5

Among other things, Nim Goldman was a wine buff. He had a keen nose and palate and especially liked varietal wines from the Napa Valley, which were California’s finest and in good years rated with the premium wines of France. So he was glad to go to the Napa Valley with Eric Humphrey—even in late November—though he wondered why the chairman had invited him along.

The occasion was to celebrate a homecoming. An honored, victorious, sentimental homecoming of one of California’s most distinguished sons.

The Honorable Paul Sherman Yale.

Until two weeks earlier he had been a revered Associate Justice of the United States Supreme Court.

If ever a single individual merited the accolade “Mr. California,” unquestionably it was Paul Sherman Yale. All that a Californian might wish or strive to be had been exemplified in his distinguished career, now drawing to a close.

Since his early twenties when—two years ahead of most contemporaries—he was graduated with honors from Stanford Law School, until his eightieth birthday, which he recently celebrated, Paul Yale had filled a succession of increasingly important public roles. As a young lawyer he established a statewide reputation as a champion of the poor and powerless. He sought, and won, a seat in the California Assembly and, after two terms there, moved up to become the youngest member ever elected to the state Senate. His legislative record in both houses was remarkable. He was the author of early legislation to protect minorities and outlaw sweatshops. He also sponsored laws which aided California farmers and fishermen.

Moving on from the Senate, Paul Sherman Yale was elected the state’s Attorney General, in which office he declared war on organized crime and sent some of its big-name practitioners to jail. A logical next step was to Governor, a post he could have had for the asking. Instead he accepted President Truman’s invitation to fill a vacancy on the U. S. Supreme Court. His Senate confirmation hearings were brief, their outcome a foregone conclusion since—both then and later—no breath of scandal or corruption ever touched his name, and another sobriquet sometimes applied to him was “Mr. Integrity.”

While serving on the highest court, he wrote many opinions which reflected his broad humanity, yet were praised by legal scholars as being “pure law.” Even his dissents were widely quoted, and some prompted legislative changes. Amidst it all, Mr. Justice Yale never forgot that he and his wife Beth were Californians and, at every opportunity, declared his continuing affection for his native state.

When, in due season, he concluded that his work was done, he resigned quietly and the Yales left Washington, typically without fuss, returning—as Paul Yale expressed it to Newsweek—“westward and home.” He turned down the suggestion of a massive testimonial banquet in Sacramento, yet consented to a more modest welcome luncheon in his beloved birthplace, the Napa Valley, where the Yales planned to live.

Among the guests—at Yale’s suggestion—was the chairman of Golden State Power & Light. Humphrey requested, and obtained, an extra invitation for his assistant, Nim.

En route to Napa Valley in the chairman’s chauffeur-driven limousine, Humphrey was affable while he and Nim worked on plans and problems, as was usual on such journeys. It was obvious that the chairman had put his displeasure with Nim behind him. The purpose of their present journey was not mentioned.

Even with winter close at hand, and several weeks after harvest time, the valley was extraordinarily beautiful. It was a clear, crisp, sunny day, following several days of rain. Already early shoots of bright yellow mustard weed were growing between the rows of grapevines—now stark and leafless, and soon to be pruned in readiness for next season. Within the next few weeks the mustard would grow in profusion, then be plowed under to fertilize and, some said, add a special pungency to the flavor of grapes and wine.

“Notice the spacing of the vines,” Humphrey said; he had put aside his work as they entered the central portion of the valley where vineyards stretched far into the distance to the lush green hills on either side. “The spacing’s much wider than it used to be. That’s for mechanical harvesting—the grape growers’ way of beating the unions. The union leaders cheated their own members out of jobs by empire building and intransigence, so labor will soon be minimal here, with most jobs done by machine, and more efficiently.”

They passed through the township of Yountville. A few miles further, between Oakville and Rutherford, they turned through an entranceway, framed by adobe-colored curving walls, into the mission-style Robert Mondavi Winery, where the luncheon would be held.

The guest of honor and his wife had arrived early, and were in the winery’s elegant Vineyard Room, ready to greet others as they came. Humphrey, who had met the Yales several times before, introduced Nim.

Paul Sherman Yale was small, spry and upright, with thinning white hair, intense gray eyes which seemed to bore into whatever they were looking at, and a general liveliness which belied his eighty years. To Nim’s surprise he said, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, young man. Before you go back to the city we’ll find a corner somewhere and have a talk.”

Beth Yale, a warm, gracious woman who had married her husband more than fifty years ago when he was a young Assemblyman, and she his secretary, told Nim, “I think you’ll enjoy working with Paul. Most people do.”

As soon as he could, Nim eased Humphrey aside. Low-voiced, he asked, “Eric, what’s happening? What’s all this about?”

“I made a promise,” Humphrey said. “If I told you, I’d be breaking it. Just wait.”

As the arriving guests multiplied and the line of those waiting to shake hands with the Yales lengthened, the sense of occasion grew. It seemed as if the entire Napa Valley had turned out to pay its homage. Nim recognized faces attached to some of the great names of California wine making: Louis Martini, Joe Heitz, Jack Davies of Schramsberg, today’s host Robert Mondavi, Peter Mondavi of Krug, André Tchelistcheff, Brother Timothy of Christian Brothers, Donn Chappellet, others. The Governor, who was out of the state, had sent the Lieutenant Governor as his representative. The media had arrived in force, including TV camera crews.

The occasion, which had been billed as private and informal, would be viewed or read about by most Californians tonight and tomorrow.

Lunch—with Napa Valley wines, of course—was followed by introductory speeches, mercifully brief. A toast to Paul and Beth Yale was drunk; a spontaneous standing ovation followed. The guest of honor rose, smiling, to respond. He spoke for a half hour—warmly, simply, eloquently—a casual, easy talk with friends. There was nothing earth-shattering, no strident revelations, simply the words of the local boy at last come home. “I am not entirely ready to die,” he said. “Who is? But when I leave for eternity, I want to board the bus from here.”

The kicker came at the end.

“Until that bus arrives, I intend to be active and, I hope, useful. There is a job I have been told that I can do and which may be of service to California. After due thought, and consultation with my wife, who was uneasy about having me at home all day anyway … [Laughter] … I have agreed to join the staff of Golden State Power & Light. Not as a meter reader; unfortunately my eyesight is failing … [More laughter] … but as a member of the board and a public spokesman for the company. In deference to my hoary old age I am being allowed to set my own office hours, so I shall probably arrive—on the days I choose to show up at all—in time for an expense account lunch … [Loud laughter] … My new boss, Mr. Eric Humphrey, is here today, probably to collect my Social Security number and employment record … [Laughter and cheers].”

There was more of the same.

Afterward, Humphrey would inform Nim: “The old boy insisted on secrecy while he and I were negotiating, and then he wanted to make the announcement himself in his own way. It’s why I couldn’t tell you in advance, even though you are the one who will work with him in helping him get oriented.”

Meanwhile, as Mr. Justice Yale (he would retain the title for the remainder of his life) concluded his speech and sat down to sustained applause, reporters crowded around Eric Humphrey. “We have yet to work out full details,” Humphrey told them, “but essentially Mr. Yale’s role will be as he described it—a spokesman for our company, both to the public and before commissioners and legislators.”

Humphrey looked pleased as he answered reporters’ questions—as well he might, Nim thought. Lassoing Paul Sherman Yale, bringing him into the GSP & L orbit, was a tremendous coup. Not only did Yale have built-in public credence, but every official door in California, from the Governor’s downward, was open to him. Clearly, what he would be was a lobbyist of highest caliber, though Nim was certain the word “lobbyist” would never be spoken in his presence.

Already, the TV crews were maneuvering GSP & L’s new spokesman into position for a statement. It would be one of many, Nim supposed—some of them the kind of statements Nim himself might have continued making if he hadn’t blown it. Watching it happen, he felt a pang of envy and regret.