Surviving New America: Hope Thomas and Her Enemies will be published at the beginning of May. Email me at [email protected] and I’ll send you a reminder when it’s available. Below is Chapter 2 of the novel

Check out the description, the Author’s Note, the Prologue and Chapter 1. Here’s all of that in a PDF. Here is a little bit about me. 

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Chapter 2: Jayson Damond’s Moment

It was a coincidence—and one that later was considered literary foreshadowing—that Hope’s meeting with Dr. Hart occurred during the same week that a new community just north of Trinidad, Colorado, was being dedicated.

A farewell cocktail reception capping off the three-day event at the facility—which over time would be referred to as Damondville, The Compound, New America and, finally and legally, Compound City—was held that Wednesday evening.

There were last-minute concerns about the increasingly gusty winds and low clouds that had turned the late afternoon sky an ominous slate gray. Administrators crossed their fingers and didn’t change the plan, which was to take advantage of the unseasonably warm weather and hold the reception in a tent on the great lawn of the administration building.

There indeed was a storm. To the great relief of the planners, though, the rain and wind were moderate and only lasted about twenty minutes. The evening turned pleasant.

The officials and VIPs were in a celebratory mood. The construction phase that was winding down had brought significant business to southern Colorado and parts of New Mexico, Oklahoma, Texas and Kansas. The common belief was this was just a taste of things to come. This made Jayson Damond and Theo Pennimen—the men whose companies financed, designed and built the facility—rock stars.

During the previous three days, six tours of about thirty VIPs each had been conducted. The large open-sided people movers used to convey crowds at expansive venues such as zoos and amusement parks ferried guests around the campus. The tour had seven stops and took about three hours.
That there was so much where nothing had been before made the impact staggering. The relaxed and jovial mood with which the tours started gave way to surprise and awe as what had been created became evident. It was stunning, especially when juxtaposed against the rolling plain on which it rested.

Damondville was Oz. People were handed a brochure as they entered the people mover. On one side was a map with sites indicated by number. The facilities represented by those numbers were on the facing page.

The list: Six four-story barracks, a state-of-the-art gymnasium, an Olympic size pool with a retractable roof, a greeting/administration center, a fifty-room hotel, three two-story office buildings, a social center, an old-fashioned village green with a gazebo, two dining halls, a sophisticated infirmary, two industrial size greenhouses, a power plant, a water purification facility, a 3,000-seat theater/meeting hall, an art gallery, an outdoor theater, a mini-mall with a supermarket and space for eight shops (including two restaurant-ready units), an industrial laundry, three structures capable of supporting light industry, a man-made lake, schools from preschool through high school, guest and family housing, a security office, an airstrip able to land a medium-size jet and related support structures and garages. There were solar panel and windmill parks, a ranch and assorted athletic fields and playgrounds.

Much of the community was built along five semicircular streets: “Patriot Road,” “Founding Fathers Avenue,” “Citizen Soldiers Way,” “Constitution Boulevard” and—perhaps with tongue-in-cheek—”Henry Ford Drive.” The semicircle faced a dramatically backlit fountain that sent columns of recycled water forty feet into the air. Behind it, at least during the dedication, was a seventy-five-foot-high crucifix.

The crucifix had been the subject of intense debate within J&T. Some said it would attract evangelical and other Christian denominations, groups with lots of money and a tendency to hold large gatherings. Others argued that the crucifix would discourage secular groups from renting or leasing space.
The compromise was to build a portable crucifix that could be disassembled into three sections and loaded onto a one-car flatbed train that ran on a narrow gauge track between the pedestal and a big storage shed near the ranch, which was about a mile away. It therefore could be brought out or stored based on the group’s relationship with god. “You don’t want to give up on either the pious hypocrites or the godless atheists,” Damond joked at one planning meeting. “Everyone’s money is green.”

Henry Ford Drive was the furthest street away from the fountain, which was the nominal center of the campus. The street was bounded by an arcing 25 foot-wide grassy band that was sprinkled with picnic tables and barbecues. The farm and ranch were beyond. Still further away were windmills and solar panels. The design was modular, so land use could be shifted as population increased, energy generation grew more efficient and other changes occurred.

—

Credit for the project was diplomatically given to both Damond and Pennimen. Everybody knew, however, that Jayson Damond, a legendary pioneer in telecommunications sector and a multibillionare, was solely responsible for the vast enterprise. It was his project and he was the man of the hour. Indeed, Pennimen didn’t like the spotlight and hadn’t even made the trip. He was more than 1,600 miles away at the corporate headquarters in Research Triangle Park, North Carolina.
The attention paid to Damond bordered on hero worship. It came to a head during the climactic reception. He was surrounded by local residents thrilled to have a celebrity in their midst—especially one creating jobs and generating revenue for their community.

The reception began in the tent. People got their drinks and walked out into the comfortable night air. Damond’s handlers led him toward a small podium, mic and speakers. A tarp that had protected the electronic equipment from the rain was being folded by a workman.

Damond was a man of medium height. He was broad-shouldered enough that the extra weight of later middle age made him appear robust and healthy rather than fat and faded. He had wavy black hair that still was thick and only graying slightly. People often said that they hoped to look as good when they reached his age. Damond would smile and respond that he’d prefer to be a fat and balding thirty year-old. “You can work off fat on a treadmill. Years? Not so much,” he would say.

Though he dressed elegantly and in a manner that suggested wealth and status when necessary, his public persona stressed informality. When making an appearance he wore a hoodie and baseball cap embroidered with that community’s name. Afterward, the PR team would collect the used clothing, certify it had been worn by Jayson Damond and auction it off. J&T would then donate triple the winning bid—usually funded by corporations trying to curry favor—to that community for technology-related civic improvements.

In this case, both the cap and the hoodie said “Trinidad!!!” Exclamation points had not been used previously and indicated the occasion and location were special. The clothes raised a million dollars, which was donated to Las Animas County libraries and public schools. The funds were used to upgrade WiFi, enhance emergency communications and support science, technology, engineering and math (STEM) programs.

Damond greeted everyone with a “Hey! Howya dune, bro?’” in a good approximation of a New York accent. He extended his hand, palm up, to youngsters he passed. The child would try to “give him five,” only to see Damond withdraw the hand. The kid invariably laughed and tried again. Damond would do the same thing while asking the child why his friendliness was being rebuffed. The child would get the joke and struggle to stop laughing long enough to explain that he or she was trying, but Damond was withdrawing his hand. Damond would indignantly deny this while doing so yet again. After two or three more back and forths Damond would let the child connect and then blow on his hand as if to say that the slap hurt. “Why did you hit me so hard? I may start crying!” he would say to his new fan as he moved on.

The first item on the short program was a performance by the local middle school band and choir. Awkward and uncomfortable-looking kids toting trumpets, clarinets and other instruments filled the three-level bleachers adjacent to the small podium. The kids struggled through “America the Beautiful,” “Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow” by Fleetwood Mac and “Thank You” by Natalie Merchant. They finished and, with looks of great relief, shuffled off the stage.

Next came a video tribute. It was dusk, but the hi-def video monitors had such high resolution that it didn’t matter. J&T produced the slick video. It featured statements from five people whose lives had been touched by Damond’s technology: A veteran living far away from health services, a single mother of three young children who earned her degree from her basement, a man who worked from home in a call center while caring for his ailing wife, a formally isolated paralyzed woman who had established vibrant virtual relationships and an executive who didn’t have to choose between his dream home in Phoenix and dream job in St. Louis.

The first vignette set the tone. It began with a few seconds of archival combat footage from the Vietnam War. That faded into a video of a smiling eighty-four-year-old Tony Clarke. He was shown playing piano and singing with his wife, looking through old photographs, buying ice cream for his grandkids and laughing with buddies at his VFW post.

The audio:

My name is Tony Clarke. I was a Marine. I served three tours in Vietnam, including two weeks in the Battle of Hue during the Tet Offensive in 1968. After the war, I moved to a rural town in Arkansas. It’s a life I love. I hunt, I fish, I nap, I get on my wife Margie’s nerves. We’re lucky and comparatively healthy, but we do have some issues. Everyone our age does.
Just to get the most minor care—heart rate, blood pressure, that type of thing—we had to drive about forty-five minutes to a clinic. It’s most of a whole day between the driving and the visit. We get tired. If the doctors see something they want checked out, we’d have to drive to our regional center. That’s all the way over in Fayetteville. It’s at least a couple of hours each way. So we’d have to pay for a hotel.

Well, the telecom equipment that we’ve gotten through insurance that J&T developed has changed things for the better. That’s putting it mildly. There’s a lot of stuff that would require a trip in the past that now can be done remotely right from our kitchen table. We can talk to the doc face to face. He can see our records, take remote readings and tell us how to do things in front of the camera that can help him figure out what’s going on. It’s 8K high definition, so he can see things almost like being there.
He then tells us we’re okay, prescribes something—or says he needs to see one of us and we book an appointment. So in that case, we go. But now it’s a last resort. Every time I have a checkup there seems to be something new.

And on top of that, we’re monitored 24/7. If there is a dangerous reading they would call 911 immediately and have an ambulance dispatched. If it’s important but not an emergency, they would try to reach us for a day or so and use 911 as a last resort.

Nothing like that has ever happened, thank god. But it’s great knowing that somebody is watching out for us. There’s a plan in place, like a battle. And think about it: Using Jayson’s technology means we are being tracked more fully and efficiently than somebody living down the street from the hospital who isn’t.

I understand that J&T is not the only source of this great technology. It’s a big industry. But he’s developed a lot of it and has been as responsible as any one person over the years for pioneering the stuff and for making it such a big deal— and affordable enough for insurance companies to offer. Mr. Damond is a good man. He has helped a lot of people lead longer and happier lives. And I’m not a jealous man: He deserves to enjoy his life as much as he seems to.

I’m not a writer or public speaker. The folks at J&T helped me with the language. I insisted we be clear about that. But I jumped at the chance to make this video. Every word of what I’ve said is true. God bless Jayson Damond. He’s been a godsend to my family.

All the stories were compelling and unique but at the same time shared a common theme. What Damond had developed had improved people’s lives. In some cases, the improvements were breathtaking and transformative. This combined with a raffish image made him a folk hero.

When the video ended, everyone stood, turned toward Damond and clapped. It became an extended standing ovation. The man of the hour waved meekly and wiped away tears in a way that everyone present, including his many detractors, knew was heartfelt and genuine.

The next item on the program was Las Animas County Executive Tom Garcia’s introduction of the man of the hour. It now was fully dark. Garcia walked to the lectern and spoke:

Just over seven years ago, early in 2022, representatives from J&T called our offices to speak about the prospect of building what would turn out to be a new town in our county. To say we were floored is an understatement. We were not even sure at first it wasn’t some sort of prank or scam. Well, of course, it wasn’t. We checked and saw that Jayson owned this huge tract of land and that the contact was real. We quickly agreed to work with J&T and felt like we just hit the jackpot. It was the wisest choice in Trinidad’s civic history.

Slowly, the process moved on. We pinched ourselves every day. We knew what Jayson had done. We heard stories—dozens of stories—along the lines of those you just saw. We are in the presence of a man who has made a difference, a real difference, in people’s lives.

As time passed, Trinidad and the surrounding communities in Las Animas County got to know Jayson Damond and Theo Pennimen. Not just as universally respected giants and pioneers in their field. Not just as men who bring business to our region. But as men. Men who believe in giving back. Men who see our families and think of their families, when they weren’t so rich and influential. We love what Jayson and Theo are doing. We love the good it will bring. But it starts with the fact that we love Jayson and Theo.

So, gentlemen, thank you. We look forward to working with you both, men with special places in our hearts, for decades to come.

Damond walked over and embraced Garcia as the crowd clapped. He complimented the young musicians on their “wonderful performance” and said how honored and proud he was to help a hero such as Tony Clarke and the others in the video. Damond thanked Garcia and the community and said how much he looked forward to continuing to work with Trinidad.

Damond’s remarks mostly were perfunctory. The man who spent years and more than a billion dollars building the campus only came alive toward the end of his brief remarks when he described “the amazing and unique human ability to work together to build things that are permanent.” Those who followed him closely knew that the public Damond truly engaged only when that topic was discussed.

The crowd was divided between locals who saw Damond as a celebrity and savior and those who actually knew him. While those in the latter group acknowledged that the innovations he pioneered did a tremendous amount of good, they knew the avuncular public image was a small piece of a complex and less flattering whole.
The public’s perception of Damond began to change when he was between his tenth and eleventh and six billion dollars in net assets. At that point, Damond decided to reinvent himself and launched real estate, architectural and construction-related firms.

His problem was hubris. Damond was rich and powerful and felt he no longer needed to pay attention to fair business practices, his reputation or the law. He adopted the Trump strategy, which he thought was brilliant: Renege on promises to subcontractors and vendors and invite them to sue. The victim inevitably would reach the painful and humiliating conclusion that the lawyers Damond had on retainer would use every crack and crevice of the legal system to delay and waste their time and money. To them it would be a game. The companies that had worked for him in good faith came to understand that efforts to get what they were owed were futile and self-defeating.

The cornerstone of Damond’s strategy was that being right, just or fair is meaningless. The only things that matter are money, leverage and power—and the willingness to use them ruthlessly. At the same time, he was a contradiction. Though he didn’t blink an eye at cheating those with whom he did business, he was big hearted and sentimental in his human interactions.

Damond was at heart a worker whose favorite aphorism was that “the only way to grow old gracefully is to refuse to.” He periodically visited work sites and joined crews. The billionaire would be incognito. He would grow his beard and pull his hat down as far as possible. The foreman would be forwarned and tell the crew that “the new guy” didn’t know much about the job at hand because he was part of a special program that integrated the chronically unemployed into the workforce. The man had experienced hard times and should be treated respectfully and helped when necessary.

If Damond had fun and the workers were industrious and reasonably friendly, an assistant would show up the next day with a $2,000 check for the foreman and $1,000 checks for each crew member. Any worker who revealed that the mysterious newcomer was Jayson Damond would be terminated. Damond “dropped in” six times while the community was under construction. He would have done so more but his beard grew slowly and he had to wait for enough workers to cycle out to ensure secrecy.

Word circulated that this was going on despite the termination threat. It led to strange situations in which every arriving worker was intensely scrutinized. Workers eagerly looked for any hint that the newcomer was a billionaire. Not knowing anything about sports was a good sign, for instance. What self-respecting billionaire would waste time watching baseball? Conversely, a well-worn lunch pail was a bad sign. How many billionaires even own a lunch pail, much less one that’s been used?

Newcomers were treated with a level of tenderness not generally associated with construction workers. When it became clear that a new worker was not Damond, frustrated coworkers would glower ferociously as if it was the man’s fault. In one instance, an unsuspecting soul who committed the sin of being an authentic steel worker had three toes broken when an indignant window installer “accidentally” dropped a fifteen-pound drill on his right foot.

—

The spark for the massive project was Damond’s desire to pay homage to Henry Ford, another imperfect giant. Damond won many of the original plans for two Ford projects at auction. One was Fordlandia, a city in the Brazilian Amazon built in the 1920s to supply rubber to Ford’s burgeoning automobile empire. The other was Greenfield Village in Michigan, a living museum Ford opened in 1933. Many of the aging brown pages had notes scribbled by Ford.

Honoring an icon who had been dead for about 80 years was a poor rationale for a project that would cost more than a billion dollars to build. The reality was that there was no plan. Ideas came and went: Hosting religious retreats, leasing to the military as a training site, renting to huge groups for weeks or months at a time (sort of a massive Airbnb), creating a biosphere to study self-sufficiency, establishing a temporary home for refugees from disasters, housing underprivileged and/or troubled youths or creating tech incubators.

The lack of a clear mission—or even a cloudy one—was a challenge to J&T’s public relations department. The group planted the idea on social media that the purpose was set and would be divulged at a time and place of Damond and Pennimen’s choosing. Insiders, including high-level J&T executive, whispered anonymosly that spending so much without outlining the project’s purposes and goals was narcissistic, arrogant and wasteful. That hubris was the closely held secret, not the plan.

—

Jayson Damond finished his surprisingly brief remarks and, unable to think of a better way to show that he was done, hugged Garcia again. Reporters have a savant-like ability to know when free food and alcohol are about to be served. They rose as one and began walking back to the tent. The rest of the crowd took their lead and headed back as well.