American History Tellers - California Water Wars - Collapse | 5

Episode Date: February 19, 2020

With the failure of the Watterson brothers’ banks, the Owens Valley community was forced to abandon its fight for water rights against the city of Los Angeles. William Mulholland, the Los Angeles water department superintendent, could finally breathe a little easier. The city now had full control over its water supply for the foreseeable future. But he would discover that some things can’t be foreseen. Construction had finished in 1926 on the last of the nineteen dams that lined the aqueduct. Standing 200 feet tall, the St. Francis dam held back billions of gallons of water. But by spring of 1928, troubling cracks were beginning to appear in the dam’s surface. The events of March 12, 1928, would lead not only to a terrible catastrophe, but would forever change the way the citizens of Los Angeles thought about William Mulholland -- the man who brought them water.Support us by supporting our sponsors!See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge new seasons of American History Tellers early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's March 12, 1928. It's a Monday morning and you work as a city dam keeper at the St. Francis Dam, 40 miles north of Los Angeles. You live in a cottage on site with your girlfriend, Leona, and your young son. It's an unusual job, but you've made a life for your family in the constant shadow of this 200-foot-tall concrete dam. St. Francis is one of the last links along the aqueduct, ensuring that millions of Los Angeles residents get their water. The trees are rustling and swaying in the nearby hills,

blustery wind blowing as you inspect the dam site. It's your job to take daily inspections, but this morning you've seen something disturbing. Tony? You're nearly to the power station building when you hear Leona calling you from down the path from your cottage. She catches up with you. I saw you left your thermos on the counter. I thought you might be missing it. Oh. Yeah, thanks. I appreciate it. She sees your face is clouded by something.

Is it worse today? The cracks? I can't tell. Not with the wind sending the water over the top like that. If there are any more new leaks, then they're hidden by the spillage. But I did see... You trail off. You don't want to worry her unduly, but you promise to be always straight with each other. I did see cloudy water underneath the east wing. It was brown. Leona knows what this means. A dam leaking small amounts of clear water is normal, but brown water is a problem. That means the water has picked up sediment along the way. In a worst-case scenario, it could mean the foundation of the dam is crumbling.

But I don't want you to worry. I'm not... No, I'm not worried. You're going to call them? It's the first thing I'm going to do. Inside the power station building, there's a telephone that has a direct line with the operator at the bureau office down in Los Angeles. Station. Yes, station. This is Powerhouse 2, St. Francis. Tony Harnischfeger here. Good morning. Good morning. You described the consistency of the cloudy leakage you've noticed along the dam's western wing.

Okay, understood. We'll pass this along. We'll get an assessment team up there as soon as possible. Thanks, but tell them that they should hurry. Hanging up the phone, you notice that even though you should feel somewhat better, you actually feel worse. You've notified the proper authorities, and they're on their way to check, but you just can't shake the worry. You walk back outside the power station, nodding to a pair of operators who pass along the way. There's no sense in jumping to conclusions, but you can't stuff down the lingering sense of dread something just doesn't feel right. The billions of gallons of water just behind that dam has become part of your existence, your whole family's.

But on days like this, it's like living underneath a volcano. A volcano that could erupt any time. Have you ever wondered who created that bottle of sriracha that's living in your fridge? Or why nearly every house in America has at least one game of Monopoly. Introducing The Best Idea Yet, a brand new podcast about the surprising origin stories of the products you're obsessed with. Listen to The Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, this is Nick. And this is Jack. And we just launched a brand new podcast called The Best Idea Yet. You may have heard of it. It's all about the untold origin stories of the products you're obsessed with. Listen to The

Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. By 1928, the California water wars had come to an end, and Los Angeles' search for water had entered a new phase. The city had survived standoffs and dynamite attacks from farmers in the Owens River Valley, who were outraged by the loss of their land and their water rights. But after the collapse of five Inyo County banks under charges of embezzlement, the resistance from the Owens River Valley was sapped. William Mulholland and the rest of the L.A. City fathers could breathe a little easier. Finally, the city had complete control of the water they would need to support their

rapidly growing population. But closer to home, south of the Owens River Valley, problems were reported at the St. Francis Dam, one of the biggest along the aqueduct, and a crucial new part of supplying water to the city. Despite all of his engineering achievements, William Mulholland would struggle to face the biggest and most consequential challenge of his storied career. This is Episode 5, Collapse. On the morning of March 12th, William Mulholland received word from his office that the St. Francis Dam was showing signs of leakage. Mulholland immediately sped up to the dam site, bringing along his head engineer, Harvey Van Norman. Van Norman was a 49-year-old Texan, handsome and outspoken.

He had been nearly inseparable from Mulholland and the Water Department since construction of the aqueduct had begun 11 years earlier. Van Norman had functioned as second-in-command up and down the aqueduct line, and it was Van Norman to whom Mulholland turned for advice on the construction of the St. Francis Dam, as well as the 18 other dams that had been constructed along the aqueduct. These dams were important for the proper functioning of the aqueduct. In addition to acting as purifiers, they held back critical reserves of water so that Los Angeles could regulate supply in times of drought or emergency. Without them, the aqueduct, as glorious as it was, would merely be a 233-mile long garden hose. The St. Francis Dam was located only about 40 miles north of Los Angeles, and on March 12th, Mulholland and Van Norman

made good time in their chauffeured town car. They arrived at the dam around 10.30 in the morning, passing through the small canyon community of city employees who lived with their families and cottages scattered around the dam site. Five years earlier, when Mulholland and Van Norman were scouting sites to solve the problem of year-to-year storage for the aqueduct,

the San Francisco Canyon area had seemed perfect. Located in the Sierra Polona Mountains, the site was nearly dam-shaped already. A wide swath of canyon between the mountains gradually narrowed down to a gully flowing downhill. It seemed to Mulholland that he could have it both ways, a large area for water storage with the minimum amount of retaining structure. By the time the St. Francis Dam was completed in the summer of 1926, it stood approximately 200 feet tall and held back 38,000 acre-feet of water. In the shadow of the dam's face, Tony Harnischfeger, the 41-year-old damkeeper who phoned in the report,

greeted Mulholland and Van Norman. As they walked the curved length of the dam, the wind picked up even more, whipping waves of water over the top and down the sides. This kind of overflow was normal, but the streaming water made it difficult to spot the leaks that Harnischfeger had reported. Midway up the dam's western edge,

the men found water seeping from beneath the concrete wing. This was the muddy water that Harnischfeger had noticed that morning, and it was a red flag. Its presence would mean that the dam's insides were corroding. But as Mulholland and Van Norman got a closer look, they found the seepage was running clear. Further down the slope, the seepage had mixed with dirt, giving it a muddy appearance that Harnischfeger had seen earlier that morning. So after two more hours of

inspection, Mulholland, to his relief, found nothing wrong. He and Van Norman climbed into the water department car and returned to Los Angeles. They decided to monitor the situation. Tony Harnisch-Feger and the rest of the 67 city employees continued with their work for the rest of the afternoon. Day turned into evening, and at 11 p.m., shifts changed at powerhouse number two, just below the foot of the dam. Around 1157, one of the new operators who'd just come on his shift

noticed a brief fluctuation in the power levels that his station controlled. And then, moments later, all power failed. Imagine it's March 12th, 1928. It's somewhere around midnight and everything is calm and quiet. You're lying in bed next to your husband, Lyman. The lights are all off.

The children are all sound asleep. You live in the small community of cottages surrounding the dam's power station. Your husband works for the city. Usually he's asleep once his head hits the pillow, but tonight he's tossing and turning. Look, I don't know what's the matter with me. Just close your eyes and lie still. You'll never be asleep if you keep thrashing around like a whale.

Did you just call me a whale? Yes, but in a loving way. You sit up and reach for a glass of water from the bedside table. That's when you notice something. Is it raining? No. You peer out the window. The moon is barely visible through a strange mist.

Below you is the darkness of trees and below them, the bottom of the canyon. Fog is not normal for this time of year. I don't know. I hear something. It smells like rain. I'm going to get the washing off the line. There's no point in everything getting soaked. It'll be fine. Just come back to bed. That's when you realize. You feel it under your feet like the floor is moving. Lyman, Lyman, the dam's broke. The dam's broke. Your husband is up in a flash. The two of you scramble through the

cottage in your nightclothes. You scoop up your young son from his bed as Lyman runs to the other bedroom. Keep going. I'll get the girls. You hesitate, then turn and holding tight to your son, burst out of the cottage into the night air. You pull your son close to your chest and run faster uphill. As you fight your way through the scrub, tree branches scrape your arms and legs. You want to turn around and look for your husband and the girls. Everything is chaos.

Below you, a great black wall of water puddles through the canyon. Finally, you reach the hilltop and turn around. You can't see much of anything. You shout your husband's name, your children's names. But there is no answer. Only the crashing rush of water, destroying the canyon below. Shivering, cold, clutching your crying son to your chest. You can only wait and hope.

At nearly the stroke of midnight between March 12th and 13th, the St. Francis Dam gave way. Moving at 18 miles an hour, 12 billion gallons of pent-up reservoir water blasted down through the canyon below. Of the 24 people working at the St. Francis Dam site that night, only two adults and one child survive. Lillian Curtis climbed to safety in the hills with her young son, but her husband Lyman and two daughters were swept away. Powerhouse No. 2, with its constant spinning turbines, was obliterated.

Damkeeper Tony Harnischfeger and his family were killed instantly. But the flood didn't stop in the canyon. It continued, following a downhill flow of gravity that carried it through the towns of Castaic Junction, Fillmore, and Bardsdale. It washed through Santa Paula, a town 42 miles south, and spilled over the Pacific Coast Highway, crossing between Oxnard and Ventura, and then finally into the Pacific Ocean. In total, the flood swept over 65 miles of land, roiling through automobiles, bridges, locomotives, and acres of citrus and nut trees.

A 2 a.m. telephone call woke Mulholland with the devastating news. His daughter Rose, who handed him the phone, could only listen as her 73-year-old father, his mind still fuzzy with sleep, muttered the same phrase over and over, please God, don't let people be killed. In the pitch black darkness, just over 12 hours after he'd traveled to survey the dam that afternoon, Mulholland climbed back into a town car with Harvey Van Norman to travel north and assess what they both were quite sure would be a disaster.

Even before sunrise, the effects on San Francisco Canyon were tremendous and terrible. All evidence of vegetation in the valley had been scoured away, leaving a rock-strewn landscape of granite and mud holes. All that was left of the dam wall itself was the massive centerpiece of concrete, sticking up like a giant 190-foot-tall tooth, or as many would soon begin to refer to it, like a tombstone. As Tuesday began, Mulholland and Van Norman continued to survey the wreckage. They were joined by hundreds of residents of the canyon, all looking for evidence of their loved ones. Seventy-four of these residents of the dam site, along with 140 workers in a water department camp downstream, had lost their lives.

Those numbers would grow to over 300 dead as search parties fanned out through the stunned towns and communities in the flood's path. And yet, still more would come. By midday, the Los Angeles Police Department and the Red Cross set up disaster stations all along the flood path. Airmail pilots began to search for survivors by plane. The flood had cut a two-mile-wide swath from the towns of Santa Clara to the Pacific Ocean. Bodies were found as far away as San Diego. At least 450 people would eventually be confirmed dead. Over a thousand homes were destroyed, and 8,000 acres of farmland washed out. Damage estimates would reach up to $15 million, over $220 million today.

Amidst the destruction and the carnage, however, were miraculous moments of survival. One woman in an evening dress found safety by clawing her way to the top of a water tank. A man, his clothes ripped completely off by the force of the rushing water, saved himself by climbing atop a wardrobe trunk. A mother and her three children rode a mattress until it was lodged in the branches of a tree. But it was morbid curiosity, not miracles, that brought thousands of people to the area.

By the weekend, a congested stream of cars from Los Angeles ventured up to the disaster sites, bringing traffic to a standstill as far away as the San Fernando Valley. Furious local ranchers held back the gangs of spectators with loaded shotguns. Police were instructed to shoot looters on sight. The municipal leaders of Los Angeles were forced into damage control. In the weeks following the devastation, it was clear that the blame was collecting at their doorstep. But it was also clear who would have to take the brunt of the public's fury and face his day in court. Chief Engineer William Mulholland.

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crime shows like Morbid and Kill List early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. Check out Exhibit C in the Wondery app for all your true crime listening. Two weeks after the St. Francis Dam collapse, a downtown Los Angeles theater hosted what promised to be a cavalcade of stars, with ticket sales going to benefit the communities affected by the flood. Charlie Chaplin, Gloria Swanson, Laurel and Hardy, and composer Irving Berlin joined dozens of other acts in a high-profile evening of entertainment and fundraising. William Mulholland's name was not on this list of luminaries. Instead, he was requested by subpoena to appear before a Los Angeles County coroner's jury. This was not

a trial in the usual sense. Mulholland would have no lawyer, but if enough evidence were uncovered, the city would press ahead with formal charges of manslaughter. From that first terrible morning, when he'd seen the destruction with his own eyes, the Water Department superintendent had been willing to shoulder all the blame that came his way. During a March 18th meeting of the Los Angeles Board of Water and Power Commissioners, Mulholland stood and announced that he was resigning. A stunned silence fell over the room. Then, one by one, the commissioners informed Mulholland that they would not accept his resignation. Despite the tragedy, they were still willing to stand by him.

The Santa Clara Valley residents were not as magnanimous. Public opinion had turned violently against the man who only weeks before had been considered the savior of the region. One woman, who lost her entire family to the flood, hammered a sign in front of the remains of her destroyed home. In red-painted letters, it read simply, Kill Mulholland. Los Angeles District Attorney Asa Kyes noticed this shift in public opinion as well. Picked to lead the coroner's jury inquest, Kyes saw an opportunity

to use this very public tragedy for his own political advancement. Only five years prior, Kyes had been the Water Department's bulldog, sending detectives up into the Owens Valley to try and prosecute the aqueduct bombers. But now he saw Mulholland as an easy answer to the problem of the St. Francis Collapse. On March 21st, eight days after the collapse of the St. Francis Dam, the jury convened at the ornate Hall of Justice in downtown Los Angeles, but not before District Attorney Kyes had staged several highly public press conferences directly blaming Mulholland for engineering incompetency and criminal neglect. Whipping up anticipation for what he knew would be a press bonanza,

Kyes also insinuated that the other dams Mulholland had built were just a moment away from bursting too. Hearings began as the county coroner called the proceedings to order. For matters of record, the death of 29-year-old Julia Rising, wife of power station operator and survivor Ray Rising, would stand in this trial to represent all the fatalities. To the county coroner's left sat a jury of nine men, a collection of hydraulic engineers, architects, and construction contractors. One of these contractors, William H. Eaton Jr., was the nephew of Mulholland's erstwhile friend and colleague, Fred Eaton. In the front of the gallery sat William Mulholland, dressed in a dark three-piece suit,

winged collar, and light-colored tie. Over the next week, Mulholland would be present every day of the inquest as a concerned citizen, a witness, and the accused. District Attorney Kyes guided the testimony from construction workers and surviving residents of the dam site into two main points of accusation. First, he charged that the geology of the dam site was and always has been unfit to support a dam as the site lay on a fault line. Furthermore, the layered rock, called schist, found under the dam's steeply inclined east and west wings, was prone to sliding. One witness presented several samples of schist from the

west side of the dam site. A piece of this rock was dropped into a glass of water. The jury leaned forward to watch as the rock dissolved in just a few minutes. For his second point of accusation, Kyes turned to the structural integrity of the dam and the concept of uplift or upthrust. When water is allowed to collect under a dam's foundation, it can swell the rocks underneath and float or lift a concrete dam. When a dam is lifted in such a manner, it can be weakened to the extent of collapse. Other concrete dams in America at the time used drainage systems to lessen the collection of water underneath the base, but Mulholland had not installed drainage systems. Instead, he installed drainage pipes known as bleeders halfway up the center of the dam's face,

where he reasoned they would be more effective. Kaiseraisa's witnesses all painted a picture of hasty construction and officials more concerned with completing the task than having it done safely and correctly, and each witness illustrated that at the top of the chain of command sat William Mulholland. Seventy-three years old and already suffering from the onset of Parkinson's disease, Mulholland made his way to the witness stand. Just as he had during the Aqueduct Investigation Board hearings and the inquest over poisoned river water, Mulholland found himself on the defensive. But this time, he had no witty rejoinders or folksy statements to make. He looked, according to one observer, as if he'd aged 70 years. Mulholland quietly testified that he knew

the hillsides were prone to sliding, but stressed that it had all been part of the design. The dam's main wing was not buried into the dissolving schist. The pressure of the water itself, he said, along with the weight of the concrete walls, would compress the layers of schist, making the foundation stronger, not weaker. And in response to the leakage seen by Tony Harnischfeger and other dam site employees, Mulholland was calm but adamant. Like all dams, he explained, there are little seeps here and there, but this was the driest dam of its size I ever saw in my life. But District Attorney Kyes pressed. If there was no apparent danger, then what caused the St. Francis Dam to collapse? The superintendent shook his head. He did not know specifically what it was. We overlooked something, he muttered, then paused for a long moment. When he continued,

his hands had begun to tremble. He said very quietly, this inquiry is a very painful thing for me to have to attend, but it is the occasion of it that is painful. The only ones I envy about this thing are the ones who are dead. It was a mournful and self-pitying response from a man known for neither quality. District Attorney Keyes had hoped to affix the blame to Mulholland, and so far he had been successful. Throughout his testimony, Mulholland's responses stubbornly hewed to the same theme. He alone had approved the methods of construction. He alone knew the correct way to build a structure atop ground that was prone to shifting. This was Mulholland's dam, and Keyes wanted to make it clear that it was Mulholland's pride that was the real culprit. But in the municipal halls of Los

Angeles, there were those still trying to piece together one last theory about why the dam had collapsed. Since the morning of March 13th, it had been suspected that the dam was sabotaged. After years of explosive conflict with citizens of the Owens River Valley, the idea didn't seem far-fetched. Cashes of dynamite had been stored near the dam site, as construction crews were using it to level out a nearby road. It would only take one person from Inyo County, or anyone with a cruel, malicious streak, to set the charges.

So as the courthouse inquest moved forward, there were other staffers just down the street at the Water Department who'd been making some inquiries of their own. Imagine it's late March 1928. You're a Los Angeles City Councilman and longtime board member of the Public Water Committee. On a rare rainy day, you hurry from the Hall of Justice to the Water Department building. The office of Harvey Van Norman, the city engineer, is cramped and modest. But after a brief look up, he waves you in.

You aren't watching the inquest? Harvey, I can barely stand it, but here, I have something for you. You pull a report from your briefcase, lay it on the table. Van Norman reads from the top of the report. Is this the statement from the Hercules Powder Company? It is. A report that suggests dynamite is the cause of the dam's collapse. They're the explosive experts who are willing to go on the record.

Van Norman stops reading and looks up at you. They've done tests on the site. I've engaged a lab here in town to run a second set of tests, too. And they've all come up positive. These two separate inquiries plus the fish? The fish are circumstantial. There's nothing circumstantial about it. We have, in addition to these reports, a Stanford University zoologist

who will go on the record that dead fish were found above the dam. Harvey, how would hundreds of fish get above the dam unless they were blown up there? Now, hold on. Wait just a minute. Their lungs were ruptured from a concussive force, and that force could have been the pressure of billions of gallons of water coming down on them. It could have been a wave that catapulted them up there. Look, I don't want to believe this as much as you do. There's a lot of men around here who think it was dynamite, but we've got no evidence. Speechless, you gesture at the report.

You just laid on his desk. That's not evidence. It only takes one person to go up there in the dark when no one's around. We've had years of dynamite attacks against the city's water supply. Van Norman closes the folder on his desk. No, no, it's over. We just, we simply can't pursue this line of inquiry any further. The city has already agreed to a comprehensive financial restitution. That means a cleanup in two counties. That means payments to the bereaved. Money has already been allocated. Harvey, I'm not saying the city shouldn't pay restitution. Well, I'm glad we agree on that. The city's going to buy its way out of this. It's going to be a clean sweep. And they can't do that if there's more controversy. Harvey sits back in his chair, his shoulders slumped. I believe in Bill Mulholland.

You know I do. There's nothing we can do to stop him from taking the responsibility. These theories are valid. We need to forget about them. Put them away. They don't change what's already happened. It's true. People are dead. You've been holding on to hope that it wasn't Mulholland's fault, that there could be some other, any other explanation. But right now, you're just a man in a room, helpless. The dynamite evidence never appeared during the coroner's inquest. District Attorney Kyes didn't want to mention it, lest his clear-cut line of blame be muddled. But politicians in Los Angeles also had reasons for wanting the proceedings brought to a speedy conclusion. It was more digestible to blame the tragedy on one man than a series of construction errors or sabotage by dynamite. Plus, another larger dam

project on the border of Nevada and Arizona was threatened by all the bad press. Initially called the Boulder Dam, this structure would be the largest in the country, and its curved arch and concrete construction bore uncomfortable similarities to the failed St. Francis Dam. Mulholland had been saying for years that a project along the Colorado River was necessary for the survival of the city, and now, with a bill on the Boulder Dam nearing a vote in the U.S. Congress, officials in Los Angeles wanted nothing more than to wrap up their own failure for it to be quickly forgotten. In his final statement to the jury, Mulholland said, don't blame anyone else. You just fastened it on me. If there was an error in human judgment, I was a human.

He knew, just like District Attorney Kyes, that ultimately all responsibility for the disaster rested on his shoulders. With his testimony over, Mulholland left the courthouse and climbed inside a car to take him back home. There, he would wait for the jury to announce their verdict. And only then would he know precisely the price he would wait for the jury to announce their verdict. And only then would he know precisely the price he would? Who created that bottle of red Sriracha with a green top that's permanently living in your fridge?

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mysteriously vanished from his luxury yacht in the Canary Islands. But it wasn't just his body that would come to the surface in the days that followed. It soon emerged that Robert's business was on the brink of collapse, and behind his facade of wealth and success was a litany of bad investments, mounting debt, and multi-million dollar fraud. Hi, I'm Lindsey Graham, the host of Wondery Show Business Movers. We tell the true stories of business leaders who risked it all, the critical moments that defined their journey, and the ideas that transform the way we live our lives.

In our latest series, a young refugee fleeing the Nazis arrives in Britain determined to make something of his life. Taking the name Robert Maxwell, he builds a publishing and newspaper empire that spans the globe. But ambition eventually curdles into desperation, and Robert's determination to succeed turns into a willingness to do anything to get ahead. Follow Business Movers wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen ad-free on the Amazon Music or Wondery app. On April 13th, one month after the St. Francis Dam collapsed, the coroner's jury gathered to return their verdict. They placed responsibility not on the dam's structure, but on the failure of the rock formation upon which the dam had been built.

They acknowledged that because of the dam's nearly complete destruction following the collapse, it was impossible to render a completely accurate conclusion. But the disaster was still, ultimately, the fault of the Water Bureau and its chief engineer. Too much confidence had been placed in Mulholland's hands. The jury wrote in their statement, Chief William Mulholland and his principal assistants have had little experience in the building of large masonry or concrete dams previous to the construction of the St. Francis, and apparently did not appreciate the necessity of doing the many things that must be done in order to be certain that the foundations will remain hard, impervious, and unyielding. As a result, various errors were made by an entirely responsible organization

confident they were maintaining high standards of accomplishment. The construction of a municipal dam should never have been left to the sole judgment of one man, no matter how eminent. Even though the dynamite theory had not been brought up during the hearings, it was popular enough in the city newspapers to warrant a response. The jury wrote while it was possible, there was still no evidence to support a theory of sabotage. District Attorney Kyes couldn't have been more pleased with the verdict. But no further charges were pressed against William Mulholland. There was not enough evidence, the jury felt, to convict him in a court of law.

Still, the superintendent remained convicted in his own heart. Humbled by his fatal engineering errors and bereft at the loss of life, Mulholland resigned from his post in 1929. His protege, Harvey Van Norman, took over the position of chief engineer at what would be the newly christened Department of Water and Power In Washington, the bill passed that would bring the Boulder Canyon Dam project to life The city of Los Angeles would soon have a second water supply, coursing westward from the Arizona-Nevada state line And when the project was finally completed, it would carry a new name, the Hoover Dam. But the former water

superintendent, still referred to by his former colleagues as the chief, did not take part in many more public affairs. Cared for by his daughter Rose, Mulholland spent increasing amounts of time at home, accepting few visitors. The Parkinson's which had affected him throughout the coroner's jury only grew worse with time. After nearly four decades in the spotlight of the city he helped create, Mulholland obsessed over his last and only failure. In his mind, a lifetime of accomplishments paled in comparison to the lives lost at the St. Francis disaster. Water was meant to be a life-giving force, not a destructive one. Los Angeles was also eager to forget the legacy of their former engineer.

Lake Mulholland was swiftly renamed Lake Hollywood following the St. Francis Collapse. But District Attorney Kyes would not be around to enjoy the fruits of Mulholland's crisis. By the end of 1929, the politically ambitious city attorney would be in jail on convictions of bribery, conspiracy, and jury tampering in connection with another case involving a petroleum company. The DA who pursued Mulholland with such zeal found himself suddenly behind bars. By the early 1930s, Mulholland's friend and decades-long rival, Frederick Eaton, was battling his own crisis. The former Los Angeles mayor was the one who had originally conceived of the city's plan to tap the waters of the Owens River, but he rarely

set foot in his hometown anymore. At 75 years old, the former mayor's physical and mental condition had worsened. He'd given up writing to Mulholland about the subject, but Eaton still clung desperately to his Long Valley property, pitching what city officials described as unhinged offers to sell at $2.3 million. Eaton's cattle business in the Owens Valley had failed, and $200,000 of his investments were lost when the Inyo County banks collapsed. He and his wife Alice had very little left beyond the pastureland he'd purchased in 1904. But suspicion and distrust would work their way into Eaton's personal life with heartbreaking results. Imagine it's 1930, a bright, sun-drenched lunchtime in the town of Bishop. You're a young

lawyer and you've arrived at a park near the center of town to meet a prospective client. Her name is Alice Eaton. With a little background on her husband, he used to be the mayor of Los Angeles. It feels like the kind of case with plenty of money behind it. You find Mrs. Eaton sitting on a bench, wearing sunglasses. There's a large hat on her head, which she keeps shifting around as if she isn't satisfied with the angle of it. You walk over and introduce yourself. She looks up. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I know it seems a little strange. Nothing strange about it, Mrs. Eaton. A park bench at lunchtime? Most common thing in the world. Well, I don't want anyone to see us. People here have nothing to do but talk. A phone call a few days ago made her case quite clear. She believes her husband is incompetent, and she is

willing to go to court to retain possession of his cattle company and his land. Where is your husband, Mrs. Eaton? Fred's at home with a nurse. I couldn't talk about this there. It's just... She stops, closing her eyes for a brief moment before she continues. Does this case present any problems that you can see? Well, you'll forgive me for being blunt, but it's pretty standard fare. From what I understand, your husband has had several strokes?

Yes, he has. And you found him to be, um, mad with exaggerated ideas of the property's value. I do. Mad is a tricky word. It's a little vague. How about insane? Yes, that's correct. You scribble down some notes as she continues. It seems like she's convincing herself to go through with this. 25 years we've lived on that ranch. They even ran us out of town at gunpoint once. But we came back. I stuck it out. This is not the life I envisioned for myself, but it's where I am,

and I do plan on staying here. I want you to understand, this isn't about the money. Of course, Mrs. Eden. I've tried to reason with him. I've tried everything. But there's nothing left to reason with. I completely understand. We've never sold out to the city.

I wouldn't sell that land to Los Angeles for anything. The water belongs here in the valley. I know what's best for Fred, for us. You're inclined to let her sit and convince herself of this all day. But you have to get back. Mrs. Eaton, I think you have a case. I can help you with it. I'm writing down a number on this sheet of paper. This is my fee. She glances down at the number, frowns, and then readjusts her hat. That's acceptable. I'm glad.

Can I walk you to your car? No, thank you. I'll sit here a minute more. You leave her sitting there as you hurry back across the park. Funny how she brought up water. Up here, water has done nothing but divide. You've seen it happen over and over, although this case is peculiar. Still, you'll happily take her fee. Alice, the young fiancé who had relocated to the Owens Valley with Fred Eaton 25 years ago, filed a suit to have him declared incompetent.

In her statement, she said that Eaton had become insane with an exaggerated idea of the value of the lands he owns in Long Valley. Within a week, Alice had separated from her husband. The court battle over the Long Valley land that followed depleted both Fred and Alice's bank accounts even further, as Eaton and his attorneys fought back against her charges of incompetency. Within two years, Fred and Alice were both broke. So the Long Valley property was submitted into final foreclosure. Just before Christmas in 1932, the property they were fighting over was bought out of receivership by the city of Los Angeles. Fred Eaton had paid $22.50 an acre.

Three decades later, the city paid nearly the same, $25 an acre. The final price was $650,000, of which Eaton saw not one penny. Two years later, Fred Eaton died at the age of 78. Upon hearing the news, Mulholland told his daughter Rose of a dream he'd had. For three nights in succession, I dreamt of Fred. The two of us were walking along, young and virile like we used to be. Yet I knew we were both dead. Just over a year later, Mulholland himself passed at the age of 79. Slipping away in his sleep, Mulholland left his estate and trust to his five children.

Despite accusations of graft that trailed him throughout his career in Los sleep, Mulholland left his estate and trust to his five children. Despite accusations of graft that trailed him throughout his career in Los Angeles, his total holdings consisted of a municipal salary, investments in stocks and bonds, and a small landholding on the western edge of the San Fernando Valley. Any ties to the hotly contested land syndicate of the early century could not be found. After Mulholland's death, Los Angeles charged forward to secure its future water supply. In 1941, a dam was finally constructed upon Fred Eaton's former Long Valley land.

Supervised by Harvey Van Norman, the dam site was named after neither Eaton nor Mulholland. Instead, Lake Crowley took its name from Father John Crowley, an Inyo County resident who spent his life promoting peaceful resolutions between the Owens Valley and the City of Los Angeles. By 1945, the city had acquired 88% of the total town property in Owens Valley. As a result of the reparations deal between the valley and the city, all the properties were purchased at a markup, some as much as 120% higher than their 1929 values. This was the first acknowledgement on the city's part that its water purchases had permanently stunted the valley economy.

Decades later, in the 1970s, LA constructed a second aqueduct. Its path paralleled Mulholland's, reaching from the city of Los Angeles further north into the Mono Basin watershed. The 1974 film Chinatown spun the story of Los Angeles' water acquisition from the Owens Valley into a thrilling detective story. With references to a crooked land syndicate and a drought-plagued city dumping water into the sea, the film carried the conspiracies of anti-aqueduct socialists like Job Harriman and W.T. Spillman into a new generation.

Today, the city owns more than 90% of the irrigable land near the Owens River. Most of the rest of Inyo County is in the hands of the federal government or the state of California. A farming economy still exists, although the aqueduct has forever changed the valley. It became a desert climate with increased pollution and alkali dust storms. Litigation between the valley and Los Angeles over excess groundwater pumping and river restoration can still be read about in the pages of Los Angeles Times. The city of Los Angeles boasts a population of over 4 million people, and today about 60 percent of the city's water still comes from the Owens River Valley. Mulholland's original aqueduct still runs over 200 miles. It's still fed by the melting snows of the Sierras, and it still generates conflicting

passions that will likely never fade. Next on American History Tellers, I speak with John Christensen, an environmental historian at UCLA. We'll discuss Los Angeles, California, their never-quenched thirst for water, and what it means for the future. From Wondery, this is American History Tellers. If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey

at wondery.com slash survey. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Sound design by Derek Behrens. This episode is written by George Ducker, edited by Dorian Marina. Our executive producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman and Marshall Louis, created by Hernán López for Wondery. In a quiet suburb,

a community is shattered by the death of a beloved wife and mother. But this tragic loss of life quickly turns into something even darker. Her husband had tried to hire a hitman on the dark web to kill her. And she wasn't the only target. Because buried in the depths of the internet is The Kill List, a cache of chilling documents containing names, photos, addresses,

and specific instructions for people's murders. This podcast is the true story of how I ended up in a race against time to warn those whose lives were in danger. And it turns out convincing a total stranger someone wants them dead is not easy. Follow Kill List on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts you can listen to kill list and more exhibit c true crime shows like morbid early and ad free right now by joining wandery plus check out exhibit c in the wandery app for all your true crime listening