Ruuuuumble!
A majestic vibration split the cold morning air of early January and shook the ground, breaking the silence of Harris Farm. In a place that would normally have felt desolate, lined only with bare cherry trees, a massive steel monster had taken up residence.
A thirty-meter drilling tower soared as if to pierce the sky, and the acrid exhaust spewed by its heavy diesel engine stirred a strange sense of anticipation. Each time the drill bit into the hard surface, the tremor traveled up through the soles of our feet and made the entire farm quake.
“Check the bit temperature! Adjust the mud density!”
The foreman’s rough shout cut through the engine noise. Workers covered in dust moved busily, pushing enormous pipes down into the borehole. Chloe and I watched the scene from a short distance away. In my hand was a chart detailing the geological survey data and the depth of the aquifer.
“What are the bit and mud they’re talking about?”
Chloe asked from beside me, arms folded as she stuck close to my side. Maybe because it was winter, the tip of her nose was slightly red, though it was much warmer than Korea, and even at 8°C she was dressed quite heavily.
“The bit is that huge awl-like blade attached to the very end of the drilling rig. That’s what they mean. As the drilling gets deeper, the bit rubs against solid rock and generates tremendous heat. If they can’t cool it down and the bit burns out or gets damaged, that’d be a problem, so they’re telling them to check the temperature.”
“Oh... Then what about mud?”
“See that muddy water they’re sending down into the borehole?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what they mean. It may look like water mixed with mud, but it’s actually a fluid precisely blended with minerals like bentonite and chemical additives. It cools the heat generated by the rotating bit, carries the rock powder, or cuttings, shaved off by the bit back up to the surface, and also forms a thin film along the inner wall of the borehole to maintain pressure so the hole doesn’t collapse.”
At my explanation, Chloe widened her eyes and chattered with her small mouth.
“How do you know all that? Amazing. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“Uh... I just know.”
In truth, before my regression, I had once briefly visited a project to develop farms in drought-stricken regions. I had gone there to plan what crops to plant and teach farming methods, and in the process, I had naturally ended up learning a lot about equipment used to drill wells.
“You really are amazing.”
It really wasn’t anything special, but Chloe called me amazing and patted my chest, then soon asked with a slightly worried expression.
“But will it be all right? They’ve already gone down 150 meters, and all that’s coming up is dust.”
Her gaze could not leave the spot where the drill was boring into the earth. Tens of thousands of dollars in drilling costs and the fate of the farm hung on the end of that hard drill.
I calmly pointed at the chart and answered.
“Don’t worry. Given the geological characteristics of this area, there’s a first aquifer between 180 and 220 meters, but it doesn’t hold much water.
What we’re aiming for is the bedrock aquifer at the 300-meter mark. The water that bursts out from there will be incomparably purer and richer in minerals than the water from the canal Hartford blocked. Since we don’t use much water with drip irrigation, that will be enough. This well will probably become the farm’s new lifeline.”
I had found this data after spending several nights digging through the NWIS, the National Water Information System, an online database of the U.S. Geological Survey, or USGS. In the 1970s, the government had drilled in the Brentwood area for large-scale road construction and the expansion of national infrastructure, and those records remained as public documents, which was how I was able to learn this.
“I really hope that happens.”
“It will. Don’t worry.”
And so Chloe and I watched from a distance as the equipment worked with a heavy roar.
At the same time, in a discreet VIP room at Dare Ridge Country Club in downtown Brentwood.
William Hartford was fiddling with a cup of cold coffee instead of his usual single malt whiskey. In front of him sat Samuel, Thomas, and the other key directors of the association, their faces ashen.
“It hasn’t even been a week since we blocked the canal, and those bastards are drilling a well?”
As William’s voice sank low, thick with anger, Samuel spoke with a devastated expression.
“That seems to be the case. And they brought in a large-scale drilling team, the kind you’d normally call from Napa Valley. The sound of the rig is loud enough to reach the master bedroom of my house. On top of that, when I looked into it, it turns out a lawyer named Harry Montis from Napa Valley has attached himself to them, and because of the documents he filed with the court, there’s no way to stop it administratively.
He put forward the justification of an ‘emergency exercise of survival rights due to the association’s intentional blockage of the waterway,’ and the county official got scared and stamped approval right away. They say that man’s nickname is the Rainmaker... He doesn’t seem ordinary. I’ve seen plenty of lawyers, but this is the first time I’ve seen one with such an absurd nickname.”
At the bad news striking him in the back of the head, William clenched his fist. He had thought that if he locked the floodgate, Frederick would come begging on his knees. After all, without water, a farmer in California was as good as dead. But instead of kneeling, Frederick had dug into the ground right in front of the association and opened a new path.
“Idiots... They must not know how much it costs to dig for groundwater. If they drill that deep and don’t find water, they’ll be throwing tens of thousands of dollars into the air... And even if they do find water, how do they plan to manage a hundred-acre farm with that tiny amount?”
They did not know that Frederick’s cherry farm used SWP farming in combination with drip irrigation, reducing water use to the extreme. Nor did they know that because of the reduced water, the cherries could have higher sugar content and more vivid color.
That was why they judged it impossible to operate a hundred-acre cherry farm with a single well, and yet William Hartford’s expression did not soften. He could sense it instinctively. Frederick’s prospective son-in-law, that fellow named Brian, was not the kind of person who would gamble.
For starters, Brian was someone who played in a different league from them, a young man on the path to success after successfully running a winery, something known to be extremely difficult and demanding. He was simply on a different scale. Which was why they could never let their guard down.
“Fine. Let’s say the water route fled underground. But I still hold the roads above ground. Even if they harvest the cherries, if they have nowhere to sell them, that water will be nothing but poison that rots their grapevines.”
Then William Hartford held out a bundle of documents to his secretary.
“First, contact the western regional merchandisers at Costco, Walmart, and Whole Foods Market. Tell them we’ll lower next year’s Bing cherry supply price by five percent. But there’s a condition. Make it clear that any store that takes Harris Farm’s Royal Tioga and Bing will receive absolutely no supply from our association.”
“But Chairman, that is a clear violation of fair trade law. If we’re caught...”
“Who told you to leave it in writing? Let it slip at the golf course, at dinner. The merchandisers in distribution aren’t fools. They’re not adventurers who would antagonize the association, a stable large-scale supplier, just to take stock from a single new farm.”
After the secretary left, Thomas spoke with concern in his face.
“Will this be all right? If word of this gets leaked outside...”
“Hmph! Do you think those merchandisers have only taken our money?”
“Ah... I suppose not.”
Secretly exchanging under-the-table money to push products onto shelves had been one of the practices in big-box retail for decades.
“They may already have signed some contracts, but it’s still winter. How many could they possibly have signed by now? If they’re willing to give up the thousands of acres’ worth of cherries held by the Brentwood Association, then they won’t listen to us. But can they really do that?”
A cruel smile spread across his lips. Even if groundwater burst forth, if the farm was blocked by the massive barrier called the market, it would have no choice but to slowly wither away. He had no doubt of his victory.
It was then.
“Chairman, someone outside... insists that he must see you right now. He says his name is Harold Harry Montis.”
It was the name they had just heard. Why was a lawyer who should be playing around in Napa Valley here? Hartford jerked his chin, making no attempt to hide his displeasure.
“Let him in.”
The door opened, and a fat man wearing a leather jumper over tight denim pants entered. Harry Montis strode forward as if he had no interest whatsoever in the luxurious decorations in the room or the authority of the farm owners gathered there, and stopped in front of William. Then he sniffed once and said,
“Mr. William Hartford?”
“Are you that Rainmaker or whatever they call you? What brings a gentleman who mainly works in Napa Valley to a backwater like this?”
At William Hartford’s sarcasm, Harry burst into hearty laughter. The sound of his laughter was enough to make the crystal lights in the room tremble faintly.
“That’s right. Compared to the cases I usually handle, this is hardly even worthy of being called a lawsuit. Normally, just calling me once would cost half your association’s annual budget. But for you to know who I am and still act this relaxed... I suppose I’m still lacking. I’ll have to work harder.”
“....?”
As William failed to understand what he meant, Harry continued.
“In any case, as it happens, the farm you people decided to mess with has a very... special relationship with my friend Brian. That’s extremely unfortunate for you. I promised that friend I’d open even the floodgates of hell if he asked me to.”
Harry’s eyes settled coldly. He took several sheets of paper and a law book out of his briefcase and dropped them onto the table.
“Mr. William, I came here to inform you about that welding job you did this morning. First, this is a notice of violation of health law.”
“Health law? Ridiculous. How is blocking my own canal a violation of health law!”
“California Health and Safety Code Section 116110. The act of creating standing water through the artificial obstruction of a waterway, thereby providing a breeding site for mosquitoes, vectors of West Nile Virus. Water has already begun to pool and rot right behind the floodgate you welded shut. I’ve already sent the photos and location to the state health inspector.”
“What?”
“By tomorrow morning, the pest control authorities will issue an administrative order to the entire association. Until the floodgate is reopened and disinfected, a fine of fifty thousand dollars per day will be imposed... I wonder whether the association members will be pleased?”
As Harry slowly looked around at the association members gathered there, there was playfulness in his gaze, but not a single person could meet his eyes properly.
“One piece of advice: if you knew I had come as the opposing counsel, you should at least have found the best lawyer in California. In Napa Valley, that’s common sense. If you start looking now, that lawyer might be able to find a way to invalidate the fifty-thousand-dollar daily fine and keep you from having to open the floodgate. You’ll probably have to look very hard.”
Harry rose from his seat and patted William on the shoulder. Crushed by the overwhelming pressure radiating from Harry’s massive frame, William could not even let out a groan.
“It doesn’t matter anymore whether you open the floodgate or not. Even so, the reason I’m doing this is to warn you. If you’re going to use the law, you shouldn’t come at it half-baked. You need to know exactly who your opponent is.”
Harry tapped his own head a few times, then grinned at William Hartford and left the room just like that.
The people left behind came to understand, with painful clarity, why the lawyer named Harry was called the Rainmaker.