Erin Brockovich - Rock Bottom

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

ROBERT FROST

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Dear Reader,

Many people work hard behind the scenes to bring a story to life, and Rock Bottom is no exception.

Wed like to thank all the wonderful folks at Vanguard Press/Perseus Books Group, including Roger Cooper, Georgina Levitt, and Amanda Ferber. Also Kevin Smith, our editor, as well as our agents, Mel Berger (Erin) and Barbara Poelle (CJ). Of course, we cant forget our first readers who kept us on track: Toni McGee Causey, Kendel Flaum, Kim Howe, and Caroline Males.

For their expertise and research advice, a big thank-you goes out to Carl Causey, for the dragline insights, as well as to Wally Lind and Lee Lofland for providing the inner workings of a small-town sheriffs station. We also had help from several print resources: Michael Shnayersons Coal River , Jeff Goodells Big Coal , and Coal Country , edited by Shirley Stewart Burns, Mari-Lynn Evans, and Silas House.

We very much appreciate the efforts of all the groups working to educate the public about mountaintop removal mining. Special thanks to the online resources provided by ILoveMountains.org , EndMTR.com , EarthJustice.org , and Ken Ward Jr.s coverage of all things coal mining for the Charleston Gazette s Coal Tattoo blog.

Most of all, wed like to thank all of our readers. Were glad you shared AJs story and hope you enjoyed it. Never forget: theres a heroine inside us all.

Wed love to hear your thoughts. You can reach us through www.cjlyons.net .

Best wishes,

Erin and CJ

ONE

Hi, youre on the air with AJ Palladino, the Peoples Champion. I couldnt help but cringe every time I chirped the greeting, but the station manager insisted on using the title foisted on me by People magazine, so I had no choice.

Unlike my freelance research work, this radio gig kept food on the table and a roof over our heads. Small price to pay. Didnt mean I had to like it.

AJ, hi again! came a womans voice. Happy, unlike many of my callers. Its Martha. Martha from Pennsylvania.

The computer screen in front of me lit up with Marthas history and her previous calls. But I didnt need to read the details. As soon as I heard her name and voice I remembered. Martha from Deercreek. You were having some problems with a fish kill in your stream, if I recall?

You remember! Thanks to you, weve been able to finally get things put right.

We found you a contact with your state Department of Environmental Protection, and I think the local Ag-extension was going to help set up monitoring for your well?

The Ag-extension folks were so helpful. Turns out we werent the only property affected. Two more farms downstream were as well. And the DEP, well, there was some hassle there at first, but I did what you said, I kept calm and just insisted that they do their jobs and investigate. And you know what? Turns out it was a dry cleaner from in town. Too cheap to pay to safely dispose of all those chemicals, he thought he could come out here and pump them into our creek! But they caught him, red-handed. And now hes paying to clean it all uphim and the state. Anyway, I wanted to thank you for all your help. It means the world to me and my neighbors.

It wasnt often that people took the time to call back and say thanks, so of course I smiled and gave my producer a double thumbs-up. Thank you, Martha. Without people like you being willing to take a stand for whats right, guys like your dry cleaner would get away with destroying our environment and our communities just to save themselves a few bucks. Youre a real peoples champion.

My producer cued the cheers, applause, and celebratory sound effects. We signed off from Martha and took the next call. Hi, youre on the air with AJ Palladino, the Peoples Champion.

Youre the one who took on Capital Power, won all that money for those folks? This guy didnt sound near as happy as Martha.

I helped. It wasnt about the money, though. It was about helping the people whose families suffered after their water was contaminated by Capital Power. I chose my words judiciously. The court case was famous, over and done with for four years, but every day someone just had to remind me of itand of how far Id fallen since.

Cinderella, the day after the ball. When she learned the prince didnt put the toilet seat down, the royal horse stalls needed mucking, and glass slippers werent the most practical attire when running your ass off all day long in a palace with marble floors.

What about helping all us people out of work now that Capital declared bankruptcy? You gonna go to court for us? Fight for our right to feed our families? His words skidded together, building momentum like a NASCAR driver spotting the checkered flag.

Sir, Im not a lawyer

He drowned me out before I could finish my routine disclaimer. No, youre just the bitch who took my job and my house, and now I cant even look my wife and kids in the eye. Were living in a tent. A goddamn tent! All because of you

I signaled my producer to record and trace the callers location. Sitting up straight, I pressed my headset hard against my ear, as if I could channel the intentions behind his words.

Sir, tell me more. How many kids do you have? I tried in vain to engage him. Some were like thattheyd phone in to rant and vent and call me names that had the producer tapping the bleep button faster than a telegraph key. Those shows always made the station manager grin as ratings spiked. Usually I gave as good as I got. But something about this guy....

What do you care? The Peoples Champion, my ass. This is all your fault. Remember that, bitch. All your fault.

A blast thundered through my headphones. I tore the headset off, my ears ringing so loud I didnt realize I was shouting. Sir, sir! Are you all right? What happened?

The ON THE AIR light faded to black. I climbed off my stool, my balance wobbly. Did you find him? Is he okay?

Weve called nine-one-one. Theres nothing more I can do. My producer was calm as he switched out PSA spots to fill the dead air.

That was a gunshot.

The switchboard lights danced like firecrackers. He ignored them. We wouldnt be taking any more calls. Not today. Maybe not ever.

Sinking into the chair beside him, I cupped my ears, trying to muffle the screeching echo still rattling my fillings. Hes dead, isnt he?

The direct line rang. He answered it, listened, then said, Thank you, and hung up.

Tell me. I wanted to throw up, needed to throw up, just to have an excuse to curl up alone in a bathroom stall, but instead I hung on to the arms of the vinyl chair, squeezing all my hope into their faux-leather padding.

You cant blame yourself, he said in a tone meant to be kind.

I squeezed my eyes shut, blocking out the sight of his lips moving, letting the echo of the gunshot stampede through my brain.

Hes dead.

Four months later....

The tug-of-war in my stomach was a tractor pull pitting an eighteenwheeler against a Panzer tank. My blinding headache as I hunched over the steering wheel of the van and peered through the equally blinding rain didnt help. Once wed left the concrete tangle of highways surrounding D.C. and made it over the West Virginia border we were on two-lane switchbacked highways crossing through the Appalachians.

Home. The word filled me with dreadand yet also offered a tantalizing feeling of anticipation. Maybe this time....