter, the elegant double doors to the hall parted and Jack Schlosser strolled to the podium, followed by Councilmen Henry Itzla, Louis Ingrassia, and Samuel Mitchell, all wearing dark suits and white shirts.
After the town clerk dispensed with the minutes of the last meeting, Schlosser spent half an hour reading the legal document concerning the right of assembly (which included a few changes the board had decided to insert).
Sam Eager appeared poised with his clients, often jotting down notes on a yellow legal pad balanced on his briefcase. Michael Lang sat at his elbow wearing a neatly pressed sport shirt in place of his traditional leather vest and beads. Mel Lawrence was flanked by Lang and Don Ganoung, and Stanley Goldstein brought up the phalanx of festival dignitaries. Only Wes Pomeroy was absent, working on a traffic plan with a few men from the department of transportation. The festival representatives appeared in good spirits despite the imminence of reprisal, and joked quietly with one another, while they waited for Schlosser to finish with the formalities.
The hour approached nine o’clock when Sam Eager finally took the floor. He was a discreet practitioner of the law and not many of those gathered in the town hall assembly room knew he represented Woodstock Ventures. Everyone quieted down in order to hear the advice from this favorite son.
Eager’s poker face concealed his intimate line of attack. “Most of you here tonight know who I am. I’m an attorney, I’m over thirty”—the crowd laughed easily—“and I’m the father of four. Unfortunately or not so unfortunately, depending upon how one looks at it, my family’s convinced that I’m a conservative Republican.” He shook his head in wonderment and attracted a heartier laugh. The tenseness in the room relaxed. Eager’s droll sense of humor had a disarming effect on the crowd, and he began to build his defense on their bonhomie. “I’m real pleased and proud of the way everyone’s conducted themselves at this meeting. And I think it’s only fair that you know I’m representing Woodstock Ventures.”
Gasps of disbelief conveyed the crowd’s resentment. Eager was forced to raise his voice over their anger to be heard. “I’m also your neighbor and, as such, I’m afraid that, with this ordinance, the Town of Wallkill
may be about to commit a wrong.” Schlosser furiously pounded his gavel, and the crowd settled down a bit. “You know, in one way or another, we all invited Woodstock Ventures to come to Wallkill. On April 14, the zoning board of appeals told Woodstock Ventures what they planned to do was legal and they needed no permit. We owe something to the principals of this young corporation who have given their personal funds, totaling over $450,000, to the entertainers who have signed contracts with them, and to the executive staff who have based their professional lives on what happens to the festival. This proposed ordinance—which does not regulate the fairgrounds and, at the present time, can only regulate the festival—is prohibitive and, in parts, cannot be complied with.”
The town attorney, Joseph Owen, was moved to defend the board’s platform and lectured the festival representatives on proper legislative conduct. “There is no misrepresentation by any [governmental] body of this town. If there is misrepresentation, it is by Woodstock Ventures. If you search the records, you will find that what was represented at the April meeting [of the zoning board of appeals] and what is represented here today is not the same.”
The promoters had, in fact, attempted to examine the transcripts of that meeting, which had supposedly been filed by the town clerk; however, the minutes had curiously disappeared from the record books. As far as the register showed, that meeting never took place.
“And let me make it clear,” Schlosser added, “that this ordinance would apply for any gathering of over five thousand people even if President Nixon wished to come and hold something in an area where facilities were not available.”
Owen nodded his agreement. “The fairgrounds is equipped for large assemblies. They have proper facilities for sanitation, parking, and water. It would be desirable for President Nixon to go to the fairgrounds.”
Mel Lawrence, who had jumped to his feet, thought he knew where else it would be desirable for President Nixon to go, but refrained from making a comment.
“I’d give President Nixon a lot more credit for choosing the fairgrounds than an open field,” Schlosser boomed.
“How about leaving Nixon outta this thing?” Lawrence said. “I’ve got enough of a headache without having to hear his name mentioned. I’ve also had a look at your fairgrounds and I’ll tell you this: it’s nothing to write home about. We’re providing better services than they are, and you know it. Our intentions are good. If you’d give us the time of day, you’d see that we’re only trying to make our affair a safer one.”
“In other words,” Schlosser asked, “you’re saying that you intend to comply with our requirements?”
“Yeah—I’m willing to say that.”
Schlosser chuckled and shook his head.
The meeting stretched on for another hour during which Jules Minker launched a reprehensible attack against the promoters.
As other residents addressed the board, patience wore down considerably until Schlosser decided to put an end to the proceedings. “Now, before we adjourn for the evening,” he broke in, “there are a few pieces of information we have to get out of the way. First of all, I still think you boys ought to consider moving to the Orange County Fairgrounds. We’ll even help you out and provide you with a justice of the peace at no extra cost.
“As far as the proposed law is concerned, this board is prepared to hold a special session immediately after this hearing tonight to decide whether or not it becomes a law. If it does, and if Woodstock Ventures so wishes, they can make application to this council for a permit, another public hearing will be held after we’ve had time to examine their application, and a determination will be made on the basis of all best interests of the people of the Town of Wallkill. If there are no further questions. . . .”
He looked around the room as a few hands flew up. Several people took up another twenty minutes congratulating the town board and Woodstock Ventures for their cooperation. After a reasonable number of repetitions, Schlosser pounded his gavel and called the public meeting to a close. It was 10:15 P.M.
• • •
It took an additional half hour before the meeting hall was cleared of spectators. A few residents stopped by the podium to pump Jack Schlosser’s hand and praise him on a job well done. The supervisor responded warmly to the well-wishers, most of whom he knew by their first names. This was the Town of Wallkill’s biggest night, and he was their man of the hour. Civic pride had never loomed so brightly.
The methodical, dispassionate account of the special session of the town board as taken down by the town clerk in shorthand and later inserted into the minutes of the regular meeting is, perhaps, the most accurate description available of the wearied session:
Mr. Schlosser opened the meeting. A lengthy discussion ensued concerning various aspects of the proposed Local Law #1 of 1969 Regulating the Assembly of Persons in Public Places.
Mr. (Louis) Ingrassia moved, seconded by Mr. (Samuel) Mitchell, for adoption of the amended proposed Local Law #1 of 1969, Local Law Regulating Assembly of Persons in the Town of Wallkill, Orange County, New York, as read with the added exceptions and corrections of Section 3.2, paragraph h. will read: All garbage, trash, rubbish or other refuse shall be stored until removed at an unobtrusive area of the premises. . . . The rest of that paragraph remains the same except the words between the hours of 11:00 P.M. and 7:00 A.M. instead of the words 9:00 P.M. and 7:00 A.M.
The other exception and correction is with reference to Section 3.4, paragraph c will read: No permit shall be issued unless the applicant shall deposit with the Town Clerk cash or good surety company bond, approved by the Town Clerk, in the minimum sum of $100,000.00, and conditioned that no damage will be done to any public or private property. . . . The rest of that paragraph remains the same.
A roll call vote on the proposed Local Law #1 was as follows:
Supervisor Scholosser
Voting Aye
Councilman Mitchell
Voting Aye
Councilman Itzla
Voting Aye
Councilman Thompson
Voting Absent
Councilman Ingrassia
Voting Aye
The Supervisor declared the Local Law adopted.
Mr. Schlosser moved, seconded by Mr. Itzla, that the meeting be adjourned. The meeting was adjourned at 11:30 P.M.
4
The next morning, news of the town board’s decision to adopt Local Law #1 skipped across Orange County like a brushfire. Radio stations repeated the lead story every twenty minutes.
The inflated banner that rode across the July 3 Times Herald Record was a doleful assessment of the facts. It proclaimed: WALLKILL VOTES TO CURB AQUARIAN FESTIVAL, and, indeed, most residents of the peaceful little town heaved a sigh of relief upon reading the paper’s terse account of the public hearing. From the tone of things, it was highly improbable that the promoters would get a permit from the town board for this, or any other, rock music pageant. At last, they could resume their uncomplicated lives out from under the threat of a hippie invasion.
Of all the parties influenced by the legislation, the festival staff was probably least affected. The young workers were so full of quixotic fortitude that they thought they could overcome any obstacle in their path. “It’s nothing to get uptight about,” crew chiefs told their teams, “we’ll work it out.” And no one doubted that would be so. The security, the insurance, the sanitation, the water, the permit—somehow it would all materialize at the last second, and the show would go down as planned. “I see my light come shining,” they sang in the field, “from the west unto the east. Any day now, any day now, I shall be released.”
The executive staff was more pragmatic. They assured themselves o
f success on the basis of one significant fact: the law was on their side. On April 14, the zoning board of appeals had sanctioned their enterprise, and should they ever be forced to go to arbitration over it, they were convinced the court would uphold that decision. It was as simple as that. If that, however, was not enough ammunition, they had another barrel loaded and ready to be fired. Social prejudice had been recently thrust into the public eye and viewed as one of the most heinous of iniquities that could be inflicted upon an American citizen. If the town board so chose to test opinion, they were prepared to scream “discrimination” across the pages of every publication and on every television network from Wallkill to Waikiki to preserve the festival.
“Just keep on working as if nothing has happened,” Michael Lang directed his generals. “We’re gonna fight this thing to the end, and we’re gonna win.” He had, in fact, discussed that line of action with two of his partners and they concurred with him. John Roberts and Joel Rosenman, like Michael, believed that, come August 15, the Woodstock Music and Art Fair would announce its first act from a stage on Mills Heights.