Overload

“The first statement is false," he told her, "the second true. I’m not saying you won’t live with last night for the rest of your life. I think you will. But you’re not the first to make an error in judgment which harmed others; you won’t be the last either. Also in your defense: You didn’t know what would happen; if you bad, you’d have acted differently.

So my advice is this, Nancy: Face up to it accept what you did and didn’t do, and remember it-for experience and learning. But otherwise put it behind you."

When she remained silent, he went on, "Now I’ll tell you something else. I’ve been a lot of years in this business-some days I think too many. But in my opinion, Nancy, you’re the best damn reporter I’ve ever worked with."

It was then that Nancy Molineaux did something which had happened only rarely in the past and even then she had never let others see. She put her head in her arms, broke down, and cried.

Old I’m-the-coach went to the window and decently turned his back. Looking down at the street outside, be said, "I locked the door when we came in, Nancy. It’s still locked and will stay that way until you’re ready, so take your time. And, oh yes-something else. I promise that no one but you and me will ever know what went on in here today."

In a half-hour Nancy was back at her desk, with her face washed and makeup repaired, writing once more, and totally in control.

* * *

Nim Goldman telephoned Nancy Molineaux the next morning, baving tried to reach her, unsuccessfully, the day before.

"I wanted to say thank you," he said, "for that call you made to the hotel."

She told him, "Maybe I owed you that."

"Whether you did or didn’t, I’m still grateful." He added, a trifle awkwardly, "You pulled off a big story. Congratulations."

Nancy asked curiously, "What did you think of it all? the things that went into the story, I mean."

"For Birdsong," Nim answered, "I’m not in the least sorry, and I hope he gets everything be deserves. I also hope that phony p&lfp never surfaces again."

"How about the Sequoia Club? Do you feel the same way?"

"No," Nim said, I don’t."

"Why?"

"The Sequoia Club has been something we all needed-part of our societal system of checks and balances. Oh, I’ve had disputes with the Sequoia people; so have others, and I believe the club went too far in opposing everything in sight. But the Sequoia Club was a community conscience; it made us think, and care about the environment, and sometimes stopped our side from going to excesses."

Nim paused, then went on, "I know the Sequoia Club is down right now, and I’m genuinely distressed for Laura Bo Carmichael who, despite our disagreements, was a friend. But I hope the Sequoia Club isn’t out. It would be a loss to everyone if that happened."

"Well," Nancy said, "sometimes a day is full of surprises." She had been scribbling while Nim talked. "May I quote all that?"

He hesitated only briefly, then said, "Why not?"

In the Examiner’s next edition, she did.

8

Harry London sat brooding, looking at the papers Nim had shown him.

At length he said glumly, "Do you know the way I feel about all this?"

Nim told him, "I can guess."

As if he had not heard, the Property Protection chief went on, "Last week was the worst in a long time. Art Romeo was a good guy; I know you didn’t know him well, Nim, but he was loyal, honest, and a friend. When I heard what happened, I was sick. I’d figured when I left Korea and the Marines I was through with hearing about guys I know being blown to bits."

"Harry," Nim said, "I’m desperately sorry about Art Romeo too, What he did that night was something I’ll never forget."

London waved the interruption away. "Just let me finish."

Nim was silent, waiting.

It was Wednesday morning, in the first week of March, six days after the trauma at the Christopher Columbus Hotel. Both men were in Nim’s office, with the door closed for privacy.

"Well," London said, "so now you show me this, and to tell the truth, I wish you hadn’t. Because the way I see it, what else is there left to believe in anymore?"

"Plenty," Nim answered. "A lot to care about and plenty to believe in.

Not anymore, though, the integrity of Mr. Justice Yale."

"Here, take these." Harry London handed the papers back.

They comprised a batch of correspondence-eight letters, some with copies of enclosures attached, and all were from the files of the late Walter Talbot, until his death last July, chief engineer of GSP & L. The three cardboard cartons from which the letters had been taken were open in Nim’s office, their other contents spread around.

Locating the letters, which Nim suddenly recalled to mind at the NEI convention, had been delayed because of last week’s tragedy and aftermath. Earlier today, Nim had had the files brought up from a basement storage vault. Even then it had taken him more than an hour to find the particular papers he sought-those he remembered glancing at seven months ago, the day at Ardythe’s house when she gave him the cartons for safekeeping.

But he had found them. His memory had been right.

And now the letters must inevitably be used as the corpus delicti at a confrontation.

Exactly two weeks earlier, at the meeting between J. Eric Humphrey, Nim, Harry London and justice Paul Sherman Yale on the subject of power stealing, the former Supreme Court justice had stated unequivocally, ".. . I find the entire concept of power theft interesting. Frankly, I had no idea such a thing existed. I have never heard of it before. Nor did I know there were such people in the public utility business as Mr. London."

The correspondence Nim had found showed all four statements to be deceitful and untrue.

It was, in the oft-used phrase of Watergate, "the smoking gun."

"Of course," London said abruptly, "we’ll never know for sure whether the old man gave his approval to the power thievery by the Yale Trust, or even if he knew about it and did nothing. All we can prove is that he’s a liar."

"And was worried as hell," Nim said. "Otherwise he would never have trapped himself by those statements."

The facts of the matter were simple.

Walter Talbot had been a pioneer in drawing attention to huge financial losses incurred by electric and gas utilities as a result of theft. He had written articles on the subject, made speeches, been interviewed by news media, and had appeared as an expert witness in a New York State criminal trial which wended its way, via appeals, through higher courts. The case had generated wide interest. Also correspondence.

Some of the correspondence had been with a member of the United States Supreme Court.

Justice Paul Sherman Yale.

It was clear from the exchange that Walter Talbot and Paul Yale had known each other well during earlier years in California.

The first letter was on a distinguished letterhead.

Supreme Court of the United States

Washington, D.C. 20543

It began: My dear Walter.

The writer expressed his interest, as a legal scholar, in a burgeoning new field of law enforcement, namely, that related to the stealing of electricity and gas. He asked for more details of the types of offenses intervened and methods being used to combat them. Also requested were any known facts about prosecutions, and their outcomes, in various parts of the country. The letter inquired after the health of Ardythe and was signed "Paul."

Walter Talbot, with a sense of decorum, had replied more formally: My dear justice Yale.

His letter was four pages long. Accompanying it was a photocopy of one of Walter’s published articles.

Several weeks later Paul Yale wrote again. He acknowledged the letter and article and posed several pertinent questions which demonstrated he had read the material carefully.

The correspondence continued through five more letters, spaced over eight months. In one of them Walter Talbot described the function of the Property Protection Department in a typical public utility, and the duties of an individual heading it-such as Harry London.

Not surprisingly, the letters pointed up the sharp, inquiring mind, the lively interest in everything, of Paul Sherman Yale.

And the entire correspondence had taken place only two years before Mr. Justice Yale’s retirement from the bench. Could Paul Yale possibly have forgotten? Nim had already asked himself that question and decided the answer was an emphatic "no". Tbe old man had demonstrated, too many times, his remarkable memory-both for large issues and for detail-to make that believable.