“What she meant, I think, is who brought what to your attention?” I said.
I knew that was a good question because Dan looked over to Ned before answering. Ned pursed his lips and shrugged, as if to say, can’t help you there, boss.
“We received confidential information. Which came into Albany, not our office at Stony Brook.”
“You’re joking,” said Amanda.
I wished again we had Jackie along.
“What do you mean confidential?” I asked “You don’t know who it was?”
“Or you’re not telling us?” said Amanda.
Dan looked uneasy.
“I guess you’d call it an anonymous tip,” he said, then added quickly, “But very credible.”
“How the hell do you know that?” asked Amanda.
“That I can’t tell you,” said Dan.
“Why not?”
“Not in the loop,” he said, “and glad for it. I’m a site investigator. My job is to investigate the site, not the source. But,” he said, looking at Ned.
“But, you have a few options,” said Ned, who shuffled around inside his manila folder until he came up with an envelope with an elaborate-looking return address in the upper-left corner.
He slapped it down on the table.
“The temporary restraining order is only good for ten days. It’s our responsibility to get on the site and look around and confirm or deny there’s an issue within that designated time frame. If we don’t hit the deadline, we go back to the judge, who could give us another ten days or say, ‘Sorry boys, you had your chance. Apologize to the lady and toddle on back to Stony Brook.’”
“Or,” said Dan.
“Or, you could bar us from the property. That’s your right. You could fight the inspection, fight the judge, fight the DEC, fight the State’s Attorney, and figure out a way to explain to the reporters we contact why you’re afraid of an inspection. This is one of your options.”
Amanda had started out in the publishing trade, copy-editing magazine articles, answering the phone, schlepping coffee for the editors, until she became an editor herself, after which a very bad thing drove her back to Southampton, where she ended up in a bank, where she worked her way up to personal banker. Along the way she married the bank manager, Roy Battiston, who tried to hijack her inheritance, the proceeds from which threw her into the world of real-estate development. None of which prepared her for this meeting we were having with the
DEC.
“When do you want to start?” I asked. “We have the schematic of the site plan. You could be ass deep in test procedures in less than an hour.”
“Just give the word,” said Amanda.
Dan sat back in his chair and waved his hands in the air.
“Whoa, what’s the hurry? Let’s talk about the focus of the investigation.”
“If it’ll get this resolved and Amanda back on schedule,” I said.
Ned waddled over to a large file box with a pull-out drawer, inside of which were rolled-up drawings looking like ancient Roman scrolls. When he spread one of them out on the table, I felt a little jolt. It was the original tax map of Jacob’s Neck and Oak Point, drawn around the time my father built our cottage. I’d seen it before in a variety of iterations in support of a massive redevelopment plan, the one that eventually landed Roy Battiston in jail and Amanda in the house next-door to mine. I shook off the associations and tried to concentrate on what Dan was saying.
“The issue is here,” he said, tapping his pencil on the abandoned WB plant. “Ned, give me the old architecturals.”
Ned heaved himself up again and this time dragged over the whole box. He dug out a roll of brittle, brownish yellow drawings. I’d seen similar examples before: hand-drawn copies of the original blueprints. Beautifully, painstakingly rendered.
Dan lifted the corner of each drawing until he came to the one he wanted. Then he yanked it roughly out of the roll. I heard myself admonishing my junior engineers to be gentle and respectful of architectural antiquities.
“See here,” he pointed to a sub-elevation titled “Subterranean storage.” The drawing had been in the roll, but creases showed that it had been folded once as well. The title of the drawing in the identification box said something like “Typical of holding cellars constructed at considered locations serving the industrial establishment.”
“The facility goes back over a hundred years so we don’t know their original purpose,” said Dan. “But the information we have indicates there’s a potential for at least some of these subterranean storage units to be containing what’s best described as toxic waste.”
I wasn’t looking at her, but I could imagine Amanda’s face turning white. It was almost quiet enough in the room to hear the blood drain away. I studied the elevations.
“Looks like laid-up stone and mortar,” I said.
“That’s right,” said Dan. “Nothing fancy. About as porous as you can get.”
“The site study found zero contamination in the soil or the water. In the ground or the lagoon,” said Amanda.
“No such thing as zero, ma’am,” said Ned. “You probably mean within allowable limits.”
Amanda graced the room with a brittle smile.
“I’ll leave the nuance to you,” she told him, without looking his way.
“Point taken,” said Dan. “It’s a good sign. But we won’t know for sure until we find and examine every one of these units and determine the adjacent soil composition.”
“Splendid. When do we begin?” she asked. “As Sam said, we’re ready anytime. You only have ten days.”
“Nine,” said Ned. “Today’s the first day.”
“Tomorrow morning will do fine,” said Dan. “We just need to get onto the factory site.”
“When you’re talking to people in Town, don’t feel obliged to throw around words like ‘toxic waste,’” I said.
Dan nodded readily.
“Absolutely. We’re just doing the State’s work. No need to elaborate.”
“An informant’s work,” said Amanda. “An anonymous informant.”
“Like I said, Amanda,” said Dan, “that’s not my part of the house.”
Watching another person struggle to preserve composure as a surge of wrath tried to hijack her better judgment was informative. So, I thought, this is what it looks like. Easier on the observer than the forbearer. Amanda’s olivey tan had in fact tilted toward the green, which nicely set off the bright red spots glowing from her cheeks.
“Very well,” she said quietly. “What time shall we meet at the front gate?”
“Early’s better,” said Dan. “Seven-thirty?”
“Fine.”
“We can be done sooner if we get full cooperation,” he said, with an attempt at a warm smile.
“What do you think you’ve been getting so far?” Amanda asked.
“Well,” said Dan, moving along, “we’ll be spending the bulk of our time finding those chambers. And if we don’t get ’em all, we’ll just have to call Albany and get that judge to extend the terms of the TRO. Which he’ll do without a doubt if the State’s Attorney wants him to, ‘cause he always does. So, you could save us all a heap of time right now,” he tapped again on the site map, “by showing me where they all are.”
One of the ways I solved engineering puzzles was to start with an unbiased look at the operating conditions, the set parameters within which the system was malfunctioning. More often than not it was an assumption at the sub-process level that assured failure at the end game. Most people resist the notion that a petty piece of established information could possibly be incorrect. A flaw not of analysis but in human nature.
Scientists call this getting stuck in a paradigm, something the more rebellious of whom are famously eager to shift.
