Con Law (20 page)

‘China, they’ve got more recoverable shale gas than us, about thirteen hundred trillion cubic feet. Argentina, they’ve got almost eight hundred. Mexico, seven hundred. South Africa, five hundred. Australia, four hundred. And all that shale gas requires hydraulic stimulation. That’s our technology. We’re not outsourcing American jobs, Professor, we’re creating American jobs by outsourcing our technology. Our hydraulic stimulation is taking over the world.’

‘Like
our fast food?’

‘Except it’s better for you. Gas is good, Professor.’

Billy Bob held up one finger.

‘It’s cleaner than coal and safer than nuclear. Right now we’re using mostly coal-fired plants to generate electricity. We switch over to natural gas, greenhouse gases are cut in half. And we don’t risk a Chernobyl or Fukushima.’

A second finger.

‘It’s cheap and abundant. The same amount of energy from gas costs one-fourth what it takes in oil to produce. And we’ve identified twenty-five thousand trillion cubic feet of extractable gas in the world—outside the Middle East. That’s enough to power the world on natural gas alone for fifty years.’

A third finger.

‘It’s ours, not the Arabs’. Right now we’re sending a trillion dollars a year to Muslims who want to kill us. We get off Muslim oil, we keep one trillion dollars a year, every year, here at home. It’s simple: drill at home or get killed at home.’

A fourth finger.

‘Jobs. The world is starving for jobs, Professor, and hydraulic stimulation provides jobs. Lots of jobs. But Ivory League-educated environmentalists—’

‘No, that one is Ivy.’

‘But you just said … never mind. Liberal environmentalists drive around in their Priuses and don’t give a damn about the unemployed working class. People are desperate for jobs. We got workers living in man camps in shale plays all over the country.’

‘Man camps?’

‘Trailers, cheap motels and rent houses, ten to twenty men living in each, because there’s not enough housing in these boom towns. Men leave their families so they can work in South Texas or out here, send money home to Houston or Chicago, to mama and the kids like Mexicans send money home to Chihuahua. I guess we’re all migrants when it comes to jobs.’

He added
his thumb.

‘And most important of all, Professor, shale gas is single-handedly causing a shift in the world’s geopolitical balance of power.’

‘How?’

‘I’m fixin’ to tell you how.’ Back to the world map. ‘Seventy percent of the world’s conventional natural gas—that’s everything except shale gas—is located in exactly two countries: Russia and Iran. What’s that tell you?’

‘God has an odd sense of humor?’

Billy Bob chuckled. ‘That He does. What it tells us is that we can’t let the bad guys control the world’s natural gas supply like they do the oil supply. See, most of Europe is tied to Russian natural gas, the rest to Iran. So Putin carteled up with that loony bastard Ahmadinejad, put European countries in a political and economic vise. Remember back in oh-eight when Russia invaded Georgia—’

‘The Russians invaded Georgia?’ Nadine said. ‘OMG, my aunt lives in Atlanta. Will she be okay?’

Billy Bob regarded Book’s intern as one might Paris Hilton giving financial advice.

‘She gets her news on Twitter,’ Book said.

Billy Bob grunted. ‘Anyway, the Euros, they opposed UN sanctions because they couldn’t risk Putin cutting off their gas supply. Which is how Putin operates—he ain’t selling gas, he’s wielding a political sledgehammer. And he vetoes every UN sanction on Iran because they’re partnered up, so Iran just goes merrily down the path to a nuclear weapon. And where does that path end? With Israel bombing Tehran back to the fifties. Which ignites the Middle East and puts U.S. troops on the ground again.’

‘And
shale gas can prevent all that?’

‘Damn straight it can. Shale gas makes the U.S. energy independent and gives Europe the chance to tell Putin and Ahmadinejad to pump their gas up their—’

He glanced at Nadine.

‘—where the sun don’t shine. If they’ll just go get it. Poland’s got almost two hundred trillion cubic feet of shale gas—that’s a two-hundred-year supply—and they’re damn sure going after that gas. But France, they’re not, even though they’ve got a hundred-year supply. They’d rather depend on nuclear power. How stupid is that? Waiting for another Fukushima? But that’s what happens when environmental socialists are making the decisions. They’d rather hand the world over to Putin and Ahmadinejad. They don’t get it. This ain’t about a frackin’ well dirtying a little water—it’s about the future of the goddamn free world!’

He caught himself.

‘Hydraulic stimulation,’ he said carefully. ‘What happens then, Professor? What happens when no one in the world needs Russian or Iranian gas? When Putin can’t tell the Euros how to vote at the UN? Putin’s power drops with the price of gas. The UN pushes Ahmadinejad back under his rock. Which makes the world a safer place. A better place. The good guys win, and the bad guys lose. That’s got to sound good even to a liberal.’

‘I like it!’ Nadine said. ‘And I don’t even know who Putin and Ack … Achjim … that guy are. His name probably has too many characters for Twitter.’

Billy Bob smiled at her, as if she were a precocious child.

‘You’re a pistol, Honeywell. You sure you don’t want a job?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘All the donuts you can eat.’

‘On the other hand …’

Billy Bob turned back to Book and put the cigar in the air.

‘And
never forget, Professor—we are the good guys.’

‘But we need clean water. And fracking is dangerous.’

Billy Bob shook his head with a bemused expression on his face. ‘Liberals. God bless the children. Professor, people texting while driving is dangerous. Riding that Harley is dangerous …’

‘Amen,’ Nadine said.

‘… Life is dangerous. Hell, yes, drilling is dangerous. Accidents happen. Get over it. Or start riding a bike, and not that Harley. The kind you pedal.’

Billy Bob stepped over to another map that depicted a satellite view of the world at night. Most of North America was brightly lit. As were the UK, Europe, India, Japan, and the perimeter of South America. But much of Russia and China was dark, as was all of Africa except the northern nations and South Africa. It was a telling view of the world.

‘You want to live with light or in the dark? You don’t get light without electricity. You generate electricity with oil, coal, nuclear, or natural gas. Pick your poison, Professor.’

He turned his hands up.

‘Gas is the best choice, and shale gas gives us that choice. The world needs to cut carbon emissions, the world needs a bridge from oil to alternative energy sources, the world needs to get off Middle Eastern oil and Russian and Iranian gas … Shale gas does all that and more. Is it perfect? No. But what is? But shale gas makes for a more perfect world. It’s a no-brainer, Professor, even for a liberal like yourself.’

He stepped over to the desk, grabbed the thick document under the handgun-lighter, and returned. He handed the document to Book then gestured with the cigar.

‘Don’t take my word for it, Professor. Take MIT’s word. And Harvard’s. And the Baker Institute at Rice. Read their reports on shale gas and geopolitics. I’m not making this stuff up.’

Nadine raised her hand.

‘You
got a question, Honeywell?’

‘Where’s the girls’ restroom? Coffee goes right through me. Sorry, that’s an over-share.’

‘Down the hall, past the donuts.’

Nadine pivoted and walked to the door; Billy Bob’s eyes followed her out.

‘Boy, I’d sure like to have her on my payroll.’

‘She’s my intern.’

‘Keep your prick out of the payroll—I learned that lesson the hard way. Several times. You know, it’s outrageous what a gal can get for sexual harassment these days.’

He chuckled then walked around his desk and sat in his leather throne. Book took his seat again. Billy Bob chewed on the cigar and regarded him.

‘Professor, why do you care so much about Nathan Jones?’

‘I owe him.’

‘You rode that Harley four hundred miles just because you owed Nathan a favor?’

‘Because he wrote me that letter.’

‘Well, Professor, I don’t know what Nathan thought he knew or what you’ve heard around town, but I’m a good guy.’

Book had spent the last hour trying to get Billy Bob Barnett to incriminate himself in the death of Nathan Jones; Billy Bob Barnett had spent the last hour trying to convince Book that fracking was good for the world. Neither had succeeded. Nadine returned with another donut.

‘I couldn’t resist.’

Billy Bob winked at her. ‘I like women who don’t resist.’

She sat and ate the donut then licked chocolate from her fingers. Billy Bob watched her like a teenage boy with a serious case of puppy love. He finally broke away and tapped the newspaper on the desktop.

‘There’s no murder mystery in Marfa, Professor. Nathan drove too damn fast, like everyone else in West Texas. He fell asleep at the wheel. He ran off the road and hit a pump jack.

He died. It’s a damn shame. But it wasn’t a crime.’

He tossed
Nathan’s letter across the desk to Book.

‘My operations are run by the book. Hell, I’m an Aggie. We don’t cheat. If we did, we’d have a better football team.’

He grinned. Billy Bob Barnett had not taken the bait. Perhaps he was guilty of nothing more criminal than being a boor. Or perhaps he was smarter than he put on; perhaps his good ol’ boy routine was just that. Book decided to take one last shot at baiting Billy Bob, to lure him with a big piece of in-your-face red meat. He held up Nathan’s letter.

‘You know, Billy Bob, what Nathan wrote, some people might consider that a motive for murder. Your own lawyer accuses you of environmental crimes that could destroy your company and put you in prison for the rest of your life and says he has the evidence to prove it, that might make a person take action. Maybe even murder.’

Billy Bob’s grin was gone. His jaw muscles clenched so tightly he bit the cigar in two; the end dangled from his mouth. The clenching spread upward until his entire bald head seemed to clench; his skin turned red and his dark eyes stared Book down, like two kids seeing who’d blink first. Book thought, Wait for it … like when he went fishing as a kid, watching a big catfish circling the bait, trying to decide … but the big fish didn’t bite. Instead he took the cigar and tossed it into a trash basket.

‘And some people, Professor, might consider it rude to walk into my office uninvited, eat my goddamn donuts, and then accuse me of murdering my own lawyer.’

His expression softened. He blew out a breath.

‘Professor, I punch holes in the ground. I don’t break laws and I don’t kill lawyers, although we’d be a hell of a lot better off if we followed Shakespeare’s advice. So why don’t you and Honeywell play tourist today, go look at Judd’s boxes, eat at Maiya’s, maybe take in the Marfa Lights tonight, then get up tomorrow morning and ride that Harley back to Austin and wait with all those other liberals for the sun and the wind to power your world.’

‘Are
you trying to run me out of town?’

‘Is it working?’

‘No.’

‘Then I’m not.’

‘Good. And I’m not a liberal.’

‘Professor, if it waddles like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s a duck.’

Billy Bob Barnett, fracking zoologist, escorted them out of his office and down the hallway—Nadine ducked into the lunchroom and grabbed another chocolate donut—past Earlene the receptionist, and out the building. They stood on the sidewalk; Nadine finished the donut and licked her fingers.

‘So, Ms. Honeywell, what did we learn in there?’ Book said.

‘Billy Bob’s a creep who breathes through his mouth. I generally don’t trust mouth-breathers, but he’s got good donuts.’

‘What else did we learn in there?’

‘Earlene is a lesbian.’

‘No. We learned that Billy Bob Barnett didn’t take the bait.’

‘And Earlene’s a lesbian.’

Book exhaled. He was trying to be patient with his intern.

‘Okay, so this gay-and-lesbian identification skill you’ve mastered allows you to assess a person’s sexuality simply by looking at them, is that correct, Ms. Honeywell?’

She shrugged a yes. He decided to demonstrate for his intern’s benefit how skillful cross-examination can make such assertions seem utterly foolish and the person making such assertions even more foolish. He employed his courtroom voice and questioned her as if she were sitting in the witness chair.

‘So what gave Earlene away as a lesbian? Her clothes? Her hair? Her lack of makeup? The way she looked at you and not me? The fact that she’s got shoulders like Michael Phelps? Ms. Honeywell, please tell the jury how you can know con clusively that Earlene the receptionist is in fact a lesbian?’

Nadine
shrugged again.

‘She grabbed my butt in the bathroom.’

‘They’re boxes.’

‘Works
of art, Ms. Honeywell.’

Nadine Honeywell stared.

‘Boxes.’

They stood in a renovated artillery shed on an abandoned cavalry outpost just south of town; it was more monastery than museum. Arrayed before them were fifty-two of Donald Judd’s
100 Untitled Works in Milled Aluminum
. The other forty-eight were installed in an adjacent shed. The works were rectangular boxes, each with identical exterior dimensions—41 × 51 × 72 inches—but unique interior configurations—a box within a box, a floating box, partitions like cards in a deck or slanted shelves on the wall—that created optical illusions; each was open to the inside, each weighed one ton, each had been factory fabricated to exacting specifications, each cost $5,000. The boxes were perfectly aligned in three north–south rows under a high ceiling topped by a Quonset hut roof; massive east-and west-facing windows allowed the sun to bathe the boxes in light and set the shiny surfaces aglow. A young man sat cross-legged on the floor before one box, his elbows on his knees and his hands cupping his chin, and stared as if in a trance, like a disciple before a religious shrine. Donald Judd was a crusty gray-haired and bearded Midwesterner; he lived on a ranch overlooking Mexico; he was a towering figure in contemporary art in New York; and he created his life’s masterpiece in Marfa, Texas.