Full Body Burden (48 page)

But on this day she is cheerful and chatty and looks radiant. The phone rings. She answers it in the other room. I hear her voice go on for a moment or two and then she comes into the kitchen, receiver in hand, with a meaningful look in her eye. “It’s your father.”

“Oh, thanks, Mom,” I say, more than a little sardonically. I still carry the image of him from my childhood: neglectful and neglecting, neglected himself, no doubt, this man who never showed me much affection or attention.

What is a daughter’s responsibility to a father? Is a child obligated to love, care for, and respect a parent in the face of indifference? Indifference that is perhaps more devastating than conflict or anger? He has been absent, tormented, darkly destructive, angry, sometimes threatening. I am invisible to him, yet my father looms so large in my memory and imagination that I can’t seem to knock him loose from my head or my heart.

“Take it,” my mother says, handing me the phone. “You should talk to him.”

I take the phone and say hello flatly.

“Kris!” His voice sounds overly loud and a little forced. “How are you?”

“Okay.”

We have nothing to say to each other
, I think.
We don’t even know each other
.

He wants to meet for coffee.

“I don’t know—”

“Go,” my mother says. She seems to have radar and picks up the faintest details of any phone conversation in the house. She waves both her hands in the air, as if shooing me away like a fly. “Go. Go!”

“All right.”

We agree to meet at a Starbucks just south of Arvada. “Just for a few minutes,” my dad says. “I’ll be driving my cab. I’m on shift.”

I arrive first. I’m late, but I know he’ll be later. That’s a time-honored tradition in our family. We’re always late. Five minutes pass, then ten. I order a coffee for myself and sit down. Another ten minutes pass. Maybe, I think, he’s not going to show up.

There’s a time-honored tradition of that, too.

Eventually a sun-worn yellow cab pulls into the parking lot, moving slowly, carefully. My father climbs out. He holds his hand up against the sun and pushes against the door of the coffee shop. “Kris?”

He’s aged. So have I, I suppose, though I can’t recall the last time we saw each other. His hair is uncut, gray and very straight and a little too long, reaching past his collar. He wears a corduroy shirt the color of rust, well-made but worn, perhaps bought at a secondhand store. The shirt is
rumpled and covered with lint. As always, he seems completely unaware of his personal appearance. His skin is pale and as thin as paper, sagging a bit under the jaw. He looks at me with a slightly unfocused look. I don’t know whether to hug him or shake his hand or do nothing. I smile.

“I have to get new glasses,” he says. “I’m sorry I can’t see you very well. My puppy chewed up my glasses. And my shoes and my furniture, too.” The corners of his mouth tease up into a smile.

“What kind of puppy?”

“A sheltie. His name is Dusty.”

“Are you going to keep him?”

“Of course,” he says. “I’m thinking of getting a second one to keep him company.”

“Can I get you a coffee?” I ask.

“No. I’ll get it.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two crumpled one-dollar bills. “I’ll take the usual,” he says to the guy behind the counter.

“Fine, sir.” They seem to know him here. It’s odd to think of my father hanging around Starbucks. I put my money back in my pocket.

“Cream?” I ask.

“No,” he says darkly, as if I should know better. Danes drink their coffee black. Norwegians, too. My mother never understood why I put cream in my coffee.

“Well,” he says, settling into a chair. “It’s been a rough day.”

I wonder if it’s stressful, this idea of coming to meet with me. “A bad day?”

“Yes indeed,” he says. “As of six o’clock this morning, I have given up smoking.”

“Given up smoking?” Both my parents have smoked since they were thirteen or fourteen. That’s what kids did on the farm, they say.

“Doctor’s orders,” he sighs. He pats his chest. “I’m having a little heart trouble.”

“Is it serious?”

“It might be. Who knows?” He sips his coffee. “I see doctors all the time but I don’t like them very much.”

My mother doesn’t like them much, either.

“Christmas is coming,” he says. Despite everything he’s always had a good appetite, and I know he appreciates the family cooking. “I asked the doctor if I could have a glass of wine with Christmas dinner, and he said no. Not even that. But it doesn’t matter. I’m not much of a drinker these days.”

We sit in silence.

“The boys are doing well,” I say. “Sean and Nathan.”

“That’s good. They’re big now?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I’m not sure what else to say. I pause. “I’m writing a book about Rocky Flats, Dad. Did you know that?” I’ve discussed it with my mother and siblings. They’re curious and supportive, although my mother wonders if there’s much of anything to write about. She doesn’t believe there really was any contamination. She wanted to raise her children in a perfect environment, and except for a few problems with my dad, it was, to her mind, perfect.

He seems to know that I’m writing a book.

“Well,” he says, “I never thought about it much back then, when you kids were small, but I guess I’m glad about the water.”

“What do you mean?”

“You probably don’t remember this, but I tried to dig a well out there. Went down to two hundred feet. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The neighbor across the way went down thirty feet and found water right away. But we just couldn’t get it. We ended up going on city water.” He looks at me fuzzily. “Maybe a good thing, eh?” He laughs.

I sip my coffee, nearly gone. He’s scarcely touched his. Now he looks at his watch. “Gosh, Kris, I’ve got to run.”

But he doesn’t get up.

“I didn’t mean to be late today. I’m sorry to make you wait.”

“That’s okay, Dad.” It’s the first time he’s ever apologized to me for anything.

“I was going to call you on your cell to tell you I’d be fifteen minutes
late. And then I thought I’d just call your mother. But the time got away from me.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, let me tell you what happened.” He leans forward. My dad is a great storyteller, and he loves to talk to people. He likes driving a cab for that reason alone. His stories are usually exchanged with strangers, but this time he has a story for me.

“Right after I talked to you at your mother’s, a woman called and said she needed a ride to the airport. An airport trip is a good gig, you know. Forty bucks.”

I nod.

“She was young. Mid-twenties.” He pauses as if recalling for a moment what it felt like to be in his mid-twenties. “So I show up. She’s a mess. She’d had a fight with her boyfriend the night before, and she’d piled up all her stuff on the curb. Everything she owned. She had suitcases and clothes, loose clothes, and all these teddy bears. I’ve never seen so many teddy bears. I helped her pile them into the trunk and the backseat.”

The guy behind the counter is listening to us with curiosity.

“Jesus. I’ve never seen so many teddy bears.” He pauses to wipe his forehead. “So we get almost all the way to the airport. And I know you’re waiting for me.” It’s a long trip from Arvada to the airport, forty minutes if there’s no traffic. “And she says, all of a sudden, take me back.” He looks at me.

“Take me back?”

“Yes.” He looks out the window at his cab.

The interior of the coffee shop is dark and cool. We both look out to the parking lot, where the cars, including the cab, glare almost painfully in the sun.

“So I take her back,” he says. “I had to unload all those teddy bears.” He shakes his head from side to side, like a slightly bemused judge before a jury. Then he grows serious again. “So that’s why I was thinking about calling you. I knew you were waiting. But I had to take her back. And I made it. I made it in time.”

I sit in silence for a moment, and then we both stand.

“It was good to see you,” he says.

“I love you, Dad.” The words slip out. I can’t recall the last time I said that.

“I love you too, Kris,” he says.

He turns and walks out to his cab.

T
HE CLASS-ACTION
lawsuit
Cook v. Rockwell International Corporation
, delayed in the courts for more than sixteen years from when it was first filed in January 1990, is reassigned to three different district court judges before it finally goes to trial in 2005.
The defendants, represented by the one-thousand-plus-member law firm of Kirkland & Ellis in Chicago, argue that scientists had determined that even though plutonium had settled on the plaintiffs’ land, it was of “no consequence or concern.” Lead counsel for the plaintiffs, attorneys Davidoff, Nordberg, and Sorensen, along with local counsel, argue that Dow and Rockwell were reckless in handling radioactive materials known to be dangerous, allowing plutonium to escape the boundaries of the plant, and that much of the defense was an attempt to continue to suppress and “spin the facts” of what happened at Rocky Flats and its effect on local communities.

Peter Nordberg has put sixteen years of his life into this case.
That’s longer than it takes to get a doctorate
, he muses. Four times longer, in fact, than the time it took to fight World War II. He thinks about Mykaila, who has talked with him about this case every single day for the past ten years, since the day they first met. He’s been mostly living in a hotel room since the trial began four months ago. Mykaila is back in Philadelphia taking care of the children. They’ve both been waiting for this moment.

In a Denver courtroom on February 14, 2006—Valentine’s Day—lead trial counsel Merrill Davidoff is tied up with another case, and it’s Peter who sits at the table in front of the jurors with the jury form in front of him. His armpits are damp under his suit, and he hopes no one will notice. He tries to keep his face expressionless. The courtroom is full, and many in the room are local residents.

Peter looks over at the defendant’s lead attorney, David Bernick, a
man that
Forbes
magazine describes as a “five-foot-seven dynamo.” The
New York Times
calls him a “quiet corporate rescue artist.” He’s defended tobacco companies, breast-implant makers, major auto companies, and asbestos cases. He’s quick to jump to his feet and not afraid to shout in the courtroom. Bernick doesn’t look the slightest bit nervous.

Peter shifts in his chair. He tries to appear calm, though his heart is pounding. He’s the one who made the final oral argument, and he thinks it was the high point of his career. Years of research and reasoning and passion went into it. One of the court exhibits showed a chart of MUF over the years. Even today, nearly three thousand pounds of plutonium are unaccounted for. The defendants, Rockwell and Dow, said that these were accounting errors and bookkeeping problems. You’re making a big deal out of nothing, they said. Much of the plutonium had been shuffled around the plant; Rocky Flats wasn’t as sophisticated back in the 1950s and 1960s; and even up to the present, they said, plutonium was a difficult thing to track.

The response of the plaintiff’s attorneys, including Peter, was, “Are you kidding?” For one thing, some of that plutonium is in the backyards of the local residents they’re representing.

The numbers seem almost ludicrous. Three thousand pounds of plutonium is enough to make hundreds of Nagasaki bombs. When a millionth of a gram of plutonium, breathed into the lungs or ingested into the body, can cause cancer, the potential effects of one and a half tons of lost plutonium is difficult to fathom.

Local rancher Bini Abbott was called in to show a film clip of the extraordinarily high winds at her ranch—wind that likely carries particles of plutonium. Dr. Shawn Smallwood, the scientist who conducted soil movement studies at Rocky Flats, showed a video of energetic groundhogs digging and cavorting in the soil at Rocky Flats, bringing soil material to the surface.

Rockwell and Dow argued that scientists had given Rocky Flats a clean bill of health and local citizens had suffered no ill effects from the plant’s operations. Nordberg and his colleagues presented testimony and evidence demonstrating that the DOE controlled or influenced much
of the scientific and epidemiological research on the health effects of plutonium.

Expert witnesses testified on both sides. Jon Lipsky described the facts the FBI uncovered during the raid. Mike Norton testified for the defense, but, surprisingly, even he concurred that serious environmental crimes occurred at Rocky Flats. Rockwell and Dow maintained that no harm occurred and that their studies proved this.

Peter isn’t one to blame the workers at Rocky Flats. Most were conscientious. And besides, it was the Cold War. People thought it was important to have a nuclear deterrent. No one had ever made plutonium for nuclear weapons in bulk before, and Washington had been bearing down on the plant, saying we needed plutonium pits, we needed more, and we needed them immediately. Maybe, Peter thinks, we had to build the bombs. Maybe we had to build them in the numbers we did. And maybe some information had to be classified.

The problem was the blanket secrecy, starting in Washington and trickling down to the contractor at the site. Any scrutiny of the plant’s activity was viewed with suspicion, and it became convenient to invoke the need for secrecy in order to evade accountability. Soon secrecy was institutionalized. When plutonium escaped the site and endangered local populations, the government stonewalled and provided nothing but bland reassurances. To Peter’s mind, this case wasn’t just about plutonium in people’s backyards, property values, or health issues. It was about an abuse of the power of classified information, an abuse of secrecy, with devastating consequences for the public.

The jury files back into the courtroom, four men and six women. The judge takes his seat and begins to read the verdict form, one question, one answer, one question, one answer, one after the other.

A civil trial does not require a unanimous verdict, so the jury can find the defendants liable even with two dissenting votes. The judge continues to go through every item on the thirty-page verdict form. The jurors have voted unanimously on nearly every point. Both defendants are found liable for trespass and nuisance. By the time the judge comes to the part about punitive damages, it begins to hit Peter that the jury has
taken their side. There is not a single dissenting vote when it comes to the amount of damages. Have they, in fact, won?