by Homer Hickam
Mr. Fuller began the proceedings with an announcement. “I would remind all here that this is not a trial and that we have no duty under the law. However, just as in a trial, our purpose is to find the truth. Accordingly, we will ask all who come forward to swear on the Bible.”
“Is that an Ohio Bible?” a voice from the back of the room called out. I recognized it as Troy Hartman, a rock duster on the hoot-owl shift. “Best get a West by God Virginian one!”
Laughter erupted in the parlor while Mr. Fuller glowered at Troy. He banged down the soup ladle. “We will have no outbursts! Where is Tag Farmer?”
Tag had been leaning against the portal between the foyer and the parlor. He raised a laconic hand. “Right here.”
“You will remove any person from this assembly who speaks out of turn or causes any disturbance. Is that understood?”
Tag reddened. “If that’s what Mr. Bundini wants. He’s my boss, but you ain’t.”
Mr. Bundini turned in his chair. “Go ahead, Tag.”
Now it was Mr. Fuller’s turn to turn crimson. “Martin, if I am to run this investigation, I will need at least the credibility of a judge. I can’t have all my decisions second-guessed every time I make one!”
Mr. Bundini gave it some thought. “All right, Amos. Make your decisions and I’ll back you up, every one.”
Mr. Fuller gave Tag a dirty look. Tag just stared back in his most baleful manner. “Thank you,” Mr. Fuller said after the staring match, pretty much a draw, was completed. “Now let’s get down to cases. We’re here to take testimonies concerning the killing of Tuck Dillon.”
“Killing, Amos?” Mr. Bundini interrupted. “I believe ‘accidental death’ is what you mean.”
Mr. Fuller shuffled his papers. “Accidental death, yes.” He nodded to Carol DeHaven, Mr. Bundini’s secretary. She had taken a seat near the table, a steno pad held in her hands. “Mrs. DeHaven will take notes during the proceedings.” Then he picked up a slip of paper and waved it around. “I have here a list of the men who will be giving testimonies this evening.” He looked around the room. “How about Bill Nordman?”
Mr. Nordman was the mine safety director. At his raised hand, Mr. Fuller nodded. “And Jack Caulder?”
“I’m here,” Mr. Caulder said. Jack Caulder had been the man-lift operator on the evening shift the night of the great storm.
“And Homer Hickam.” Mr. Fuller looked around the parlor. I looked, too, even though I was certain I’d have noticed Dad’s arrival.
“Homer Hickam?” Mr. Fuller called. “Where’s Homer Hickam?”
“Where he always is,” Troy averred from the back of the room. “Digging coal!”
The room erupted into laughter. I joined them. Mr. Fuller used his soup ladle on the table, then pointed the kitchen utensil at Troy. “Tag, remove that man!”
Tag unlimbered from his slouch against the doorjamb. “Come along, Troy.”
“Well, hell, Tag,” Troy said. “The man asked an honest question. All I did was give him an honest answer.”
“Come along,” Tag said, and this time there was steel in his voice. Troy meekly complied. Tag whispered something in his ear as he went by, and whatever it was kept Troy going, fully out the door. I heard a stir of conversation among the people standing on the Club House porch. Troy was giving them his side of things, I suppose, not that it mattered.
“Martin,” Mr. Fuller said, “I must have Homer here to give testimony.”
Mr. Bundini shrugged. “I sent word, but it’s been rough all day on 11 East. Likely he’s hung up in all that.”
“We must receive his testimony today,” Mr. Fuller insisted.
“Well, let’s start with who we have,” Mr. Bundini said reasonably. “Homer will be here as soon as he can, I’m sure.” He looked around the room until his eyes lit on me. I looked away. I didn’t want to get the assignment to go after Dad. I wanted to stay right where I was, hear every word. “Floretta,” Mr. Bundini said finally, “would you call up to the mine, see what’s holding Homer up?”
Floretta looked proud of the assignment. “I’ll do what I can, Mr. Martin,” she clucked, and off she went.
Mr. Fuller looked doubtful, cleared his throat a couple of times, and then said, “All right, Martin. Bill Nordman, you’re up first.”
Mr. Nordman was sworn in on the Bible. He was a fastidious man who wore old-fashioned wire-rimmed glasses. He polished them with a clean white handkerchief and then settled back in the chair that I had placed beside Mr. Fuller’s table. After some initial questions as to Mr. Nordman’s bona fides as the safety man of Coalwood and Caretta, Mr. Fuller asked, “Now, Bill, is it your opinion that Olga Coal operates a safe mine?”
I noted Mr. Mutman, the state inspector, lounging back in his chair while Mr. Amsteader, the federal man, was leaning forward. There was a feral look about him.
Mr. Nordman held forth. “In my opinion, Olga Coal operates one of the safest mines in West Virginia,” he said. “That is borne out by its record.”
Mr. Fuller leafed through a notebook on his table. “But there have been accidents, have there not?”
“Yes, of course. Mining coal is inherently a difficult and dangerous proposition.”
Mr. Fuller frowned over his notebook. Without looking up, he said, “Would you be so kind as to describe the Olga Coal Company operations?”
Mr. Nordman raised his eyes to the ceiling, pondering a bit before proceeding. Then he said, “Olga operates two mines in the Pocahontas Number Four seam in the extreme southern portion of West Virginia. That is to say, McDowell County. One of our operations is in Coalwood, the other in Caretta. They’re connected underground, and the coal from both mines is taken out at Caretta for processing and shipment.”
“Approximately how many tons of coal are mined per day?”
“The last figure I saw was eleven thousand five hundred tons.”
“Beats the hell out of any other mine in this county!” Troy called in from the open window, to the general merriment of all. I laughed as loud as anybody.
Mr. Fuller glowered at the man in the window and then consulted his notes again. “Is it a difficult mine to operate, in your opinion?”
“Yes. Very. The coal is soft and friable and the ribs classified as hard fireclay. That means it may heave badly during pillaring operations. Over most of the property is what is known locally as draw slate. Draw slate is inherently weak and has to be supported immediately after exposure. Typically, we use either timber or roof bolts for that support. There is also a tendency for bumps caused by a variety of factors, including the irregularity of the overburden.”
“Overburden?”
“The mountains. Their peaks and valleys stress the coal pillars in sometimes unpredictable ways. Bumps refer to when those pillars fail—blow out, as it were. But that’s not the worst of what we have to contend with down there.”
Nearly everybody was leaning forward. No one in town had ever heard such a description of the dangers of the mine beneath us. Mr. Nordman looked around, his mouth open to continue, but then he clapped it shut, as if suddenly becoming aware of who was listening.
“Tell us what the worst of it is,” Mr. Fuller prompted.
Mr. Bundini nodded to Mr. Nordman, who tugged at his collar, even though it was already open, and continued. “Gas, sir, and buckets of it. Methane is liberated freely from the faces as well as the ribs. This has influenced the layout of both our operations with multiple entries being driven for maximum airflow, and the provision for separate bleeder airways. We like to say if hell had the ventilation of Olga, it would be a cooler place than heaven.” Mr. Nordman looked around, perhaps for one of Coalwood’s preachers, to see if he’d strayed into blasphemy. I saw no preachers in evidence.
“And should all this ventilation fail, what would happen?” Mr. Fuller asked.
“A rapid buildup of methane.”
“And that would mean what?”
Mr. Nordman frowned. “Mr. Fuller, you kno
w as well as I do. Every person in this room knows it, too. One spark and wherever methane is, there will be rapid combustion.”
“It will explode?”
“Yes.”
“And that is your worst fear?”
“It is the worst fear of every man who works in the Coalwood and Caretta mines.”
Mr. Fuller was back to his notes. “Now, on the night of May the third, 1961, did you not in fact lose ventilation in a section of the Coalwood mine?”
“Yes. Nearly every section, in fact. We had a powerful electrical storm in the area and it knocked out parts of the power grid. There were some direct lightning hits on several fans as well. All the sections were brought back to standards rather quickly except for the section designated 10 West. Two surface ventilating fans that support it were down for most of the night.”
“Were you notified?”
“Yes, the mine superintendent called me and told me about what had happened and said that steps were being taken to rectify the problems.”
“The mine superintendent being Homer Hickam.”
“Yes. I gave Homer my recommendations and asked him to keep me apprised. My recommendations included not sending any men into 10 West until it was firebossed.”
“Firebossed? You mean checked for methane?”
“Yes.”
“And what did Mr. Hickam say in response?”
“He said he would see to it, that he would go with Tuck Dillon to fireboss 10 West. Tuck was foreman of that section.”
A light murmur arose in the audience at the mention of Tuck’s name. I felt a chill go up my spine. It seemed the heart of the matter was near. Mr. Fuller consulted his little notebook again and frowned deeply. “Mr. Hickam said he would go with Mr. Dillon. Is that correct?”
Mr. Nordman nodded. “He did.”
For the first time, Jake spoke up. He was sitting on a wooden chair in the corner nearest the window that faced the post office. “After a ventilation failure, is it standard procedure for two management personnel to fireboss a section?”
Mr. Nordman shook his head. “No. I’ve preached it for years but it’s never been put into our safety directives.”
“And why is that?”
Mr. Nordman shifted uneasily. “Homer has stated numerous times that he doesn’t want to be restricted by safety rules that might make sense at one time but not in another.”
Mr. Fuller asked: “Did you speak to Mr. Hickam again that night?”
“Yes. At approximately four forty-five A.M., Homer called and said there had been a possible explosion in the mine. He told me to meet him at the man-lift of Olga Number One right away. I did. Doc Lassiter was with him and the three of us proceeded inside.”
“What is your assessment of Mr. Hickam’s state of mind when you met him at the man-lift?”
Mr. Nordman displayed a deep frown. “I would say . . . grim.”
“Grim.” Mr. Fuller made a note. I mentally spelled out the word for him: g-r-i-m. What else did Fuller expect? That my dad would be happy? His line of questioning was idiotic. I would have said so if anyone had asked me, which they didn’t. Instead, Mr. Fuller asked, “And where did you go?”
“We went to 10 West,” Mr. Nordman said. “There we found evidence of an explosion. We first found an overturned motor—that’s what we call an electrical tram. Then we found the body of Tuck Dillon. Soon afterward, the mine rescue team arrived and work began to shore up the section and begin the cleanup.”
“What was the physical condition of Mr. Dillon’s body?”
Mr. Nordman squirmed. “There are ladies present, sir.”
“Just a general condition, that’s all I’m asking.”
“Answer the man, Bill,” Mr. Bundini said after Mr. Nordman dithered.
Mr. Nordman looked sharply at Mr. Bundini. “Well, he was on his back. He had some light burns and it looked as if his legs were broken. Doc Lassiter saw to him. It’s in his report.”
“I’ve seen it and it will be placed on record,” Mr. Fuller said. “Unfortunately, the good doctor is attending a state convention of mine company physicians. What else did you observe?”
Mr. Nordman shrugged. “I patted Tuck down, just to make sure he wasn’t carrying any matches or a cigarette lighter or anything. I wanted to be able to testify that it was without a doubt the motor—the electrical tram, that
is—that provided the spark that set off the methane. All I found was his wallet in his hip pocket, his tag in his front pocket, and his glasses in his shirt pocket. His glasses were broken, not surprising considering the impact of the blast.”
“Did you note anything else?”
“No, sir.”
Mr. Fuller nodded. “Mr. Nordman, you depend on your foremen and supervisors to assure that safe conditions exist throughout the mine, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. We hold weekly safety meetings with all our foremen.”
Mr. Fuller consulted his notebook again. “Is it not true that on September 12, 1958, you showed up in Homer Hickam’s office to brief the foremen and he canceled that meeting?”
Mr. Nordman seemed startled. He swept his eyes over the audience, rested them briefly on Mr. Bundini, then cleared his throat. “I’m not certain of the date but I do recall having one of my meetings canceled, yes, sir.”
“And were you upset?”
“Upset? I wouldn’t say I was upset, but I did suggest to Homer that he shouldn’t cancel a foreman safety meeting without good cause.”
“And what did he say?”
Mr. Nordman pursed his lips. “Well . . .”
A sinking feeling crept over me. Mr. Fuller, I suspected, had finally gotten to where he wanted to go. My father was in peril.
“What did he say, Bill?”
Mr. Nordman relented in a burst. “He said that he couldn’t spare his foremen for a damn-fool safety meeting that just repeated what everybody knew, anyway.” Then he added, “Homer apologized to me the next day.”
“Did he?”
“Yes, sir, he did.”
“And did he say why he canceled the safety meeting?”
“He didn’t have to. I knew already. All the sections were down for one reason or another and Homer felt his foremen weren’t doing their jobs. He wanted them to get to work.”
“Did you think that was reason enough to cancel a safety meeting?”
“No, sir, I didn’t, and I told Homer that. I held another meeting a week later, this one on timbering standards and general housekeeping of the gob. I remember it specifically because those were the topics Homer asked me to teach.”
“So he thought he should choose the topics of your safety meetings?”
“In this case, yes. It was timbering and housekeeping that apparently had caused most of the sections to be down.”
Mr. Fuller went back to his notebook. I didn’t know where he was going with the testimony, but I could sense it was headed exactly where he wanted it to go. His next question confirmed it.
“So would it be fair to say that Homer Hickam’s first priority in the mine is production of tonnage with safety a distant second? Is that what you’re telling us, sir?”
In a courtroom, I would have expected a defense lawyer to jump to his feet and yell, “I object!” Nothing like that happened in these proceedings. There was only the rumble of the assembly while Mr. Nordman considered his answer. I discovered I was squeezing my hands into tight balls. My knuckles even cracked.
“Homer is a fine mine superintendent, maybe the best—”
“Please answer the question, sir!” Mr. Fuller said, raising his voice above the muttering in the audience. “In your opinion, does Homer Hickam believe the production of coal is more important than the safety of his miners? It is a simple question.”
“Well, sometimes—” Mr. Nordman seemed to haul himself back. “No, sir, I don’t believe that.”
I puffed out a breath of relief. Mr. Fuller, however, wasn’t through. “Homer Hickam canceled your safety me
eting?”
“Yes.”
“Homer Hickam canceled it because the sections weren’t producing to his standards?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Fuller glanced at the mine inspectors. “When he allowed you to have another meeting, it concerned items of his own choosing, those that specifically supported increased production?”
“Yes, but—”
“That will be all, Mr. Nordman.”
“Now, look, Amos—”
“Step down, Bill.”
Mr. Nordman walked away from the chair. Mr. Bundini nodded to him, but he shook his head. I looked around. Dad still hadn’t arrived. I thought he’d better get here soon to defend himself or it was all going to be over. Then I thought—don’t ask me why—maybe that was what he wanted. Maybe that was why he didn’t seem worried. He’d already given up.
Mr. Fuller called Jack Caulder, the hoot-owl shift
man-lift operator. “You were operating the man-lift at Olga Number One on the night of May third? You were also working the lamphouse? Did Tuck Dillon and Homer Hickam arrive around four A.M. to enter the mine?”
Mr. Caulder, a loose-limbed man in a pair of bib coveralls, gave an affirmative answer to each question. He nervously tapped a booted foot on the floor.
Mr. Fuller stood, walked around the table, and made a long study of Mr. Caulder. Then he went over to one of the windows that looked out onto the common green in front of the post office building. “Jack, did you see who went into the mine that night?”
“I was inside the hoisthouse. You can’t see who’s on the man-lift from there.”
“But both Tuck Dillon and Homer Hickam were dressed to go inside.”
“Yes. I gave them their lamps and saw that their tags were on the board.”
“And after you let down the man-lift, what happened then?”
“Well, I went back to checking lamps, getting them ready for the day shift. Then, about forty-five minutes later, I felt what I took to be a bump. Only come to find out it warn’t no bump.”
“It was an explosion, as Mr. Nordman has related,” Mr. Fuller interjected. “Now, Jack, after what you took to be a bump, who showed up next?”
“Mr. Hickam, along with Mr. Nordman and Doc Lassiter. I was surprised to see Mr. Hickam. I thought he was inside with Tuck.”
