The River

By George Benda

Truth… how can you find it in a world filled with deception?

Jack Slack is back, feet on the ground, trying to drain the political swamp while preserving a real one—the Grand Kankakee Marsh. But the battle between Illinois and Indiana over water policy in the Kankakee River Basin thrusts Jack into the heart of a scandal that reaches the pinnacle of national politics: the financing of a presidential campaign. Will Jack be able to save the Grand Kankakee Marsh? Or will he fall victim to a corruption so politically entrenched, it threatens his life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543912760

Book preview

Memories

Prologue

The old rowboat scraped on the rocks, hitting the solid limestone of the Momence Ledge.

Elmer, get that damn boat all the way to the front of the ledge, Jonah expelled in a deep grumble.

The loud whisper carried across the water to the eighteen riflemen hiding in the dark under the moon shadow of the old mill. The flat smell of the mill race drifted up with the mist rising off the water wheel.

Hold your fire, said Homer, hushed tones. Wait for a clear shot at the dynamite.

Late August, 1928. Sleepy little town of Momence, Illinois. Water low, exposing the limestone ledge that created a natural dam in the Kankakee River. Nine gun-toting Hoosiers, three in each boat, towing a fourth rowboat full of dynamite. Thinking if they blew the ledge they’d be able to farm right up to the banks of the river, or the Ditch, as they preferred to call it in Indiana.

You think them Suckers knows we here, Jonah? asked Jonah’s cousin Elmer.

Elmer, up to his knees in the fast-flowing waters near the ledge. Rifle in hand. Looking around. Worried.

Elmer, we done this in secret. Ain’t nobody knows we’re here. Jonah hissed, not thinking how the sounds carried across the water.

The Suckers from Illinois smiled up and down their rifle line, each taking a bead on the invading Hoosier force, farmers from across the border in Indiana one and all.

Six of the nine Hoosiers were in the water, wading to the dynamite boat wedged against rocks on the downstream end of the ledge. Rifles down, fighting the current to stay upright on the slippery river bottom. The six men picked up bundles of dynamite to set into the rocks of the ledge. Three rowers kept the little wooden boats steady while the six men struggled to set charges.

Homer, acknowledged leader of the Illinois riflemen, stood. He moved into the light of the solitary gas street lamp at the far end of the mill causeway.

You Hoosiers better pack up your things and start rowing upstream, Homer spoke from his gut. His loud, deep, clear enunciation echoed across the divide. We out-number you. We out-gun you. And we got the high ground. If you turn around now, we will hold our fire. Just leave that dynamite boat where it is.

Elmer spun. His rifle raised, he slipped as he tried to take aim at Homer. The rifle fired as Elmer tipped into the water, the bullet straying far from its mark.

The Illinois rifle line opened fire.

Son of a bitch, I’m hit, shouted Amos, another of Jonah’s cousins. Amos dropped to one knee in the river.

Back in the boats, boys, called Jonah, pulling hard on the oars to get closer to the wounded man.

Jonah pulled Amos back into the boat, waiting for Elmer to join them.

Ain’t worth dyin’ fur! Amos shouted.

Bullets splashed in the shallow water all around Jonah’s boat. He heard a ricochet from the rock that held the dynamite boat.

Let’s go before they hit the powder! Jonah, shouting now.

A second volley from the Illinois rifle line. Fired wide, according to plan. More noise than danger.

The five Hoosiers still in the water dove for the boats. Elmer climbed into Jonah’s boat. The three rowers turned their boats and headed upstream.

Elmer, in the boat with Jonah, leaned against the gunnel of the rowboat and took aim at Homer. Before Jonah could knock the gun down, Elmer got one shot away.

Homer spun in his perch on the causeway.

The Illinois rifle line fired into the dynamite boat, as planned.

Looking up for leadership, the rifle line watched as Homer lost his balance and toppled into the rushing waters below. Breaking from their plan, the riflemen opened fire on the three rowboats moving slowly upstream. Round after round.

Elmer, you fool, Jonah screamed above the noise. Hold your fire! Hold your fire!

The river and the sky erupted as the dynamite exploded. Flares of white, orange, yellow. Bits of wood and rock rained down.

From the Shoebox: Jack’s Video Journal

I hit rewind on the video player and listened as the mechanism whirred, gaining speed as it approached the beginning of the tape. Sitting in the guesthouse of our Molokai home, the shoebox marked Kankakee lay open before me. I turned melancholy as memories flooded my mind.

Anna, my wife of 51 years, left these shoeboxes for me to find in the guesthouse closet when she’d died. There were ten boxes, each covering a major era of my life. I’d been through the one marked City, and another marked Older.

Kankakee? Well, we’d been lovers by then, not yet married. But she’d collected a lot of stuff. Somehow always the right thing. Saved stuff when I’d given up on my writing. Like this video tape, a visual and audio journal of sorts when I thought I would be writing my philosophical dialogues.

She was right. Here I was now, Jack Slack, writing my shoebox dialogues.

I hit play. The screen filled with a scratchy image that wobbled as the magnetic tape hissed through the old video machine. The picture jerked around showing some trees and a mown field as the legs of the tripod settled. Then a face too close to focus filled the screen. Image stable, a stoop shouldered middle aged man in a plaid flannel shirt and jeans walked away from the camera. He sat in an aluminum and webbing lawn chair.

It was me, Jack Slack, probably early thirties. Behind me appeared a north woods lake, granite outcroppings of the Canadian Shield, pines and birches reaching out over the water. Berry Lake Camp. North of International Falls, south of Kenora. A good place for Anna and me. A happy place.

Jack Slack, here. I put this camera away for a few years, but I have another story to tell. Being up here in old second growth forest, canoeing and fishing with Anna…. Camping in deep wilderness…. Well, it reminded me of a struggle when I was still young. A struggle over the Kankakee River. A struggle over the role of science in public policy. A struggle over the meaning of truth.

A gentle breeze set the surface of the water shimmering in the autumn sun. Anna walked into the frame and kissed the top of my head then walked away.

The moment I recall as the real start of this struggle was a reconnaissance trip in preparation for a public hearing on an interstate water issue between Illinois and Indiana on the Kankakee River. It’s a struggle that deserves to be remembered.

A thunderous boom resonated from the aluminum canoe as its empty hull found the solitary rock among the pebbles and sand of the river bank on its free fall decent from Jack’s back.

Shit, he mumbled, it slipped.

Joe O’Reilly, watching, hands on hips, rumbled in a chuckle that grew into a guffaw. Joe, Jack’s friend and colleague at the Institute for the Environment, their day-jobs.

Anna turned red: Ellie, I’m sorry if Jack offended…

Ellie, Joe’s wife, brushed it off with the knowing look of a seasoned wilderness camper and canoeist. Jack frowned as he saw the bloom of a fresh ding peek out of the bottom of the brand-new canoe.

April 23, 1977. Saturday. About a hundred miles southwest of Chicago. Under the bridge on State Route 178 over the Vermilion River. Upstream of Joe and Ellie’s cabin along the Vermilion, just below a stretch of white water.

I like to teach people on this stretch, Joe said.

Joe helped Jack maneuver the canoe into position. He showed Jack how to hold the little watercraft so that Anna could make her way to the bow seat.

Water seems pretty high, Joe, Jack said. Levels were down from flood stage after the snowy 1976-1977 winter. Despite a warm and dry April, the river still flowed above its late spring normal.

I like it that way, especially for beginners, Joe said, looking up and speaking in Anna’s direction. It’s a short and easy paddle to our place… beautiful, too. If everything goes well we can keep going all the way to the next bridge, below Wildcat Rapids.

Count me out, said Anna. They could all hear the roar of the rapids upstream.

Aww, Joe intoned, nothing like those big rapids back o’ the bridge, here… just a few yards of fast water and another long pool to the next bridge. He smiled at Ellie. And good weather, even if we take a spill. Temperatures in the sixties, sunny, dry.

Really, Anna, Ellie said, not a big deal. But let’s see how you do in this little boat first. She gave a warm touch to Anna’s hand. Calming.

Joe and Ellie had been trekking the Boundary Waters between Minnesota and Ontario, Canada, for more than two decades. The pair had spent three weeks at a time paddling those waters, camping with the wolves and bears. Storms. Big waves. Fast rivers. They’d seen it all and lived to tell the tales. Jack knew he had a lot to learn from them. His wilderness experience was limited to Colorado high country, where you hike instead of paddle. More rattlesnakes and coyotes than the big predators Joe and Ellie knew.

Any word from Director Stevens on how long you’ll be around, Jack? Joe asked.

Hush, said Ellie, this is a day for fun, not worries.

Anna’s turn for a knowing glance at Ellie.

It’s okay, Jack responded. No, Joe. As far as I know, I have until the contract runs out at the end of June. But I’m not finding any takers for my talents. Part time work at this level is hard to find. I’ll probably take what I can get at the University and focus on my PhD work.

Stay out! Adolph Crowley, Jack’s dissertation advisor, shouted.

Crowley threw a sheaf of papers at Jack and slammed the door. The door caught Jack’s heel and bounced back. Crowley slammed it again.

May 10, 1977, University of Chicago. Offices of the Political Science Department, Pick Hall for International Studies.

Jack stood, stunned for a moment. The Poli Sci Department secretary, Martha, got up from behind her desk. She touched Jack’s arm.

What happened, Jack? she asked.

Um, I’m not sure. Crowley kicked me out of the Department, I think... maybe?

Martha stooped to pick up the sheets of paper now scattered across the reception area floor.

What’s this? Martha asked, holding up the few sheets she’d gathered.

Um…. Jack stood still, staring at the closed door to Crowley’s office.

Jack?

Jack blinked, then began: Crowley and I had a disagreement on a paper I wrote for him last quarter. And on my Master’s thesis… which all my other advisors have approved. He said I don’t have the capabilities to be a true scholar. I told him I want to write original philosophy. He laughed at me.

This is your thesis?

No, I told him that I liked Ricouer’s class on Nietzsche and thought my paper there showed my skill levels in philosophy, Jack explained. Crowley told me that when I got it back to bring it around so he could see it, especially the grade that Ricouer gave me.

And…? Martha prompted.

This is the paper… there, you’ve got the top page, Martha, see for yourself.

Jack, this is an A+. No one gets those from Ricouer. My husband failed his class on Nietzsche.

I know. When I showed it to him, Crowley turned very red. He screamed that I would never get a PhD as long as he is alive.

What else did you say to him, Jack?

I told him I need to wrap up my Master’s because I have a teaching job this summer out at Elmhurst College. Senior level political philosophy.

Oh, Jack, you crossed some very big, very red lines. Crowley didn’t get you the job, did he?

No, of course not. He thinks I’m a B student. I’m not one of his pets.

So you pushed him to sign off on your thesis, right? …So you could get the degree this quarter?

Jack nodded.

Martha gave him a hug.

I’ll talk to Professor Randolph and set up a meeting for you. But, Jack, you are not going to win on this, Martha warned. You’d better be thinking of other paths.

Jack walked out of the Starz Diner and into the dark parking lot on high alert.

Hot, wet air filled his nostrils. The taste of asphalt on his tongue. An east wind. Lightening on the horizon.

Thanks for coming to listen to us, Jud Ubermeir called from the door of the roadhouse, just a few miles into Indiana from Illinois along US Route 30.

Jud, chair of the Kankakee River Basin Commission, had just wrapped up the July 12, 1977 meeting. Jack, the invited representative of the State of Illinois.

Jack turned and waved at Ubermeir. The z in the Starz Diner sign blinked in and out. Caught Jack’s attention.

A prominent Indiana Democrat, Jud had lobbied in Washington for the US Soil Conservation Service to deepen and widen the ditch that ran from South Bend to the State Line, near Momence, Illinois. Out of that lobbying effort was born the Kankakee River Basin Commission. Ten farmers appointed to gather public input and gain public support for the project. They represented the largest and most powerful landowners in the northern part of Indiana. Ten people of the land gathered to provide local perspective on the project.

Ten good ol’ boys picked to stir up trouble, Jack thought, looking at Ubermeir, the z blinking behind him.

Jack was still looking over his shoulder toward the roadhouse, grinning at that blinking z, as Jud waved at a couple of the farmers. City skills on notice, Jack thought: not waving goodbye. Hand signals. Sending them to get us.

Jim, got a minute? Jack asked.

Jim Stevens, Director of the Institute for the Environment, the Illinois State agency responsible for developing the basis for environmental policy and Jack’s employer. Sort of. Jack had been fired by Jim a month back. It just hadn’t taken… not yet.

Jack had checked with Adrienne, Jim’s secretary, and Alice, the Executive Assistant to the Director. He knew that the director’s schedule was clear for the afternoon. June 30, 1977. Institute for the Environment, Washington and Franklin Streets, Chicago.

Come on in, Jack. I need to talk to you, Jim motioned with a wave of his hand. But you first.

Jack sat across the big desk, low chair, looking up at Director Stevens. Jim smoked a pipe, which sat smoldering on the desk. The cloying sweetness of the tobacco wafted up from the upholstery.

It’s my last day, Jack said. I turned in my final report on the coordination of environmental research to Vito. That was the big outstanding contract deliverable. And Howard has the solid waste planning work for Chicago and Tri-Counties downstate. Should be everything he needs from me on those projects, at least for now.

Good, Jack. Good to put all those things behind us.

Well, if there isn’t anything else, Jim, I’ll be on my way. Looks like it’s one of those four days a year when the weather is actually perfect in Chicago.

Stevens laughed.

I just need a minute, Jack.

Okay, Jack said, confused.

He expected the bum’s rush. Stevens fired him in February. For the past five months, Vito and Howard had to protect Jack so he could finish out his contract while he looked for a job. Every day a struggle.

Jack, Stevens began, I still think you should move on to another career. One more suited to you… to your skills.

Jack frowned. He didn’t need to hear about his inadequacies again.

Do you have a new job yet? …Jack?

Jack shuddered and frowned again.

Not yet, sir. Still working on it.

In a way that’s good. I have an assignment for you.

Sir? Jack, puzzled.

Alice has been working on this Kankakee River mess. Tempest in a teapot, but George Ryan – he represents that district – is calling in a favor from the Governor. Try to calm the natives. They’re restless.

Sir?

We’ve got a new Kankakee River Task Force that Governor Thompson just set up. I chair it. We’re set to hold hearings. I need Alice on other projects and this is going to take some time. Pretty much full time. Alice and Howard have convinced me that you are the best person for the job.

Really? Jack, not buying it. He looked down at his hands. Silently Jack started grinding through the facts of his life: … recently fired from a cool state job, kicked out of a top graduate school… well, they gave him his Master’s degree, so kicked out was the wrong phrase… no longer welcome in his old department, okay, that’s more accurate.

Just through the hearings, he heard Jim saying. End of the year, latest.

Jack thinking: an offer I can’t refuse.

I don’t know, Jim. I guess it is better to be working while I look for a job.

It is, but I’m going to ask you to hold off on the job search for now. I need continuity in this project.

A new contract, then? Jack asked.

Absolutely.

Professional work, not student? Jack pressed.

Yes, not an internship. Professional work, Stevens confirmed.

Work it out with Vito? …Who’s project manager? Jack, again.

You report to me. For policy help, Alice. Technical stuff, Howard. Contract stuff, Vito. We cool? Jim closed, leaning back in his overstuffed executive chair.

Done. Jack said.

Hey, Ben. I’m glad to see you back at our usual table.

Jack, arriving at the Reynolds Club towards the end of the day. Ben, his study-buddy and philosophical jousting partner.

I’m glad you showed up, Jack, with all that’s going on for you right now.

Technically, I’m a student until the degree is awarded, Ben. That happens in August, I guess. So I can hang out and use Regenstein until then.

But you’re out? I thought you were looking at other paths to the PhD?

Ben, not seeing how life could go on without the footings of the University of Chicago.

I’m still talking to Sinaiko and Ricouer, but they’re not really encouraging, Jack said. Beck wants me as his first Doctoral student, but that’s more for him than for me. He’s honest about it. I talked to folks in the Committee on Social Thought and even kicked around the idea of getting a new Committee started, one on interdisciplinary innovation.

Those options sound exciting, Ben encouraged.

"Yeah, until you ask, so where would I teach? Who would hire me?"

Ah, Jack the practical man. Ben, stroking his beard.

I had a funny day in the office.

Your last day is pretty soon, isn’t it? Ben asked.

Apparently not.

Huh? Ben, not usually at