He said he’d thought the conversation was so odd that he’d told Dad about it, and the two of them had planned to meet with this guy if he ever insisted again on seeing Ole.
They wouldn’t be alone with him. Smart men.
And here I was watching Dick Roth through my tiny binoculars. The man Ole had described in detail to a gnat’s ass—complete with the diagonal scrape in the EPA sticker on his barely used hard hat.
Recording device: ON.
The sun was at the inspector’s back. He’d introduced himself to Bert Ridgewood a few moments earlier and ushered him away from the other employees like a cow dog cutting a yearling out of the herd for slaughter. Then he studied the cloud of dust being emitted from the asphalt stack. I could see him shake his head slowly from side to side. I could hear through my mic the cluck of his tongue. Scolding Bert Ridgewood? Seriously?
Then I heard the EPA inspector say, “I am not at all pleased with what I see.”
I snapped photos and took video of their conversation and then of the plume coming from the plant. Ridgewood, a tall man wearing a soiled, white hard hat and neatly pressed blue jeans, slowly removed his safety sunglasses.
He turned toward the inspector and asked, “What are you talking about?”
Ridgewood was cool and understood exactly how to play the situation. He was thrilled about me showing up yesterday when I’d called from a local restaurant, suggesting we have a coffee at quitting time. Or a beer. His preference. Wisely, he chose water. And we made our plan.
He was following the plan precisely.
I wanted to know how Roth would play this thing, too. I told Ridgewood to throw questions his way; to make him talk; to make him say what it was he didn’t like seeing and what Ridgewood had to do to make him happy; to leave nothing unspoken or assumed.
And from where I hid, the opacity from the stack looked great. For an asphalt plant.
“Your stack emissions,” Roth replied. “The readings I’m getting far exceed your permitted opacity. I’m reading at least fifty-five percent. And your permit is only for thirty-five.”
I was trained to read opacity. From where I crouched, the sun was at my back, too—a requirement for reading opacity. And I would have guessed Ridgewood was running at twenty, not more than twenty-five percent. I made sure I spoke into the speaker of my video camera when I recorded my reading.
Apparently, Bert was as confused as I was.
He alternated slow, careful glances between the Environmental Protection Agency representative and his asphalt plant’s stack. “That opacity isn’t any more than twenty-five percent.”
Bingo, I thought. The two of us could testify as expert witnesses. Bert was obviously a certified Method 9 opacity reader, too. I’d forgotten to ask him yesterday.
“Really,” Roth said flatly as he narrowed his eyes. “And are you certified, Mr. Ridgewood?”
“Method 9.”
Roth arched an eyebrow and tilted his head. “Really?”
Ridgewood had told me that he’d never met Dick Roth—until last week when he showed up at the site unannounced. Roth had told Ridgewood then that he’d be back today for a formal reading. He said Roth never explained how or why he’d chosen to visit his small asphalt operation in Buena Vista. But Ridgewood had explained to me over coffee that he had called the FBI after receiving a warning call from his friend in Glenwood Springs to expect a shakedown.
But he admitted he had immediately disliked Roth the instant he’d met him. Even before he’d heard from his friend about the dirty EPA inspector.
Roth had announced himself a half hour earlier to the receptionist of Ridgewood’s Asphalt and Aggregates, Inc. As a representative from Denver’s Region VIII Environmental Protection Agency, Roth had demanded to see the manager or owner of the operation. Having formed the small asphalt company only three years earlier, Bert Ridgewood qualified as both. Roth claimed he was making the required visit in response to a complaint filed with the agency about Ridgewood’s operation. I’d recorded all of this on the device I’d left in the secretary’s top desk drawer.
A savvy businessman in his early forties, Ridgewood was no stranger to the construction material industry. He’d told me that for the first twenty years of his career, he had worked all over the Denver area and along the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains in the sand and gravel, ready-mix, and asphalt industries. He’d heard of Bergen. Knew my brother.
Ole said he’d heard that Ridgewood had worked at various levels of supervision for an international construction materials supply company and that he was renowned as one of the experts in the Rocky Mountain region on how to successfully operate plants and quarries. Ole had even offered Ridgewood a job. But he declined, telling Ole that he wanted to strike out on his own.
Who could blame him with all that talent?
Ridgewood told me yesterday that based on his years of experience in the area, he predicted strong economic growth to continue along the Front Range that would eventually arrive at Buena Vista, a small town located southwest of Denver in the Rocky Mountains. I suggested we reopen the Bergen limestone mine north of town or sell it to him. Then I asked him whether he had suggested an expansion idea to his previous employer. What I really wanted to know was if he was ethical or not. Needed to know, actually. And the way he answered told me.
He said that after he tried unsuccessfully to convince the regional manager to expand the company into Buena Vista and profit from the inevitable growth, Ridgewood turned in his resignation to risk everything he owned to start up his own fledgling asphalt operation. He’d even offered to rescind his resignation if they changed their minds about the growth opportunity.
But they hadn’t.
So he had ventured out on his own. It had taken him nearly three years to make the small company profitable and all his hard work and persistence was beginning to pay off. After spending sixteen arduous and dedicated months obtaining all the necessary permits and learning everything he could about reaching regulatory compliance with his operation, Ridgewood had been nothing short of astounded by Dick Roth’s crooked tactics.
And from where I was watching, he was getting more and more pissed at Roth’s assessment.
Ridgewood was explaining to the inspector how he had attended “smoke school” and passed the opacity certification course offered by Colorado’s health department two years ago—specifically to understand how to stay within compliance of the air emissions permit. He explained unequivocally that he had become certified because he wanted to know that his employees were operating within the limits of the permit issued to Asphalt and Aggregates, Inc.
He wasn’t brownnosing. He truly cared.
As he stood next to the EPA representative, Ridgewood’s cheeks flushed. Roth insisted the opacity of the plume from his plant was exceeding his permit limit. Ridgewood repeated that he read nothing more than a twenty-five percent blockage of light from the plume of dust emitting from the stack. He was sure of that and could arguably suggest it was no more than twenty.
I could confirm that assessment on the witness stand. That was my reading as well.
What Ridgewood couldn’t read or predict was the motivation behind Dick Roth’s unannounced visit and his subsequent accusation of an alleged permit violation. He simply had to wait until Roth unintentionally or intentionally expressed his intent. He grew silent and watched Roth.
Roth stood confidently with his hairy arms folded across his chest. As he rocked back on the heels of his steel-toed boots, a smile spread slowly across his craggy face beneath the shiny white hard hat with the scarred EPA decal. He was not an attractive man, and his arrogant demeanor suggested that he was determined to make those who were attractive—like Bert Ridgewood—pay for Roth being shortchanged in the looks department.
Roth’s smug smile widened. “How long ago were you certified, Mr. Ridgewood?”
Ridgewood furrowed his brow with his pale-blue eyes fixed on Roth. “Two years ago. I passed on my first attem
pt. What I see out there in my operation is a twenty to twenty-five percent opacity, Mr. Roth.”
“Well, that is a problem, isn’t it?”
ROTH FEIGNED A SMILE, removed his hard hat, and scratched his greasy hair with his neatly trimmed fingernails.
I wanted to puke. Without looking back at the asphalt plant, he added, “What I see and what I will report in response to the complaints we’ve received about your operation is that you are emitting dust at a fifty-five percent opacity, which is far in excess of your permit. You understand what that means, don’t you Mr. Ridgewood?”
Even from where I was, I could see Ridgewood clench his teeth with frustration, with his muscles twitching along his strong jaw. He did not like Roth, and I was witnessing an erosion of Ridgewood’s initial opinion of Dick Roth from dislike to hatred.
After hearing all of this, witnessing it firsthand, I had no doubt of Roth’s intentions to allege complaints about operations, falsify reports of field inspections, and threaten to garner “protection.” Now all I needed was “the ask.”
On record.
Ridgewood said nothing. Good job, I thought.
“That means the department of health will need to issue you a notice of violation based on my report,” Roth continued. “As the operator, you could be found grossly negligent or even wanton and willfully in disregard of the law. I can make it a violation. Depending on what I report, you will not only be fined, but you may be issued a cease and desist order, which will close you down.”
Ridgewood glared down at the threatening, unattractive man.
Roth smiled back at him with satisfaction, placed his hard hat back on his head, and folded his arms. Rocking back on his heels, his pompous expression seemed to be getting to Bert Ridgewood. It would me.
Unfolding his hairy arms and stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, Roth added, “As for your reading of only twenty or twenty-five percent, Mr. Ridgewood, let me clue you in on a little secret so you won’t embarrass yourself in the future. You are not considered a current certified opacity reader in this state unless you recertify every six months.”
He was correct. He could disqualify Ridgewood’s readings but not mine. I’d kept up on my certification, even though I changed careers.
“That means you are grossly overdue on your recertification classes, considering you haven’t been back to smoke school in two years. Your readings today are totally disputable. Whereas mine are not.”
The clucking noise of his scolding tongue caused Bert to wince.
Defensively, Ridgewood argued, “Lila Sorenson from the health department was just here less than a month ago. She came unannounced for her annual inspection and is the official inspector for compliance with our air permits. She read no more than a thirty percent opacity, and she took readings every five minutes for nearly an hour.”
Ridgewood was doing well, laying out a contradictory opinion. With me present, his official report would be on file. I just prayed his temper wouldn’t tip his hand about me. I needed more. I wanted to nail this bastard for what he was doing to hard working, compliant operators.
And my video footage was running on the plant’s plume.
“The plant operator didn’t even know Lila was here until after she finished her readings. That was the official inspection, and we did fine. In fact, we typically ran at twenty percent opacity. It’s in her report. The health department has the official responsibility to inspect us for EPA Clean Air Act compliance and all associated air permits.”
I started to think that maybe Roth might not offer the bribe; that with Ridgewood’s righteous indignation becoming overwhelming, Roth wouldn’t risk getting caught.
“I want to see a copy of the complaint. Otherwise, you can leave. Or tell me under what authority are you here, Mr. Roth?”
I could see Roth’s chest inflate. He was defiant.
“My own authority,” Roth answered. I noticed a change in his face. His lips moved with a weird exaggerated elasticity. I snapped a photo. Although his smile reappeared wide across his craggy face, his small, brown eyes never left Ridgewood’s. “You see, we occasionally do audits of our field offices to make sure they are doing their jobs properly.”
Ridgewood appeared stunned by Roth’s persistence. My curiosity was growing, and I had no clue where Roth was heading.
“Maybe Ms. Sorenson is having trouble reading your stack for some reason. But I doubt it. I’d more likely believe that you are operating intentionally without your control devices. Because you didn’t think anyone would be back to inspect you until next year. Is that possible?”
“Absolutely not,” Ridgewood argued.
“That may just be my official conclusion, Mr. Ridgewood.” Roth lit up the cigarette he had just pulled from his pocket. “It would certainly explain the discrepancy between the reports to anyone at the health department.”
“We don’t allow smoking on the property.”
I grinned. I knew how Ridgewood must feel. And he was trying to exert what little authority he had left over this asshole.
“You do for me.” Roth shook out the match and discarded it on the ground. “You see, if I report that you’re intentionally operating without your baghouse, allowing emissions to far exceed your permitted amount, then your responsibility as owner will elevate from negligent to wanton and willful misconduct. Do you understand me now, Mr. Ridgewood?”
I checked the recording device. Light still indicated the capture. Roth was about to incriminate himself. I clicked on the video and zoomed the lens on the pair. Ridgewood turned his back on Roth and studied his asphalt plant, like an artist would examine his painting. I felt sorry for him. He wasn’t as prepared as he had thought.
He was probably replaying all the hours he’d spent getting the plant into operation and into compliance and the sacrifices he’d made to get where he was today. He likely couldn’t bear the thought of being issued a cease and desist order, thinking of the irreparable damages something like that would cause to his relationships with his customers. It would be a blemish on his otherwise spotless regulatory record and to his reputation in the Buena Vista community.
I understood exactly how he felt. I would have felt the same if Roth had treated me this way when I managed the Livermore Quarry before I came to the FBI.
Roth had him by the nuts.
With a wanton, willful, and scathing misconduct report by Roth, along with the alleged excessive emissions, possibly a Notice of Violation, the penalties would be severe. And the health department might decide to permanently revoke his air permit. Ridgewood’s fledgling new business could be shut down—all because of the lies from one corrupt, power-hungry, bully federal inspector.
I held my breath. I was waiting to see how Ridgewood might handle this.
He spun around, narrowed his eyes at the bureaucrat, and asked, “What is it that you want from me?”
I could’ve cheered out loud. He kept his poise. Even after all that.
“Nothing more than your cooperation.” Roth drew hard on his unfiltered cigarette. He flicked the butt down next to Ridgewood’s steel-toed boot, shot him a glance, and added, “And of course, your trust in me as a partner in your new venture.”
There it was. I had him. Dead to rights. Hopefully.
Ridgewood stood perfectly still and stared at Roth. His jaw moved slowly in and out. It looked like he was grinding his teeth.
“Like I said, what is it that you want?”
“A thousand dollars,” Roth said coolly.
I checked the equipment again. It appeared to be recording. I had him—in-person, witnessed, and on the record with video and sound.
“Cash. I want it when I return from lunch.” Roth studied Ridgewood’s expressionless eyes. “And I’ll be back every three months, and you’ll give me an additional five hundred in cash when I do.”
There it was: the ask. Protection money. Extortion. I wanted to pump my fists in the air and high five Ridgewood.
The muscle
s of Ridgewood’s jaws flexed in bulging knots, and for a moment, I thought he might hit the guy. But he didn’t.
Then Roth smiled slyly and attempted to make nice with Ridgewood. “Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Ridgewood. You’ll get something for your investment in me. After all, this is a partnership in your new venture. In return, I won’t file the report for today, and you will receive no notice of violation or any related penalties for the way you are operating so willfully and wantonly out of compliance.”
The squat man turned to go. Ridgewood balled his fists.
Roth lifted his index finger as if he’d forgotten something. “The fee you pay me every quarter will ensure that I will do everything I can in the future to allow you the lightest of penalties if you are found to be out of compliance to any degree and will ensure that you receive no future visits by me.” His wide grin revealed his tobacco-stained teeth. “That is, no official visits.”
“And if I refuse or report you?”
“Report me?” Roth lifted his hands in surrender. “You’re a smarter businessman than that. Who would believe you over me? I’m a very powerful man at Region VIII, with an impeccable reputation. Do you honestly think anyone would believe you over me?”
Ridgewood added, “Wouldn’t hurt to try.”
Roth leaned into Ridgewood and poked a finger in his chest. “You’re a new player in the market who knows virtually nothing about the regulations. You’re an operator who would do anything to get his business profitable, including ignoring the restrictive permit. And if you file a complaint against me, I’ll bury you with my expertise and experience.”
When Ridgewood’s shoulders and face fell, Roth revealed another thin smile. He shrugged. “Look at it this way. You can spend money fighting me and arguing about the validity of my report to the health department with no assurance that you will prevent me from shutting you down indefinitely—or even permanently—or you can make me your partner. You’re a businessman. You’re trained to assess risk. Do you really want to risk your business over a couple thousand dollars a year?”
Jeremiah’s Revenge: A Liv Bergen Mystery Page 5
