“Shit, we didn’t even know Schmid was in town ’till our statehouse man asked this afternoon if we were covering him,” Raus said. “Usually we get a couple days’ notice. Is this a secret trip or what?”
I kicked Whine, who was about to tell Raus the whole itinerary.
I didn’t care if they knew about us working in their town, but it was no use giving the opposition a road map for the rest of the week if they decided to try to play some catch-up.
“Oh, we just happened on the chance to do some art for a big piece on senior citizens,” I lied. “Were on the way back home tomorrow.”
That last was true, because home was en route to Morrow and Schmid’s first stop Wednesday. We drove back to the capital Tuesday, and stopped in the office, where Whine vanished to process his pictures and I went to see Swift.
“I’m not sure this is going to pay off,” I told him. “So far, Schmid has been doing just what Goldberg said he would. No unscheduled stops—nothing that looks strange.”
Swift had this habit of fluffing his beard when people talked to him. “Well, how about these private meetings? What’s going on in them?” Swift asked.
“I don’t know, they wouldn’t let us interview the people who were in those sessions. They didn’t even give out their names.”
“Wouldn’t let you? Didn’t give out names?” Swift was incensed. “See here, old man, stop accepting what these people hand you and do some reporting! Have you ever heard of staking out a meeting and following people who leave it? Have you ever heard of asking other people in the area who that was that got a private audience with the governor? Use some initiative for God’s sake!”
“Look, Mr. Swift, I thought this was a good idea when you sent us out to follow the governor. But it looks like it’s just what he says… an inspection trip and handshaking excursion. I don’t think we’re going to find out what he’s up to—if he’s up to anything—by tagging along with him all over the state.
“Why don’t we save some money by calling this off, and I’ll do some checking at the statehouse and with some of the politicians…”
“Let me worry about the money, if you don’t mind. And, you’ll do some checking over there and with the politicians when you get back, Wartovsky. Both of us had a notion—a hunch I think you Yanks call it—that Schmid was running around the state for some reason he wasn’t talking about. Now we have a chance to watch him in action, and you want to retreat to your comfortable statehouse pressroom and sit on your duff making telephone calls. Get out and do some legwork; that’s the way you get news.”
Back on the road we went, arriving at Morrow Wednesday morning ahead of the governor. Whine took the car to do some pictures of the water and soil conservation project (the object of the governor’s visit), and I dropped in at the courthouse to talk to a former state legislator who was now the local district attorney.
Bill Phlager ushered me right into his office and poured me a cup of coffee. He was in the governor’s party, but I had always found him to be an independent cuss and an honest one.
“Yeah, I’m surprised old Schmid is coming here. Our soil and water project is eight years old and so far as I know is doing very well. If he was running for reelection, I could understand why he’d want to be seen with a successful project, but he isn’t running, and you tell me he’s doing nothing to attract the press on this trip. I’m curious too. Let me know what you find out.” The manager of the soil and water project was more than curious; he was downright nervous. The governor had called him directly to say he was coming for a tour and that he wanted to talk to some of the farmers who were supposed to be benefiting from the project.
“You’re damn right they’re benefiting,” the manager said as we waited next to a drainage pump shed for the governor to arrive. “Normal rainfall was eroding this valley at a terrible rate until we started the project, and any unusually wet season was scouring the soil down to hardpan. Ten more years and this country would have been unfarmable.”
The governor and Moose showed up and the manager scurried off to greet him. Whine and I followed as he showed Schmid through the mechanical works of the project and ushered him into the small headquarters building where several local farmers waited. Once more, we were cut out, but this time I argued with the governor about the freeze.
“How can we cover the news if you exclude us?” I asked. “You’re supposed to be doing state business and the sunshine laws say that has to be done in public.”
Schmid scowled at that. “They say state business is supposed to be done in public, but they also allow for executive communications,” he said. “I’m making no decisions in these meetings; I’m simply listening to people who have a unique insight into state-financed projects—and that is tantamount to staff meetings in my office at the Capitol. Those are closed because I want to hear candid opinions without the media hanging on every word… . and this is the same. If you want to make something out of it, complain to the attorney general.”
We sat and waited for the meeting to end, and Whine and I each got the name of one of the farmers as they left the 4 project grounds. The man I talked to, Ivan Carver, said he had urgent business in town and couldn’t talk, and Whine’s guy, William Reckel, said he had nothing to say about the meeting. When we got back to our car, Moose was sitting in the driver’s seat.
“Hey, Wartovsky, this car has something wrong with it,” Moose announced with a big grin on his face.
“What do you mean? It works fine.”
“Maybe, but the gear shift lever is loose,” the big cop said. He took hold of the lever and without even grunting, ripped it off the steering column.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing, you ape!”
Moose got out of the car and grabbed my shirt. “You know better than to speak disrespectfully to an officer of the law, buster. What you want to do now is get your car fixed.”
As he spoke, Moose took hold of the mirror on the driver’s side door and wrenched it off. Then he walked around the rear of the car and kicked out the glass in the tail light. “You can’t drive around this state without proper mirrors or lights, either. I ought to ticket you now, but for an old friend, this is just a warning.” Moose stalked off.
“I’m going to report this,” I yelled after Moose.
He walked back to the car. “Feel free,” he said. “I was with the governor all the time we were here. He’ll say so and whose word is going to carry more weight?” He turned and lumbered toward the building where the governor was just finishing his meetings.
“Now how are we going to keep up with the governor?” Whine asked. “You should know better than to call that big ape a big ape.”
One of the farmers who had been talking to Schmid came out of the project building then, and I asked him where the nearest garage was.
“Back in town,” he said. When I explained our car would have to be towed in and asked for a lift, he agreed to drive one of us into town in his pickup.
I climbed into the truck, and we started toward Morrow—about three miles down the road.
Remembering what Swift had said, and seeing a chance for an interview, I asked, “How did your meeting with the governor go?”
“Passable,” the farmer said.
“Did you have any complaints or suggestions about the conservation project?”
“Nope. Project works fine. User charges are high, but fair, I guess.”
“Well, what did you two have to talk about?”
“Kenny.”
“Kenny?”
“My boy. Up at Watertown. He’s coming up for pardon this week.”