The second document was worse, depending on which side of that pavement you were standing on. It was a request for information from Alderfer Paving and Grading dated September twenty-second, four days before her directive, filled out in block capitals in that flat, careful tone contractors use when they intend to survive something. “Railhead at STA 4+20 shows bright wear across full running surface. Recommend owner verify line status with operating railroad prior to surfacing. If line is active, standard crossing panel and passive warning required. Awaiting direction.”
Bright wear across full running surface. Griff Alderfer had stood on my crossing with a tape measure and seen what I’d seen every day of my life and stopped noticing, that the top of that steel was polished like a spoon because eight weeks earlier fourteen loaded hoppers had rolled across it. The man had told her in writing with a recommendation attached. And in the response box at the bottom in blue ballpoint, “Proceed per approved design. Verification not required. Line is abandoned per state rail division correspondence in committee file. KB.”
I sat in that church lot until the second service let out and people started walking to their cars around me. Everything I’d believed since October was wrong and it was wrong in the direction that made it worse. I’d been telling myself a story where a woman with bad information did a terrible thing by accident, and where good information would fix it. That story was gone.
Her own contractor had put the doubt in her hands and asked her to check. She wrote verification not required four days before she wrote cover the rails. She didn’t need to know the line was live. She needed to be able to say she didn’t.
I laid the RFI beside my October third photographs, the ones with the asphalt still wet and the last of the railhead showing at the edge, and there it was in both places, bright as a nickel. The exact thing Griff Alderfer had told her to go ask about.
Ware read them twice Monday morning, the way he does, and then did something I hadn’t seen him do. He got up and shut his office door. “Before this, we had a property dispute with a stubborn board. Now we’ve got a document where the responsible officer was warned by her own contractor and told him not to check.” He set it down carefully. “Porter, this is the kind of paper that follows a person around.” He filed it with the county three ways, roads, building office, commission clerk, so it couldn’t disappear on one desk.
The Kelso County Ledger called me Wednesday. A kid named Bert Coughlin wanting comment on a dispute about the entrance at Foxglove Crossing. I said very little. I didn’t have to. He’d already called Karen and for the first time since this started she’d had to answer a question instead of issuing an instruction, and you could hear it in the two lines he got out of her. The corridor is common area. And then, I’m not going to litigate a landscaping project with a newspaper.