“That is not enough,” Tesla countered.
“It is. Edison’s costs are high. City property is expensive. I build my generators on cheap land. Copper alone may bring him down.” Westinghouse paced his spacious office, speaking hurriedly as he walked. “That’s why he’s attacking me on safety. He needs a nonfinancial reason for cities to reject alternating current.”
Tesla remained still, watching Westinghouse wear a pattern in his Persian rug. “Copper prices will drop,” he said. “Probably soon.”
Westinghouse quit pacing. “Why do you say that?”
“The French cornered production channels, but they forgot about scrap. Every boy over six is scavenging copper. The consortium will fail and copper prices will collapse. Don’t count on that advantage lasting. You must defend alternating current against these safety attacks.”
“I wrote an article that was published in the New York papers doing exactly that,” Westinghouse replied.
“You defended Westinghouse Electric, you did not attack Edison.”
“I’ll attack in my next bid.”
“Sir, you must refute Edison’s claims or you’ll be branded a killer. Harold Brown and Dr. Peterson have the commission to design an electric chair under their thumb. You know what they will do.”
Westinghouse resumed pacing. He knew that Brown and Edison were up to no good when he had received a request from New York State to buy three Westinghouse alternating-current dynamos. He refused, but Brown—determined to execute someone with a Westinghouse dynamo—deceptively bought the generators through a third company that was in merger talks with Edison Electric.
Westinghouse knew he could handle the public indignity, but Edison’s minions were now working state legislatures all over the country. If they succeeded in restricting or limiting alternating current, Westinghouse Electric was doomed. He hated politicians, especially crooked or stupid ones, and he believed there were very few who didn’t fall into one of those two categories.
“I have my own plan, Nikola.”
“May I ask what it is?”
“I’m going to illuminate the World’s Fair.”
“Mr. Westinghouse—” Tesla was at a temporary loss for words. Finally, he sputtered, “Sir, that is four years away! It will be much too late.”
Westinghouse’s pace quickened. “Only three years until the contract is awarded. And it won’t be too late if I follow your advice. We’ll challenge Edison on safety. There’ll be many skirmishes during the next three years, but the deciding battle will be the World’s Fair. That is where we will establish alternating current as the way of the future.”
Westinghouse stopped directly in front of Tesla. “In the meantime, I’ve hired a lawyer with enough clout to bury the legislation in committees.”
New York City
July 1889
Thomas Edison scooted his chair closer to W. Bourke Cockran. He was infuriated, but he had to put on a good face.
“Would you please repeat the question?” Edison spoke loudly as he played with an unlit half-smoked cigar. “My hearing is not what it used to be.”
Cockran nearly yelled the question. “In your judgment, can alternating electric current be generated and applied in such a way to produce death in a human being in every case?”
“Yes!” he shouted back.
“Instantly?”
“Yes.”
Edison was pleased to see frustration on Cockran’s face even as he worked to keep his own expression blank. Cockran was a formidable foe. A former New York congressman and kingpin in the Tammany organization, he was now a powerful attorney with one of the most prestigious lists of clients in the city. Westinghouse had secretly hired Cockran to appeal William Kemmler’s death sentence by electricity. Unless someone intervened, Kemmler was going to be the first condemned man to die this way.
More than a dozen journalists were crammed into Cockran’s grand office in the Equitable Building, all there to report on an appeal that would determine if electrocution violated the constitutional restriction on “cruel and unusual punishment.” The hearing had been going on for nearly a week and Edison was losing. Cockran had called a string of witnesses who had survived accidental electric shocks or lightning strikes. Academics and government researchers had testified that Kemmler might be set on fire instead of killed instantly. And he’d even called Dash, a dog who had survived contact with a dangling Western Union line, as a witness.
Harold Brown convinced Edison that he needed to testify to turn the momentum around. But Cockran, Edison knew, would not go down easy; Westinghouse had done well to make him the public face defending alternating current.
“What is your relationship with Mr. Harold Brown?” Cockran asked Edison.
“He’s an independent engineer. I allow him to use my laboratories. I let many researchers use my labs. They’re the best in the world.”
“He is not in your employ?”
“No.”
Cockran looked amused. He leaned forward and struck a match to light Edison’s cigar. Edison took two healthy puffs and eyed Cockran quizzically.
“You’re excused,” Cockran said.
Edison stood to the screech of chairs all over the room, the reporters eager to follow him out. Since he hadn’t made a public appearance in the last eighteen months, he knew that he was the news, not this hearing.
Edison was pleased with himself. Cockran had tried numerous tactics to rattle him, but Edison either pretended not to hear or gave single-word answers. He didn’t dissimulate, volunteer extraneous information, or show any doubt in his answers.
Cockran controlled the questions, but Edison knew that was far less powerful than controlling the answers. If that’s all you’ve got, George, Edison thought to himself, then this is going to all be over faster than I thought.
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
February 1890
A loud noise at the door drew Westinghouse’s attention away from his work. Ernest Heinrichs stood at his door.
“Have you read this?” Heinrichs asked, still trying to catch his breath. Westinghouse had recently hired Heinrichs, a journalist, to write articles that presented the viewpoint of the Westinghouse Electric Company. He motioned for him to take a seat.
“We need to say something to discredit these slanderers,” Heinrichs said, holding up a copy of a New York newspaper. “They want to popularize the term Westinghoused, like Dr. Guillotin’s name was attached to decapitation.”
Westinghouse held up his own copy of the paper, indicating he’d already read the article. “Don’t play the other fellow’s game. Edison hopes his power and influence will arrest the march of progress. It won’t. I hired you to get our position into the newspapers. Write positive stories about alternating current. Don’t return their slander.” Westinghouse reached behind him and picked up a sheaf of papers. “This is what you will write. These are notes on the Virginia Senate committee proceedings to limit the voltage of alternating current.”
Heinrichs sat up straighter. “We won Virginia?”
Westinghouse handed the papers to Heinrichs. “No, they lost Virginia. Edison himself testified—I think he was emboldened after the Kemmler hearing—and they still lost. Edison’s attorneys were so bent on attacking us that they never saw the coming assault by the arc lighting companies. Arc lighting may predate Edison’s lightbulb, but arc lights are still popular outdoors. They use alternating current, so they’re our natural allies. The people who testified against Edison were local businessmen, and good ol’ southern boys beat Yankee interlopers every time in Virginia. This was the first state legislative test. I want you to write it up so that it gets national attention.”
He picked a pamphlet off his desk and handed it to Heinrichs. “This is my reply to Mr. Edison, published last December. Use it for your articles. In 1888, sixty-four people were killed in streetcar accidents, fifty-five by wagons, twenty-three by gaslights, and five by alternating current. Memorize those numbers. Five is not exactly an orgy of killing. The article points out that at the August meeting of the Edison illuminating companies, a resolution was passed asking the parent company to satisfy criteria that can only be met by alternating current. His own engineers are rebuffing direct current. We now have five times the number of central stations as Edison.” He pointed at the pamphlet. “It’s all in there. These are the key points I want you to emphasize in the press at every opportunity.”
Heinrichs smiled. “You’re winning on every front.”
“No, not every front. We’ve lost our appeal for Kemmler so Edison still has his electric chair to use as a club. But I don’t want you to write about the new Kemmler appeal. I have others assigned to that battle.
“Mr. Heinrichs, you’re young and talented. You have a grand future. Always do your work with self-respect. Forget slanderous attacks. Write about how we are winning in the marketplace, in the state legislatures, and with electrical engineers.”
Westinghouse stood, put a hand on Heinrichs’s shoulder, and led him to the door.
“Do you understand your assignment?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Next time, knock before bursting into my office.”
New York City
Six months later: August 1890
“I tell you, this is a grand thing, and is destined to become the instrument of legal death throughout the world.”
Thomas Edison couldn’t tell if Dr. Southwick believed what he had just said or was simply a fool.
“Doctor, do you wish to know what I think of this first electrocution?”
“I do!” he said eagerly.
The man was smiling. He was an idiot. Edison swiveled his chair to look at Harold Brown, who at least had the wit to look chagrined.
“I invested years in associating alternating current with death,” Edison said. “We’ve successfully killed hundreds of animals with it, yet you can’t kill even one deranged axe murderer. Harold, I—”
“Mr. Edison, he’s dead,” Southwick interrupted.
“Dead?” Edison yelled. “Are you sure? You hit him with seventeen seconds of current and he came back to life.” Edison picked up the newspaper account and followed the text with his finger as he read aloud. “One of the physicians yelled in horror. ‘Great God! He is alive.’ Another screamed, ‘See, he breathes.’ A witness shouted, ‘For God’s sake, kill him.’?”
Edison threw the paper at Brown, who blocked it with a forearm. Edison continued: “The article goes on to say the warden had to reattach the scalp electrode to do the job again. Kemmler caught on fire and smoked. Most of the newspapers say he was roasted. The stench from burnt flesh and feces was unbearable. Several people threw up, adding to the stink. A reporter fainted, the county sheriff started bawling, and everybody fought to get out of that damned chamber.”