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Ruffling Feathers Chapter 3 -Fact Finding
The press conference had been a disaster. Even now, hours after Amy had driven back home to Piñon, her cheeks burned with embarrassment when she thought of how it had played out. She had blown it big time. Armed to the teeth, smug in the facts she had dug up on Donovan and his business dealings, she had put her intuition on overdrive, had completely missed the mark, had come up looking foolish. Now she had to begin to save face and write something for Jay to print in tomorrow's Camera. Confidence shaken, she began writing, "Out of one family's tragedy comes a ray of hope for the troubled Colorado Parks and Recreation Fund. With dwindling revenues from legalized gambling, our state's parks face increasing use and declining welfare. That picture changed dramatically today when the newly-formed Donovan Foundation anted up a ten-million dollar fund to begin restoration on damaged wildlife habitats within our state forests. Paul Donovan, chairman of The Donovan Foundation, announced the grant today at the home of his friend, Governor Brannon." Amy gritted her teeth, willing herself to continue, cringing as she remembered her shock when Gil Brannon had introduced Paul Donovan. She had been expecting George Donovan, the man in the only photo she had been able to dredge up. Turns out George Donovan had died with his wife Anne in a plane crash in December 1990, leaving a son and daughter. Now, ten years later, the son had created The Donovan Foundation, a philanthropic arm of the engineering company, in memory of his late parents. He had established its headquarters in Piñon, where his parents had attended Courtland College, met, and married. Paul Donovan didn't look much like his father. George Donovan had been burly, with the physique and complexion of a lumberjack. The son had the build of a businessman who spent too many hours in hotel gyms. Muscular, but not as lean as most hardcore runners. And Amy knew he was a runner because she had watched him run every morning for the past month, clockwise to her counterclockwise. Amy closed her eyes, remembering what had caught her eye. His sinewy legs and broad shoulders, his chiseled face with crinkly eyes she could only glimpse before she averted her own so as not to seem forward. Looking back, she berated herself for not being bright enough to figure out who he was. New man on the jogging trail, new business in town, in a damned small town at that. It had just never occurred to her that her jogger could be Mr. Donovan himself. She had assumed Mr. Donovan, head of Donovan Industries, was middle-aged. Richard Clayton, Carol Landry and the Donovan employees she met at the wedding implied that he was more than a boss and kept a tight rein on their loyalties and monitored their lives. Her web research merely reinforced false assumptions—she saw a photo and didn't question how it fit into the big picture. It didn't occur to her to check obituaries. Private families protect their privacy—“birth and death records don't usually lie, Aims” she could hear Jay lecturing. She would never hear the end of it if he got wind of today’s screw-up. She wouldn't even have passed Journalism 101 on this story. Paul Donovan smirked at her as he took the podium after shaking Governor Brannon’s hand. A frisson of pleasure sped down Amy’s back as it became apparent that he recognized her from Piñon Trail, and he was clearly enjoying her surprise at discovering who he was. Of course, she had gotten to the press conference early and had a front-row seat—more Jay O’Brien training. She was prepared. A twelve-hour day on Monday gave her enough data to piece together a pretty good picture of what Meriweather E&E was up to...or so she thought at the time. Paul Donovan spoke simply and movingly about the legacy of his parents—their love of nature and Colorado and each other. Then he went overboard—mush always smelt like hypocrisy to Amy’s trained ear. Here was a man whose convoluted network of water and land deals would eventually line his pockets while he was turning eastern Colorado into a dust bowl. When Donovan was done, eastern Colorado really would be the Great American Desert. And he was waxing poetic about a measly ten million that was nothing but a front to keep the environmentalists off his back. Question and answer time. Amy was pretty sure that Gil Brannon would give her first shot. Two years ago he had taken her up on her challenge to the gubernatorial candidates to walk the state. She had rewarded his gumption, along with his environmentally sound policies, with an endorsement in an op-ed piece. Take a deep breath and go for the jugular. She could hear herself, strident and cocky. "Mr. Donovan, thank you for your generosity in giving our state ten million of your dollars. Last Friday, the Denver Water Board and Douglas County awarded Donovan Industries the contract to develop an Aquifer Storage and Recovery System to control the flow of water into and out of the lake that lies beneath Douglas County. In the contract, the Water Board and the County stipulated that Donovan Industries would not only build the ASR system but operate it as well, essentially giving Donovan Industries sole control over the water for one of the fastest growing counties in the country. I have three questions. First, do the entities that awarded your firm the contract know that Donovan Industries holds water rights for tens of thousands of acre-feet of South Platte water? Second, do they know that because overflows from the South Platte will be pumped into the aquifer, you will be able to access and use water destined for eastern Colorado in Douglas County? And third, does Donovan Industries currently own or do you plan to purchase any land in Douglas County? As expected, Paul Donovan's smile faded with Amy’s second sentence. She could almost see the sharp businessman struggle to come to the foreground as he fought to maintain his image as earnest benefactor and friend of Colorado. "I see that you don’t come to press conferences unprepared. Good research." He paused, unconsciously glancing at Brannon. Seasoned politicians don’t enhance stories with body language, and Gil Brannon was definitely seasoned. Out of the corner of her eye Amy saw Ray Mendoza, Gil’s press secretary, scuttle for the antechamber. Better start spinning a response. Amy knew then that Brannon’s people hadn’t known about Donovan’s extracurricular interest in the water they would be storing and pumping. What Brannon knew was another story. Paul continued, his face smooth, his manner benign. "Donovan Industries is uniquely positioned to build and operate Douglas County’s Aquifer Storage and Recovery system, or ASR. Over the past several years, I have been changing the face of our company from natural resource exploration and have been seeking out projects in which we enable companies to operate cleanly as well as profitably. As I’m sure you’re aware, last year we changed our name to reflect the changing nature of our company. No longer Meriweather Engineering and Explorations, Donovan Industries embraces and champions environmentally responsible projects that enhance the quality of life for people all over the globe.” Paul glanced at the governor again, and Amy was sure she detected a reassuring nod this time. “To answer your questions, Donovan Industries sold the water rights that we acquired in the late seventies. We own no property in Douglas County, and recently sold a sizable tract we held in South Park. As I said, we are an engineering company that specializes in environment-friendly projects. I have no plans to move into real estate development.” He smiled slightly at Amy as she gritted her teeth, and addressed the rest of the press corps. “Now let’s get back to how Colorado is going to spend an extra ten million dollars to make your forests and waterways healthier for the wild creatures of this great state." If the shock Amy felt registered on her face, she kept it out of her voice as she sat back and allowed complete and utter mortification to set in. She hadn’t dug deep enough. She had smelled a rat, and then had gotten so caught up in chasing a juicy-smelling story that she didn’t finish her homework and discover there were two different Donovans. If she had discovered that it was the son and not the father in the driver’s seat, maybe she wouldn’t have let her assumptions take center stage. Now she looked like a fool in front of her colleagues, the governor, and the new big man in Piñon. Shamefaced, Amy listened while Paul Donovan turned on the charm for the rest of the reporters, and before the ordeal ended, Donovan and Brannon were teasing each other with locker room repartee to an adoring audience. The press conference over, Amy stowed her palmtop in her briefcase and headed for the door. No chance for a quick getaway—Brannon's press secretary cut her off at the pass. "Governor Brannon would like a word," Roy Mendoza said, motioning her back to the anteroom. "Amy, what do you think of my friend here? He caught you napping for sure." Gil smiled broadly and crushed Amy's hand in a hearty shake. “Now don’t be embarrassed, no one else even had what you had. You just didn’t have the whole story, that’s all.” Amy, her face flushed, shook hands with Paul Donovan. "I'm not going to apologize for asking what I thought were going to be the hard questions," she said archly, "but I do feel badly about setting up that home run out there. My colleagues will think you paid me off to play the fool." "Think no more about it. I was impressed that you had dug out the information you did. You preempted our press conference next week, and my PR team is not going to like that. But the story’s out now, and Douglas County is getting a state-of-the-art ASR." Friendly banter was followed by an invitation to lunch with the Governor, and it was after two o'clock before Amy found herself back on the interstate headed north towards home. Instead of going home, however, Amy headed for her father's campus office. Summer office hours are flighty, so Amy was pleasantly surprised when she found her father in his office, feet on desk, an inch into potboiler summer fiction. She made them each a coffee and in the department lounge outlined what Paul Donovan had told her and the rest of the reporters that morning about the Douglas County aquifer storage and recovery system and the ten-million dollar grant for habitat restoration. Ed Hutchins took a long sip of coffee, then leaned forward, face in hands. When he looked up, he shook his head and sighed. "A bigger bunch of bullshit I've never heard." He sat back and looked his daughter straight in the eye. "Amy, I've been studying water politics in the West for over thirty years. That's not the way it works. No one is dumb enough to walk away from water rights. Water trumps gold in Colorado. I don't know what your Mr. Donovan is up to, but I’ll tell you this—he’s worked a deal with the Department of Wildlife, the Governor, and probably the whole damn Water Commission—and things are not what they seem. Two Forks was a bad deal. ASRs are a good deal, but you can’t let the fox guard the hen house. You find out who owns the water rights that he says he sold, and you’ll have your first good lead on a crackerjack story." "So, what do I write about for tomorrow’s Camera?" "Stick with the facts—as simply as you can. He staged that press conference today as sure as you're born. He probably knew you'd dig. He probably knows all about you from that cousin of his you're so friendly with, and he planted just enough on the Internet to hook you and reel you in." "I don’t think I’m on the radar of big business.” “Don’t sell yourself short, Aims. You stir things up and guys who exploit the environment don’t like people who stir things up.” “Besides I can’t write the facts because I don't know what they are anymore. Apparently, my intuition has been on vacation." "Don't be too hard on yourself. Your intuition about this weasel was right on the money. You just felt flustered being a pawn in someone else's game." Amy got up and bused their coffee cups. Her father gave her a hug and held her at arm's length. "You be careful. Water in the West is deadly business. A hundred years ago, sheep farmers and cattle ranchers fought a real war over grazing lands. People fight over water. Don't be caught in the crossfire when this thing heats up—because it will. I smell a fight that will bring out the worst in everyone." Amy arrived home to an empty house and the heady fragrance of roses. Jenn must have made quite an impression on poor Dave Landry. But no, the card on the table was addressed to her. I enjoyed talking with you at lunch. Can we finish our conversation over dinner this Saturday night? Paul Donovan 303-555-1105 "If only they weren't yellow roses," Amy said aloud. "I can't resist yellow roses." Carol Landry poked her head in Paul Donovan's office. "Amy Hutchins is holding for you, sir." Paul indicated that he would take the call. He glanced at the clock. Nine a.m. sharp. This woman had good manners. He put the receiver to his ear and sat down with a smile. Yes, she loved the flowers. No, she couldn't take him up on his offer for dinner. She had a wedding this weekend in Breckenridge. A counter offer—would he come with her to Piñon's midsummer street party next Tuesday? She would pick up him. Perfect. When Carol saw the red light on Paul's private line switch off, she scooped up a stack of folders and knocked on the open door. "Shall we review today's board meeting agenda?" Carol sat down at the conference table and briskly sorted through her papers. She glanced up when Paul, whom she expected to join her, walked to the window and gazed out into the sparkling blue Colorado morning. "I can guess the subject of your reverie," Carol said in a low tone. "I should imagine not." "You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many more months in this horrible little town. I was never more annoyed—the coffee shop didn't have this morning's Trib. The insipidity and yet the noise of these small towns; the nothingness and yet the self-importance of all these people. Dave told me that that Hutchins woman who was on the phone hijacked your press conference yesterday." "Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow." Carol fixed her eyes upon his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Paul replied, "Amy Hutchins." He sat down at the table. "Shall we work?" An hour later Carol stood in the women's washroom, counting backwards slowly from ten and clenching her jaw to keep from crying. She had been Paul's executive assistant for five years. She knew that Dave had arm-twisted Paul to take her on, but she also knew that she had more than proven herself. She kept his schedule running smoothly; she kept him informed and briefed so that he never went into a meeting unprepared; she guarded his privacy jealously and kept the young women he employed out of sight and out of reach. She had fallen in love with her boss. Carol happily traipsed the country with Paul Donovan as he kept tabs on his various divisions and enterprises. She looked at this stint in Piñon as purgatory. A few more weeks and the Foundation would be functioning on its own with Dave at the helm, and the software division would be completely transitioned. She could go home to Chicago while Paul spent the remainder of the summer at his home in Carlisle Point, Maine. But now Carol was afraid that the mysterious project that Paul and Dave talked about privately would keep them in Colorado longer than even she could stand.
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