Nothing but the Truth (20 page)
Bree had always viewed herself as a pioneer against pollution. She took pride in the fact that her MTBE was really doing a great job of cleaning up California’s air. It wasn’t just science to her. She
cared
that she was doing good. She was, it appeared, altruistic. She wanted a better world. In this way she was very much like Damon Kerry, more so than Valens could have ever imagined.
cared
that she was doing good. She was, it appeared, altruistic. She wanted a better world. In this way she was very much like Damon Kerry, more so than Valens could have ever imagined.
Valens didn’t understand principled people at all, but these two—the candidate and the scientist—connected to each other in a big way. Damon Kerry, passionate and personally charming, hadn’t attacked Bree on the program. He’d been either smart or lucky enough to zero in on their common concern—keeping poisons out of the environment.
And what he’d made Bree do, which even Valens at the time had thought was brilliant, was to direct her attention downward, into the ground.
Before this one radio show, Bree’s entire scientific life had been directed into the atmosphere. She had been cleaning up the air, defending how she did it. And that had kept her busy enough that she hadn’t looked too carefully at the ground. She assumed, and the corporate culture in which she’d been immersed had aided the assumption, that her stuff—MTBE—in the ground would act like regular gasoline. Eventually it would dissolve or evaporate out. Reports—even scientific reports—to the contrary were paid for by the ethanol industry, by SKO. Bree considered the source, and discarded the facts.
So in her mind she had always been on the side of the angels, doing good work.
And then, suddenly, Damon Kerry had made her see it all differently. And in the immediate aftermath of that conversion, she’d been the greatest thing for the campaign since the battle of the frontrunning mudslingers.
But soon afterward, from Al Valens’s perspective she became a substantial liability. Something personal started going on with Damon Kerry. Before Valens knew it, Bree was showing up everywhere with his candidate. Late dinners, early lunches, fund-raising breakfasts.
By the time of her murder, Bree had mutated from occasional irritant to constant influence. Kerry was paying more attention to her than to Valens—giving more credence to Bree’s idealistic, stupid advice than to his own campaign manager.
As the relationship evolved, Valens saw that it was only going to be a matter of time before the opponent’s camp—to say nothing of the media—got wind of the story and used it to ruin everything he’d done. Valens had had nightmares about the headline: CANDIDATE IN AFFAIR WITH MARRIED MOTHER OF TWO.
No, it wouldn’t do. Bree Beaumont’s death was not at all a bad thing for Damon Kerry, although it would probably be a while before he would see it.
Now, in the darkened backseat of the limosine, Kerry’s face grew grave.
In the immediate aftermath of Bree’s death, he’d gone into hibernation for three days. Valens had had to cancel all of his appearances, pleading a virus, the flu, something. For one terrifying moment it had even looked as though Kerry was going to stop campaigning altogether, to give it up.
Valens had had to employ all of his wiles to get his client back on track, invoking Bree’s sacred name.
Bree
would never have wanted him to quit. He had to hold on, win the governorship for
Bree
if for nothing else. Fight the oil companies who had used
Bree
for their own evil purposes. If he didn’t go on,
Bree
would have died in vain. All that nonsense.
Bree
would never have wanted him to quit. He had to hold on, win the governorship for
Bree
if for nothing else. Fight the oil companies who had used
Bree
for their own evil purposes. If he didn’t go on,
Bree
would have died in vain. All that nonsense.
But ultimately, it worked.
Now Valens leaned forward, rolled the connecting window down and spoke to the driver. “Peter, take it around the block one time, will you? We’re a little early.”
This wasn’t true, but Kerry wouldn’t know that, and now that he’d mentioned Bree, it wouldn’t hurt to solidify the spin. No doubt someone would question Kerry about it at the Almond Growers Association cocktail party tonight, and it would be bad luck to give an answer upon which they hadn’t already agreed.
Valens laid a protective hand on his knee. The message bore repeating. “She and Ron were happy, Damon. The marriage was a good one. He had no reason to kill her. You have to remember that.”
Kerry turned his face to the tinted windows.
Valens continued. “If Ron and Bree were unhappy, she never mentioned it to you, okay? Right?”
For an answer, Kerry blew out a long breath.
“Look,” Valens pressed on, “let’s concentrate on the good news from this front. Look what’s happening on the talk radio shows.”
Kerry snorted. “I hate those people.”
“I know. I agree with you. But they don’t hate you. And Bree in the news is good for you.”
Throughout the campaign, the talk radio campaign against MTBE had been one of his strongest weapons. Never mind that it was funded by Baxter Thorne’s client, SKO, or that several callers linked themselves to groups that had targeted oil refineries and corporate offices with bombings and other vandalisms. Valens didn’t mind terrorists, so long as they were
his
terrorists.
his
terrorists.
Valens patted Kerry on the leg. “But like these folks or not, Damon, they are doing you a lot of good right now. They’re getting your message out.”
“My message isn’t just about gasoline additives, Al. It’s about the public trust, public safety.”
Valens bit back his reply. There were worse things than a sincere candidate, he supposed. He tried to recall the great line—was it George Burns?—“The politician’s best friend is sincerity. Once you can fake that, you’ve got it licked.” Instead, he said, “Yes, of course. I agree with you. Public safety, public trust. But the public has a handle on MTBE. They’re nervous around it . . .”
“They should be.”
“Granted. But my point is that these people are keeping the issue hot, and it’s
your
issue. You’re against this bad stuff.”
your
issue. You’re against this bad stuff.”
“Damn straight.”
“And the oil companies are making it.”
“To the tune of a three-billion-dollar-a-year industry, Al. When only five years ago—”
“Agreed, agreed.” Valens had to stop him or he’d go into his whole speech right there in the limo . . .
. . . about how the oil companies had gotten together and decided that hey, maybe it was dirty-burning gasoline that was causing air pollution after all. They should do a study and if that radical theory turned out to be true, they should—out of the goodness of their corporate hearts—do something about it.
And sure enough, that’s what the study—draft written by Bree Beaumont, Ph.D.—had found. Gasoline wasn’t burning cleanly enough. It needed an “additive” to more completely burn away the hydrocarbons that contributed to smog. The California legislature and the U.S. government’s Environmental Protection Agency fell all over themselves passing laws that mandated the use of this magical additive, if a good one could only be found.
Valens had to admit Kerry was good at this next part. He’d heard it from dozens of podiums up and down the state and it always played beautifully, the great American public hating rich corporations as it did.
“So guess what these noble oil companies did? They spent lots and lots of their own money developing the very additive that their own gasoline needed to become clean and efficient—our old friend MTBE.” Here, Valens was pleased to note, there was often if not always a chorus of well-orchestrated “boos.”
After which Kerry would continue: “And then, as it turned out—just a coincidence, my friends, I assure you—it turned out that the oil companies found that their production of MTBE, made of a by-product of gasoline refining that they had earlier been throwing away—well, would you look at that? Here’s a surprise! MTBE started to bring in a yearly income of THREE BILLION DOLLARS!”
More boos.
“Oh, and darn, they forgot to tell us one last little detail.” A moment of suspense. “Wouldn’t you just know it? The dang stuff causes cancer and respiratory degeneration. Actually, the oil companies didn’t really forget to tell us that. What they did was tell us the opposite— that MTBE was nearly medicinal in its impact on human health. The air so much cleaner we’d have a new Eden. Why, read the initial reports”—again, drafts by Bree— “and you’d almost come away believing it’s so safe you could drink the stuff.
“Except for one other problem.” And here Kerry would turn his most serious. “Except it makes water taste like turpentine. It leaks out of holding tanks and Jet Ski engines and everywhere else liquids leak out of. And once it gets into the groundwater, the wells and waterways of our great state, it never comes out. Never. Ever. It doesn’t evaporate. It doesn’t break down chemically. Ask the City of Santa Monica, which had to shut down five of its wells—that’s half of its water supply—because of MTBE contamination from local corner gas stations.
“And even now, ladies and gentlemen, even today as I’m talking to you, this stuff is added to every gallon of gasoline sold in California at a rate of up to fifteen percent per gallon. That’s fourteen point two million gallons of MTBE every single day.”
This statistic usually stunned the crowd into silence.
The candidate would wait as long as he could, then hang his head a moment. His timing was excellent. He’d look up, sometimes even able to summon a tear. “It can’t go on. For our children and our future, it’s got to be stopped. My name is Damon Kerry and I’m here to stop it.”
“So, bottom line, we can’t comment about Ron and Bree. We have to stick to the issues. We’ve been through this all before, Damon. It’s only a couple more days.”
“I know, but . . .”
But Valens knew there couldn’t be any “buts.” “Listen, ” he said with intensity. “Every day in every major city in this state, the callers to these shows are spreading the word that the oil companies killed Bree to punish her because she changed camps and came over to your side.” Valens stopped any reply, a hand up. “Look, Damon, here’s what I’m saying. You know it as well as I do—people love conspiracies, they love to hate these oil guys. This helps you.”
“But I’m not accusing the oil companies of—”
“And that what’s makes it so brilliant!” Valens knew that his candidate could see this clearly, so why did he have to keep explaining it? “Damon, you’re Mr. Clean. But your worthy opponent, who favors pumping MTBE until more research can be done? Guess what. He looks like he’s with the oil interests—”
“Which he is.”
Lord! Valens couldn’t get over Kerry’s fascination with the literal truth. “Yes, of course he is, but what matters for you is that we couldn’t
buy
the radio time they’re giving us. If we get them thinking about Ron Beaumont as a villain, it all gets diluted.”
buy
the radio time they’re giving us. If we get them thinking about Ron Beaumont as a villain, it all gets diluted.”
“I don’t know, Al. I wish they would come up with some villain, some suspect. Somebody to take the heat off.”
“Take the heat off who?”
“Who do you think, Al? Me.”
“What about you?”
“And Bree.”
“You had a professional relationship. What’s to talk?”
Kerry gave him a look. “This would be a bad time for somebody to find out, though, wouldn’t it? She’s back in the news, the story’s no longer dead, reporters start digging.”
“And find nothing. Do you hear me? You have to relax. They find nothing.”
The limo had pulled to a stop. Kerry hated to keep his crowd waiting. He needed to get out and press the flesh, keep connected to his voters. He reached for the door handle. “All right, Al, I hear you. I hear you.”
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