Overload

Pritchett, spare, neat and with mannerisms to match, wore a dark, conservatively tailored three-piece suit. His iron gray hair was precisely parted and in place; occasionally he put up a hand to satisfy himself it remained undisturbed. As he rose and approached the witness stand, Pritchett’s eyes appeared to gleam behind his rimless glasses.

Shortly before the interrogation he had been conferring intently with Laura Bo Carmichael, seated beside him at one of the three counsel-witness tables.

"Mr. Goldman," Pritchett began, "I have here a photograph." He reached back to the counsel table and picked up an eight-by-ten glossy print.  "I’d like you to examine it, then tell me if what you see is familiar to you."

Nim accepted the photograph. While he studied it, a Sequoia Club clerk was handing additional copies to the commissioner and administrative law judge, counsel, including Oscar O’Brien, Davey Birdsong and the press. Several more copies went to spectators who began passing them around.

Nim was puzzled. Most of the photo was black, but there was a certain familiarity . . .

The Sequoia Club manager-secretary was smiling. "Please take your time, Mr. Goldman."

Nim shook his head. "I’m not sure."

"Perhaps I can help." Pritchett’s voice suggested a game of cat-and-mouse. "According to what I have read in newspapers, the scene you are looking at is one you personally observed last weekend."

Instantly Nim knew. The photo was of the Cherokee plant coal pile at Dewer. The blackness was explained. Mentally he cursed the publicity which had disclosed his weekend journey.

"Well," he said, "I suppose it’s a picture of coal."

"Please give us a little more detail, Mr. Goldman. What coal and where?"

Reluctantly Nim said, "It’s stored coal for use by a Public Service Company of Colorado plant near Dewer."

"Precisely." Pritchett removed his glasses, wiped them briefly, then replaced them. "For your information, the photograph was taken yesterday and flown here this morning. It isn’t a pretty picture, is it?"

‘No.

Ugly, wouldn’t you say?"

‘I suppose you could call it that, but the point is…"

“The point is," Pritchett interrupted, "you have already answered my question-I suppose you could call it that,’ you said-which means you agree that the picture is ugly. That’s all I asked. Thank you."

Nim protested, "But it should also be said . . ."

Pritchett waved an admonitory finger. "That’s enough, Mr. Goldman! Please remember I am asking the questions. Now let’s move on. I have a second photograph for you-and the commissioners-to look at."

While Nim fumed inwardly, Pritchett returned to the counsel table and this time selected a color photo. He handed it to Nim. As before the clerk passed out other copies.

Although Nim failed to recognize the specific scene, he had no doubt where the second photo was taken. It had to be Tunipah, at or near the site of the proposed generating plant. Equally obvious was that the photographer was a skilled professional.

The breathtaking beauty of the rugged California wilderness had been captured under a clear, azure sky. A stark, rocky promontory towered over a stand of majestic pines. Near the base of the trees was dense foliage, in the foreground a racing, foam-flecked stream. On the nearer bank of the stream a profusion of wild flowers delighted the eye. Further away, in shadows, a young deer had raised its head, perhaps startled by the photographer.

Pritchett prompted, "A truly beautiful scene, is it not, Mr. Goldman?"

"Yes, it is."

"Do you have any idea where that photograph was taken?"

"I presume it was Tunipah." there was no point in playing games, Nim decided, or in delaying the point which sooner or later Pritchett was going to make.

"Your presumption is correct, sir. Now I have a further question."

Pritchett’s tone sharpened; his voice rose. "Does it disturb your conscience that what you and your company propose to do at Tunipah is superimpose this, this hideous ugliness"-he waved the coal pile picture in the air-"upon this serene and glorious beauty"-now he held up the second, color photo-"one of the few remaining unspoiled sanctuaries of nature in our state and country?"

The question-posed with dramatic rhetoric-produced a hum of approval from spectators. One or two applauded.

Nim answered quietly, "Yes, of course it disturbs me. But I see it as necessary, a compromise, a trade-off. Besides, in proportion to the total area around Tunipah . . ."

"That’s sufficient, Mr. Goldman. A speech is not required, the record will show that your answer was ‘yes."’

Pritchett paused briefly, then returned to the attack.

"Is it possible that your journey to the State of Colorado last weekend was undertaken because your conscience bothered you, because you had to see for yourself the ugliness of huge quantities of coal-the kind of quantities there would be at Tunipah-imposed on what was once a beautiful landscape?"

Oscar O’Brien was on his feet. "Objection!"

Pritchett swung toward him. "On what grounds?"

Ignoring Pritchett, O’Brien addressed the bench. “The question has twisted the witness’s words. Further, it presumes a state of mind which the witness has not admitted having."

The presiding commissioner announced blandly, “The objection is overruled." O’Brien subsided, glowering.

"No," Nim said, addressing Pritchett, "the way you put it was not the reason for my journey. I went because there were technical aspects of a coal-fired generating plant I wished to review in advance of these hearings." Even to Nim, the reply seemed unconvincing.

Pritchett observed, "I am sure there are some here who will believe you."

His tone declared: I don’t.

Pritchett continued with other questions but they were anticlimactic. The Sequoia Club, through its shrewd use of the contrasting photographs, had scored heavily and Nim blamed himself.

At length the club’s manager-secretary resumed his seat.

The presiding commissioner consulted a sheet in front of him. "Does the organization ‘power & light for people’ wish to question this witness?"

Davey Birdsong responded, "It sure does."

The commissioner nodded. Birdsong lumbered to his feet.

The big man wasted no time on preliminaries. He asked, "How did you get here?"

Nim looked puzzled. "If you mean whom do I represent.

Birdsong snapped, "We all know who you represent-a rich and greedy conglomerate which exploits the people." the p&lfp leader slammed a meaty hand on a ledge by the witness chair and raised his voice. "I mean exactly what I said: ‘How did you get here?"’

"Well . . . I came in a taxi."

"You came in a taxi? A big, important wheel like you? You mean you didn’t use your personal helicopter?"

Nim smiled thinly; it was already obvious what kind of interrogation this would be. He answered, "I don’t have a personal helicopter. And I certainly didn’t use one today."

"But you do use one sometimes-right?"

"On certain special occasions . . ."

Birdsong cut in. "Never mind all that! You do use one sometimesyes or no?"

"Yes."

"A helicopter, paid for with the hard-earned money of gas and electricity consumers in their monthly bills?"

"No, it is not paid for in utility bills. At least, not directly."

"But consumers pay indirectly-right?"

"You could say that about every piece of working equipment .

Birdsong slammed his hand again. "We’re not talking about other equipment. I’m inquiring about a helicopter."

"Our company has several helicopters which .

"Several! You mean you get a choice-like between a Lincoln and a Cadillac?"

Nim said impatiently, “They are mainly for operational use."

"Which doesn’t stop you using one when you need it personally, or think you need it-right?" Without pausing for an answer, Birdsong reached into a pocket and produced a newspaper sheet which he unfolded. "You remember this?"

It was Nancy Molineaux’s article in the California Examiner, published shortly after the press visit to Devil’s Gate Camp.

Nim said resignedly, "I remember it."

Birdsong read out details of the newspaper and date, which the stenotypist recorded, then swung back to Nim. "It says here: ‘Mr. Goldman . . . is too important to ride on a bus, even though one privately chartered by Golden State Power-was going his way . . . and had plenty of spare seats. Instead he chose a helicopter . Birdsong looked up, glaring. "Is all that true?"