Paul was well aware. In the time since his invitation to dinner, he’d devoured all the newspaper accounts of Westinghouse’s legal troubles. The dispute was highly public. “Thomas Edison has sued you for infringing on his patent on the incandescent light bulb.”
“Edison’s bulbs are terrible—poor-quality designs, two generations behind mine. There are a dozen companies across this country making bulbs of more advanced design than Edison’s. Mine just happen to be by far the best.”
“Yours are better. But Edison’s were first. It’s the latter issue that is of legal concern. Your difficulty is that he’s the one with the patent.”
“I did not copy Edison’s design for the light bulb. I improved upon it. Tremendously. My light bulb is to his as a motorwagon is to a horse-drawn carriage. Would there be justice in forbidding Mr. Benz from selling the former because of the existence of the latter? Of course not. Edison is not suing me—he is suing progress itself because he lacks the ability to invent it.”
“It sounds,” suggested Paul, “as if you’re in need of a very good attorney.”
“I need a very good attorney who is not afraid of Thomas Edison.”
Westinghouse folded his wide body into a leather armchair. He sipped at his Scotch. “If you’re committed to the cause of justice, I can promise you that you will find no more just cause than our defense against Edison. Your firm is small, which is good. When I hire someone, I expect his full attention. I’ve done my research too. No need to look surprised. Anyone can hire a lawyer, Mr. Cravath. I need a partner. I need a man of honor who will not be afraid to tell me difficult truths. I am the most technically adept inventor of this age. That intimidates some people. Will it intimidate you?”
“You impress me,” said Paul. “But you do not and will not intimidate me. Neither, for that matter, will Thomas Edison.”
Westinghouse gave a small laugh. “Everyone thinks that at first. Then they find out what they’ve gotten into.”
“And what would I be getting into?”
“It’s this lawsuit….It’s substantial.”
“Of course.”
“My accountants are still going through the numbers, trying to approximate the scope of the thing. It’s rather impossible to place an exact value on indoor electrical light, you see.”
“At my previous firm with Mr. Carter, I worked on one of the Kuhn and Loeb bulge-bracket suits.” Paul was exaggerating. He was barely involved in the case. But Westinghouse would have no way of knowing that. “It was $275,000 in damages. Quite unprecedented. And we succeeded.”
Westinghouse raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Yes.”
“Thomas Edison is suing me for one billion dollars.”
Westinghouse examined the look on Paul’s face, and then, for the first time that evening, gave a big, wide smile.
“So then,” said Westinghouse. “Do you still want the job?”
One could not be a successful scientist without realizing that, in contrast to the popular conception supported by newspapers and mothers of scientists, a goodly number of scientists are not only narrow-minded and dull, but also just stupid.
—JAMES WATSON, CO-DISCOVERER OF DNA
THE REQUISITE DOCUMENTS were sent to New York, the contracts exchanged and signed. Coffers filled with money. Westinghouse did not merely pay on time—he paid in advance. Carter, the elder partner, was overjoyed, while Hughes, the younger one, was nakedly jealous. Their junior partner had just signed one of the plummiest clients in the country. But the terms of their partnership had been drawn up plainly: Paul had been the one to sign Westinghouse, which meant that it was Paul’s case. The elder partners could take their 84 percent of the fees, but they could not take the credit.
In the following three months, Paul heard little from his sole client. He received nothing in the way of guidance. Westinghouse seemed indifferent to the specifics of the law. When Paul requested technical schematics of the various machines in question, they arrived promptly and without comment. When Paul sent copies of the briefs he wrote, no response came. Westinghouse spent their infrequent meetings in Pittsburgh largely in silence. As if expecting something from Paul, something Paul hadn’t yet said. Paul’s response to his client’s silence was to keep talking. Verbosity was Paul’s best approximation of friendliness.
It was only when some scientific point would come up that Westinghouse would grow animated and speak, at length, in stentorian tones. Westinghouse seemed to have only two modes of interaction: silent or lecturing. Often Paul felt that Westinghouse wasn’t listening to a word he said. Paul would ask a question and Westinghouse would silently ponder some paper upon his desk before responding on another matter entirely.
Sometimes Paul felt as if he might as well be polishing his client’s silver instead of attempting to save his company.
The only nonscientific topic that could get a rise out of the older man was Edison. Westinghouse sneered at any mention of the name. At the suggestion—made at length by Edison’s attorneys—that Edison had invented the light bulb and Westinghouse had illegally piggybacked off his work, Westinghouse would sputter with indignation.
Who was right? Paul was neither a scientist nor an engineer. He had no idea. His job was to zealously defend his client, and that he would do. His own future depended upon his success. If only Westinghouse would be any kind of help.
—
The day after the burning of the workman above Broadway and the midnight meeting with Edison, Paul immediately left for Pittsburgh. He did not do his client the courtesy of requesting an audience; he simply telegraphed that he’d be there that evening.
Paul arrived to find Westinghouse in the laboratory. Sleeves rolled up, topcoat off. Contemplating a steel disc on the worktable before him.
As Paul recited the events that had transpired in Edison’s office, Westinghouse caressed the device in front of him, running his fingers over its rough contours. It was as if his touch might be enough to bring the unfinished mechanism to life.
“Edison was trying to scare me,” explained Paul. “Which is not necessarily a bad thing. It means he’s afraid of something himself.”
Westinghouse waved a hand in the air. “You say he had a switch on his desk that controlled the statue’s torch? That’s not possible.”
Paul was unsure how to respond.
“What’s the distance from Fifth Avenue to the Statue of Liberty?” wondered Westinghouse aloud. “Must be four miles. Five? There’s no way Edison’s electricity could cover that much land. His current can extend but a few hundred feet from its generator. What did it look like?”
“It looks like a gigantic statue of a lady holding a torch—”
“No, no, the switch. What did the switch look like?”
Paul stared at his client. He tightened the Windsor knot on his long black necktie as he gathered himself. “I’m afraid I don’t recall, sir.”
“It’s the problem of distance,” lectured Westinghouse. “My own men go sleepless trying to solve it. Electrical current, of the voltage required to power a light bulb, cannot travel more than a few hundred feet before withering. Edison must have been sending a telegraph signal—yes, that’s it. Morse code to a man at the Pearl Street station, who could then turn the torch on and off for him. It’s the only explanation. There is no way Edison’s team has solved the distance problem. I don’t believe it.”
Paul refrained from reacting visibly. Westinghouse, an engineer to the bone, had the tendency to maniacally fixate on minuscule technical details while ignoring larger, more-pressing concerns. There was a billion dollars on the line, and he cared only about the shape of Edison’s switches. What Paul needed to explain to his client was that it didn’t matter whose switches were more elegantly constructed; if Edison succeeded in suing him into oblivion, Westinghouse would be designing dynamos from a Bowery stockyard.
“Unless,” continued Westinghouse, “this was a display meant for me, not for you. He knew you would report back to me, and he wanted me to think he’d solved the distance problem. He wanted to scare me. Well. It has not worked, has it?”