Durango (12 page)

He was silent again. Then he said, It's interesting what you can learn by listening. What I learn is what you say. There is bad feeling up there. These people are fighting each other. This is very bad for them. It is very bad for us. So maybe you are right. Maybe we have no choice but to come into this thing. To take a stand. But it must be a stand that represents what is best for our people. And it must be a stand based upon the principles of our people and all people.

After more silence, Leonard Cloud said, Speak about this some more.

Two Hawks said, These people up there invited this struggle, this conflict, when they treated this gift—he pointed at the river—as a business, some kind of legal business. That's done. That's their way. Nothing we can do about that now. But maybe if we get involved in this dispute, maybe we can do some good. Maybe we can point out that this water isn't something you own, something you possess. It is not our way. Maybe we can say, Listen, we don't “own” this river. We share this river. We must honor this water. We must be thankful for it. To fight over this water is to dishonor it. Fighting over this gift of the mother is to dishonor the mother. The others up there may do that. We, the Ute people, cannot do this. It is not in our nature.

The men were silent. Their respect for their elder had grown. They had been reminded what made them different from the modern people. They even thought that circumstances might have given them a destiny.

22.

At his ten-year-old computer in his cubicle at the
Durango Herald
, Patrick Carroll stared at the words from fifteen-year-old stories yet again. This was the second, in some cases the third, time he had done so. Yet even so he could not make sense of it all.

The controversy began with the eighth paragraph in an otherwise routine La Plata County Commission story on page five of the paper. An unidentified citizen angrily denounced the chairman, Dan Sheridan, for improper actions relating to the Animas–La Plata water project and insisted that he reveal the full details of his “sordid” involvement. Nothing more. There was no report on the reaction of other commission members or the audience.

Then, a week or so later, there was a letter to the editor from someone not readily recognizable in the community calling for Sheridan's resignation on the grounds that he was manipulating the project for his own benefit. Though this kind of activity wasn't common, most of Durango paid little attention on the assumption these people were unrelated public scolds of the kind that randomly appear. Then, after Sheridan gave a report on the issues confronting the county at a local service club, a local businesswoman, new to the community, rose to confront him with these accusations and insisted on his response.

Daniel Sheridan had seemed awkward and even somewhat defensive, at least in the
Herald
's report of the exchange, and brushed the question aside with the comment that his only interest in Animas–La Plata was what was best for the region.

Patrick Carroll found a story in the
Durango Herald
morgue of a more serious incident about two weeks after the confrontation at the meeting. At a public town hall meeting conducted by his father, Congressman Patrick Carroll, at least two people stood up to denounce Sheridan and call for both his resignation and a thorough investigation of his involvement in Animas–La Plata. Each claimed to have evidence that Sheridan was pursuing his own financial interests in the project and that he might be guilty of unethical or even illegal practices.

Caught off guard, the congressman said that he had known the Sheridan family for many years, that he had never known of anyone in the family, including Dan Sheridan, to be engaged in anything like what was being alleged, and concluded by insisting that the accusers produce whatever evidence they had. The two accusers stormed out of the meeting, shouting as they left that the congressman was merely covering up for his crony friend and that it proved all politicians were alike.

All this activity covering a month or so seemed unrelated. But then, after a monthly meeting of the county commission, one of Daniel Sheridan's co-commissioners told a
Herald
reporter, in answer to her persistent questions, that perhaps Sheridan ought to disclose any private interest he might have in the project. When pressed by the reporter as to whether this ought to be a matter for the commission itself to investigate, the confused commissioner allowed that any public body like the county commission had to keep its own house in order to belay any citizen doubts.

That comment produced a page two story in the
Herald
the following day headlined: “Commissioner Calls for Full Sheridan Investigation.” The next day, a
Rocky Mountain News
stringer from Grand Junction appeared in Durango to probe what seemed like a promising public scandal. That reporter tracked down the two protestors at the congressman's town hall meeting and quoted both in the
News
as saying they had solid evidence, though no documents, that Sheridan was receiving payoffs from a prominent New York investment bank for intervening with the Southern Ute Tribe on behalf of the bank. They further alleged that Sheridan might need the money also to help cover up a scandalous relationship with a prominent local woman.

Now the Sheridan story was statewide and was attracting attention in business, social, and political circles in the region. Though noted for their western laissez-faire attitudes toward personal privacy, even the worthy citizens of Durango proved not to be immune to interesting, if not also salacious, gossip. The Sheridan story was spreading and increasing in intensity and dimension.

Patrick Carroll tried to take an objective approach to it. But as he had earlier told Professor Smithson and even Mr. Sheridan himself, it still didn't make sense. Who were the early questioners? Why weren't they identified? Why hadn't the
Herald
insisted on identifying them and questioning them before running the story? He knew the answer to the last question at least. The reporter would have had to spend a day, or several, finding those making the accusations and persuading them to identify themselves and to document their charges, and then the story would be several days old.

Sheridan could certainly have done better at explaining himself once confronted at the service club lunch. But how? How do you disprove a negative? Once charged, a public official has the burden of disproving something that didn't happen. The simple denial, based primarily on reputation and standing, becomes just that. And a denial is a story, Patrick Carroll ruefully thought.

It was at this point that the former mayor, Walter Hurley, had intervened with his public call, contained in yet another letter to the
Durango Herald
editor, for Daniel Sheridan to take a leave of absence or even resign until the whole thing got cleared up. This would be best, he argued, for Mr. Sheridan, but it would also be in the best interest of the community. Starting with an anonymous rumor, then accusation, the weight of the furor had now shifted solidly against Daniel Sheridan. At the monthly meeting of the county commission a week or so later, the vice chair of the commission read the one-sentence letter from Daniel Sheridan resigning, “with great regret,” from the commission.

By now Patrick Carroll was making himself a pest with his boss, Mrs. Farnsworth. He had worn out his welcome with the
Herald
's managing editor, who constantly pushed him to leave the ancient story alone and get on with current issues and who, in any case, had not been around when the Sheridan case had erupted and had no interest in it or time for it. But the young reporter knew that Mrs. Farnsworth had had a ringside seat at the ruckus those many years ago and that she had hinted in the past that she was less than pleased with its handling at the time by the community at large and by her paper.

He did deny it, she said with a sigh to the rumpled young reporter leaning against her doorframe yet again. And, guess what, we ran the denial. “Sheridan Denies Accusations.” What else could we do? But I think that was the turning point for him. I don't know for sure, but my instincts tell me that's when he saw no way out. Charge. Counter-charge. Accusation. Denial.

He should have fought it, Patrick said with heat. He shouldn't have just folded and walked away. He wasn't guilty of anything. But he left it hanging in the air. And there it's been all these years. He shouldn't have let them get away with it.

Sit down, Mrs. Farnsworth said. She looked out of the window toward the San Juans looming to the northeast. She turned a penetrating gaze on the young man. I'm about to give you a life lesson, she said, and I want you to listen. People of honor do not need to “fight.” To descend into the muck that now underlies much of public life is to lose your self-respect. And when you've lost that, you've lost everything. There is something much more important than being chairman of the La Plata County Commission. There is something much more important than being governor of this state. There is even something more important that being president of the United States. That something is dignity. It is personal honor. It is self-respect. And without those things, none of us is worth anything.

Patrick was subdued. She let him ponder this. Then she said, Daniel Sheridan is an honorable man. That means he deserves respect. He has earned it. He has earned it as much by how he has lived his life since this disaster as he did before it. He didn't have to justify himself to anyone. To fight, as you say, for your dignity is to admit that someone else has the power to take it away. They don't. No one does. No one can take away your dignity. You may surrender it. But you do that by patterns of behavior, by being corrupt and corrupted, by lack of character. Except for my late husband, I believe Daniel Sheridan is the most honorable man I have ever met. His character may be assaulted, and it surely was. But his character is strong, it is solid, and, by any human measure, it is beyond reproach.

The young man considered this. Then he said, I intend to write this. That's what I'm trying to do, to write what you just said.

Don't, she said. I've already told you, this paper will not run it. I'm sad to say this, but journalism isn't in the business of character rehabilitation. We report the news. And what I've just told you isn't news to the large majority of people in Durango. Besides, we can't go back and make things right. What would we do? Run an editorial endorsing Daniel Sheridan for county commissioner? It would be a joke. We can't go back and fix things. You can't, and I can't. And, most of all, Daniel Sheridan would hate it.

23.

Not too long after this exchange with Patrick, Mrs. Farnsworth hosted dinner for Caroline and Sheridan. Her large, comfortable house, which she had occupied with her late husband, sat in the foothills on the outskirts of Durango to the west. It was not too far from the house Caroline and her former husband had bought when they moved to Durango years earlier. Caroline had been there before, but Sheridan had not.

They arrived separately. Sheridan handed the hostess a bunch of wildflowers he had picked late that afternoon in his high meadow.

After placing the flowers in a small vase on the dining room table, Mrs. Farnsworth served them drinks on her side porch facing the distant San Juans. I hope you understand that I'm not wearing my publisher's hat this evening, she said.

Caroline laughed and Sheridan said, Yes, ma'am. Thank you.

There is no agenda, Mrs. Farnsworth said in her straightforward manner. I've just not had a lot of company recently, and you two came to mind. She turned to Sheridan and said, Actually, I had invited Caroline for this evening when I ran across you at Kroeger's Hardware a few days ago. So I thought, why not. It's no secret you two know each other.

We do, indeed, Caroline answered. Aside from being ranch people, more or less—he's a real rancher and I pretend to be—we are also hobbyists of sorts. I pretend to paint and he actually carves.

Really, Mrs. Farnsworth said to Sheridan. Carves what, may I ask?

Chunks of wood, Mrs. Farnsworth, he replied. Just plain old chunks of wood. Mostly walnut, which is great carving wood for an amateur like me. It's soft and kind of buttery, I guess you'd say. Some occasional mahogany, more for its color than its texture. It's more brittle and harder to manage. I tried some of the native wood some years back. But not very much of it lends itself to carving.

Mrs. Farnsworth asked whether his pieces were for sale, and he laughed. Oh, no ma'am. They're pretty primitive. Figures and such. Some Indian, some just natural creatures.

Caroline said, Don't listen to him. I have one or two of his “figures” and they're beautiful. Primitive, yes. But strikingly symbolic, many of them.

Mrs. Farnsworth said she had an interest in such things and hoped to see some of his work someday.

Throughout the cocktail hour their discussion ranged through a variety of local matters and dismaying troubles on the national and world scenes. Despite her efforts to engage Sheridan at length, he largely responded to her topics with questions of his own, asking first her, then Caroline, their respective opinions on this or that. It was only after the end of the evening that Mrs. Farnsworth realized how little he had actually said, though he seemed at the time to be fully engaged in the discussion. She noted with admiration his ability to be fully part of the conversation without revealing many opinions of his own. This, she reflected, was particularly true of the political issues of the day.

After drinks they filled their plates in the kitchen and moved into the dining room, with Mrs. Farnsworth at the head of a long formal table and Caroline and Sheridan facing each other. Sheridan uncorked a bottle of pinot grigio with an expensive-looking Italian label that Caroline had brought, and he filled their glasses.

Mr. Sheridan, Mrs. Farnsworth began.