“That would be sheer genius. You know the last time somebody got away with killing a federal judge?” He paused. “I’ll tell you. Never.”
Chapter 21
Gage sat alone at his breakfast table, drinking coffee, and reading Skeeter Hall’s fourteen-year-old file about the refinery explosion: the Richmond Fire Department reports recounting the recovery of the nearly incinerated bodies, the OSHA investigation showing that the root cause of the explosion was a failed pressure release device, the depositions of the TIMCO International Petroleum officers and refinery managers, and, finally, the deposition of John Porzolkiewski and his repeating over and over, “Money won’t bring my son back.” And Brandon Meyer, then the TIMCO lawyer, demanding, “What do you want?” And Porzolkiewski answering, “Nothing. I want nothing.”
Gage next examined the court file, the transcript of the Superior Court Judge’s Order of Dismissal, an apologetic:
My hands are tied. This is simply a workers’ comp case. The people of California made a trade a generation ago. In exchange for guaranteed compensation, they waived their right to sue their employers in the event of their own injury or the death of a loved one.
The Plaintiffs have failed to prove the exceptional circumstances required by law. Even the minimal threshold, showing prima facie that management had created unsafe working conditions, has not been met by the Plaintiffs.
Notwithstanding how horrendous the consequences may have been, the Occupational Safety and Health investigation is dispositive: This is simply a matter of “accidents happen.” Maybe even an accident waiting to happen. Nonetheless, this incident appears to be precisely what was envisioned by the Workers’ Compensation Law.
Case dismissed.
Clearly, Gage thought, John Porzolkiewski didn’t believe OSHA’s claim that this was an accident that just happened. What he surely believed was that the root cause of his suffering wasn’t a faulty valve and a spark, but Brandon Meyer-and that he wasn’t acting alone.
F ive minutes after Gage left the Sacramento Delta home of Ray Karopian later that afternoon, the retired OSHA inspector drove to a pay phone two miles away. But like a shoplifter in Home Depot, he noticed a thousand eyes but not the ones actually watching him.
“A private investigator was just here about TIMCO,” Karopian told the man at the other end of the line.
“What did you tell him?”
“You think I’m an idiot? You think I suddenly made up a new story after all these years?”
“Okay, okay. Take it easy. What’s his name?”
“Graham Gage from-”
“I know where he’s from.”
“How do you-”
“I don’t have time to talk about it. Call me if he comes back. And don’t use your real name.”
V iz and Alex Z were sitting at Gage’s conference table when he arrived at the office from the Sacramento Delta.
“What’s going on with Shakir?” Gage asked Alex Z, after he sat down.
“Dr. Kishore came by to see him this morning when I was there,” Alex Z said. “She seems satisfied with his progress. She grinned at me just before she left and asked when your return flight to Mumbai was.” He made a show of scratching his head. “I didn’t have a clue what she meant.”
Gage shrugged, then smiled. “I’m sort of like her brother-in-law.”
“I still don’t get it.”
Viz reached over and squeezed Alex Z’s shoulder, “Don’t worry kid, I think this is one of those times where we’re just gonna have to go with the flow.” He then pointed at Gage’s TIMCO file. “What did the OSHA man say?”
“That the pressure release device on the valve failed and the whole thing blew apart. Kerosene splashed down onto the scrubber motor and a spark set off the fire. They never even found all the pieces.”
“Then how do they-”
“They pulled one off another line afterward and concluded that’s all it could’ve been.”
“What about the plaintiff’s experts?”
“They couldn’t come up with anything definitive to counter it.”
“What about maintenance records?” Alex Z asked. “When was the last time they inspected the valve before it blew?”
“About a month. They did the annual turnaround, shut the tower down and inspected-” Gage caught himself. “Makes me wonder how well they inspected it.”
“I’m no expert in workers’ comp law,” Viz said, “but that would still be just a screw-up on the part of some worker. How would that implicate management in creating dangerous working conditions?”
“It doesn’t, but it’s a place to start.” Gage looked at Alex Z. “They deposed a welder in the shop, Wilbert Hawkins. He testified he inspected the release valve, but didn’t see anything wrong with it. He went off to work in an oil field in Pakistan. Find out where he is now.”
Viz pointed at Skeeter Hall’s file. “What do you think the case would’ve been worth if the judge hadn’t dismissed it?”
“Skeeter thinks TIMCO would have settled for ten million dollars, but he could’ve taken it to trial and got thirty.”
“ If they could have gotten the case to a jury.”
“Yeah,” Gage said. “If…”
A lex Z appeared at Gage’s door two hours later, shaking his head.
“Hawkins never came back from Pakistan, boss. It’s like he evaporated.”
Chapter 22
The strap of Jeannette Hawkins’s yellow-flowered shift slipped off her shoulder as she pulled open her front door. Her half-exposed left breast lay sagging against her chest like a flag at half-mast. She shifted her Budweiser bottle into her left hand, hoisted up the strap, then looked up at Gage standing on her porch.
“I paid it already,” she said.
“I’m not-”
“I paid the car note. Leave me alone.”
Gage glanced over at the 1993 faded red Ford Fiesta parked on the hard-packed front yard of the hillside bungalow in north Richmond. He then took in the cracked concrete leading to the sagging front steps and the tan paint peeling from the weathered clapboard siding. The front right corner of the roof was covered with a blue tarp. Cigarette butts littered the porch like spilled popcorn.
“I’m not here about the car,” Gage said. “I’m looking for your husband.”
“ Ex… Ex-husband… Ex-son-of-a-bitch husband.” She inspected Gage. “Who’re you?”
Gage reached into the pocket of his brown corduroy workshirt and pulled out his business card. She accepted it in her veined hand, but ignored it. Instead she stared at his shirt.
“That a Carhartt?”
He nodded.
“Son of a Bitch used to wear Carhartt every day over at TIMCO. Like a uniform.” She squinted at Gage. “You’re not from TIMCO, are you? I already got my check. I don’t figure I have to keep saying thanks in person.”
Gage pointed at his card in her hand. “I’m a private investigator.”
