Lockman. I’m with the Cragmore Construction Corporation.” His glance flicked back and forth between the reporter, the cameraman, and Dad. He managed to straighten his shoulders, glared defensively at Dad, and said, “I see no reason why you should be here, and I have no intention of answering your questions.”
Dad ignored Mr. Lockman’s rudeness. “I’d like your permission to enter the area,” he said. “I’d like to talk to some of the workmen.”
“No!” Mr. Lockman spit out the word, then—with one eye on the camera—struggled to get himself under control. “As you can see, we’ve had a serious accident. Unauthorized persons on the scene will only add to the problem.”
The reporter squeezed closer, stepping in front of me, and asked Gerald Lockman, “Can you tell us how this accident happened? Was the Cragmore Corporation to blame?”
Mr. Lockman took a step back, tripped, and nearlyfell. “I’m not authorized to make a statement,” he said. He turned his back on Dad and the reporter and hurried away.
The reporter, seemingly afraid Dad would also leave, shoved the microphone into his face. “Mr. Charles Amberson,” she said. “You’ve made statements about alleged problems in the construction industry. Is that why you’re here? Does this accident somehow tie into the construction problems?”
Dad said, “As I said in my speech when I announced that I was a candidate for governor, my staff and I are compiling records that will show that during the past three years many low bids on construction projects have been ignored, with contracts awarded to the same small group of contractors at a much higher cost to taxpayers.”
I’d heard Dad mention at home that these contractors had been heavy contributors to Jimmy Milco’s initial campaign for governor. I wondered why he wasn’t telling the reporter that now. Maybe he was saving it for the big speech he’d talked about—the one he’d give at the fund-raiser banquet in November.
“Are you saying that Cragmore Construction got this job through political favoritism?” the reporter asked.
“There were two companies with lower bids. I have copies of those bids, although the records Governor Milco made public did not include those two companies.”
The other two TV reporters had arrived with their cameramen, and one of them shouted out, “What hasthis accident got to do with your allegations about the bids?”
As they held out their microphones I stepped back, out of the way.
“First,” Dad said, so unruffled I wondered how he could manage it, “I’m requesting that samples from this scene be tested, that impartial engineers be sent here to examine the site.”
The original reporter asked, “Are you implying that this was
not
an accident?”
“Of course it was an accident,” Dad told her. “I’m simply requesting that authorities determine the reason why this accident happened.”
I heard the screech of brakes and turned to see a large, stocky man jump out of a white Jaguar. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and his tie was loosened at his neck so that it sailed over one shoulder as he ran toward us. I recognized him immediately. It was the man I’d seen glaring at me through the outside door of the country club ballroom, the man I’d guessed must have been one of the two I’d overheard on the terrace.
He elbowed his way through the group until he was face-to-face with Dad. His voice was hard as he declared, “This isn’t your territory or your concern, Amberson.”
Microphones were thrust forward, the reporters listening intently as Dad said, “It’s the concern of the people of Texas, Cragmore.”
So that’s who the man was—the owner of this construction company.
A thin, balding man in a brown suit opened the doorin a mobile office that was parked nearby, and stood just inside, listening and picking at a dark spot on one side of his chin.
I heard Dad say, “For the record, I’m going to request an