He explained to Westinghouse that what he’d found in Brown’s office was a series of letters between Brown and Edison that confirmed their conspiracy.
It appeared that, in secret, Harold Brown had petitioned the New York State Legislature to consider alternate methods of execution for those whom the state had sentenced to death. The noose was ancient technology. Perhaps, Brown had suggested, a more scientific method of execution could be used. And did he have a method in mind? He did. It was this “electrical chair.” A convicted criminal would be strapped to a chair made of wood, with metallic contacts attached to his forehead and lower back. These contacts would then be hooked up to an electrical generator. When the generator was turned on, the convict would be dead instantly. This, Brown had argued, would be much more humane than the noose. Not to mention the firing squad.
Brown had even taken the trouble of specifying the type of generator that would be best for such a device. It ran on A/C. And it was manufactured by the Westinghouse Electric Company.
That company’s namesake took this news poorly. Edison and Brown were working to make his alternating current the official current of execution. The state-sponsored current of death. Westinghouse’s A/C systems were selling briskly, and the initial installations in Great Barrington, Massachusetts, and Oregon City Falls, Oregon, had gone well. But who in the world would want to install the same technology in their home that the New York State Legislature had chosen to install in their prisons?
“But Edison doesn’t support the death penalty. He’s campaigned against the thing. Publicly. I’ve read his sanctimonious editorials.”
“That was before he recognized that the death penalty could be put to his own advantage.”
Westinghouse stared out the window at the wintry fields. “You almost have to respect the ingenuity.”
“?‘Almost’ being the operative word.”
“And I suppose no one cares that it wouldn’t even work? My system, properly constructed, would do a poor job of killing someone.”
Paul’s expression made perfectly clear that the public was uninterested in this kind of logic.
“So how do we respond?” asked Westinghouse.
“I’ve sent word to Albany. In two weeks I’ll argue before the New York State Legislature that the use of an electrical chair in executions would constitute cruel and unusual punishment.”
“You’re not making the argument that D/C should be the official current of executions?”
“I don’t want to ask the state senators to be scientists. I’m asking them to be humanitarians.”
“What happens if you lose?” asked Westinghouse. “If they do use my equipment to build this electrical chair? How can we possibly compete under those circumstances?”
“We can’t.”
“So what do we do?”
Paul looked out at the clean white expanse. A city was just coming into view along the horizon.
“We hope that for the next few years, no one in New York commits any murders.”
“Or,” added Westinghouse ruefully, “at least that they don’t get caught.”
—
Typically, Paul’s trips to Pittsburgh were brief—ten hours in transit for a meeting with his client, then an overnight trip back. But this time, Westinghouse asked if he’d like to stay the night. They were having friends for dinner on the following evening, and Marguerite had wondered why Paul never came by the house anymore. She’d invited him to attend, if he was free. The guest apartments were all made up.
Dinner was for only eleven this time. The salad dressing had a familiar taste. The other guests were not scientists, but rather Pittsburgh gentry. Paul found himself seated next to a young woman who’d clearly mastered all there was to learn at western Pennsylvania’s finest finishing schools. She was well versed in discussing her favorite breeds of dog, charity work, and the fashions of the day.
Paul did not give himself much credit for not making a fool of himself this time on an impolitic subject. It wasn’t hard—no impolitic subjects were brought up. It was a well-socialized crowd.
Paul recalled his last aborted dinner at the Westinghouse estate, and Tesla’s sudden exit before it began. He still hadn’t told Westinghouse that Tesla was alive. The deceit gave a bitter taste to his strawberry galette. He was glad there was Bordeaux to absolve his well-intentioned sins.
“You didn’t like Stephanie much,” observed Marguerite as Paul joined her in the kitchen after dinner. All the other guests had retired to the billiard room.
“Pardon?”
“Paul,” said Marguerite, “you’re not stupid. That’s why George likes you. And that’s why we wanted you to make Stephanie’s acquaintance.”
Paul was so flattered to have been described as being liked by George Westinghouse that it took him far too long to realize that Stephanie was the name of the politely effervescent iron heiress sitting beside him at dinner.
“Oh,” said Paul. “I didn’t realize…”
Marguerite gave a disappointed sigh as she poured sweet dessert wines for the guests. “It’s only that you’re a very eligible young man. You know that. And you’re not that young, are you?”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
Marguerite smiled as if to say this was not quite as young as he might like to believe it was.
“And I have my eye on someone,” he explained. He’d never said it out loud before. Having formed the words from mere air, he felt instantly embarrassed.
“Oh!” said Marguerite, clearly encouraged. “Might I have made her acquaintance?”
“I don’t think so.” Paul was clearly not going to provide her with a name, and she was far too clever to ask.
She lifted a tray on which were balanced eleven glasses of Vouvray.
“Well,” she said as she led Paul out of the kitchen. “If you don’t want to tell me who it is, I hope at least that you’re not so mum to the young lady in question.”
If you really look closely, most overnight successes took a long time.
—STEVE JOBS
THE “WAR OF the currents,” as the press had begun to call it, had opened along so many simultaneous fronts that Paul was having trouble keeping them straight. It was difficult to remember which battles were even winnable and which were simply on their way to being lost as slowly as possible.
First there was Edison v. Westinghouse itself—the main event—and the 312 assorted lawsuits that came with it. If Paul’s associates were successful in their quest to prove that Edison had lied on his patent application, every single one of these suits would be moot. But until then, they were unenviable drudgery. Edison’s plan to bury Paul underneath a mausoleum of paperwork had been a savvy one. Even though Westinghouse’s adoption of alternating current gave him a clear advantage in the majority of these suits, Carter, Hughes & Cravath had to compose 312 sets of briefs, attend 312 sets of court appearances, prepare 312 “motions to continue”—that is, requests to delay the trial. Thankfully for Paul, Carter and Hughes had taken the lead here after Paul’s hospitalization. He’d been bitter about their insistence on doing so at the time, but now it allowed Paul to focus on other fronts.
The second of which was Paul’s argument before the New York State Legislature that electricity should not be used in executions. These arguments were to be made in person to members of the state legislature in Albany. Paul journeyed there to dine with different state senators. They all appreciated the steaks to which he treated them, the cigars he shared, the offers of similar hospitality on their next visits to Manhattan. Whether he’d won their votes or not, that was a different matter. Edison’s pocketbook had done more to ensure a friendly governmental environment than might a hundred of Paul’s filets mignons.