Dark Justice (13 page)

“You have to understand the big picture. Ben, what do you think is the main purpose of our monkeywrenching activities?”

He shrugged. “I assume you’re trying to scare people off. Threaten the loggers with their lives.”

“Wrong. That’s the way the media plays it, that’s the line the logging conglomerates feed them, but that isn’t the truth. We take every possible precaution to make sure no one is hurt by our activities, and so far we’ve been successful. Monkeywrenching is about money.”

“I’m afraid I don’t get it.”

“Let’s take tree spiking, for example. Tree spiking is not about trying to hurt loggers. Tree spiking is something we do when we hear that another expanse of old-growth forest is about to be sold for logging. Basically, we hammer a nail or some other large piece of metal into a tree. We then warn the Forest Service or the timber company bidding on the sale or both. At that point, if the Forest Service still wants to sell the forest, they have to send a crew out with metal detectors and crowbars to remove the spikes. It’s a lot of trouble and expensive. In many cases, the Forest Service simply cancels the sale. If they do proceed, many logging companies will not bid, because they know that if a spike runs through their lumbermill, it could damage the blade of the saw and cost them thousands of dollars. Toss in some sabotaged tree cutters or haul trucks, and before long the profit margins start shrinking. And since profits are the raison d’être of big corporations, the trees don’t get cut. Not because the loggers have decided to perform a service for humanity, but because our efforts have simply made it too expensive.”

“But tree spiking still creates a danger that someone will be hurt.”

“We always discourage spiking trees at low levels, where it could strike a chain saw and hurt a logger. We spike up higher than they can reach.”

“Wait a minute,” Christina said. “I remember hearing about some logger who got hurt by a spiked tree.”

“But do you know what actually happened?”

“Well …”

“Here’s the facts. In 1987, a band saw in a Cloverdale, California, mill struck an eleven-inch spike and shattered, sending pieces of blade flying across the room. One section hit a logger named George Alexander and broke his jaw. Instantly, the media jumped on the bandwagon denouncing eco-terrorists without doing the least investigation of the bill of goods they were being sold by the logging corporation. The truth is, that band saw shouldn’t have shattered like that just because it hit a spike. It was cracked, wobbly, and due for replacement, but it hadn’t been replaced because the company didn’t want to spend the money. Alexander himself said he almost didn’t go to work that day—because he was concerned about the dangerous condition of the band saw, which he had been complaining about for weeks.”

“Still, if the environmentalists hadn’t spiked the tree—”

“But did they? The spike was not in an old-growth tree. It came from a nonwilderness tract. There were no environmental groups protesting the harvesting of those trees. The protest came from local area residents, who were concerned about the noise, truck traffic, and erosion damage the logging was causing. Weeks after the incident, the police admitted their chief suspect was a local conservative Republican in his mid-fifties who owned property near the logging site. And the logging company later admitted they had received warnings and threats—from local residents. Of course, none of that was reported in the press.”

“It’s hard to imagine someone other than an eco-group spiking trees,” Christina said.

“Excuse me,” Rick said, jumping in, “but who do you think invented tree spiking? Loggers, that’s who. Loggers invented it around the turn of the century during the labor wars with the big logging companies here in the Pacific Northwest. We just borrowed a trick from their toolbox.” He paused. “Look, I wish we could get our work done with hugs and kisses, too, but at some point you’ve gotta face facts. It’s like B. Traven said: ‘This is the real world, muchachos, and you are in it.’ ”

“We’re getting off the subject again,” Ben said. “If anyone knows of anything that might help Zak or might possibly be relevant to the trial, please come tell me.”

“We will,” Maureen said, speaking for all of them. “Anything else we can do for you?”

“Yes. Stay out of trouble.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think you know. No spiking, exploding, or any other illegal activities until this trial is over.”

“Are you saying we should turn the forest over to the loggers? Maybe just roll out a red carpet?”

“I’m saying that jurors are influenced by pretrial publicity, okay? Even the most fair-minded soul can’t help knowing what he knows. If there’s a lot of bad press about Green Rage, it won’t help Zak at trial.”

Rick looked aggravated. “We can’t just sit on our hands!”

“I didn’t ask you to give up. I asked you not to do anything illegal. Magic Valley is already in turmoil. It’s the worst possible setting for the trial of an environmental activist accused of murdering a logger, and my chances of getting a change of venue are slim. Any aggressive activity by Green Rage will only make the situation worse.”

“Sorry,” Rick said. “We can’t afford to lay low. They could level this whole forest before the case goes to trial.”

Doc nodded. “I agree.”

“People, be reasonable!” Christina pleaded. “Do you want to see Zak convicted?” She appealed to Deirdre. “Deirdre, you’re a scientist. You’re used to thinking logically. Talk to them.”

She shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry. I agree with them. If we lay low, this forest will disappear.”

“Then you’ll plant new trees.”

“You can plant new trees,” Deirdre said, “but you can’t plant a forest.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“It’s been proven scientifically a dozen times over. Once a forest is gone, it’s gone. Trees may be a renewable resource, but forests are not. Replacement trees, set out in rows, all the same size and species, are less able to resist the drought and cold, insects and diseases, because they grow in simplified strands, not in the vigorous, complex ecosystems that evolved naturally over eons.”

“Trees are trees—”

“Scientists have performed several studies in the aftermath of clear-cutting, focusing on the herbaceous layer—the shrubs and plants that are sheltered by forest trees—the forest life forms most sensitive to disturbances. Their conclusions are uniform. The forest doesn’t—won’t—grow back. You see, the loggers engage in monoculture; they see the forest as nothing but trees to be harvested. In truth, the forest is a complex organism filled with varied but interdependent life. Once that organism is disturbed, it becomes vulnerable to disease and extinction. In areas where clear-cutting occurred decades ago, species and foliage have drastically declined. On average, less than half of the species returned, and only a third of the plant life. The conclusion is inescapable—forests don’t grow back.”

“It’s true,” Rick said. “I grew up in Vermont. It used to be almost entirely covered with trees—till the forests were clear-cut almost a century ago. We used to have white pines reaching two hundred feet in height. Black walnut trunks five and six feet through the middle. Chestnuts spread two hundred feet from one branch tip to the next. And what do we have now? A forest of sticks.”

“I grew up in Michigan,” Doc said. “The great pines that used to grow there disappeared after they were clear-cut. They were replaced—
when
they were replaced—by oaks and aspens, which are being devoured by the gypsy moths so prevalent now that it’s dangerous to drive during the caterpillar season—the roads are slick with mashed corpses of the larvae. Changing the forest composition totally ruined the ecosystem.”

“And,” Deirdre said, “we haven’t even factored in other human activities that are killing trees and making regrowth difficult. Air pollution. Acid rain. Ozone depletion. The bottom line is that when the evolved, biologically rich ecosystem that created the original forest is destroyed, it’s destroyed forever.”

Ben felt an intense gnawing in the pit of his stomach. “I hear what you’re saying,” he said levelly, “but a man’s life is on the line. We can’t risk a human life to save some trees.”

“Right,” Doc said. “Because we humans are always more important than any other living thing on the planet.”

“I don’t mean that,” Ben said. “But—”

“Ben,” Deirdre interrupted, “can I show you something? It’s just a short walk.”

Ben pushed up to his feet and followed her out of the clearing, Christina close behind. He was happy to leave that scene. It was frustrating and … disturbing. In the extreme.

They had walked barely five minutes when Deirdre began speaking again. “All of the trees in this area are old growth. They go back hundreds of years. Every limb brushing your shoulders is older than you, older than your parents, older than their parents. Some of them are older than Columbus.”

They continued walking. “When WLE Logging first got the rights to cut in this area, they made a public announcement that they would cut no old-growth trees. They got all kinds of great PR—even a pat on the back from the mayor.” She continued walking, touching the leaves on the branches as she passed. “We were relieved. Maybe for once someone would do the right thing without being economically blackmailed. Still, Zak wanted to be sure. So he led a team into the forest.”

She paused, and Ben noticed her lips trembling a bit when she spoke again. “And this is what they found.”

All at once Ben emerged from the forest and stepped into an enormous clearing. It was as if he had stepped onto the landscape of a different planet. Where before, everything had been green, verdant, and alive, now suddenly his surroundings, as far as his eye could see, were barren, bleak, and dead.

It took several moments before the full impact of what he was seeing hit him. His eyes slowly lowered.

“Oh my God,” Christina said breathlessly.

There were stumps on the ground, one after another, an endless sea of severed trunks. Ben thought about counting, but it was impossible. Hundreds upon hundreds of trees had been felled, leaving behind only stumps wider than he could reach. Acres and acres of land had been leveled, flattened. There was no cover, no plant life, no animal life. Nothing green. It was as if an invading army had marched through and destroyed everything in sight.

Ben didn’t need to be a dendrochronologist to know that these trees had been around for hundreds of years. And now there was nothing left but broken branches and dead stumps.

“And,” Deirdre added quietly, “this entire area was clear-cut—in three days.”

Ben knelt down and touched the stump closest to him. “This is something I will write about,” he said. “People should know what’s happening out here.”

“You’re right,” Deirdre said, nodding her head. A single tear dropped from her eye. “I just hope someone is listening.”

T
ESS CLOSED THE MAGAZINE
and tossed it onto a sleeping bag. She’d been in this tent for over an hour now, all by herself, waiting. She’d read through that issue of
Outdoor
magazine three times, and it hadn’t interested her the first time. She’d started talking to herself, subvocalizing animated conversations with everyone she knew. She was going stir-crazy.

Since she’d come back to the camp with Maureen and Al, she’d been treated like a potential leper, shuffled off to the side, isolated. She could understand that they wanted to be cautious, but enough was enough already. How long did they need to get their act together and decide what to do with her? How long could she stand being cooped up in this stupid tent?

Of course there was more at stake than just her personal discomfort. If she wasn’t allowed to circulate, if she couldn’t talk to the members of Green Rage and get to know them, earn their confidence, she was lost. She would never get the information she needed, never be able to crack this case.

She didn’t have forever, either; she knew that. Rudy had been constantly calling her hotel room, asking where the hell she was and what she was doing and where was his story on Bigfoot, anyway? She could blow him off for a while without serious consequences, muttering vague promises about a really big scoop she was tracking, but that wouldn’t last forever. For that matter, neither would her travel advance.

She watched the shadows as they flickered on the outside of the tent. The movement and muffled voices provided her only hint of what might be taking place outside. Some time earlier, the group had assembled and held some kind of meeting. No doubt she had been on the agenda, but she knew she wasn’t the only action item. There was another stranger in their midst, someone else whose worthiness was being judged. And Green Rage had many plans afoot; she had heard enough words like
immediately
and
tonight
to realize that some of them were imminent.

Al had asked her to wait in the tent till he returned, but that didn’t mean she had to do it. She could rebel; it’s not like he was her father or anything. Still, she was trying to gain their trust, and she thought the best way to do that was to be cooperative. Earnest. Act as if she was desperate to please them, like she wanted to be one of them more than anything else in the world.

And then a little voice inside her head said, Once you have their trust, you’ll betray it. You’ll take their secrets and smear them across the pages of the
National Whisper
. Or maybe even a real newspaper. You’ll get your Pulitzer, and they’ll get five to ten.

Tess pushed the voice out of her consciousness. That kind of thinking would get her nowhere. She needed to focus on the task at hand. Which at the moment was waiting.

She was preparing to plunge into
Outdoor
magazine for the fourth time when Al finally reappeared. He unzipped the entrance to the tent and poked his head through. “We’re ready for you,” he said.

She couldn’t help noticing that he wasn’t smiling.

Tess crawled out of the tent and followed Rick to the circle of stones in the center of the clearing. She saw only six Green Ragers present. The others must have gone elsewhere. Secret mission, she suspected.