Ground Truth

by Rob Sangster

  Butler’s eyebrows lifted. “What haven’t you told me?” he asked, his tone sharp.

  Jack took a deep breath. The conversation was about to get heavy. “Earlier this afternoon, I met with District Attorney Rick Calder in his office.”

  Butler closed his eyes as he listened to the revelations at that meeting, including Peck’s ownership of Pacific Dawn and his importation of illegal aliens. When Jack finished, Butler exhaled with a puff, as if he’d been holding his breath. He looked over the tops of his glasses.

  “That’s very bad, indeed. And Calder thinks you may be involved?”

  “He was damned insulting. He thinks I was making money from what Peck was doing. His people are hunting for bank accounts and safe deposit boxes, trying to connect me to Peck’s business. He said he’d indict me if he got evidence.”

  “Calder has a lot of power, and DAs often indict people as a fishing expedition, especially if they get a political lift from it.”

  “I told him if he even hints publicly that I was involved, I’d sue him.”

  “You’d be right to do so. I just regret that your father won’t get a traditional burial service. And, unfortunately, some people will gossip.”

  “I don’t give a damn if they gossip, but—” He stopped, surprised. How could Butler know about the restriction Calder had imposed on Peck’s burial?

  As if reading his mind, Butler cleared his throat and said, “When I heard on the news about the deaths on Pacific Dawn, I didn’t think much about it. Then the next morning, I learned about Peck’s suicide and read a follow-up story about the ship. I had an odd intuition there might be a connection.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “At a Friday night happy hour at the yacht club last summer, Peck was tipsy and smoking hot about an insurance company that had refused to pay for damage to a cargo ship he owned. We had two rums worth of discussion about legal remedies, but when I asked him how he came to own a cargo ship, he changed the subject. That left me wondering. Anyway, this morning, out of curiosity I phoned someone who could answer my questions.” Butler looked down at his interlaced fingers, then up at him. “I’ve known Rick Calder for years.”

  Butler, his mentor, his friend, had sandbagged him. What a bastard. “So you already knew everything I just told you?”

  “I wanted to hear it from you,” he said in a voice that held no hint of apology. “However, my conversation with Calder isn’t why I asked you to come here. Dean Thomson is nearly hysterical about this scandal tying dead illegal aliens to a very prominent alum whose son is on the faculty. He kept shouting about ‘human trafficking.’ He’s afraid the notoriety will kill fundraising, grants, even recruiting. Never underestimate how fear can motivate a gutless administrator. And, I’m sorry to say, I have some more bad news for you.”

  Jack stared at him, his stomach knotting. His father was newly dead and disgraced. The DA was investigating him. What was left?

  Butler continued. “Dean Thompson has rescinded your pending appointment to the chairmanship of your department.”

  Anger surged through Jack. He jumped to his feet, but got control of himself before blurting, “That’s bull. There was nothing ‘pending’ about that appointment. It was locked in before any of this happened. Thompson made an offer, and I accepted. He can’t rescind it now.”

  “Technically,” he said, looking Jack in the eyes, “he can. The contract hasn’t been approved by the Board.”

  “I won’t let him get away with this. Let’s go see him. Both of us. Right now.” He could reason with Thompson, he assured himself, get him to back down.

  “There’s no point.” Butler said softly, corners of his mouth turned down. “He sees you as being a threat to his job someday. Fact is, he really wants to fire you, but doesn’t dare go that far. All I could get from him was to let me tell you his decision myself.”

  So Thompson’s insecurities were behind his decision to yank the Chairmanship away. Well, he was in for a fight. “I have tenure. I’ll get an injunction.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that at this point. Thompson can’t fire you unless Calder proves you were involved in that nasty business. What he can and will do is assign you to teach civil procedure to first year students until you run screaming down Palm Drive. He’ll make sure you get no promotions, no grants, no perks. You’re the most gifted professor on the faculty, but let’s face reality . . . your career here is over.”

  Butler pinched his glasses off, cleaned the lenses with a special cloth he pulled from his jacket pocket, and took his time restoring the glasses to his nose. “Jack, this is a sea change in your life. I recommend you get out of academia. Get into the arena. Go into private practice.”

  What in the hell was going on? Suicide, scandal, loss of the promotion—and now it sounded like Butler was conning him into accepting being kicked out the door.

  “Not a chance. If I’d wanted to go into private practice, I would have done it years ago.” He didn’t add that building a national reputation as a law professor was a better step on the path to the Supreme Court.

  Butler leaned toward Jack. “I understand,” he said, nodding his head, “but that was then. Now, some experience in the rough-and-tumble side of the profession will make you a better lawyer—and I can help you. Sinclair & Simms is the hottest law firm in California. Several offices overseas. Big money. Justin Sinclair and I are longtime friends. We actually served together in the, uh, intelligence business inside the old Soviet Union.”

  “Intelligence? Soviet Union? You never told me about that.” Somehow, given the way Butler was behaving, he wasn’t completely surprised.

  Butler waved the subject away. “Long time ago. What matters now is your career. Justin Sinclair doesn’t worry about fundraising, grants, or any of that crap. In you, he’d get a potential leader for his firm. You’d join at partner level, of course, but to move up you’ll have to climb over the bodies of some very tough people. As it happens, I spoke with Justin an hour ago. He’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse. So, shall we give him a call?”

  Butler was rushing ahead like an express train. To slow it down, Jack said, “The Chairman of the Board of the Sierra Club has been after me for a couple of years to be its general counsel. That might be a better fit.”

  Butler shook his head. “A terrible mistake. It’s a dead end job, no upside. Remember, the government will confiscate every penny of Peck’s estate, so you need a good income. And if Calder can find anything to tie you to Pacific Dawn, no matter how flimsy, he’ll go public, and all your options will go up in smoke. The Sierra Club can’t protect you, but maybe Justin Sinclair can.”

  Was Butler implying that Sinclair had some leverage he would use on Calder? Well, that didn’t matter because Calder could never get him on substance. There wasn’t any. But Calder might concoct something that would look suspicious. Jack had to make a decision before that happened.

  “Sam, there’s something else that will affect my decision, something I’ve discussed only with Peck. My goal is to be appointed to the U.S. Supreme Court.”

  Until a few minutes ago, he would have added that an aide to the governor had called him recently. One of the justices on the California Supreme Court would probably resign within a couple of years for health reasons. The aide had asked whether Jack might be interested in being appointed to the vacancy. Not a firm offer, but a strong feeler. Now, because of mixed messages from Butler, he held that information back.

  Butler looked pensive for a few moments. “You were Editor-in-Chief of law review and clerked for a respected judge. And Stanford has been like a freeway leading to the Supreme Court for past and present justices. Yes, you had a good shot, but now . . .” His slow head shake said it all.

  A slight movement in the corner of the room caught Jack’s attention. It was the pendulum o
f a stately Benjamin clock. He felt it measuring and discarding seconds of his life, one after another.

  “Jack, you’re like a son to me,” Butler said, breaking into his thoughts, “so I’ll give you some advice. Bury your father. Chart a new course.”

  Given his experience with Peck, the phrase “you’re like a son to me” didn’t sound appealing. But that didn’t matter. He had a decision to make. “I’ll call you in a few days and let you know what I’m thinking.”

  “In a few days you’ll be lucky to find a job with an insurance company in Omaha. Call me by nine o’clock tonight, or I can’t help you.”

  The sound of the pendulum ticking seemed louder, filling the room.

  JACK PARKED HIS BMW in the driveway of his two-story, gray shingle home in Atherton. Once inside, his muscles relaxed a little. He clicked on a Dave Brubeck jazz CD and dropped into his big chair in front of the fireplace. The books—in shelves and in toppled piles around him—and the memorabilia on the walls always relaxed him. After a few minutes, he pulled on track shorts and a Stanford Crew T-shirt. As he tied the lace on his running shoe, it snapped. It was that kind of day. He found a new lace, not a match, and tried to slow down the clamor in his brain.

  As he ran along the shaded streets and settled into a familiar routine, he thought about teaching. He’d spent eight years making the law comprehensible, even intriguing, to bright-eyed students. In an instant, that was over. He’d taken so much for granted, assuming that hard work would carry him to his goal. He’d never lost at anything. Now, in one day, he’d lost everything, but he’d be damned if he’d feel sorry for himself. He’d suck it up and start over.

  He had a life-changing decision to make. Butler’s ultimatum rang in his ears: “Call me by nine o’clock tonight, or I can’t help you.”

  If he accepted the offer from the Sierra Club, he’d be working in the public interest. On the other hand, Sinclair & Simms meant so much money he’d have to guard against becoming addicted to it. Success at S & S also meant the Supreme Court track might come back to life.

  Most lawyers would say he’d be nuts to turn down a partnership at S & S. If the dead could give their opinions, Peck would steer him to S & S for sure. Well, Sam Butler had advised him to bury his father, and that’s what he intended to do. He didn’t care what Peck would advise. This decision was his alone.

  Before their conversation today, he’d trusted Butler completely. But Butler had telephoned Calder, and, in his zeal to protect the school, the old man had probably told Thompson what he’d learned. That had set off the firestorm that cost Jack his job, maybe his future. Butler might be trying to compensate by lining him up with Sinclair.

  Jack liked to analyze all variables, options, and consequences before making a decision. No time for that tonight. He had to make a decision now.

  He turned for home.

  Chapter 7

  June 3

  10:30 am

  HEIDI KLEIN’S stomach tightened the second her assistant identified the caller. She detested the man, but didn’t have the will to decline the call. Not from him. She waved at the masseur to leave her office and clutched the front of her silk kimono over her breasts as if, somehow, the caller could see her. She picked up the receiver.

  “This is Dr. Klein,” she said.

  “So it’s ‘Dr. Klein’ now? Well, you’ll always be Heidi to me. I remember—”

  “There’s nothing to remember,” she said sharply. “I’m surprised to hear from you.” Her tone was less respectful than during the years she’d worked for him. She slipped into the soft leather Knoll chair behind her desk.

  “I’ll get to the point,” he said, with no effort to be cordial. “I’m about to give you the best proposition you’ll ever get.”

  “I’ve had a few, and you’d rank at the bottom.”

  “Please don’t interrupt, Heidi.”

  His power trips had always infuriated her, but she no longer had to put up with them. “Fine. I’ll just hang up if I get bored.”

  A moment passed without reply. He was deciding whether to challenge her. If he didn’t, it meant he needed her for some reason.

  He let it slide. “There’s a situation that’s costing companies all across the country hundreds of millions of dollars and will eventually screw up the whole damned economy. I know exactly what to do about it. That’s why I’m calling you.”

  He either didn’t realize how much she loathed him, or he was so arrogant he didn’t care.

  “My solution is incredibly simple,” he said when she didn’t respond.

  “Then maybe you can simply explain the problem.”

  “Hazardous waste.”

  What a letdown. “You want me to help you collect trash?”

  “Not trash, for God’s sake. I’m talking about materials that have to be transported by rail, truck, or barge to treatment facilities. Then it’s sent somewhere remote for permanent storage. Most of it is chemical and biological, and stuff like cadmium, lead, mercury, and dioxin, that you definitely don’t want to migrate into water supplies and kill people.”

  “Are you including nuclear waste?”

  “Some of it is, but nothing you have to worry about.”

  “Well, it’s all outside my area of expertise. You’re calling the wrong person.”

  “Just hear me out.”

  She didn’t have to hear him out. In their past, he’d suckered her into his schemes, even seduced and used her emotionally. That was over. “Why should I?”

  “Because I’m asking. Please.”

  That was better. “Go ahead.”

  “The volume of hazardous waste is skyrocketing, but most treatment facilities are mom-and-pop operations. Storage sites are filling up, so they charge whatever they want. Research labs, hospitals, and scrap yards can’t get hazardous waste off-site fast enough, so they started dumping it illegally. Sooner or later they poison a neighborhood. Do you remember Love Canal, near Niagara Falls?”

  “Not the details, but I remember it was a public health emergency.”

  “Hooker Chemical buried 21,000 tons of toxic chemicals and then sold the property. Many years later, a neighborhood was built on top of the dump site. After that, homeowners began noticing high rates of epilepsy, retardation, birth defects, and more. We can help prevent that sort of thing.

  “Here’s my point,” he hurried on, as if he sensed she was ready to hang up. “Every state refuses to be a dumping ground for the rest of the country. To make it worse, Homeland Security now requires companies to spend millions to make chemical, biological and nuclear waste secure from terrorists—which they can’t do. Businesses are going to be forced to shut down, and that includes some very large public utilities. Together, we can fix all that.”

  The man had an ego the size of Alaska, but this sounded too big, even for him. Still, it might be worth playing along.

  “What about regulations?”

  “They’re usually ignored. Once in a while some hero snitches, and a company pays a few fines.”

  “Does anyone inspect those places?”

  “The inspectors are low-paid grunts eager to get off the property as fast as they can. They leave owners to operate on the honor system. You can guess how that works out.”

  Where was this conversation going? She wanted him to get to the point so she could tell him no, hang up and get back to her massage.

  “Bottom line, what do you want from me?”

  “My new way of disposing of hazardous waste is today’s equivalent of inventing the microchip, worth hundreds of millions of dollars, maybe billions. And you can be part of it,” he said magnanimously.

  “If you’re going to suggest that my company starts treating hazardous waste, that’s not going to happen.”

  “You’re way off the mark. I can
solve this hazardous waste crisis, at least for those lucky enough to sign up as my clients. And I can make a place for you. In fact, my dear Heidi, I’d take it very badly if we don’t go forward with this together.”

  “That sounded like a threat. Do it again and I’ll hang up.”

  “Ah, you’re so feisty now. I rather preferred the relationship we had in the old days, but I suppose things change. All right, here’s the plan. I’ll arrange for a continuing flow of hazardous waste to be shipped to your site.”

  “I just told you—”

  “Listen to me. You’ll only be a middleman, transferring incoming material into trucks to be dispatched to their final destination. Each round trip will take two or three days.”

  “They could reach any of 20 states in that time. Where would they be going?”

  “That’s not something you need to know, my dear.”

  She clamped down on her emotions. Jerk. “Hold on, my assistant needs me,” she said, and left him listening to elevator music.

  She wanted a moment to think. Something about his plan wasn’t logical. Bringing the two of them in as middlemen in an existing system would have to cost the clients more, unless . . . she got it! He wasn’t going to use any of the existing hazardous waste storage sites. He planned to dispose of tons of lethal waste somewhere beyond the reach of regulations.

  Because of far lower costs, he could undercut the legitimate market. That’s why his plan required shipping to a location as remote as hers. Using her company as a drop-off would prevent clients from tracking where their waste wound up. She had to admire him. As always, he was far out in front of the pack.

  It had to be illegal as hell, but if she confronted him with that it might be a deal breaker. Anyway, in her line of work she’d learned not to be squeamish about the letter of the law. No, she wouldn’t raise the illegality of his proposal, but it would definitely raise her price.