Dirty Fracking Business (22 page)

‘Bugger that! Hell, we’ve got an election to win,’ the Premier said, bouncing out of his chair. ‘Get me on as many early morning radio programs as you can, squeeze in more speaking engagements and let the television channels know I’m available any time. Come on, Clarrie, pull your finger out.’

The letter from
Braithwaite Ogilvie & Llewellyn
denied liability for all the matters that Simon Breckenridge had raised, and completely ignored his offer regarding the sale of Artie Cleever’s property for $500,000. Instead, they offered $180,000 ‘as a generous first and final offer by our client to expeditiously settle this matter.’ It was what Breckenridge had expected and he knew that, if he commenced litigation against CEGL,
Braithwaite Ogilvie & Llewellyn
would use every legal avenue to stall the action and, by the time it reached court, the Cleevers might be dead. What the big city legal firm didn’t know was that he had never intended that this matter be determined by the courts.

He picked up his recorder and dictated:

Create a letterhead for Mr Arthur Cleever and address this letter, private and confidential, to Mr Aaron James at 2ZL. Dear Mr James, attached are copies of letters from my lawyers,
Breckenridge & Priestley
and response from CEGL’s lawyers,
Braithwaite Ogilvie & Llewellyn
. Also enclosed is a copy of a non-disclosure document that I was forced to sign before CEGL would provide me with tanker water in replacement for the water in my bores that they had contaminated. They have since reneged on their undertaking. New Para.

I seek your assistance to right a grave injustice perpetrated by CEGL. I am eighty-one years of age and my wife is four years younger and we were tricked by a land access consultant into signing an access agreement to our property. There are now three wells and a pipeline on it and my wife and I have medical reports certifying that we are being poisoned by gas toxins. We are both very sick and just looking to be fairly compensated for our property so that we can shift away from this coal seam gas area and live our remaining few years in peace. New Para.

Our property was valued at $500,000 as per copy of the attached valuation before drilling commenced, but CEGL have seen fit to offer us $180,000 on a take it or leave it basis. They know we cannot afford to litigate and that even if we could they would stall such legal action until we are too sick to appear in court or perhaps dead. New Para.

Any assistance that you can provide will be greatly appreciated and perhaps you can do what our legal system cannot. Sign it ‘yours sincerely, Arthur Cleever’ and, after you’ve typed it, phone him and get him to come in and sign it asap.

It was 10am on a muggy Sydney day and, while CEGL’s annual general meeting wasn’t due to commence for an hour, the entrance to the Centurion Building was surrounded by about thirty placard-carrying demonstrators. Dean Prezky attired as the
gas-man
struck up the chant,
CEGL go to hell,
which was soon picked up by the slowly circling protestors. Don Carmody, the chairman of the McLachlan Bank, was carrying a placard,
CEGL destroying our food bowls.
Steve Forrest entered the building to the puzzled looks of those who knew him.

Channel Six arrived ten minutes before the meeting was due to commence, by which time the ranks of the demonstrators had swelled to nearly a hundred. On seeing the cameras, they lifted their noise levels by a few decibels.

A young journalist conducted a brief interview with Don Carmody, asking him if he found it strange that Greens, farmers and graziers, and right-wingers like Aaron James, and he himself, were all on the same side fighting
big gas.

‘Not at all, young lady. We’re all fighting for fairness and equity, which transcends political affiliations. The coal seam gas companies, many of them foreign-owned, are destroying our land and, worse, they’re ruining the lives of hardworking Australians and being assisted by greedy governments blinded by dollars.’

Dennis Fulton, carrying a placard,
Big gas destroying the Great Artesian Basin,
noticed a thickset, dark-suited man taking photos of him. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, mate?’ he growled.

The man took off his sunglasses, reached into his suit pocket and flashed his wallet. ‘Federal police,’ Dennis exclaimed, looking at the badge. ‘What do you want with me?’

‘You’re a person of interest.’

‘A person of interest?’

‘Yeah, an agitator. You’ve been making trouble in Queensland for years. Why don’t you take yourself back there? We don’t need your type down here.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who put you up to taking the photos? Are you on duty or moonlighting?’

‘Don’t get cute with me and if you keep carrying on like a smart-arse I’ll throw you in the lockup.’

Dennis turned and saw the TV cameras pointed right at him. ‘Go for it. Then you can explain to the television reporters what you’re doing disturbing a peaceful protest and how much CEGL are paying you?

The Fed covered his mouth with his hand. ‘Bastard! There’ll be another time, without the cameras, and then we’ll see how smart you are.’

Meanwhile, on the sixtieth floor, Harold Llewellyn was chairing the meeting, sitting along the middle of a long table with Spencer Harbrow on his right and Moira Raymond on his left. The meetings were usually brief and, after formal resolutions were passed, Llewellyn usually made a short speech about another successful year and then everyone adjourned to an adjoining room for refreshments. This was his sixteenth meeting and in every other year the share price had risen, but it had fallen nearly twenty percent over the past year. As he looked at the larger-than-usual audience, all he could see were glum faces. They were like vultures and fired off questions about the company’s fall in profits, its massive expansion program and its fights with landowners. They all led back to one thing: the company’s share price.

Harbrow was brooding; these people had made a fortune thanks to him and now, when for the first time the company’s performance was less than stellar, they were baying for blood.
How dare they, these piddling little shareholders criticise him after what he had done for them?
Someone raised the matter of the demonstrators and Llewellyn promptly put them down as unrepresentative riff-raff, but the questioner followed up with, ‘Is that how you’d describe the chairman of the McLachlan Bank?’

Before he could answer, Steve Forrest chimed in with, ‘I’d hardly call Tom Morgan and Charles Paxton unrepresentative riff-raff.’ Only Moira Raymond knew him and she was quick to pass the information onto Llewellyn.

‘Perhaps that description is a little harsh,’ Llewellyn offered. ‘But these people, despite their standing in the community, are ill-informed. This company is a good corporate citizen that creates jobs, provides opportunities, pays taxes and makes generous donations to the communities in which it works.’

‘If the company’s so good, why do farmers and graziers hate it so much? Isn’t it ruining their land and poisoning their water, and hasn’t there been a link drawn between exploiting coal seam gas and an increase in skin problems and cancer?’

‘Are you here as a reporter or shareholder, Sir?’

‘I’m a shareholder and you, more than anyone, should know that I am perfectly entitled to ask questions. I’d like an answer please.’

Harbrow was seething and started to get to his feet, but Llewellyn put his hand on his shoulder and whispered, ‘I’ll handle this.’

‘Many landowners have signed access agreements with the company and there is no evidence to suggest that the extraction of coal seam gas leads to illness or health problems.’

‘Why then is the company the largest donor to the Paisley Memorial Hospital and why is it paying the medical bills of sick children in the Fisher Valley?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Llewellyn blustered.

‘You should ask Ms Raymond, then.’ Steve grinned. ‘Mr Chairman, why is the company running pipelines through prime agricultural land when they could be laid under stock tracks?’

‘That’s confidential and relates to the company’s operations and it is not appropriate to discuss it in this forum.’

‘Mr Chair …’

‘No, no more questions from you. You’ve had more than a fair go.’

‘I was finished,’ Steve said, pulling his recorder from his shirt pocket as he strode towards the door. ‘I was going to say that I’d be pleased to help ensure the minutes of the meeting are accurate. I’m happy to email you a copy if it’d help.’

‘No recording devices are allowed,’ Llewellyn shouted.

‘Sue me,’ Steve laughed, pushing the door open.

The next morning, Aaron James was in full flight. ‘I want to tell you a disgraceful story about a big international company screwing one of our diggers. Not to put too fine a point on it, these bastards are trying to steal his land. I spoke to this man yesterday. Artie Cleever’s his name and he’s lived peacefully with his wife on their property in the Fisher Valley for forty years. He didn’t want to talk about it, but I found out that he lied about his age in the Second World War and enlisted in our infantry as a fifteen-year-old and saw action in the Philippines under MacArthur. What a hero!

‘Anyhow, our friends at CEGL thought he was old and ripe for the picking, so they conned him into signing a land access agreement, then sunk three wells on his property that contaminated his air and water and caused him and his wife to become extremely ill. Let me read you an exchange of letters between his lawyers and the Sydney shysters who have plenty of form in this area of the law,
Braithwaite Ogilvie & Llewellyn
. But I warn you, when you hear them you’ll want to puke.’

Five minutes later, 2ZL’s switchboard was choked with callers wanting to trash CEGL and its lawyers.

‘Here’s what I suggest,’ James ranted. ‘Anyone with a CEGL gas or electricity account should cancel it and switch to another provider. Let’s boycott the bastards and see how these fat cats like it when we hit them in their hip pockets and I promise you, I’ll raise this matter every morning until Artie Cleever has been paid his half-a-million dollars. If this is happening to poor old Artie, it’s happening to others as well, so, if you’re getting fleeced by
big-gas
or know someone who is, phone me.’

No-one else could get away with what Aaron James did, but he had a history of ridiculing lawyers and their clients when he was supporting good causes, to the point that the bullies withdrew, bruised and battered, long before reaching court.

‘Buffy, how would you like your own column?’ Steve asked.

‘What’s the catch? What do you want me to put my name to that you’re too scared to put your own on?’

‘You’re very cynical. I’m thinking about resurrecting
Heard Around Town,
but I’m not sure you could rake up enough gossip to justify a regular column. What do you think?’

‘Of course I could and, if I ever ran short, I’d phone Mrs Elliot.’

‘So you want to run with it?’

‘I’d love to have my own column.’

‘Good. I’ve already drafted the first article, under your name of course.’

‘I knew there was a catch.’ Buffy groaned. ‘Who am I attacking on your behalf?’

‘Read it for yourself.’ Steve pushed a single A4 page towards her:

Heard Around Town

Heard around town that a Porsche-driving, Paisley-based executive is about to make a tilt at her company’s top job and might soon be leaving the Fisher Valley for the greener pastures of Sydney. Rumour has it the company’s board of directors are none too happy with the long-serving incumbent and a change at the top is imminent. I’d like to say that when she goes she’ll be sadly missed, but I was brought up not to tell lies, so I can’t. Good riddance and God speed.

‘I’m hoping it might create a bit of tension.’

‘I love it. But is it true?’

‘Yes, I heard it around town.’ Steve laughed, ducking a stapler that came whistling past his ear. ‘You’ll need to write two more articles to complete the column but, remember, they have to be filled with innuendos and you can’t specifically identify anyone.’

‘How many female executives in Paisley drive a Porsche?’

‘Good point, Buffy. Why don’t you change it to sports-car-driving female executive?’

‘Thanks boss. If you’ll excuse me, I have a column to write.’

CEGL’s phones were jammed as punters from all over the state phoned in to cancel their energy accounts. The television, radio and print media had picked up the story of Artie Cleever and the ‘hard-hearted international corporation’ that was trying to rip him off. Harbrow paced around his office while Harold Llewellyn replayed the Aaron James indictment on his laptop. It had outraged Sydneysiders and sent CEGL’s share price tumbling again.

Harbrow abruptly stopped pacing, ‘We never conned the silly old goat or forced him to sign an access agreement. Harold, I want to sue that big-mouthed prick this time.’

The older man slowly shook his head. ‘We can’t win. If we sue, he’ll ridicule us every morning, he’ll make a mockery of the legal action and, in the end, we’ll withdraw and he’ll crow for weeks. He’s done it before to bigger companies than us.’

‘He called you a shyster. You can’t let him get away with that.’

‘We offered Cleever less than fifty percent of the value of his land before we started drilling. Do you want to listen to some of the calls that James took from his legion of listeners? “Shyster” is tame compared to some of the language they used.’

‘I’m not interested in listening to peons, Harold, but are you advising me not to take action against this loud-mouth?’

‘Yes, and not only that. We need to pay Cleever his half-a-million dollars and get out of the media spotlight as quickly as we can. Aaron James will move onto another campaign once we’ve settled. He’ll find another cause and forget about us but, if we don’t, he’ll be at us day after day.’

‘And then we’ll be a soft touch for every other sod farmer in the land. Maybe I need to take some legal advice from a more aggressive firm.’

Llewellyn rarely lost his cool, but he had to restrain himself from saying,
if you hadn’t taken the Maddock group on in the first place we wouldn’t be in this predicament
. ‘You think you can beat Aaron James because you have a lot more money than he does. He doesn’t care about that. He controls the media and he’s like no other talkback presenter in the land. Don’t you understand? He doesn’t report the news, he makes the news. You can go to another legal firm if you like, but don’t come running back to me when your nose is bloodied and James has his foot on your windpipe, crushing the life out of you.’

‘Settle down, Harold.’ Harbrow placed his hand on his chairman’s forearm. ‘I was joking. Sure I’d like to take James on, but when have I ever not taken your wise counsel? If you say we should pay the silly old goat out, then pay him out we shall.’

‘On another matter,’ Llewellyn said, still miffed. ‘Did you see the latest polls? Nick Gould’s campaigning hard and he’s closed the gap to four points. I hope you didn’t cancel that donation to the Labor Party.’

‘I know what Nick can do on the election trail and I never considered cancelling,’ Harbrow lied. He had read the same polls and reinstated the cheque.

Llewellyn got up to leave and the two men shook hands, each thinking the other had outlived his usefulness. The door had barely closed before Harbrow was again reading the small article in the
Paisley Chronicle
that had so peeved him. So, Moira was bragging that she was about to unseat him. Well, if his plans worked out, she’d soon be fighting to keep her own job, let alone be worrying about his.

Moira also read the article and cursed, while wondering where that rude, overweight girl had got her information. Someone with loose lips had talked and she’d soon find out who it was. Fortunately, Spencer Harbrow was hardly likely to read the
Paisley Chronicle,
so she was unlikely to have lost the element of surprise.

Andrew Brown, once the popular bank manager around town, was now reviled and life at home, other than for the children, was loveless. Sally had twice raised divorce in the past month. She wanted her friends and lifestyle back and was constantly at him to quit the bank, but knew that he couldn’t and the feeling of being trapped drove her to despair. Andrew was ill-tempered with his staff, made mistakes, and forgetfulness crept into his work. Each morning when he left home, he wondered whether he would return to an empty house. He dreaded Monday mornings, because there was always an email instructing him to implement a fresh batch of foreclosures.

Andrew flicked through the nine files that had sat on his desk for the past two days, dreading the phone calls that he knew he would eventually have to make. For the folks of the Fisher Valley, receiving a phone call from Andrew Brown was thought to be only marginally better than receiving one from your Maker. Well, he’d put them off long enough. Once he had finished his appointment with Tom Morgan, he’d grit his teeth and get on with the dirty job the bank was paying him to do.

As one of the clerks showed Morgan into his office, Andrew wondered what he wanted. He’d never banked with the FBA and was advised by some of Sydney’s finest merchant bankers. Not that he needed much advice, because he had always known how to make a dollar. He was dressed in a black jacket that he hung over the back of a chair, a red-and-blue flannel shirt, frayed jeans and black workboots. Andrew thought that he must be the most unlikely-looking billionaire in the world.

‘What can I do for you, Tom?’ he asked.

‘Andrew, I’m running very short of time,’ Morgan said, glancing at his watch. ‘And it’s not what you can do for me but what I can do for you. The stud is taking more time than ever; it’s losing its enjoyment, because I’m getting bogged down in paperwork and administration that any competent manager could handle far better than me. How would you like to come and work for me?’

‘I … I … I’m flattered,’ Andrew responded, seeing a glimmer of hope in his otherwise futile circumstances. ‘Bu … but there’s so much to discuss. What does the job entail and how much d …’

‘Sixty-five thousand dollars a year.’

It was less than the bank was paying him but not by much. ‘What about a car?’

‘You won’t need a car. There’s utilities, four-wheel-drives and trucks on the property and if you need to use one you can take your pick.’

The fully-maintained car from the bank was such a big deal. Andrew estimated that it saved him nearly $20,000 a year and Morgan’s offer had just lost any attraction. His disappointment must have shown, because Morgan said, ‘There’s a four-bedroom manager’s residence on the property. It needs some sprucing up and TLC but you could sell or rent your house in Paisley and use the money to buy a car. But, I’m telling you, you won’t need one.’

‘You expect me to live on the property?’

‘Of course. I didn’t think I’d need to spell that out. If I remember rightly, your wife’s a fine horsewoman and I might be able to offer her something around the stud, on a casual basis to start with, but who knows where it might lead. There’s a small primary school about two kilometres away.’ Morgan pushed an envelope across the desk. ‘I have to fly. It’s all in here. Read it carefully and if you’ve got any queries phone me, preferably at night. I’ve got a lot on right now.’

‘If I accept, when would you like me to start?’

‘Tomorrow.’ Morgan grinned. ‘Let me know as soon as you can.’

‘I will. Thanks, Tom.’ Andrew’s mind was already made up and he hoped Sally would share his enthusiasm. After Morgan left, he opened the deepest drawer of his desk and dropped the files into it. With luck and good timing he might never have to make those nine phone calls.

The man sitting in Dr George Bingham’s surgery was about forty-five years old, wiry, with a burnt, wrinkled face, the legacy of working outdoors for years. He had complained about bringing blood up in his saliva. The doctor examined his mouth and throat and then placed his stethoscope on his chest and his back. ‘How long has this been occurring, Mr Martin?’

‘Call me Jake, Doc, and about six months.’

‘Why did it take you so long to come and see me?’

‘Didn’t think it was anything to be worried about, and then I began losing weight, so I thought I betta get checked out.’ The man grinned nervously.

‘When did you have your last full medical?’

‘No offence doc, but I don’t like doctors. I don’t reckon I’ve been inside a surgery for ten years and, if it wasn’t for my wife’s nagging, I wouldn’t be here today.’

‘How’s your appetite?’

‘I used to eat like a horse, but now I rarely feel like eating. I put it down to getting older.’

‘What about your bowel movements?’

‘Irregular and sometimes I don’t go for days, but I guess if ya don’t eat you don’t …’ He didn’t complete the sentence.

‘What do you do?’

‘I work for Filliburton on the gas wells. I was up on the Spurling Downs before I came down here. Got a promotion to assistant supervisor, ya see, and had to come down here cos the money was too good to knock back.’

‘When a well’s fracked and the water gushes from the ground, have you ever got any on you?’ Doctor George asked, his face clouding over. He wasn’t one to jump to conclusions, but coughing up blood, losing weight and loss of appetite were symptomatic of cancer and he didn’t like what he’d heard.

Jake laughed. ‘You’re joking aren’t ya? Anyone within twenty or thirty metres gets saturated. I can’t remember working on a rig where I haven’t been soaked and I reckon I’ve worked on hundreds.’

‘Do you wear safety gear?’

‘We can wear wet-weather slicks, but they don’t keep the water off your face and they’re so bloody hot that no-one ever bothers.’

‘So you’re not forced to wear safety gear?’

‘Doc, we’re usually drilling hundreds of kilometres from nowhere. Who’s gonna force us?’

‘Do you have a trade union?’

‘Sure, the Gas Workers Union, but we never see anyone. The company deducts our subs and we get a monthly newsletter and that’s about it.’

‘I’m booking you in for a full set of X-rays, scans and blood tests at Paisley Memorial at 8am tomorrow. They might take two to three days, but you’ll be able to go home at nights.’

‘Tomorrow? That soon?’

‘Try to get a good night’s sleep.’ Doctor George put his hand reassuringly on Jake’s shoulder.

‘Wha … what do ya think it might be Doc? Ya must have some idea.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t,’ he lied. ‘I’ll know more once the results of the tests are back.’ Five minutes after the man had left, the doctor was still at his desk, perusing Charlie Paxton’s file. He had been hoping that little Charlie was a ‘one off’, but the man’s symptoms were identical and he knew what the tests wou
ld reveal.

Aaron James gloated after contracts were exchanged between CEGL and Artie Cleever for the purchase of his land. Old Artie phoned in and broke down in tears as he expressed his gratitude to Simon Breckenridge and to James. This resulted in James unleashing another tirade against CEGL and
Braithwaite Ogilvie and Llewellyn
but, just as Llewellyn had predicted, another crusade soon beckoned and two days later neither were mentioned. The public relations disaster was, in the short term, over.

Norris Scott-Tempy stood at the front gates of the old Morrisey property like some feudal lord, waving in convoys of CEGL’s trucks carrying huts, generators, light poles and components of drilling rigs, to be erected on the well-pads that had been constructed the previous week. The activity on the pads was more than matched by gangs of labourers who had been promised huge bonuses to clear the trees at the rear of the property and extend the gravel tracks. There was an eight-well plan for the property on a very tight deadline and Moira Raymond had let her supervisors know that she would take no prisoners if they dared fail her.

Some objectors had sought to block the gates, but they knew they had no rights and the police had moved them on with a minimum of fuss. Adjoining neighbours had agitated and one had even threatened Scott-Tempy with physical violence, but he wasn’t worried, the law was on his side. If he got the opportunity to buy these whingers’ properties at depressed prices, he most certainly would. He had gone from being disliked to being hated, but it was like water off a duck’s back. He was well-off, some might say rich, but he’d always dreamed of being mega-wealthy and, with the help of
big gas,
the realisation of his dream was in sight.

Frank Beck spent three weeks in Noosa, where he hit the surf every morning at 6.30 for two hours before having breakfast. On most days he was on the golf course before midday and back in his luxurious beachside apartment early enough to take a quick swim before dinner. It didn’t take him long to strike up a relationship with a tawny, long-legged, forty-something divorcee trying to forget a bad marriage. The sex was torrid but she was insatiable; he’d soon had more than enough of her and was ready to get back to work. He kissed her goodbye at the airport, promising to stay in touch, knowing that he would never see her again.

At Newtower Airport he picked up copies of the
Chronicle
and the
National Advocate
and skim-read them, looking for anything relating to the illegal discharge of wastewater by Filliburton. As his bosses had predicted, his misdemeanours appeared to be have been swept under the carpet. On the drive back to the valley, he received a phone call from a man whom he knew of but had never spoken to before, Spencer Harbrow.

On Monday morning, he’d just finished telling the receptionist about the weather and surf in Noosa, when the phone rang. She put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Moira Raymond for you.’

‘Good morning, Moira.’

‘I need to see you. Twenty minutes. My office.’

She was tense and wasted no time on pleasantries before directing him to take a chair. ‘Frank, we’ve wasted far too much time on the
estates
without getting anywhere. As you know, despite having exploration licences and arbitrated land access agreements, nearly every time we’ve tried to drill, those fools calling themselves
Lock ’em out
have barricaded the gates, blocked the roads and let down the tyres on our trucks. Well, enough’s enough. We need to make a decisive move to establish ourselves in the heart of the
estates.’

This was the type of challenge that Beck thrived on. ‘I agree. What do you have in mind?’