I agreed to meet Coastal Commissioner James Morrison in Malibu. He had driven up from his base in Long Beach. We were sipping coffee and nibbling donuts at the Malibu Pier Cafe, overlooking the Pacific and within sight of the legendary Colony, home to a glut of Hollywood celebrities and eccentrics.
The drive on Highway 101 from Freedom filled me with renewed sadness as I witnessed the devastation wrought by the Woolsey fires late last year. Vast sections of the once verdant mountainside lay charred, the burnt skeletons of homes and businesses dotting the roadside as symbols of the fragile nature of life and property.
The sky was pockmarked with clouds and the sun revealed itself only sporadically. A chill wind carried with it the faint smell of rancid smoke. Both of us had on pea coats. Morrison wore a Dodgers cap, I a Russian sailor’s.
“You certainly caught his attention,” the Commissioner said between bites of a glazed cruller. “His lawyers are headed to court.”
“For what purpose?”
“To quash the warrant.”
“Doesn’t the Commission hold the upper hand here?”
“You’d think. The law couldn’t be clearer. But the estimable Craig Leonard of the firm Leonard, Howard and Arthur, Attorneys at Law, is screaming desecration of a wildlife preserve. He claims that unwarranted access to the property will destroy the ecological balance his client has been striving so hard to protect. A crock of shit, if you ask me.”
Morrison was a slight man with a gentle demeanor. He had been appointed to the Commission after the fall of two of his predecessors for alleged conflicts of interest.
They had chummed up with a well-known rock musician who sought to build five oversized mansions on a heretofore undeveloped hilltop overlooking the ocean. On property that wasn’t permitted for such development. The whole deal stunk to the high heavens. Rumors of payoffs were rampant. When the plans reached the Governor’s desk, he denied the permits and fired the two Commissioners.
He then appointed Morrison as a replacement, allegedly to right the corrupted ship. But there was already dissension in the ranks of the elected Commissioners, a number of whom sounded keen to defy the Governor and arrange a special election to fill the seats.
A practicalist, Morrison shrugged off any possible ill feelings regarding the uncertainty of his position. He knew full well that over the years, numbers of Coastal Commissioners had been rumored to have lived largely in the pockets of affluent landowners and voracious developers. He was anathema to that ethic, and as a result, more than likely a short-timer. But he took his position seriously and soldiered on nonetheless.
I pressed him. “So what happens next?”
“Delays followed by even more delays.”
“And Petrov can get away with it?”
“It’s what he’s paying for.”
Morrison finished his cruller and wiped his hands. He eyed me and lowered his voice. “I never said what I’m about to tell you.”
I nodded.
“There’s a way to force the issue.”
“And that would be?”
“We re-create the old access points.”
“And we would do that how?”
“We would tear down the fences that block the access points. Or, rather, you would.”
“And the aforementioned Leonard, Howard and Blah Blah?”
“They’d take us to court.”
“Us being?”
“The Commission.”
“So the Coastal Commission would be hauled into court for upholding its laws?”
Morrison nodded.
I shook my head, acknowledging that the exploits of the Coastal Commission were often frustratingly obtuse. “Seems a bit loony, don’t you think?”
“I do.”
“And they want to go forward with this action, regardless of the consequences?”
“Half of the Commissioners want to take this Russki bastard down a peg.”
“And the other half?”
“Don’t ask.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The Commission is known for its checkered history.”
“Corruption?”
He looked away and waved his hand. “I never said that. But for the moment, it’s a good time to take action. In large part because there’s no way of knowing how much longer I’ll be able to hold my seat. And I’m currently it insofar as the majority vote is concerned.”
I sat back and mulled for a while. I watched a gull land on the deck near us, its focus on a section of cruller that Morrison had inadvertently dropped. Sensing his moment, the gull dashed for the cruller, grabbed it, and without even a glance at us, swooped away.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay what?”
“I’ll do it.”
“So maybe some good will come from our conversation.”
“What conversation?”