Devil's Knob

By Robert Yeates

J. J. Jackson is an unscrupulous owner of an earthmoving construction company. It is hard times for such companies in Colorado in 1988. He drinks too much and has money problems. He cheats on his wife, who he hates him and is involved with a self-proclaimed environmental crusader. But he has a grand plan for solving his problems. There is a high-tech materials research company, Basin Technology, that is being decimated by Colorado Department of Public Health and Environment due to contamination allegedly from an underground waste oil that had been recently removed. He knows the case against Basin Technology is fraudulent, and J. J. Jackson will profit handsomely if he can prove it. To do that, he needs to find someone clever enough to figure out how the fake spill was created and prove it. He hires Bill Andrews, a mining engineer who has previously caught J. J. Jackson doing sneaky stuff. He is a man he knows has the technical know-how along with a knack of spotting fraud. He also knows Bill Andrews is going through hard times. Bill Andrews takes the job reluctantly, assuming it will be quick and dirty review of the data accumulated by J. J. Jackson. Instead, he was soon in over his head as he uncovers a high-tech industrial hijinks involving revenge, political corruption, greed, violence, deception, betrayal, and murder, leading to a deadly confrontation near a rock formation called Devil's Knob.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641385855

Robert Yeates

Robert Yeates is Senior Assistant Professor of American literature at Okayama University, Japan.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Here I was, hiding behind two rocks near a formation called Devil’s Knob. My pickup truck was engulfed in a blazing fire, and an injury to my left leg seriously reduced my mobility. I was bleeding and armed with my .22-caliber revolver. Just below me were three guys intent on killing me, all armed with 12-gauge pump tactical shotguns. My legs were shaking in fear while I weighed my options.

Looking back, I remember precisely when I became involved in the chain of events leading to this deadly situation. The body count actually began prior to my involvement; a deadly criminal conspiracy had already been set in motion.

My name is Bill Andrews, and it was bad times in the mining in the field; many in the mining industry in the United States took it in on the chin during the Reagan era.

On the cold cloudy morning of January 8, 1987, we were driving to interview for a simple mine evaluation job.

I was with my partner, Randy Thompson. We had little choice about our transportation. Randy’s Jeep Commando, which looked a little better than my orange marvel, refused to start that cold morning.

I wore my blue suit, thin for the morning cold, but it looked professional. I also had my briefcase containing the required tools of my trade as a mining engineer (an HP calculator, scale, mechanical pencil, and engineering pad).

Randy was a man who sported a red bushy beard and was stoutly built. He wore a sport coat with patches on the elbows, a plaid shirt, and a tie.

Randy was a topnotch mineral geologist, though he hadn’t had a steady job since 1982. He too suffered the loss of his job and family.

We were both divorced and whose monthly child support obligations were based on former high energy-industry salaries exceeding our monthly incomes. This made these occasional consulting jobs very important.

Luckily, Randy developed a knack for finding contract work. He found us this potential job at the Denver West Office Complex that cold January morning.

I almost regretted parking in the side lot as the cold biting wind blowing from the west cut through my suit.

The job was for a Golden Eagle mining company. It needed a quick third-party evaluation on a gold property they wanted to develop. Like many start-up gold-mining companies, it had only mined the pockets of its investors for enough capital for an office space and a small staff.

Upon entering their second-floor office, I noted the modern Western Native American art. I supposed once they got a mine going, glossy photos of mining operations would replace the present decor.

We introduced ourselves to the receptionist; we were there to see a Max Gerzer.

The reception area was clearly her domain. From her desk, she carefully assessed the importance of anyone who entered. She gave a cold smile and pointed to some stylish but less-than-comfortable chairs in the corner of the reception area and told us to wait.

A short time later, Max quietly entered the reception area and ushered us to a conference room. The conference room was very basic with metal shelves holding journals that stood against two walls.

Max was a thin middle-aged man of average stature. He explained they had an option on a gold property and needed an independent evaluation done rather quickly. Max went into greater detail on the problems encountered by the previous owners.

The property was near Creed, Colorado, at a high elevation. The previous owners had only planned to operate during the spring and summer months of warmer, milder weather. Warmer temperatures enhanced the leaching of the gold with cyanide solution, plus the pipes didn’t freeze.

Unfortunately, they had hired a contractor whose equipment had a propensity of breaking down. Max went on a little further about other problems they had. Much of it concerned the contractor’s equipment.

I turned to Randy and muttered, This sounds very familiar, and I’ll bet dollars to donuts the contractor was JJ Construction.

Max brought his head up so suddenly. How on earth did you know it was JJ Construction? Max asked with genuine surprise.

I shrugged my shoulders. Lucky guess, we’ve run across that outfit before.

Looking at me with both suspicion and doubt, he demanded, Tell me more about it.

I did some engineering where JJ Construction was the mining contractor, I replied. I was informed they were operating 120-ton haul trucks, but the truck tonnages never came out right when I calculated the mine’s production.

On a site visit, I wrote down some of their serial numbers, I continued. I gave the numbers to a couple of sales reps I knew, and from them, I obtained the trucks’ histories, confirming my suspicions.

And? Max asked.

The trucks were old M-100s with only a hundred-ton capacity. They had been purchased from a copper mine in Arizona. JJ Construction had simply given the trucks a Du Pont Overhaul.

What is a DuPont Overhaul? Max asked with a wrinkled brow.

They simply repainted his equipment fleet of old end dumps and stenciled ‘120-Ton Capacity’ on the lip of rock boxes with bright-red paint. JJ Construction had been charging for 120-ton trucks for more than three years. Our client felt cheated and took him to court.

Was there anything else? Max inquired.

There was the little stunt he pulled in Wyoming, Randy said. He brought an old Cat 980 front-end loader to the job site. They did approximately $50,000 of repair on the unit and then shipped it to another job site. They tried charging the Wyoming job site for the repair work even though it did not move an ounce of dirt.

And what happen? Max asked.

They were a subcontractor to Morgan Engineering and Construction. They were both kicked of the project as a result. JJ Construction is owned and run by John Joseph Jackson, I told Max. He pulled that stunt because he thought he could get away with it.

And thanks to Bill, this little stunt was discovered, Randy with a broad knowing smile told him.

Look, you’ve got to keep your eye on any contractor, I informed Max. It’s just that JJ Construction cheats with more audacity than most.

Without further comment, Gerzer left us in the conference room. We spread the information over two metal tables. This allowed us to make a preliminary review of the available data on the property.

Major flaws in the previous operator’s calculations quickly became apparent. Their ore reserves and stripping ratios were totally bogus. The property had seen underground mining activity in the 1880s, with some additional activity off and on until 1941. That was when President Roosevelt curtailed all gold mining until the end of World War II. Inflation made $35-an-ounce gold unprofitable after the war.

The previous operators had taken a narrow approach in their mine planning. They only put significance into the engineering during the final phase of their operation—the heap leach pad. That’s where the gold is leached out of the ore with a cyanide solution. The leachate pad had fine, detailed drawings and specifications.

They apparently paid little, if any, attention to the mine in their planning. The overall drawing of the site they had prepared showed the mine only by a dashed line around its perimeter. They had not even designated where the haul road went from the mine to the heap leach pad.

They left that to their mining contractor, J. J. Jackson.

A potential mine site or mineral property’s ore reserves are divided into three designations based on available drill hole and outcrop data. The first category is called the known reserves or reserves that have been confirmed with drill data.

The second are probable reserves. These are based on results of current drilling. The sample trends indicate ore should be there, but more drilling needs to be done before they can be verified.

Finally, there are possible reserves. These are where the mineral trends indicated ore may be present, but there is no supporting data.

The ore reserves estimates on this property were totally out of line. They had taken a mine promoter’s reserve estimates at face value. It wasn’t a reserve estimate, as much as an exercise in unfounded delusion. The previous owners used this reserve estimate to construct the bubble they rode to financial ruin.

The probable reserves where lumped in with the known reserves, and their possible reserves where called probable. Their possible reserves were based on nothing but wishful thinking.

On top of this, they included mined-out stopes (the void remaining in the host rock after the ore is removed) in the underground working as ore reserves of 0.25 percent gold ore. The only thing left in there was stale air. Ore bodies don’t grow back with time like timber does.

The stripping ratio calculations—the ratio of waste to ore—had been done by cross section. They had a good angle of repose, meaning the slope angles were enough that the pit walls wouldn’t slide down on top of you.

Unfortunately, the bench elevations did not match up from cross section to cross section, so there was nothing to form any resemblance to a logical open pit mine. Worst yet, there were no considerations for equipment access.

The mine was to be two hundred feet deep, yet nobody considered the need for haulage ramps. Together, these things meant the stripping ratio was unrealistically optimistic.

The entire brunt of their work was really sad. When they were planning for this mine, the owners hadn’t bothered to consult any mining professionals. This was at a time when a lot of good mining talent, such as Randy and I and many others, were unemployed and available at bargain rates.

If they had not been so tight-fisted, maybe their mining venture would have had some chance of success.

We looked over the data for about half an hour when Max returned. We told him what we’d found. Max, being a geologist, was not surprised with what Randy had to say, but he was completely taken aback when I went over about the stripping ratios and the mine access.

He buried his head in his hands and said, Shiiiiiiiiit, in a long and mournful sigh.

The scope of the work had suddenly had just greatly expanded, but his deadline hadn’t moved. In a week, the moneymen for Eagle Mining would arrive.

This would require Randy and me to completely redo the mine reserves and develop a logical mine design with an accurate strip ratio in record time. From this information, they’d get an accurate idea how much it would cost to produce each ounce of gold.

Max wanted to know two things: could the work be completed in a week’s time, and how much would it cost? Randy said $6,000 without blinking an eye.

We rolled up the drawings and gathered the other data, and Max led us out to the reception area. The receptionist paid us little notice as we left. We loaded it all in the cab of my orange pickup and headed to our office located off Sixth Avenue and Wadsworth, stopping off for some coffee and pastries on the way.

Our office was located in a small building on Wadsworth just south 6th Avenue. Our modest, windowless office rented for $150 a month. Since renters were scarce, the landlord threw in a couple of old steel desks. My desk was pale green; Randy’s was battleship gray. We had two worn wheeled high-back chairs that didn’t match. We also had a couple of other chairs without armrests that also didn’t match anything else in the room.

The pale gray walls were decorated with drawings of our latest mining work. In one corner, we had a small refrigerator just big enough to hold beer, soda, and sandwiches. Above that we had a microwave and coffeemaker.

We also had a sixteen-inch TV with an old top loading VCR. Our collection of videos included Airplane, some John Wayne movies, and a few DIY tapes.

Randy’s friend Biker Bob also supplied almost all of our videos. He also got us occasional work as bouncers at events where strippers were working. It was good money for a few hours’ work. Randy referred to this work as pervert patrols.

Biker Bob was the only person I knew who made money with a video camera. He also sold videos to the local channels of local events, specializing in drug busts.

It was a cramped—not nearly the office I occupied as high-powered engineer with a prestigious engineering firm, but it was an office.

The next six days in that small office were long ones, with little rest. We were doing in a week what is generally done in six.

Randy correlated drill holes, and I crunched numbers until long into the morning. We calculated the reserves to be less than half the original estimate.

We rejected all the ore assays taken from the cuttings of JJ Construction’s drilling program. The assays were too good to be true for this property. Worse yet, they were taken from the overlying overburden (the barren rock that sit on top of the ore body).

Reviewing survey notes, we further determined the waste rock had been put on areas of future mining. Their mining operation must have been planned by a simpleton.

We developed a mine plan that took advantage of the natural terrain and the structure of the ore body. We were also able to significantly shorten the hauling distances, reducing the required truck fleet by a third. It was possible by developing a haul road over the waste dumps instead of going around the backside of the mountain as JJ Construction had done.

The final report included text and tables.

Again, we put on our Sunday best—such as it was—and drove over to Denver West to present our findings.

The report was presented in a much fancier conference room than the one led on our previous visit. In the center of the room was a large table of a hardwood surrounded by matching chairs.

One wall was made of glass panels. Along the other wall was a white drawing board design for colored felt drawing pens. On half of this drawing board, we taped the revised cross sections and geologic and mine drawings.

On a matching side table was coffee and pastries. We had some when we were introduced to the three moneymen. Two were in their late forties; the third no more than thirty. None were mining professionals; they were investment bankers. Besides Max, there were also two senior people from Golden Eagle Mining.

Each person had a copy of the report prepared by Randy and myself. We were questioned about a number of points, including the blast drill-hole assays. There were also questions with regard to JJ Construction. I suspect that our answers probably destroyed any possibility of their future presence doing any contract mining for Golden Eagle Mining. The moneymen may not have had much knowledge of mining, but they were smart enough to spot the work of a con man like J. J. Jackson.

Randy and I were through with our presentation by 10:00 a.m.

Two days later, we received a check for $6,000. Randy and I each got $1,500 to pay child support and other bills. I thought it would be the last of the case. Like many things over the next few months, I was wrong.

Chapter 2

The next two weeks were slow. I presented a technical paper at the Society of Mining Engineers (SME) Annual Conference. The paper dealt with how federal environmental regulations affected the mining industry. Randy and I were hoping the paper would generate some consulting work.

I had once envisioned myself as an engineer of importance when I presented my first professional paper. Instead, I qualify for food stamps. The SME Conference wasn’t much better. Attendees were either engineers or geologists looking for work or the oldest and most senior executives.

My presentation was on the last day, and most attendees had left early to avoid an incoming snowstorm. My audience was mostly elderly professor types.

Even though we called ourselves mining consultants, the majority of work we did was the winterizing foreclosures of homes and condos, changing locks, removing trash, and doing minor repairs. Of course, we did not put this type of work on your résumés, business cards, or letterhead.

We were also able to do some work as bouncers during private parties. Occasionally, a fraternity or men’s group would arrange for a private party at one such club on Pecos, where strippers would be the entertainment. For these events, bouncers were required to keep members of the audience from going totally ape.

Thanks to Randy’s buddy Biker Bob, we occasionally got to be one of those bouncers. The job required us to be conspicuous, but not aggressive, and to watch the crowd.

It paid good cash money, more than a week’s work at minimum wage for a few hours’ work. It certainly beat moving furniture; we didn’t put this on our letterhead either.

On the morning, I would become drawn into quagmire leading to Devil’s Knob. I had the office to myself. Randy was doing some contract work in California. I spent my time looking over geologic reports on some gold mines Randy thought had promise. I was putting data on a Lotus Spread sheet on our computer.

Our business relationship was not exactly a partnership. What we shared was an office and a business name, Geo-Mining Consultants. There used to be three of us, but Rob Rexing, a mineral processing engineer, quit the business and moved out of state to sell insurance.

We both pursued our own separate careers. Whoever was ever making good money consulting was to pay the office rent and buy coffee while the other struggled with get-by-work, like moving furniture for minimum wage.

We learned several lessons the hard way. Among these was to get a retainer before property evaluations. More often than not, the evaluation did not tell owners what they wanted to hear. Clients were not anxious to pay for bad news.

We also knew which drinking establishments had the best complimentary food during happy hour. Victory Station had excellent short ribs on Wednesdays; the Pepper Mill was you went on Tuesdays and Thursdays. However, Friday was our favorite. We would head to the Library Grill down town, and it was very sophisticated. They handed out bowls of peel-and-eat shrimp. They were to die for.

When the opportunity arose, we threw work each other’s way. We also did some work on speculation. This often involved doing feasibility studies on potential precious metal mining properties we thought had promise.

Gold was the only bright spot in the mining industry, but you needed connections to get any work. Randy and I had mostly been involved in coal, so it was difficult to get into the gold mining game.

Some gold mines had been worked off and on since the 1880s but had seen no activity since Roosevelt shut them all down. The two mines in question were at high elevations in a scenic area. This created two problems. Gold mining is profitable because gold can be extracted from the rock with a cyanide solution. This is sprayed over the ore that is piled on leach collection pads lined with impervious geosynthetics. Collection piles collected the solution now with gold in solution to extract the gold. Unfortunately, these heap leach operations could only be effective half the year when temperatures were above freezing.

Another problem with a ton of gold ore is that once you remove the gold—all of three to four ounces—you are left with a ton of waste rock. In days past, the old miners could dump it wherever it was convenient.

Today that’s no longer possible. Because of the sulfur associated with the ore, rock dumps created a century ago are still barren of vegetation.

I’ve never had a quarrel with the environment argument; mining should be done responsibly. Areas where mining is taking place should be reclaimed in a practical and aesthetic manner. I spent a lot of my time developing mining plans to exploit the mineral wealth of the properties while also developing reclamation plans. This strategy not only took care of waste generated in the future but also paid for of the sins of my predecessors.

I was also trying in vain to kill a pesky fly. I wondered how it had survived the cold winter days and why it had chosen my office to take up residence. It refused to land on a smooth surface where I could conveniently squash it with a magazine. Instead, it seemed content to share my personal space with its irritating buzzing sound as it flew in front of my face.

A knock on the door interrupted my attempts at fly swatting.

I said, Come in, and the door swung open with considerable force. My first thought was it was an angry creditor.

Two large, rough blue-collar types entered my office. They were probably equipment operators since both wore Caterpillar caps. They each had round cans of tobacco chew that could be seen in their breast pockets. They took positions on either side of the door. One was standing with his arms crossed like a prison guard, and the other slouched against the wall.

The taller of the two men, I guessed he was in his early twenties. The second was at least ten years older than his companion, had the face of a man who had been around hard times.

A well-dressed woman who was a lot more pleasing to look at than her companions strutted in. She was dressed in conservative dark-gray sweater and black slacks. She gave the younger of her companion a dirty look when he spat a wad of chew into waste paper basket. She sat in Randy’s chair, picked a pen from Randy’s desk, and pointed it at me.

Are you Randy Thompson or Bill Andrews? she asked in a businesslike tone.

Andrews, I answered, wondering why such a strange trio would be calling.

Mr. Jackson sent us. We would like a word with you, she continued, still all business.

"Is that the Mr. Jackson of JJ Construction?" I inquired.

"Yes, that Mr. Jackson," she responded.

Well, in that case, which word would Mr. Jackson wish to share with me? I said, giving her my most charming smile. She wasn’t impressed.

The corners of her mouth turned downward, and she started tapping the pen she was holding on Randy’s desk. A comic. I bet you really think you’re funny, she stated in sour tone of voice.

I shrugged. I have my moments, I confessed.

Well, funny man, Mr. Jackson sent us here to fetch you. Coming? She said it in a very serious tone.

Do I have a choice? I asked. The two men looked at each other, and the woman for some sort instruction.

This may seem like a foolish question, I asked, but will you bring me back afterwards?

Of course, she said with a deep sigh as she discarded the pen.

Well, I’ll just have to kill that fly later, I said. Let’s go. By the way, you didn’t give me your name.

No, I didn’t, she agreed.

She led the way, with her two champions following just behind me. The younger of these two gave me a shove from behind as we started going down the stairs to the first floor. A few steps further down, he did it again.

This pissed me off. I slowed down my pace. He attempted to shove me again, but anticipating his move, I stooped slightly and grabbed his right arm. I used a move I had been taught in the army. He was surprised by my move, particularly when he landed hard on the stairs in front of me.

Lady, I barked, I’m not taking another step until you rein in this guy.

Oh, Mr. Engineer is sensitive, the young guy mockingly shot back as he got to ready to continue the confrontation.

Todd! the lady shouted. At first I thought she was addressing the younger guy, but I was wrong. It was the senior of the two she was addressing.

Jimmy, cool it, Todd said to the younger man.

But, said Jimmy but didn’t say another before Todd continued.

Apologize to the man, Todd commanded softly.

Todd, Jimmy said in a pleading voice.

Apologize, Todd again commanded.

I’m sorry, Jimmy said with some difficulty. Todd would have made a good bouncer.

We continued to the parking lot in the front of my building without further incident. It was nice sunny day, the warmer temperatures melting the snow that had fallen the day before.

They had arrived in one of those small Cadillacs—a pale yellow Cimarron. Jimmy opened the back-left door with exaggerated mock courtesy. I got in the back seat, Jimmy getting in the backseat from the other door. Jimmy had wretchedly bad breath. Todd got behind the wheel with the lady sitting shotgun.

Once the car was moving, Jimmy took out his can of chew. He dipped his fingers in round can, and extracted some tobacco between his fingers and stuck it behind his upper lip. The tobacco smelled of menthol. He then stuck it near my face, offering me some chewing tobacco.

No thanks, Jimmy, I declined, but I think you should offer the good lady some. She looks like she could use a good chew.

Todd in the front seat let out a low chuckle; even Jimmy smiled. The lady turned to me and gave me a look—that drop-dead look.

The car went east on Sixth Avenue and then turned north on I-25, then turned northwest on I-36, which gave me a moment of concern. JJ Construction’s office was in Cantwell east of Denver. Instead, we headed northwest to Louisville to a gated community.

Gated communities are designed to keep out the riffraff unless summoned, such as myself.

The security guard recognized the car and waved us through.

Jackson’s house stood at the upper end of a curved driveway that wound itself around large sandstone rocks and scrub oak.

The architecture of the house was an overly complex blend of native sandstone, wood, and glass.

The main entrance was double-door oak next to a large bay window. The house had a three-car garage with a covered patio on top. The patio was accessible by a stone stairway. It seemed a bit odd for an owner of a midsized construction company.

They did not take me in the front door but led me around back like a delivery of dog food. The house was built on a slope, allowing for a walk-out basement. This made the house look truly massive with the windows of all three floors clearly visible. My companions lead me through a French door.

I found myself in Jackson’s combination library and office. It had a wet bar, red leather chairs, a wide-screen TV, and loaded with electronic goodies. The room smelled of wood polish and cigars.

There was a desk that stood out. It was a grand, old oak roll-top desk, the kind of desk they don’t make anymore. It was broad and massive; it was built to run an empire. The desk would take four strong men to move it.

At the desk sat Mr. John Joseph Jackson in an old-fashioned swivel oak desk chair. He was a man in his mid-forties, of medium height and build.

I’d seen him a couple of times before. He always reminded me of a used-car salesman.

He waved his hand, and Todd and Jimmy left the room. The lady took a seat in a leather chair by the door. He did not offer me a chair. He just let me stand there. Then with a sudden burst of anger, he stood up and slammed down a three-ring binder. The cover on the binder told me it was a copy of the report Randy and I had done for Eagle.

Tell me about this report, you son of a bitch! he demanded.

I hadn’t assumed he had ushered me in his presence to ask me about how my love life was going, but I was surprised he had gotten a copy of the report. Considering the contents of the report, his outburst was not entirely expected.

So what do you want to hear? I asked.

How do you get off making statements about my integrity? he shouted.

I’m not really at liberty to discuss the report. It’s confidential, I informed him.

His voiced lowered to almost a whisper. You no longer work for some high-powered consulting firm, or have you forgotten?

His eyes narrowed, and he made an L-shaped gesture with his right hand. You know what that is? JJ asked.

I’ll let you enlighten me, I responded irritably.

"It’s an L for loser! You’re a loser, working out of a two-bit office." He walked to me so his face was less than a foot from mine, his voice still hard but quieter.

When I ask you a question, loser, give me a straight answer. I won’t take shit from you. You understand me, loser! he taunted.

I stood there, staring back at him, not saying a word. I spent the next minute of mutual silence studying JJ. Perhaps he was playing with me. Maybe he just wanted to see if he could rattle me. Frankly, I didn’t give a damn. I did consider for a moment, it would be fun to see if I could get him really mad, enough to give him a stroke.

I knew JJ’s reputation. His anger could be explosive, but most of the time he was cold and calculating. JJ was known to have a trait that let you know if he was really losing it. His tongue would protrude from the corner of his mouth, looking very angry—usually just prior to hitting you. I saw no tongue, so I could assume this was a cold and calculating performance.

I waited a few seconds before answering him. We stood facing each other, letting things cool down. If that’s all you want to say, can I go back to my office?

Listen, you’ll leave when I tell you and not before, he said coldly.

The report is still confidential, and I can’t discuss it, I stated flatly. You didn’t pay for it.

Cut the crap. Your report labels me a thief. He walked back to his desk, and his left hand had grabbed a brass bull; he started thumping it back and forth the desk with in a slow rhythmic fashion. The sound reminded me of an old steam pump.

I went over to one of the leather chairs and sat down. I then said very matter-of-factly. The report is a property evaluation, not an editorial.

It implies I salted ore samples and cheated the owner! I could take you to court and sue you for slander, he threatened.

I looked him in the eye and stuck my chin out. Go ahead if you want to waste your time and money. I dare you. My estate is a pickup with a blue book value so low, it doubles when I fill it with gas. Furthermore, I never mentioned JJ Construction in my report.

As far as your drill holes are concerned, I continued, "we both know there is no way those assays could