made a list of the ones I wanted to see, she'd pull the rolls of
microfilm I needed.
If it involved making a list, I could handle it.
Brigg was no stranger to the press. Some of the articles appeared to
concern the growth legislation, but most seemed campaign-related. It
must have been a reelection year.
I requested all the articles that looked like they might relate to the
growth boundary and a handful of the ones about the campaign.
My new best friend had the rolls of film in just a few minutes. After
a quick refresher course on how to use the machine, I jumped in,
turning first to the stories on the growth legislation.
Most of the articles were brief, containing competing sound bites from
developers and environmentalists, with a few remarks from legislators
thrown in for flavor. But a longer feature offered a good overview of
the debate and Brigg's role in it.
The first section of the article described the rapid growth that was
swallowing rural land along the 1-5 corridor from Salem to Seattle.
Although the last decade had seen only an 8 percent increase in the
population of the Willamette Valley, the geography of the urban area
had sprawled 22 percent.
The article explained the Smart Growth Act and the general policy
arguments on each side of the debate. Planned growth versus the free
market, environmental preservation versus human use of land, the
collective good versus individual choice, open space versus affordable
housing, blah blah blah.
Then the writer got to Brigg:
The future of the Smart Growth Act is likely to be determined by a
handful of moderate legislators who appear to favor the theory of an
urban growth boundary but who are focusing upon the particularities of
how that boundary will be drawn. Key among these detail-oriented
legislators is Rep. Clifford Brigg. Staff members to several other
legislators report that Brigg has been active behind the scenes,
working to ensure that the line is drawn to his satisfaction before he
lends his support. In a statement issued in response to inquiries from
the Oregonian about these reports, Brigg stated, "If we publicly
debated every bit of minutia about every piece of legislation, we'd
never get any work done as a body. So, yes, I have been talking to my
colleagues about what I'd like to see in this legislation for me to
support it. I'm in favor of the idea, but we need to do it right. My
eventual vote will be public and open to scrutiny."
As Brigg put it, all he was trying to do was to make sure that the line
was drawn properly, so the prettiest, most sacred land wasn't turned
into a Kmart. It sounded perfectly logical, but was it coincidence
that Clifford Brigg's notion of smart growth just happened to deliver a
windfall to Gunderson?
Once I finished plodding through the Smart Growth articles, I had just
enough time to take a quick look at the reelection stories before the
library closed. The campaign pieces were quaint compared to today's
politics: Brigg eats ice cream at a strawberry social, Brigg feeds
ducks at the Rhododendron Gardens, Brigg is in favor of a new fire
station.
Then, in the background of the next photograph, I saw a familiar face
in an unfamiliar uniform. The shot was a closeup of Brigg shaking
hands with a former secretary of state who had come to town for a
commencement speech. The face in the background was my father's.
When I picture my father in his work gear, I see him in his standard
green forest-ranger togs. Not that I'd remember it, but I didn't think
I'd ever seen him in the Oregon State Police dress blues he wore in the
photograph. Those would have been the exception even when he was a
state trooper. For just a second, I enjoyed the chance to see my
father as he was then. His light brown hair was silver now, and his
face was thinner, but he was still just as handsome. I looked at the
date of the article. Dad left the state for the forest service just
two months later.
Then, for reasons I didn't fully understand, I found myself wishing I
hadn't stumbled onto this picture at all. What was my father doing
with a man like Clifford Brigg?
I looked up to give my eyes a rest and to stretch my neck. When I had
reached into a full extension on my right, I noticed a man standing by
the table where my books of legislative history were still open. Did
he want my table, the books, or maybe just to stand there being
weird?
Before I made it across the room he had disappeared behind a bookshelf
next to the table. I took a quick tour of the floor, but he was
nowhere to be found. Damn. There had been something familiar about
him, but there was no way I was going to place him without a second
look.
I put an end to the search when the friendly librarian started making
the rounds to tell everyone that the doors would be closing in ten
minutes. I noticed that she looked directly at me when she mentioned
our ability to support our local library by cleaning up after
ourselves.
I stole a final look at the photograph of my father. I felt foolish.
My occasionally overactive imagination was at it again. No mystery men
were following me, and my father wasn't wrapped up in anything
nefarious with Clifford Brigg. Surely he was there as security for the
event.
I pushed print on the machine before tucking away the film. Dad would
get a kick out of the picture, and he might even have some background
to share on Brigg. In the meantime, I had earned a night off.
One advantage to being a woman alone should be the occasional luxury of
coming home and falling straight to sleep. By the time I finished my
night out with Grace three Nordstrom shopping bags, two martinis, and a
slice of lemon cheesecake later I was exhausted.
But I had the usual crap to attend to. My phone was ringing as I
walked in the door, and Vinnie had left a little message of his own for
me, right inside his doggie door to make sure I knew it was
intentional.
"It's after midnight," I said to my caller, "way past any reasonable
notion of call cutoffs."
"It's Graham Szlipkowsky."
"And how's my favorite defense attorney doing on this very late
evening?" I held the phone between my ear and shoulder while I began
scooping, scrubbing, and disinfecting my tile, Vinnie watching
contentedly from the nearby wicker chair.
"He's very sorry to be calling you."
"Not a problem. What's up?"
"I wanted to make sure you're going to be around tomorrow. We need to
talk."
"We are talking."
"No, I need to show you something. Can you come to my office?"
I was too tired to try to pry the information out of him. If he was
going to insist on meeting, better to get it over with. "Fine," I