by Jim Bouton
“How do you feel about being a whistleblower?” I asked.
“If it’s just me, no problem,” said Rick, almost defiantly. “I can stand up to anybody. But I have other people to look out for, including my boss and his business.”
“This could make your boss’s company,” I said. “The citizens would respond to that kind of courage and patronize his business.”
“I can see that,” said Rick. “But I don’t do house work. I do industrial work. That means contracts.”
“They will do the right thing, too,” said Chip.
We got up from the table and headed for the door. On the way, two men recognized Chip and me and told us to “keep going” on Wahconah Park.
Outside the diner, I had a final thought for Rick.
“This is going to be public, one way or another,” I said. “The only question is the role you’ll be playing. The guy who got intimidated? Or the guy who played the hero.”
Rick took a deep breath and nodded. We shook hands and I patted him on the shoulder.
“You’re a good man, Rick,” said Chip.
Rick climbed into his truck and drove away.
In the car on the way home, we couldn’t wait to discuss what had just transpired. We almost couldn’t believe it. Except, of course, we could.
“Did you see how badly he wanted to get off the subject of Tom Murphy’s phone call?” I said. “First he said Murphy had asked why he was against a new stadium, and then he said Murphy had never even called back.”
“There was a sudden shift to Stanley,” said Chip. “He was looking for anything to change the subject and, as it turned out, he grabbed the wrong thing to tell us.”
“Doesn’t that line about the new stadium sound coached?” I said. “As in, ‘If anyone wants to know, just say I asked why you were against a new stadium.’”
We thought about that for a while.
“He’s not going to give up Murphy,” I said. “That’s his ace in the hole to keep Doyle from retaliating.”
“I hope Rick has a remote control starter on his car,” said Chip.
SEPTEMBER 16
SUNDAY
Paula and I settled into our Sunday routines. She with a good book, me with Chip Elitzer and Rick Jones.
We still needed to nail down a few things. The buttons, for example. We had forgotten to ask him yesterday where they were. Also, we thought Rick would need a little support if he was going to tell his story to the Eagle, and we wanted to talk to him about that.
Looking ahead, Chip called the Eagle from the car, on our drive up to Pittsfield. He told Dusty Bahlman that we might have an important story for him and, if so, we’d like to meet with him tomorrow. Dusty explained that he would have to check with his editor. When Chip said we would prefer that he come alone, Dusty got offended. So without mentioning names, Chip outlined the story for him, and said we would call back in a few hours.
We met Rick Jones in the backyard of his girlfriend’s house and began by asking about the buttons.
“I never saw them,” said Rick.
“According to UPS,” I said, “they were left on your back porch a week ago yesterday. What could have happened to them?”
“I have no idea,” said Rick, looking uncomfortable. “I swear to you, I don’t have them.”
“Did Tom Murphy tell you to get rid of them, by any chance?” I asked.
Rick glared at me.
“If I had those buttons right now, I’d shove them up your ass,” he said, spitting out his words.
I deserved that. If Rick was innocent, that is.
“A button enema would probably be uncomfortable,” said Chip, trying to lighten things up a bit.
“Maybe some kids in the neighborhood took them,” said Rick, calming down. “They’re always taking things.”
“Maybe Tom Murphy took them without you knowing about it,” I said. “Did he know some buttons were going to be delivered?”
“No,” said Rick. “I told you we never talked.”
Whatever the story was, we weren’t going to get it from Rick Jones. Not today, anyway. So we did the next best thing.
“Okay, I’m sorry,” I said. “We believe you.” But I didn’t really mean it. Certainly not the part about his not talking to Tom Murphy.
“Let’s talk about the Eagle,” said Chip. “Jim and I would like to be there with you so they don’t brush you off. How do you feel about that?”
“It’s okay with me,” said Rick. “But I might not have the letter from Stanley.”
“Why not?” asked Chip.
“Because when I asked Stanley for a copy this morning,” said Rick, “he said he didn’t want to get involved.”
“He won’t deny he sent it, will he?” I asked.
“He already hand-delivered it to the Mayor,” said Rick.
“What’s Stanley’s last name?” asked Chip.
“Greenleaf,” said Rick. “But don’t use his name.”
“He’s the plumbing inspector,” I said. “They know his name.”
“Yeah, but the Eagle doesn’t have to know who it was that the mayor called,” said Rick.
“Just out of curiosity,” said Chip, “does your boss know anything about this?”
“Sure,” said Rick. “Stanley called him before he called me.”
“The story gets worse as it goes along,” I said.
We agreed to meet at the Lantern at one-thirty tomorrow afternoon. We would call Dusty and ask him to join us at two.
“You’re doing a good thing, Rick,” said Chip.
“You ever see the movie On the Waterfront, with Marlon Brando?” I asked Rick. “It’s about a regular guy who stands up to corruption.”
“I didn’t see it,” said Rick.
“Rent it tonight,” I said. “You’ll enjoy it.”
In the car on the way home, Chip said maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to mention On the Waterfront.
“Isn’t that where Marlon Brando gets beat up,” said Chip, “and his brother gets killed?”
“I forgot about that part,” I said.
SEPTEMBER 17
MONDAY
This morning, Chip accidentally discovered a cute little maneuver by the Parks Commission. He was on the phone, trying to convince Smitty that he and his fellow commissioners should eliminate Fleisig so we could go head-to-head with Bossidy, and Smitty suddenly said, “I understand they’re trying to get a meeting together tonight.”
Tonight?
“He just blurted it out,” said Chip, who knew that last-minute meetings were against the Massachusetts “open meetings” law.
Not that Parks Commission meetings are “open” in any sense of the word—what with the public forbidden to ask questions, little or no discussion among the Commissioners, and no indication of how decisions are arrived at. The few meetings that Chip and I have attended seemed largely designed to either receive proposals or announce decisions, with the deliberations going on somewhere else. Tonight’s unannounced “open meeting” appears to be a creative extension of that form.
After hanging up with Smitty, Chip immediately called the Parks Administrator, Bob Mellace, to see if it was true about a meeting. Mellace may do the commissioners’ bidding, but he’s not the kind of guy who’d lie.
“Yes,” said Mellace, “there is a meeting.”
Chip asked Mellace to read the agenda to him, which included an item called “Bossidy proposal.”
“Will Bossidy be there?” asked Chip, incredulous.
“Probably,” said Mellace.
Think about it. The $70-million-dollar man is coming to town—his first public visit since the Civic Authority went down to defeat on June 5, this time with an option to buy a team—and it’s not front-page news?
Being the good citizens that we are, Chip and I took it upon ourselves to alert the media to this important development which somehow had slipped through the cracks. Unfortunately, we had to do it from the car, on my cell phone, on our way t
o Pittsfield for our meeting with Rick Jones and Dusty Bahlman at the Lantern.
While we were at it, we also alerted about a dozen of our most ardent supporters—witnesses you might say—in case the commissioners tried to do something sneaky, like approve Bossidy’s proposal tonight! Because the clandestine nature of the meeting, plus the arrival of the big man himself, had all the earmarks of a done deal—about to be did.
Are these guys fun, or what?
No sooner had we sat down at our favorite table at the Lantern—the one in the back with the red vinyl banquette—than Rick Jones arrived, with a harried look on his face and a tape recorder he had just purchased.
“Mind if I record this?” he asked, setting his recorder on the table. “A guy I know who’s a lawyer said this is what I should do. I just picked it up at Sears. It’s brand new.”
“No problem,” I said. “Nothing secret going on here.”
We began by talking about the importance of what he was about to do. Chip explained that Dusty Bahlman would want to corroborate his story with the plumbing inspector and the mayor, and to get a copy of the letter.
“Well, I don’t have the letter,” said Rick. “Stanley wouldn’t give me a copy.”
“If it doesn’t exist anymore,” I said, “that would be a whole different level—destroying evidence. That’s a federal crime.”
“I certainly don’t want to be involved in that,” said Rick.
“The guys who destroyed the letter would have the problem,” I said. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Then why do I still feel nervous?” said Rick.
“Because you’re going up against guys who aren’t used to being challenged,” said Chip. “We’ve been going up against them all summer long.”
“Somebody has to challenge them,” I said. “Because if you don’t do that, then it continues.”
“I agree,” said Rick. “But that doesn’t make it any easier.”
A few minutes later, Dusty Bahlman ambled in. Dusty is a beefy guy with a friendly face, and the demeanor of a world-weary bear.
“No tape recorders,” said Dusty, and Rick immediately turned his off and put it away.
“We have enough witnesses here,” said Chip.
Then Rick told his story: about having been chewed out for an hour by the plumbing inspector after the inspector had received a threatening phone call from the mayor, and about Tom Murphy’s phone call and Rick’s understanding of what that meant. Rick did a good job, too, not backing off from what he had told Chip and me.
The only problem was that Dusty did not seem to be too disturbed by what Rick was saying. In fact, most of the time he didn’t even take notes. Dusty said it was a mayor’s job to check permits, and that Murphy’s call to Rick sounded normal, in spite of the fact that it had an intimidating effect.
“Okay, I think I got it,” said Dusty, closing his notebook. “But I’m not sure when it’s going to run.”
This was very discouraging. Dusty Bahlman is one of the few Eagle reporters, besides Bill Carey, in whom we have any confidence. Chip and I had expected Dusty to be more receptive to what we believed was a major story. Either Dusty didn’t see it or he didn’t want to see it. A mayor’s job to check permits? Murphy’s call to Rick sounded normal? I pushed for something more from Dusty.
“Can I suggest that you try and run it prior to the City Council meeting on Thursday night?” I said. “To help counter the negative effect this has had on our petition drive.”
“I’ll have to see,” said Dusty.
Before we got up to leave, Chip and I asked Dusty if he was going to the Parks Commission meeting tonight.
“There’s a meeting?” said Dusty, looking confused.
We explained how Chip had accidentally found out, and how nobody else seemed to know about it either, including the city councilors whom we had spoken to.
Dusty rolled his eyes and slowly shook his head.
“I hate it when they pull crap like that,” he said.
That was a good sign. At least something bothered him.
Maybe if Dusty thinks about it, he’ll see a connection between the way Rick Jones was bullied by city officials and the way the Parks Commission has been dealing with Chip and me.
It was 6:45 when Paula and I arrived at Springside House. This being the first night of Rosh Hashanah, Chip was at the synagogue with his family. Waiting for us on the front steps, as if he had still been sitting there since the last meeting three weeks ago, was Eric Lincoln, wearing his usual outfit, plus a Yankee cap.
“When did you get here?” I asked him.
“Six o’clock,” said Eric, “which is when you told me to be here.”
“Sorry about that,” I said.
“That’s okay,” said Eric. “What else have I got to do?”
Inside, I was disappointed to discover a mostly empty room. One of the few people standing around was Cliff Nilan. I went over to talk to him.
“Can I ask why we’re not on the agenda,” I said politely, “since we’ve requested that the Commission take an action?”
“You’re not on the agenda because we’re not going to ask anyone to withdraw,” said Nilan, looking right past me. Evidently that particular decision had been made at a meeting we missed.
“Did you understand the logic of my letter?” I asked. “How Fleisig’s blocking us prevents Pittsfield from getting the best deal?”
“We want as many proposals as we can get,” said Nilan, tersely. “If somebody has a new proposal, we’ll look at that.”
I knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere. I just wanted to hear what he would say.
At 6:50, when Paula and I sat down, there were only about ten people scattered in forty seats. Where was everybody? Then, as the clock ticked toward 6:55, they began entering in groups of twos and threes, and pretty soon the room was packed with Wahconah Park supporters, the few we had called, plus friends, relatives, and neighbors. Plus Dan Bianchi, mayoral candidate Peter McHugh, and some Council candidates I didn’t recognize, and by 7:00 it was standing room only.
Rick Scapin, who is an athletic-looking guy with a white brush cut, walked in, grinning, eyes wide with delight. He maneuvered through the crowd, and reached over to shake my hand. “They’re shocked,” he said. “I can see it in their faces. They’re shocked!” When a pissed-off Tom Murphy squeezed past me, I was tempted to ask him where his Wahconah Yes! button was, but I didn’t.
Then there was a general stirring as Larry Bossidy entered the room. Bossidy, a big man with jug ears and a stony face, walked directly to the table where the commissioners were sitting.
“Hi,” he said in his CEO voice. “Where do you want me to sit?”
I half expected Smitty or Conant to give up their chairs and sit on the floor.
“Somebody get Mr. Bossidy a chair,” ordered Cliff Nilan. An executive-type chair with wheels was rolled in from the next room.
The meeting began with “old business” that was immediately disposed of.
“Proposal from Mr. Bossidy,” announced Nilan, reading off his agenda sheet. His very short agenda sheet.
The $70-million-man stood up and handed each commissioner two pieces of paper that had been stapled together. The room got so quiet you could hear a done deal drop. The commissioners silently read what Bossidy had handed them, which took a minute and forty-five seconds. Then it was time for Bossidy to be grilled.
Commissioner Conant, exhibiting the leadership qualities he hopes will get him elected to the City Council, started it off.
“Regarding maintenance,” said Conant, “who would pay if the ejector pump went out?”
“I’d take a look at it,” said Bossidy, presumably after driving up to Pittsfield from his headquarters in New Jersey. “If it’s small, I’ll take care of it. If it’s significant, the city should participate.”
An honest answer that seemed to throw everyone for a moment. No one asked Bossidy’s definition of “significant” or “partici
pate.”
“What kind of a lease are you looking for?” asked Conant.
“Two years,” said Bossidy. “If it looks like the money to build a new stadium is there, I’ll take the risk and buy the team.”
No one asked Bossidy what would happen if the City of Utica exercised its option to match his offer and keep the team there. Or who would pay to maintain Wahconah Park once a new stadium was built.
“Is there a significant difference in the cost of purchasing an affiliated league team versus a Northern League team?” asked Conant, getting back to the more important questions.
“Four times,” said Bossidy.
“That’s significant,” said Commissioner Massimiano, attempting to help define that term for the benefit of the audience.
“How are you coming on funding for a new stadium?” asked Smitty, just out of curiosity, since his responsibility is Wahconah Park.
“Eleven million has been committed,” said Bossidy. “We need to find $7 million in the next few weeks.”
No one asked why a new stadium was even being discussed, since one had just been voted down in June. Or how the commissioners’ interest in a new stadium might conflict with their sworn obligation to the city’s parks. Presumably those questions would be left for another meeting.
The whole thing took ten minutes. But the importance of the meeting was in what didn’t happen. A Larry Bossidy deal did not get done—at least not tonight.
That didn’t mean, however, that the audience was done with the commissioners.
As the meeting concluded, there was a surge of bodies toward the table in the front of the room. The commissioners, clutching papers and snapping briefcases, looked for an exit. A few made it out, but not before a lady named Betty Quadrozzi gave Cliff Nilan a piece of her mind.
“What is going on here?” asked Betty, annoyed but polite, as if she were questioning a wrong color choice by the painter. Betty is about sixty, very pretty, with salt and pepper hair. “Why wasn’t the public given anything to look at?” she said. “Why couldn’t we ask questions?”
Nilan, looking to defuse the situation, responded warmly.
