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Forrest for the Trees

No Green Sweep

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When green jobs guru Van Jones spoke at the Texas Capitol during the jam-packed Texas Energy Future: Green Jobs and Clean Power conference in mid-February, the state’s environmental advocates might have been forgiven for pinching themselves. Jones’ keynote address about achieving social justice by “greening” the economy came at a time of palpable optimism for the gathered crowd of students, lawmakers, renewable energy boosters and environmental activists—a crowd not necessarily accustomed to a speaking role, or even a friendly ear. A new president was already rolling back certain Bush administration policies and promising to restore the role of science in federal decision-making. Change was in the air in Texas, too. Not a revolution, exactly, but a thawing—a green glasnost—seemed to be underway at the Texas Legislature, a body not known for environmental enlightenment.

The House had ousted Tom Craddick, the conservative Midland oilman who had shown little but contempt for environmental issues, and replaced him with Joe Straus, a relatively unknown moderate Republican from San Antonio. One of Straus’ accomplishments had been the 2007 passage of a bill that doubled the state’s energy-efficiency efforts.

Craddick’s lieutenants had kept good bills bottled up in committee; Straus stripped those lawmakers of their chairmanships. A few true-blue progressives even made it onto the House Environmental Regulation Committee, previously overseen by Rep. Dennis Bonnen, R-Angleton, who earned the nickname Dennis the Menace for his badgering of witnesses. Lawmakers responded to the new climate by filing a flurry of pro-environment bills. Perhaps more significant, the usual rash of bills punching holes in Texas’ already-patchy regulatory net never materialized. Long used to fending off bad ideas, environmental and conservation groups suddenly found themselves playing offense.

illustration by Alex Eben MeyerJones, who has since been named special adviser on green jobs with the White House Council on Environmental Quality, told his conference audience that Texans could lead the nation in building a green economy from the ashes of the old “gray” one.

“You’ve been the energy leader for 100 years,” Jones said. “You can be the energy leader in a new way.” He singled out three key areas primed for progress: wind power, solar energy and energy efficiency. “Here’s the truth,” he said. “Everything that’s good for the environment is a job. Solar panels don’t put themselves up, wind turbines don’t manufacture themselves, homes don’t retrofit or weatherize themselves.”

That message dovetailed with the priorities of lawmakers of both parties. Even before the session began, legislators had signaled their focus on renewable energy, conservation and energy efficiency, and green jobs.At the top of the green team’s agenda: jump-starting the state’s fledgling solar energy sector. In the end, though, the session wasn’t as sunny as many hoped.

Solar proponents looked to Texas’ successful wind energy industry for inspiration. In 1999, the Legislature mandated that power generators install 2,000 megawatts of renewable energy capability—enough to power half a million homes. Seven years later, Texas had surpassed that goal and rocketed past California to become the top wind energy–producing state in the nation.

Advocates argued that what worked for wind would work for solar. A bill by Sen. Kirk Watson, D-Austin, would have required utility companies to develop 1,500 megawatts of non-wind renewable energy—from solar, biomass or geothermal sources—by 2020. Mindful that many of the wind turbines cropping up in West Texas are manufactured out of state, the legislation included a requirement that the Public Utility Commission devise a “made in Texas” incentive program.

While Watson’s measure focused on utility-scale solar power stations, a related bill by Sen. Troy Fraser, R-Horseshoe Bay, was aimed at putting more solar panels and other renewable-energy devices on the roofs of homes, businesses and churches statewide. A small monthly fee attached to consumers’ and businesses’ electric bills would have raised up to $500 million for a rebate program.

Solar boosters even found common ground with some unlikely partners, including Rep. Warren Chisum, a Panhandle farmer, conservative Republican and chairman of the 108-member House Carbon Management Caucus. Chisum may not believe in global warming, but he does believe in sticking it to the feds. With the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency gearing up to regulate carbon, Chisum wants to ensure that Texas reduces its footprint on its own terms.

“Rather than wait for something to come down the pike from the federal government,” Chisum told Newsweek in February 2008, “we should go ahead and enact something for ourselves, and not let a bunch of federal bureaucrats stuff something down our throats.”

Chisum and the carbon caucus favor using tax breaks to get fossil fuel–burning industries to reduce their carbon dioxide emissions. One strategy involves the development of so-called clean coal power plants that capture carbon before it leaves the stacks.

Texas environmentalists are divided on the usefulness of that approach. Some note that the technology is costly and unproven. Others say all options deserve a place on the table. Either way, with Republicans pushing carbon capture and Democrats pushing green jobs, renewable energy and efficiency, veteran Public Citizen lobbyist Tom “Smitty” Smith said he was “suffering from a crisis of abundance.”

“There are more good bills in the legislative session than I can keep up with,” Smith told the Observer on Earth Day in April. “It is reminiscent of the 1991 legislative session when Ann Richards was elected and there was a wave of reform. This is the best session I’ve had in 18 years.”

At least that’s how it looked before the session’s end, at which point “the program became roadkill on the voter ID highway,” Smith said in June. In the final days of the session, House Democrats used a filibuster technique called chubbing to talk the highly partisan voter ID legislation to death.

Though Democrats succeeded in killing voter ID, they killed dozens of other bills in the process, including all the major renewable-energy and energy-efficiency legislation. The meltdown derailed the solar power legislation and an omnibus clean air bill by Sen. Kip Averitt, R-Waco, that included incentives for plug-in hybrid vehicles and a voluntary greenhouse gas registry. Legislators attempted a Hail Mary by rolling solar power incentives and other green bills into an energy-efficiency bill, but negotiations broke down in a “comedy of errors,” said Cyrus Reed, a lobbyist for the Lone Star Chapter of the Sierra Club.

In the end, little progress was made on the environmental front. In hindsight, Smith gives the session a D+.

Rep. Mark Strama, D-Austin, worries that lawmakers’ inaction might cause Texas to miss the renewable energy boat. “The maturation of the industry is going to accelerate in the 18 months before we come back here,” Strama said. “We will come back here in 2011 a lot further behind than we currently are.”

Despite disappointment over the Legislature’s failure to pass any big environmental bills this session, there are reasons to remain cautiously optimistic.

“I think the good news is that when these big measures came to the floor, our position won,” Reed said. He points to several key votes in which about two-thirds of the House—virtually all the Democrats and a bloc of moderate Republicans and Straus allies—backed the solar incentives bill, as well as measures promoting state purchases of low-emission vehicles and implementation of green building standards.

With such “broad-based support,” those bills stand a good chance of being reincarnated next session, says Rep. Rafael Anchia, D-Dallas, a key negotiator at the end of the session.

More broadly, the Legislature has clearly shifted in recent sessions away from viewing environmental positions as extremist. “Thirty-five years ago, if you called yourself an environmentalist, you were considered a communist, and you couldn’t get elected,” Averitt told the Waco Tribune-Herald in December. “Now if you’re not an environmentalist, you’re a goober, and you can’t get elected.”

Of course a lot depends on how you define “environmentalist.” The Texas approach, at least at the Capitol, is comfortable with policies that are perceived as market-friendly, that create jobs and that don’t step on the toes of powerful interests. Texas pols, let it be said, are powerfully attracted to certain kinds of green. Cracking down on polluting industries—with their dollars and lobbyists—remains a Sisyphean task.

For example, a suite of bills aimed at toxic hotspots near petrochemical plants in Port Arthur, Houston and Corpus Christi went nowhere this session. Likewise, attempts to force the Texas Commission on Environmental Quality to consider the cumulative effects on air quality from new polluting facilities—a loophole that has made it difficult to bring the Dallas–Fort Worth area’s air quality into line with federal standards—died on the vine.

And even talking about climate change is still considered taboo among some legislators. “The carbon caucus has one rule,” Rep. Chisum has said. “We do not discuss global warming, because there’s never an end to that discussion.”

After a failed attempt in 2007, Sen. Watson did manage to pass a “no regrets” climate change bill, so named because the study required by the legislation can propose ways to reduce greenhouse gas emissions only if they save businesses or consumers money. Other similarly modest, commonsense ideas failed at the outset. Sen. Rodney Ellis, D-Houston, proposed that major state agencies consider how to adapt to climate change as part of their planning processes. That measure died in committee. Every Republican but Averitt voted against it.

The Texas Legislature may not care much about climate change, but crafty advocates have found a way to get at the issue in language even the oiliest lawmaker can understand.

“Putting the words ‘climate change’ in a bill may not help it pass, but putting the word ‘energy’ in a bill, even if it says ‘renewable,’ sounds pretty Texan,” Strama said.

That strategy wasn’t enough to get over the hump this session. But two years from now there’s likely to be greenhouse gas regulation and a tightening of federal clean air and water standards. Texas will have little choice but to adapt. At least some of the solutions are likely to be found in the wreckage of the 81st Legislature.

Love’s Mayor Lost

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When the popular mayor of San Angelo abruptly announced after his landslide election to a fourth term that he was stepping down to be with his gay lover, an undocumented immigrant from Mexico, the story quickly became a media sensation.

“It was kind of a Brokeback Mountain deal,” says Gregory Gossett, a close friend of Mayor J.W. Lown and director of the Gospel Vision Foundation, an evangelical missionary organization. “The man from the West leaves for a gay lover. How is this happening in some area that we think is homophobic?”

The local fallout was far different. “I was very impressed with people in San Angelo,” Gossett says. “It was kind of a big yawn. The only hostile reaction has been: How can he quit us?”

Lown was the first full-time mayor of San Angelo, a heavily churched city of 90,000 people. The position only pays $600 a year and previous officeholders had “kinda treated it as a shiny badge to wear,” says City Council member Charlotte Farmer.

Not Lown. “He was an outstanding mayor,” Farmer says. “J.W. Lown was a people person. He sincerely loved and cared about this city and its people.” Locals speculated about his political future. Perhaps he would eventually run for the Texas Legislature or even Congress. Many townspeople knew Lown was gay. But in the live-and-let-live tradition of West Texas, few made an issue of it.

Lown hasn’t been giving media interviews, but he talked briefly by telephone to local reporters from a hotel in Mexico after his resignation. The reporters grilled him about the timing and circumstances of his actions. When did he decide that he and his partner would have to move to Mexico to apply for a visa? Did he run for re-election knowing that he might resign?

Lown explained that he’d met his partner just a couple months before the election. Only after consulting with an attorney about the legality of harboring an undocumented immigrant did he come to the conclusion, on election night, that he’d have to go to Mexico.

“I know the timing is less than desirable, but this spectacular thing happened in my life and I don’t think you can plan for that,” Lown said.

“In a relationship, you have to have trust. There’s a great sacrifice on both of our parts. Imagine coming across that border on your own as a teenager—five years ago—it’s a very scary thing to do. … I actually have the luxury of two citizenships and so I could make that sacrifice.”

Lown said he had no idea how San Angeloans would react. But he left behind his e-mail address, published by the local paper. Out of 300 e-mails he’s received, only two were negative, he told the reporters. “There’s so much support and understanding out there, so that gives me a great deal of comfort,” Lown said.

A reporter asked what was on his mind as he left San Angelo. “The whole way we asked ourselves over and over, ‘Is this the right situation? Is this the right decision to make?’ It kept coming to us that it is. It’s meant to be.”

Water, Water Everywhere

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In 2007, geologists for the Texas Commission on Environmental Quality told their bosses that a proposal for a radioactive waste dump in West Texas was fatally flawed because of the landfill’s proximity to the Ogallala and Dockum aquifers. Then-agency head Glenn Shankle (now a lobbyist for the dump’s owner, Waste Control Specialists) overruled his employees, issuing licenses for the two adjacent landfills in Andrews County. But as a compromise of sorts, he required Waste Control to conduct a number of tests and studies to prove that the site was dry enough.

Critics, including three whistleblowers who quit the agency in protest, were hardly mollified—in a sane world, they said, the company would have to prove that the dump wouldn’t leak radioactive waste into the groundwater before getting a permit, not after. But that’s all the TCEQ bosses were offering.

Now, some of the results from those studies are in. They are hardly reassuring. Waste Control, owned by Dallas billionaire Harold Simmons, has identified nine areas inside and near the proposed landfills where groundwater is present. The company has argued to the TCEQ in recent filings that these so-called “pockets of groundwater” are isolated from the aquifers and not a cause for concern. Some of them, the company says, are probably linked to playas—surface depressions, common to West Texas, that fill with water. Others, Waste Control contends, result from small depressions in the top of the red bed clay. The playas will be filled in with soil, the company promises, and the depressions in the clay are too small to matter.

Even so, the presence of any water is troubling. “If you have water in the ground you shouldn’t put a landfill there,” says Patricia Bobeck, a hydrogeologist who left the TCEQ in September 2007 and went public with her complaints that upper management had ignored the environmental and safety risks. Water can provide a pathway for radioactive particles to move quickly through the earth and permanently contaminate drinking or agricultural water.

Bobeck says the latest findings only underscore what she and other experts have been saying for years. “The people who rejected this site were not acting on a hunch,” she says. “WCS has corroborated that with their own data.”

In the past year, Waste Control, at the TCEQ’s request, has drilled dozens of new wells. Many of them, including some within the footprint of the radioactive waste dump, have inches or feet of water at the bottom.

“These wells indicate that the area around the byproduct excavation and southeastern portion of the low level site are much wetter than previously thought,” wrote Conrad Kuharic, a TCEQ geologist, in a February memo.

In its license application, Waste Control had argued that the landfills would be well away from a “dry line,” a shifting boundary on a map dividing wet wells from dry. But in April, confronted with the evidence from its own wells, the company conceded that that critical line had moved 200 feet closer, almost inside the landfills. Increased rainfall in the future may put the “dry line” inside the dump, TCEQ experts have contended. That, Bobeck says, is “bad news. This landfill by law cannot be placed in proximity with water.”

For years, Waste Control has touted its 1,300-acre dump site as nearly geologically perfect for containing radioactive waste for tens of thousands of years. The company’s primary selling point has been what it calls the “almost impenetrable red bed clay” in which the waste will be buried.

But the red bed is leaking. After giant earthmovers dug deep into it, water began seeping out of the walls. On the southern wall, enough seeped out to form a pool of standing water. In December, the company claimed that the water would soon dissipate. But when a trio of TCEQ geologists visited Waste Control’s dump in January, a month and a half later, they noted that the puddle had actually grown (see photo above).

Bobeck is skeptical that the discovery of groundwater in the radioactive waste dump will prompt the TCEQ to crack down. The additional studies, she says, were never intended to change Waste Control’s course.

Not surprisingly, the company agrees. “Groundwater occurrences in the vicinity of the Byproduct landfill have no impact on current planning for the operation of the landfill,” the company told the TCEQ in May.

Investigative reporting for this article was supported, in part, by a grant from the Open Society Institute.

‘Even the Mafia Was More Circumspect’

Glenn Shankle goes from regulator to lobbyist.

The revolving door between government and the private sector is a time-worn tradition in Texas. But here’s a case that on its bare facts is particularly egregious.

In January, six months after stepping down as the executive director of the Texas Commission on Environmental Quality, Glenn Shankle signed on as a lobbyist for Waste Control Specialists, the company recently licensed by TCEQ to build a massive radioactive waste dump in West Texas. His lobby contract is worth between $100,000 and $150,000, according to the Texas Ethics Commission.

When Shankle left TCEQ in June 2008, the agency was readying, per Shankle’s orders, two licenses authorizing Waste Control to bury millions of cubic feet of radioactive waste. The four-year license review process had been one of the most time-consuming and contentious in agency history.

Shankle’s own technical staff, geologists and engineers had concluded definitively that the dump could not legally be permitted. An Aug. 14, 2007, memo drafted by two geologists and two engineers bluntly stated that the landfill’s proximity to two aquifers made it “highly likely” that radioactive waste would leak into the groundwater. The site, they wrote, “cannot be improved through special license conditions.” They recommended denying the license. With little explanation, Shankle overruled them. His only sop to the staff were license conditions requiring additional studies before construction.

Amazingly, Shankle said in a brief telephone interview yesterday—one of the few times he has ever spoken to the press—that he had never heard of any of this.

“I was not aware of that,” Shankle said of his own technical staff’s recommendations. If true, that’s stunning. According to the Houston Chronicle:

When WCS President Rodney Baltzer learned of the [August 14] memo, he immediately sought out meetings with the agency’s executive director, Glenn Shankle, who decided in December [2007] to begin drafting the license.

In fact, records from TCEQ, previously discussed in the Observer, show that during the time period after the staff’s recommendation, Shankle was frequently meeting with Waste Control officials, attorneys and lobbyists. Waste Control is owned by Harold Simmons, the Dallas billionaire and major Republican donor who helped bankroll Swift Boat ads attacking John Kerry in 2004 and television ads in 2008 linking Barack Obama to Bill Ayers.

Baltzer left nine messages for Shankle and four for [Deputy Executive Director Dan] Eden between July 2007 and January 2008, according to phone logs that reflect only missed calls. Eden met with Waste Control officials at least five times during that period. Former Republican Congressman Kent Hance, a Waste Control investor and chancellor of the Texas Tech University System, paid a visit to Shankle’s office in early November.

Cliff Johnson, a principal in Textilis Strategies, an Austin-based firm that lobbies for Waste Control, visited with Shankle in September. Shankle also met with Giblin, Baltzer, and Mike Woodward, a Waste Control lobbyist and attorney with Hance’s law firm, during that period.

The outcome of this full-court press was the Shankle-ordered drafting of the coveted disposal licenses, permits that are worth untold millions to the company. In fact, without these licenses Waste Control is a losing venture. Last year, Waste Control lost $21.5 million, according to SEC filings for Valhi, Waste Control’s parent company. In other words, Shankle had done a very big favor for Waste Control.

The move so upset his staff that three of them quit in protest. One of them, Glenn Lewis, who coordinated one of the license review teams, reacted with disgust and anger when told yesterday that Shankle was lobbying for Waste Control.

“Even the Mafia was more circumspect than this,” Lewis said. “To find out now that Mr. Shankle—who was in constant communication with WCS throughout this ordeal—now is on retainer for [WCS] is shocking in that it is so brazen and such an insult to everybody who worked on that application. It just shows that any objective appraisal by the TCEQ was from its inception a fantasy and that big money and a lot of political power won once again. … They should have just issued the license the day after it was received and saved everybody a lot of trouble.”

When it was suggested to Shankle that there was at least the appearance of a quid pro quo, he responded: “The freedom of the press can go so far. You’re making some very serious allegations.” Then he hung up.

Dr. Bob’s Terror Shop

The strange and scary story of the North Central Texas Fusion System.
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Steve Satterwhite.
Fox News presides over Collin County's ant-terrorism center.

One morning in February, more than 2,000 cops, fire marshals, and public health officials in the Dallas-Fort Worth area received a memo—stamped “For Official Use Only”—that contained shocking information: Middle Eastern terrorists and “their supporting organizations” had gained a stronghold in America. The memo warned:

A number of organizations in the U.S. have been lobbying Islamic-based issues for many years. These lobbying efforts have turned public and political support towards radical goals such as Shariah law and support of terrorist military action against Western nations. … [T]he threats to Texas are significant.

Who were these Osama bin Lobbyists who had convinced Americans to support terrorism? Citing a grab bag of right-wing blogs and news sources, the memo lists the Council on American-Islamic Relations, the International Action Center, Act Now to Stop War and End Racism—”ANSWER”—and former Democratic U.S. Rep. Cynthia McKinney of Georgia. It also suggests that a class on Islamic finance taught at the Treasury Department “indicates the possibility that the government hopes to secure recycled petrodollars in exchange for conforming to Shariah economic doctrine.” The memo ends by calling on law enforcement to “report” the activities of the organizations.

The missive reads like a rant by a paranoid conspiracy nut. In fact, the so-called “Prevention Awareness Bulletin” is a weekly product of the North Central Texas Fusion System, a terrorism and crime-prevention intelligence center run by the Collin County Department of Homeland Security. The system gathers and shares information for a 16-county area that includes Dallas and Forth Worth. The bulletin is written by the architect and operator of the fusion system, Bob Johnson, a former chief scientist for defense contractor Raytheon Co. Johnson has a background in data mining, the controversial, computer-aided practice of trolling massive quantities of data in pursuit of patterns and links.

At Raytheon, Johnson oversaw a short-lived project in Garland for the U.S. Special Forces Command that mined public information as well as classified files to sniff out Al-Qaida. The program, identified in congressional testimony as Able Danger, generated attention in 2005 and 2006 when former Rep. Curt Weldon, a Pennsylvania Republican, claimed that Able Danger had identified Mohammed Atta, one of the 9/11 hijackers, before the terror attacks. Weldon asserted that Johnson had told him that he personally had identified Atta. The allegations fired up 9/11 conspiracy buffs, but were dismissed by the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence and the Inspector General of the Department of Defense.

Among his critics in Texas, Johnson is better known as “Son of Sam”—the son of U.S Rep. Sam Johnson, the conservative Republican congressman who has represented Collin County since 1992.

In 2004, Collin County tapped ADB Consulting LLC, which stands for Anita and Dr. Bob, to build the fusion system. Anita Miller, also a former Raytheon employee, is Johnson’s wife. On the couple’s personal Web site, anitaanddrbob.com, which has since been taken down, they wrote that they were “ecstatic” to “be implementing a system similar to what we have advocated since before 9/11 for the security of our homeland. For us, the Fusion System is a dream come true!”

Their dream has been profitable. Since 2004, Anita and Dr. Bob have received $1.1 million in no-bid contracts. At least $80,000 of that money has been passed along, in the form of a subcontract, to Anita’s brother, Elbert Bassham, who runs a one-person consulting firm listed at a Marfa post-office box that he shares with a beauty salon.

“I’m not aware of any other fusion center that has a husband-and-wife team building, running, and managing it,” says James Paat, CEO of Sypherlink Inc., an Ohio-based data integration company that lost the subcontract. In a 2007 letter to Collin County, Paat accused ADB Consulting of rigging the scoring process and asked that the contract be rescinded.

Mohamed Elibiary says the fusion center puts out 'ideologically driven analysis.'

Funding for the fusion system comes from state and federal Homeland Security grants as well as Collin County funds.

“It certainly has the stench of corruption,” says Mohamed Elibiary, an interfaith leader from Plano who has called for more oversight of fusion systems. Collin County put management of the fusion center up for competitive bidding in March, but County Judge Keith Self says the system is so customized that it’s unlikely that anyone else can run it.

Contacted by the Observer at his home in Santa Fe, Johnson said he wouldn’t respond to media inquiries. Asked whether he has a responsibility to taxpayers to answer questions about the system, Johnson responded, “I have a responsibility to Collin County; that’s all.”

The February bulletin isn’t the only questionable Johnson product. He has designed tools that purport to measure, at any given moment, the threat of terrorism at the global, regional, and local levels. The World Terrorism Metric relies on computer models that crunch vast quantities of raw information culled from the Internet. The threat level is presented on a gauge; the needle moves as the terror risk increases or decreases.

Johnson claims the output is unbiased. The assumptions built into the model are certainly inventive. Factors include the price of a barrel of oil (divided by three), the level of democratic activity as measured by the number of business-related words in Internet news stories, and the movement of options contracts (Johnson trades options on the side). Happily, in February the North Central Texas gauge registered a threat level of zero.

It’s tempting to dismiss the fusion center as one man’s risible, if expensive, computer science project. But the U.S. Department of Homeland Security took the menacing February memo seriously enough that it sent a three-person team to train North Texas fusion personnel on federal rules. In 2007, a former senior intelligence analyst for the Collin County fusion system described the center to an online trade publication as the “wild west,” a place where analysts could try out new technologies before “politics” caught up with them.

So what, exactly, is Dr. Bob building in there?

Fusion centers arose amid post-9/11 efforts to get local and state law enforcement involved in anti-terrorism. Federal authorities wanted the nation’s 800,000 or so local and state cops turned into a vast “eyes and ears” network. Information from this army could be fed into local, regional, and state centers where various data streams would be “fused” into a powerful intelligence product. Private-sector databases, criminal records, tips, credit reports, medical records, accounts of suspicious activity—anything that might help analysts “fight a global jihadist adversary,” in the words of the Congressional Research Service, would be used to connect dots.

Many cities and states happily accepted the charge, not to mention the Homeland Security dollars tagged for fusion. Today there are about 60 fusion centers nationwide, and five in Texas. There’s no sign they’re going away. In March, Homeland Security Secretary Janet Napolitano told a national conference of fusion centers that they would be the “centerpiece of state, local, federal intelligence-sharing for the future.” The Obama stimulus package contains $250 million for fusion.

The meteoric rise of this confoundingly complex and patchwork system has scary implications for privacy and civil liberties.

“We’ve built this network, and nobody’s policing it,” says Mike German, a former FBI agent now with the ACLU. “Nobody knows exactly what each fusion center is doing. … Even the best fusion centers operate under a cloak of secrecy.” Part of the problem, German says, is that fusion centers fall in a “no-man’s-land” between federal and state governments. Such ambiguity can lead fusion centers to pick and choose which rules apply to them. A 2007 study by the Government Accountability Office found that one-third of all fusion centers reported a lack of guidance on the proper handling of information, including privacy and civil-liberties concerns.

Even in this murky, variegated world, the North Central Texas Fusion System is a bit of an oddball. Most fusion systems are run by either state police agencies or big-city police departments. Many are tightly focused on providing tactical support to police officers and detectives in the field.

The North Central Texas center, on the other hand, is owned by a suburban county’s small Homeland Security Department and serves a region that already has two other fusion systems. Its mission is startlingly broad: “[T]o provide on-going data analysis to prevent and to provide early-warning of all hazards (e.g. tornadoes, flooding, pandemics, hazard spills and plumes, and terrorist attacks).”

The center has tried to deploy a telephone system to automatically alert residents of approaching natural disasters. But when a hailstorm swept through the area in April 2008, residents were warned of the storm after it had passed. “We found out weather moves too fast,” says Kelley Stone, Collin County’s Homeland Security director.

Undeterred, he’s looking at applying the same early-warning concept to residents who might fall in the path of a plume of destruction unleashed by bioterrorism.

The North Central Texas Fusion System is housed in a wing of the squeaky-clean, no-nonsense Collin County Sheriff’s Office, situated at what seems to be the very point where encroaching suburbia meets the receding countryside. A driver on nearby Interstate 35 would never guess that the theoretical nerve center of terror and crime prevention for more than 6 million people is headquartered in this building.

Stone, who’s directed Collin County Homeland Security since its inception in 2002, leads a tour of the facility. There’s not much to see. One office hosts two agents on loan from the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. Another locked room holds the center’s senior intelligence analyst, Oscar Martinez. The biggest space is devoted to an emergency command center stocked to the gills with telephones, computer terminals, videoconferencing equipment and a half-dozen or so flat-screen TVs all tuned to Fox News. “We depend a lot on news sources,” says Stone.

Stone, a native of New Boston in Northeast Texas, has spent a lifetime in law enforcement and the past 24 years with the Collin County Sheriff’s Office. He eagerly highlights changes the fusion center has made recently. Homeland Security has given him a talking-to.

“I just want to make sure that we have the training, policies, and procedures in place to ensure that we don’t violate anyone’s civil rights,” Stone says. The February bulletin, he says, was “inappropriate” and shouldn’t have gone out. (He’ll repeat that, apropos of nothing, several times.)

Stone points to the system’s mission, projected on a video screen hooked up to a laptop: “The right data. To the right person. At the right time. While protecting the individual rights of all citizens.” Stone insists the last part wasn’t tacked on recently. Perhaps, but the line hadn’t appeared before in any of the fusion center’s materials.

Most of the center’s activity happens on 20 computer servers humming away in an unseen, secure room. The system holds some 90 million records and is stuffed with data-mining programs and analytical tools customized by Bob Johnson.

The computers contain over 2 terabytes of raw data, the equivalent of about one-fifth of all the information contained in the books at the Library of Congress. Each week the database soaks up an additional 350,000 new “structured data records” and 10,000 new “unstructured data items,” according to a March grant proposal to the Air Force Office of Scientific Research.

The database is clearly being fed, but with what?

Stone says most information is drawn from law-enforcement records, such as incident reports or jail records. An open-records request by blogger Bill Baumbach, who has been dogging the fusion system at CollinCountyObserver.com, produced information-sharing agreements with just four law-enforcement entities in the Metroplex, two of them small-town police departments in Wylie and Murphy. The Department of Public Safety, which oversees the Texas Intelligence Center and the Texas Data Exchange, or TDEx, says it has no relationship with the center.

“Right now we’re just in the infancy stage,” Stone says. “We have to get our capabilities up and running.”

Two highly placed sources in the Texas criminal intelligence and fusion communities say the North Texas center is less a cutting-edge than a butt of jokes. “Police chiefs get the bulletins and just hit the delete button,” says one. The center has struggled to attract attention among law enforcement officials in the Metroplex, where two other information-sharing systems have emerged in recent years: a fusion center run by the Dallas Police Department and a law enforcement-only system assembled by the North Central Texas Council of Governments. The latter system has aspirations to serve the whole state.

The Collin County center tends to exaggerate the scope of its mission to justify funding, the sources say. “Kelley likes to think he’s supporting umpteen different agencies in the region,” says one of the sources.

Still, there is evidence that the North Texas Fusion System has a wide dragnet.

“Unstructured data is acquired through the open internet, open source, emails, websites and blogs,” reads one recent grant proposal. The March document also lists sources such as e-mail from crime analysts, cause-of-death sheets, suspicious-activity reports, and emergency-response plans.

County Judge Keith Self, a career Army officer with experience in high-tech information warfare, confirmed that the county jail is recording telephone calls and feeding them to the fusion system, which employs software that transcribes every word of conversations, more than 6,600 hours each year. The software, which cost $130,000, according to public records, can also translate foreign languages into English, though it’s not clear that component is operational yet.

The conversations are entered into the database, allowing them to be searched along with all the other information in the system. The purpose is to detect crimes being plotted or recruitment into “Islamic gangs,” according to an article in Texas County Progress, a statewide magazine for county officials.

Free-ranging conversations can be misinterpreted, and innocent people inadvertently linked to suspected criminal activity or even terrorism, critics suggest. A benign conversation, for example, about a terrorist attack in the news could be misconstrued as plotting. Moreover, translation of languages—especially when automated—is notoriously difficult. Small errors in the spelling of a name could lead to an innocent person being fingered. And if mistakes aren’t purged from the system, the same error can be repeated and compounded many times over.

“The old adage from the early day of computing was garbage in, garbage out,” says German, the former FBI agent. “You start mixing reliable information with unreliable, and it makes the whole system unreliable.”

The Collin County center’s tenet is, “the more data, the better,” a data-mining truism. “There is a natural human tendency to summarize, filter, or limit data,” states a recent center document. “This is not a healthy approach for a Fusion System, however, because the key piece of data that solves a crime or identifies an imminent terrorist attack is likely to be in the data that is discarded.”

The center approach rests on the belief that signs of a coming attack—called “pre-incident indicators”—can be detected by pumping huge quantities of data, from scurrilous blogs to carefully vetted police reports, into a database and then sifting through the undifferentiated mess for clues and patterns. The practice is typically called predictive data mining and was condemned by a committee of the National Research Council in October as “neither feasible as an objective nor desirable as a goal.”

Fred Cate, a member of the committee and director of the Center for Applied Cybersecurity Research at Indiana University’s Maurer School of Law, points out that data mining has been used for years by marketers to match products with potential customers. But this targeted marketing only works because data miners have plowed through hundreds of thousands of transactions to locate a connection between, say, age and ownership of big-screen TVs.

“That doesn’t work when fighting terrorism,” says Cate, “because thankfully we don’t have many terrorist incidents. We don’t have a million incidents to extract from; we have a dozen.”

In a January bulletin, the center listed some of the behavioral clues it considers important in identifying terrorists, including suicide bombers. Among them: ownership of heavy vehicles, sweating and mumbling, inappropriate attire, interest in cameras, and paying in cash—all of which could, of course, describe a big night on the town in Dallas.

According to fusion system documents, the North Texas center’s database is accessible to almost 1,000 users—cops, fire marshals, health officials, first responders, and Homeland Security personnel—through a secure Web portal. The primary feature is a single-line query tool that allows users to search across the entire universe of information using key words—a person’s name, a location, a vehicle description.

Bob Johnson has also developed tools that allow users to visualize links between seemingly disparate pieces of information and project them onto a map. The recent grant proposal hints that the fusion system is looking into ways to diagram social networks, highlighting the myriad connections among individuals in much the same way that MySpace or Facebook does.

Kelley Stone, the security director in Collin County, prefers to emphasize narrow law-enforcement applications. He cites a case in which a constable used the database to track down a wanted child molester. “A lot of success stories like that,” Stone says. “The average citizen thinks [the police] have access to all this information, but the fact of the matter is you’re real limited until you have a system like this.”

The fusion system is a way, Stone says, of overcoming the “stovepiping” problem, the tendency of police departments to hoard valuable criminal information and not share it across jurisdictional boundaries. That sort of use is hardly what worries critics, who see the fusion center’s activities as both ineffectual and potentially dangerous.

“What’s their authority for gathering information off the Internet?” asks German. “Are we devoting law-enforcement resources to gathering information off the Internet every day? To what end? Now does anyone who posts something on the Internet have to worry that they’re being run through a data-mining program? It’s a 1984 version of America that doesn’t even make sense from a security standpoint.”

Investigative reporting for this article was supported, in part, by a grant from the Open Society Institute.

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