“Oh, and while you’re out there tomorrow, look around at the number of tankers. We saw at least four on our flyover, and they’re supposed to hold nine thousand gallons each. Why do they need that many if they’ve cleaned up all but eight thousand gallons?”
Colleen had scribbled page after page of notes, and when they finished, set her reference materials aside and turned her notebook to a fresh page. “Now do I get to hear the story of that shiner?”
After two days, her eye had taken on a purple hue. “On the record or off?”
“You tell me.”
Over one last cup of coffee, Stacie shared the story of the raid, being careful not to cast direct aspersions on Nations Oil or the local sheriff’s department. She had no ironclad proof the two were in cahoots but a good reporter like Colleen could potentially make hay out of police reports and interviews with the right people. It was even better to have a mainstream journalist telling the story because it wouldn’t be written off as slanted to their side.
“One last thing,” Stacie said. “You remember we’re holding our rally at five o’clock tomorrow in Chester Park, and I think it’s going to be really big. I’m not just saying that. People are getting on board with us, and we need to show them there’s something they can do. It’s a great lineup. Wait till you hear the congresswoman from Arkansas talk about the Exxon spill in her district. It just bubbled up right out of the ground and ran down the street. And one of our speakers is a guy who grew up on the Kalamazoo River in Michigan in a house his great-grandfather built. He used to fish there and go swimming with his dogs. Now he feels like his whole way of life is gone, all because an oil company pushed tar sands through pipelines that were built for conventional oil. They’ll be telling those stories here in the not-too-distant future, so I hope you’ll be able to make it.”
“The press tour’s scheduled for three o’clock. That cuts it close but I’ll try to get there.”
Cathryn had probably done that on purpose so the mainstream press would miss the rally. Smart, but not very nice.
“Don’t worry, Stacie. This is more than just a Lake Bunyan story now. Those oil companies have pipelines all over Minnesota, and I intend to write stories that will make people stop and think about what that could mean to their lives. And besides, do you honestly think I’m going to miss anything now that I have all this background?”
“I promise we’ll sit on these photos till Thursday morning after your story comes out. It’s your exclusive.” She stacked the photos and pushed them across the table. “And here’s my card in case you have any questions.”
When she grabbed the check to pay for breakfast, Colleen forced her to take three dollars. “We pay our own way at the Star-Tribune. No gifts, no matter how small.”
It was refreshing to know there were still some people who weren’t for sale.
* * *
Cathryn lowered her safety mask each time she spoke so her voice wouldn’t be muffled. “As you can see, the dredge operator is picking up sediment from the lakebed and transferring it to the truck, where it will be taken to a refinery in Pipe Bend for processing. Feel free to take photos.”
One of the TV reporters thrust a handheld broadcast microphone bearing his station’s logo into her face, meaning she’d show up on the news in a hardhat with her mask hanging around her neck. Not her best look. “I don’t understand, Ms. Mack. Shouldn’t the oil be floating on the top?”
Before she could answer, Larry Kratke stepped in to take the question. “The floating oil was our first priority. We removed most of it immediately, but as the hydrocarbons evaporate, what’s left grows heavier and sinks to the bottom.”
Colleen Murray leaned in close to Larry with a digital voice recorder. “Isn’t this the same technique for cleaning up bitumen?”
Larry’s eyes showed surprise at the question. “Similar.”
“Is there an official estimate on how much oil has been recovered?” The question came from another TV reporter and was directed to Bob Kryzwicki, who headed the EPA’s inspection team. Bob had come along on the press tour at Cathryn’s urging, feeling it would put the public at ease to know the agency was performing its regulatory function.
“Our estimate is just over eighty thousand gallons. As Miss Mack here has already explained, the cleanup is actually proceeding ahead of schedule. It gets a little tricky when we get down to the last ten or twelve percent because it’s less concentrated.”
“How would you describe this spill relative to others?”
“Not minor, not major. On the low end of moderate, I’d say.”
Larry added, “It may not look like it with all this equipment around here, but we expect to have this lake back the way it was within another week or so, provided the weather holds out.”
“If that’s true,” Colleen said, “why is Nations Oil buying up all the waterfront properties? I reviewed title transfers at the county courthouse yesterday and saw that three-quarters of these cabins have been sold in the last ten days to a holding company controlled by Nations Oil.”
Cathryn hadn’t expected such aggressive questioning from Colleen. “I’ll take that, Larry. We addressed that in one of our earlier press conferences if you’ll recall. One thing that always happens after an accident such as this is homeowners get anxious about their property values and they worry about living in an area that might be environmentally compromised. When we buy their properties, they have money to settle elsewhere immediately, giving them peace of mind. It also protects us from very expensive litigation that can go on for years, litigation that’s designed to harass and inhibit our company’s legitimate right to expand our business.”
“A question for Mr. Kratke,” Colleen said, not missing a beat. “Is it normal to pick up heavy oil with a grab dredger? It’s my understanding the most efficient process is to use a suction dredger that separates the oil from the water.”
“We used a suction dredger to recover most of the oil that was spilled,” he answered testily. “As I was saying earlier, the recovery becomes more tedious when all that’s left is what’s embedded in the sediment. You can’t just suck up the lakebed like that. You have to get down there and scoop it up.”
Colleen cocked her head as if confused. “I’m curious about the three tankers that were parked in that lot. Why would you have so many—by my estimate they’ll hold twenty-seven thousand gallons—when all you have left is about eight thousand gallons, and you’re scooping that up with a grab dredger and taking it to Pipe Bend in a dump truck?”
Cathryn’s stomach dropped when Larry didn’t immediately answer, and she jumped back into the conversation. “I could check the manifest on those if you like. It’s likely they’re loaded and ready to roll, but can’t because the refinery is at capacity.”
“Another question for Mr. Kryzwicki,” Colleen continued relentlessly. “Has your agency performed tests on the water and sediment outside the containment area?”
“We regularly monitor the margins for leakage, and I can assure you there’s no oil outside the containment area.”
Another reporter spoke up. “So you’ve done no tests?”
“Of course we’ve done tests,” he snapped, “but they’ve shown no evidence of contamination beyond the booms.”
With a wave toward their company van, Cathryn said, “If there are no more questions—”
“I have one more,” Colleen said, looking up toward the sky. “It’s obvious with all the equipment and fumes, this area should be closed to the public out of safety concerns, but how does your company feel about citizens using surveillance drones to monitor the cleanup process?”
Before Cathryn could answer, Depew pushed his way forward. She hadn’t even realized he was lurking at the back. With his usual gruffness, he barked, “How did you feel when some dimwit gave you only half the story on the fish kill and made you all look like idiots?”
That was not the impression Cathryn wanted reporters to take away. “I’m not sure what the
law says in Minnesota about the use of private surveillance drones, but if they’re permitted, there’s no reason they can’t be used. I think the important caveat is they may very well be misleading, and I’m particularly concerned that amateur film is subject to manipulation.”
“So if they’re legal, you wouldn’t try to prevent their use?”
“Absolutely not. We have nothing to hide.”
“Then you deny shooting one down yesterday as it filmed your dredging operation?”
Again Depew spoke up. “We periodically fire shotguns in the air to scare off birds. If we accidentally hit somebody’s flying toy, that’s just unlucky for them.”
Cathryn directed the reporters back to the van and cornered Depew as he climbed into his SUV. “I don’t know what you were trying to accomplish, but you can’t talk to the press like that. It just makes things worse. Communication is my job, not yours.”
“Then you should do it,” he shot back. “My job is security, and if you can’t keep that bullshit out of the papers, I will.” He slammed his door and spun out of the lot, spraying gravel in his wake.
“God, I hate that man.”
On the short ride back to the press trailer, Cathryn noticed Colleen, who had taken far more notes and photos than anyone else, still scribbling in her notebook. Not only had she shown more skepticism, she also had displayed a deeper understanding of the technical aspects of oil cleanup. The biggest surprise was her special knowledge of a drone that had flown over the day before, something of which Cathryn wasn’t aware. That could only mean she’d talked to Stacie Pilardi.
The rally in Chester Park started in forty-five minutes. With luck, the reporters in the van would rush home to file their stories, and the protest would get no coverage at all from the major media outlets.
Woody and Amy emerged from the lavatory together as soon as she entered the press trailer.
“Whatever you’re doing, you guys need to knock it off at work, and I’m not going to warn you again.”
At least Amy had the common sense to blush.
“The Clean Energy Action Network is holding a protest rally in Chester Park at five o’clock. We need to be there so we can hear their talking points. I want you both to mingle. Open your ears, clap and cheer, hold signs if they ask you to.”
“What are you going to do?” Woody asked.
“They’ll probably recognize me from TV, so I’ll just stand in the back and look bitter.” That shouldn’t be too hard.
* * *
Thirty-five hundred people at their protest rally was a couple of thousand short of “doubling every day,” but in a small city like Duluth, it was beyond Stacie’s wildest dreams. All of the local news stations had hurried over with camera crews after Jenn tweeted pictures of the growing crowd. Nothing pumped up support for the cause like showing people their neighbors cared. No matter what Cathryn said, there was only one responsible side to this issue.
Two-thirds of the crowd were young people, probably college students. Ethan had become a rock star on campus after his false arrest, and his peers were outraged. Dozens of them had signed up for the online training seminars, after which they’d join CLEAN’s nationwide network, either to work in their own communities or to come along on a future road trip.
Another common face at their rallies were the aging Baby Boomers, well-educated couples who might have been hippies in their youth. Many of them had the capacity to understand science and logic, and still held onto their dream of a better world.
One of those couples was making its way toward her with Faye, the girl who had dropped out the week before. “Stacie, I want you to meet my parents. Actually I want my parents to meet you.”
The Brownings were midforties, Stacie guessed, and dressed in business clothes as though they’d come to the park directly from office jobs.
“Mr. and Mrs. Browning, my pleasure. And thank you for sending in such a generous donation. Believe me, we’ll put it to good use.”
“Give us a minute,” Mr. Browning said, and Faye and her mother stepped away. “I hope you understand about Faye. She’s a really passionate young lady and I worried about her getting in over her head. That doesn’t mean we don’t agree with what you’re doing. I’m just being a protective dad.”
“I totally get it. We all have to find our comfort level, and that can be lying down in front of a bulldozer or just pulling the lever for the candidate who’ll do our cause the most good.”
“Faye would definitely be the bulldozer type if we didn’t rein her in. For what it’s worth, we brought along a few reinforcements tonight. I belong to a sportsman’s club and we don’t want to see our lakes ruined. Some of my friends are here with their families, and Beverly managed to get a whole group from our church.”
“Wow. That’s exactly the kind of public reaction we need to win this battle. I hope you’ll tell Faye what a huge impact she’s made on the environment just by sharing her passion.” They shook hands.
Their first speaker, Representative Sheila Rutledge from Arkansas, was slated to kick things off in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, a local band was warming up the crowd.
Stacie worked her way to the volunteer table, where people were signing up for various jobs—door-to-door canvassing, collecting signatures, working the phone bank, holding up placards on street corners—something for everyone.
A couple in their midtwenties had been studying the opportunities and sign-up sheets, and the girl stepped forward and asked, “Is this where we volunteer?” She had a heavy Southern accent, and they were interested in working a three-hour shift on Saturday holding up signs that read NATIONS spOILed Lake Bunyan on the sidewalk next to one of the company’s busiest gas stations.
As they walked away, Stacie noticed the man’s lizard-skin cowboy boots. “Cross them off. They have no intention of showing up, and if they do, it’ll only be to cause trouble. They’re both employees of Nations Oil.”
Walking behind them through the crowd, she saw the young man give a thumbs-up sign to someone in the back. Her eyes followed his to where Cathryn was leaning against a tree sipping bottled water. Outflanking her, Stacie was able to surprise her from behind. Keeping her voice low, she leaned over Cathryn’s shoulder and said, “We have a few chairs up front if you’d like to sit.”
“Jesus! You scared me half to death.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to. I sneaked around because I figured you wouldn’t want your acolytes to see me talking to you.”
“My acolytes?”
“The girl with the Southern accent and the guy in the cowboy boots. They’re a little out of place in the Land of Swedish Meatballs.”
Cathryn crossed her arms and looked back toward the stage, her chin thrust forward defiantly. “I’m not here to hassle you. It’s my job to know what’s going on.”
“I know. I’m not here to hassle you either. I just hope you’ll listen to our program with an open mind.”
“And then you’ll listen to me? I’ll have you know Nations Oil has a long list of green initiatives, like wind and solar, biofuels…and we’re constantly working on new technology to improve emissions. All you ever see is a big evil dollar sign.”
“No, what I see is a big oily footprint.”
“How can you say that?” From her gritted teeth, it was obvious she was trying hard not to make a scene. “We’ve had spills before and we’ve cleaned up every one. We’ve always done our utmost to make sure every single person who’s affected gets compensated. The only solution that works for you is for us to disappear completely tomorrow, and that’s just not going to happen.”
There was a lot of truth to that, but it wasn’t about the money. “Fossil fuels are killing the planet. There’s no comfort in being just a little bit dead.”
“Hyperbole.”
“Science.” The band’s final bow signaled the start of the speaker program and Stacie inched away. “I have to go. You have no idea how much I wish we were on the same team, Cathryn, but it
would have to be my team.”
* * *
When Cathryn returned to her car, she found a citation on the windshield for improper parking, with a scribbled note that read, Failure to pull forward. While it was technically true her wheels were not against the parking stop, they were less than a foot away and not obstructing traffic. She noticed a smattering of tickets throughout the lot, and reluctantly had to conclude it was part of a law enforcement harassment campaign targeting CLEAN’s activities.
Stacie sure knew how to put together a powerful and inspiring program, but her public speaking skills left a lot to be desired. Too many nervous fillers, and in a voice that modulated up and down at all the wrong times. It took away the power of her words, which was a good thing as far as Cathryn was concerned.
Unfortunately, the legislator from Arkansas, a feisty African-American woman, more than made up for it. She’d come to urge the citizens of Duluth to use every available channel—protests, letters to the editor, elections and the courts—to demand not only cleanup but criminal accountability for those responsible for the pipeline break. Her vivid description of a small town north of Little Rock where oil ran down neighborhood streets, through the sewer and into a local lake had the crowd ready to gather torches and pitchforks for a march out to Lake Bunyan.
Next was a man from Michigan who grew up along the Kalamazoo River. He told of his dogs wading in the river and stepping out with gobs of tarry oil stuck to their feet. Even more damaging was the news that he’d not caught a single fish in the three years since the spill.
As much as Cathryn wished she could dismiss the rally as a minor, inconsequential event, it had in fact been quite effective. The crowd was much bigger than she expected and far more enthusiastic, and she dreaded her call with Hoss tomorrow in which she’d have to tell him they were organizing for legal proceedings. This was her failure for not controlling the message.
After the speakers, the band returned to the stage and Cathryn took her leave. Traffic slowed considerably on the highway leading out of town toward her hotel. In the distance she saw blue lights, and an ambulance passed her on the right in the narrow emergency lane. As she inched past the scene, she fought the urge to gape but it was no use. A car had left the road and was sitting upside down, its top nearly flattened. There was little doubt someone was seriously injured, if not killed.
Anyone But You Page 12
