Napa at Last Light

by James Conaway

  From their perspective, the industry must be perceived as united and unassailable. It was a defining moment in the modern-day vintner/citizen relationship in America’s most famous terroir, which had sprouted a homegrown Darwinism whereby the establishment must prevail at all costs and teach lessons to upstarts in the process. Ironically, the leaders of all four groups were women. By maintaining lockstep with their reactionary male counterparts, they showed they could compete in what was still very much a man’s world, but the spectacle left a bad taste in many mouths.

  In the ensuing weeks these now bonded organizations would be christened the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Initially a joke, this quickly became a harbinger, a proud one for some: Being compared to the Four Horsemen, they said, could be seen as a powerful expression of righteous wrath.

  * * *

  The county’s tax assessor duly announced that the signatures had been verified and that the Water, Forest and Oak Woodland Protection Initiative would indeed be on the ballot in November. The Grapegrowers’ director then sent out the collective public letter claiming that the four organizations were “deeply disappointed that this quasi-environmental initiative was proposed,” one “loaded with misinformation and hidden costs,” code for the diminishment of members’ bottom lines. “There is no question that Napa County has already taken a forward-looking approach to environmental protection,” and, should the initiative become law, it would “complicate” the system already in place.

  For “complicate” readers were obviously supposed to substitute “restrain profit.” Vintners, growers, and developers insisted that they must be allowed, at all costs, to proceed with “farming,” that now established euphemism for radical landscape alteration. Anyone questioning this was not just treasonous but a de facto enemy.

  Two decades before, reaction to criticism within the industry would have been measured. But in the interim two fundamental changes had occurred: the compounding of profits that could be made in wine and related pursuits, and climate change. The latter could no longer be ignored or discredited with a straight face because climate change had begun to cost everybody real money. Rising temperatures and dwindling resources curtailed development and wiped some projects off the drawing boards. As befitted the age of calamity, the new Darwinians now wanted even more of their share of what was available, a particularly pernicious version of the “tragedy of the commons,” the fact that someone will always take more than they are entitled to from common resources.

  With such self-interest in full view, Napa joined the nationwide clamor for a deregulated America by those large financial interests that profit most from it. Long a shining exception to prevailing land use in California and the nation, Napa was turning on itself in a frantic desire to fully exploit its name and resources now, threatening the valley’s very ethos.

  The Water, Forest and Oak Woodland Protection Initiative had become an issue in its own right. Resistance—or at best demurral—came from some proponents of open space who were afraid the initiative would interfere with another initiative already on the 2016 ballot authorizing a quarter-cent sales tax dedicated to protecting land. This included the Land Trust, whose director advised Mike Hackett to drop the initiative because it was so controversial. And even Andy Beckstoffer declined to endorse. “I’m going to sit this one out,” he told Mike.

  Andy had once said of the Grapegrowers he helped found, “You don’t go against the brotherhood,” and he didn’t. He, the Land Trust, and what should have been allies were telling Mike and Jim to back off, postpone, drop out. Mike wanted to say “Fuck you,” but all he said was “No . . . no . . . no . . .”

  Then, a few days after the tax assessor had approved the initial phase of the Water, Forest and Oak Woodland Protection Initiative in early spring 2016, including the collected signatures, he announced that the initiative was not going to be on the ballot after all. The reaction was one of loud dismay. He tried to explain the unexplainable: County counsel had, after initially reviewing the summary and title of the initiative, as he was required to do, engaged outside counsel to vet it. This was not a matter of course nor something the tax assessor had requested. Rather, county counsel had acted on his own. And in those outside lawyers’ opinion, proponents of the initiative failed to meet the “full text” requirement.

  This meant, in short, that in the lawyers’ view proponents should have attached copies of older regulations from a previous measure known as the Voluntary Oak Woodland Management Plan of 2010. The proponents’ lawyers hadn’t included that language on grounds that it wasn’t customary to list full texts, but the final decision remained with the tax assessor. A veteran of land valuation and a recognized old-school environmentalist with a salt-and-pepper beard and a ranch outside town inherited from his parents, he was also a career public employee with decades of experience in Napa and deep entrenchment in the county’s official culture.

  Denying the people a vote on what was perceived as a technicality stunned many observers. The clear impression was that the county, at the behest of the wine industry, was quashing the initiative for political reasons. The proponents’ lead attorney at Shute, Mihaly & Weinberger said diplomatically, “The county got it wrong. The full text rule is a straightforward one.” Expecting plaintiffs to list every law and appendix of every prior law that might be affected by a new initiative was unrealistic, she added, and the county assessor had “gone out on a limb” to reject the measure.

  Of the flood of questions that followed, the most often asked was “Why?” The initiative had been prepared by this respected firm, which had much experience and was a lead proponent for initiatives all over the state. The whole process had turned into an aural version of the Japanese classic Rashomon, with each hearer interpreting it differently: Some insisted that it was proper, others that it was weak-kneed and ill timed, and yet others that the fix was in. But everyone agreed it was a public relations disaster, one that indicated extraordinary concern behind the scenes and an extraordinary willingness by the county to game the system.

  The proponents’ attorneys appealed the decision to the local superior court, felt by many to favor the county, and that’s just what the court did again. But what had begun as a popular cause for saving trees had become a pressing political problem, as well as an ethical one. As Mike Hackett was asking himself, so were others: “When does bias become corruption?”

  2.

  The supervisors’ offices share a wing of the county administration building in downtown Napa next door to the jail and a block from the river. Tones are muted and a hush hangs over all. The young man rising from his desk with his right hand extended is a bit disconcerting to a visitor because of the supervisor’s youth, only twenty-nine and yet a major player in a battle-scarred arena overlain with blemishless paint and taupe upholstery.

  Alfredo Pedroza’s not only the first Latino to be supervisor, but he’s also the youngest board chairman ever. His big smile and ready handshake are well-practiced and his dress borderline preppy: muted plaid shirt, sport jacket, high-topped suede shoes, twined silver belt buckles, and a watch that, though not a Rolex, looks like it weighs as much.

  Settling into his chair, Pedroza launches into an affecting origin story: a grandfather who came to Napa from the Michoacán region in western Mexico in the 1960s in the Bracero (manual laborer) Program and spent long years in the vineyards here. The supervisor’s father, seventeen at the time, had a sixth-grade education and joined the crews of a vineyard developer. The Pedrozas lived in north Napa city—District 4, the same one that had just elected him—and Alfredo himself spoke no English when he entered kindergarten. He would attend Sonoma State University and eventually work in a credit union before being elected to the Napa City Council, the beginning of a banker’s political ascent.

  Even when Bill Dodd announced he was stepping down from the board of supervisors to run for the state senate, “The opening on the board wasn’t on my political radar. Then a group of folks came and a
sked if I was interested in being appointed to fill the vacant seat.” He won’t stipulate precisely who those “folks” were beyond the Chamber of Commerce and other “organizations.” Pedroza applied to the governor’s office with a heartfelt endorsement from Dodd, who had switched from Republican to Democrat to get the new job, and got the appointment.

  Pedroza’s possible role in the demise of the initiative has become part of an ongoing debate on a track toward urban legend. He says he met beforehand with Mike Hackett, Jim Wilson, and Chris Malan, and justifies his statement in the newspaper—“We don’t need an initiative hanging over our heads”—on grounds that he was referring to “the common good” and not equating himself with the wine industry.

  When it’s pointed out that some of his own constituents signed the initiative petition, he moves straight into big-picture mode: “We all need to talk about these things . . . We all want clean air and water . . . Regulation increases the cost of doing business for the small farmer.” Only reluctantly does he then agree that there aren’t really any of those left, and that tree cutting, stream setbacks, and clean water have been talked about for decades, if not a century.

  What’s clear is that initiatives in general rub the young chairman the wrong way. “We don’t need initiatives to force discussion, that’s part of our job,” though the initiative process has been forcing discussion in California since the Progressive era when Governor Hiram Johnson, circa 1911, saw it as an alternative to voters overwhelmed by the clout of big business.

  One of the most persistent stories dogging the Water, Forest and Oak Woodland Protection Initiative imbroglio is that on June 9, 2016, two days after the local election, Pedroza allegedly walked into the office of the county counsel and said, “We’ve got to figure out a way to kill this initiative.”

  Both Pedroza and the county counsel deny that this happened. The county counsel will not even say whether or not Pedroza came into his office that day to discuss the initiative because “that would require disclosure of privileged attorney-client communications.” Many taxpayers assume county counsel represents them, not the supervisors. And Pedroza will not say when he decided to hire outside counsel, why, or how much it cost taxpayers.

  Pedroza says, “I don’t recall if I went into the county counsel’s office on June 9 . . . When I get off the elevator in the morning I can go to the right, to my office, but I can just as easily go left . . . I don’t think I did that day.” He checks the calendar on his smartphone but doesn’t reveal what he finds there. “I don’t think so, that was not my intention.”

  A funereal hush has settled over the supervisors’ inner sanctum. The chairman is perched on the edge of his chair, black eyes impenetrable. “If my constituents don’t like the job I’m doing,” he adds, “they can fire me in four years.”

  * * *

  Proponents of the initiative now had a choice: start over with a longer list of particulars and amass new signatures before the August 12 deadline or go back to court. In the end there was no real choice, and their lawyers filed with the District Court of Appeal in San Francisco, asking for a reversal of the lower court that would certify the Water, Forest and Oak Woodland Protection Initiative.

  Shute, Mihaly & Weinberger was the preeminent firm in initiative procedures, authors of Measure J that had also been denied by lower courts and went all the way to the California Supreme Court before achieving victory. Now they argued that upholding the lower court’s negative decision in Napa would set a bad precedent for all upcoming initiatives in the state. Signature seekers would have to carry around piles of documents as thick as telephone directories to be signed, yet another subtle way to discourage people from undertaking the task in the first place.

  The proponents had the support of the California Native Plant Society, California Wildlife Foundation, Forests Forever, Forest Unlimited, and Corporate Ethics International, and they felt sure this argument would prevail in San Francisco, but it didn’t. The question quickly became how, not if, to approach the California Supreme Court.

  To appeal the decision on a point-by-point basis would require a year or more, but the attorneys could go for a quick summary decision, a process usually reserved for emergencies such as stays of execution. They chose this course on grounds that the deadline for getting the initiative onto the 2016 ballot was imminent and there simply wasn’t time for a formal appeal, hoping the court would recognize that.

  But the justices with the most power in the state didn’t consider the issue an emergency, and they declined to overrule the lower courts. This wasn’t a ruling on the merits of the case, but it unleashed jubilation within the collective ranks of the opponents. Alfredo Pedroza told the Napa Valley Register: “We’re glad this is over.”

  Reading that, Hackett didn’t have to wonder about who “we” referred to. The quote was a “tell,” he thought, and Pedroza was seemingly unaware that he had constituents who weren’t industry leaders and didn’t work for them and had added their names to the list of initiative supporters.

  Not only had the initiative been kept off the ballot but the ruling had also inadvertently threatened the reputation of the law firm that was the long-established ally of environmentalists and preservationists. The courts had done the industry’s work for it, for the moment, and it hadn’t cost them a dime.

  Not everyone realized—yet—that the court hadn’t ruled on the merits, just on the emergency status. Or that opponents were now on record as having formally denied people the right to vote on what many believed was the issue. Citizens would continue to have no say in what happened in the hills unless initiative proponents decided to go through to the full appeal process.

  In late August, Shute, Mihaly & Weinberger formally filed for a place on the regular appeals docket. The case might not come up for a year, but passion—and animosity—would build behind the scenes meanwhile among thousands of Napans who thought voter suppression was the best description of what had taken place. If the appeals court ruled favorably on the initiative, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse would be saddled not only with new limits on what they could do in fragile terrain, but also with a reputation as suppressors of the popular will and therefore of democracy itself.

  3.

  Mike Hackett decided to remain at the head of Save Rural Angwin, his old leisurely life unlikely to return. He did not ride on the Vision 2050 float in the Fourth of July parade in Napa that year. But he did hear from others that Debra Dommen of Treasury Wine Estates was among opponents of the hillside initiative screaming, “1850! 1850! . . .”

  It was a put-down of history as an important element in civic culture and of all opponents of development. It was also typically mean-spirited, he thought. The saddest part was that these women represented for the moment the unlovely, monolithic vintner/grower face in a new and desperate age, one that craved—including its tourists—some recognition of the simplicity and promise of the natural world of two hundred years before. And they didn’t even realize it.

  The whole initiative experience had drained and humbled Mike. “But this isn’t going to die,” he told anyone who asked, licking his wounds up on Howell Mountain. “Too many people are in favor. It’s not just an initiative anymore, it’s a movement.”

  * * *

  The attorney sits at a sidewalk table outside Tarla Mediterranean Bar & Grill in the city of Napa, tarrying with a plate of meze and talking about the initiative. If it is eventually revised, the backers will have to get more signatures than before because there will have been many more votes cast in the upcoming 2016 general election. “The proponents’ll need a given percentage of those,” he says, “and it will be much higher than the last time around.” Even if they get the necessary signatures, time will have been gained for new hillside clearing to be undertaken, the industry having adopted a variation of the environmentalists’ occasional ploy: “Delay, delay, delay . . .”

  The lawyer thoughtfully eats some flatbread weighted with hummus. “The system’s bro
ken,” he says at last. “Now they’re hiring outside lawyers to deny the people the right to vote and using the people’s money to pay them. The only answer’s to sue the county for refusing to obey the law. That means deposing the supervisors, deposing the lawyers in the county counsel’s office, deposing the district attorney. They’re all dependent on the wine industry for a social life and a lot more. We’ll have to get a justice on the state Supreme Court to disqualify every judge in Napa County and bring in a panel from somewhere else that’s capable of ruling fairly.

  “It all reminds me of the water wars in Southern California a century ago. Now we have our own little Chinatown. To get Napa Valley back to something close to what it originally was will take a long, long time, but it’s possible. And at this point the courts are the only way.”

  VII.

  LIFE IN THE ANTHROPOCENE

  Citizens speak out; the future assumes frightening prospects; and a survivor turns to the past for inspiration.

  INTERLUDE:

  The Plea

  He sits at an outdoor table at the Napa Valley Coffee Roasting Company in St. Helena, his eyes, protected from the bright autumn sun by dark glasses, shifting occasionally to note arriving and departing customers. It’s September 2016. His V-neck sweater is a throwback to the 1950s, attesting to the advent of cooler weather, and he folds his arms as if in deference to the gravity of what he’s about to say.

  “Caymus Vineyards paid a million dollars to settle the county’s overproduction claims!” The winery, he thinks, made millions on the disputed product adding mightily to pollutants released into the atmosphere. “Do you know how many truckloads are required to move that much wine? The environmental cost’s enormous. Then the county turns around and allows Caymus to extend its visiting hours.” He’s a longtime member of the vintner class and has held jobs at almost every level in the firmament of fine California wine, including startup, sales, brand development, even for a time working for a white elephant. He knows the valley intimately and is known by it for a steady record of achievement, a lack of hubris, and a goodwill that transcends most political divisions.