Invasion of the Cable Snatchers
While the mayor and city council sat by with a rubber stamp, Houston wheeler-dealers carved out their own electronic empires.
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Curiously, Westland didn’t want much at all—a rather thin slice of Southwest Houston in the Meyerland area east of Hillcroft, 20,000 homes at the most. The investors lived in that area; they had developed real estate there; and it was thought of as a Jewish area of town, even though its Jewish population was no more than 10 per cent. The Meyerland area wasn’t a large chunk, but still, Runnells didn’t want to give up 20,000 more homes. They were good homes, too—even more affluent than the Katy Freeway area he had lost to Mischer—but Chamberlain’s advice was to play along with Westland’s proposal. The deadline for proposals was approaching. Westland would undoubtedly be the last competitor. And, anyway, who was left at this point? The River Oaks gentry had a territory, the conservative Democrats had theirs, the blacks were in, and now the Jews. It was looking almost equitable.
storer broadcasting of miami beach is known in the cable industry for being one of the most aggressive franchise grabbers in the nation. Although it holds 170 cable TV properties in seventeen states, its performance rarely rises above mediocrity. Many of its cable TV companies offer no local-access programming. Others provide only one channel (Home Box Office) that can’t be received over the airwaves. Storer does know how to make money, though, and at its office in Clear Lake City, it has a large staff working primarily to acquire franchises, by whatever means, in the Dallas, Fort Worth, Houston, and Galveston metropolitan areas. So far it has 39 franchises in Texas, all acquired within the last two years.
Since Storer was an out-of-state company, and since the Houston City Council had made it quite clear that it did not favor “foreign” franchisees, it may have seemed odd that Storer might obtain a franchise in the southeast quadrant of Houston. But not to Bill Chamberlain. His advice to Runnells was that since Storer already had a franchise in Clear Lake City, it was only logical that they should receive an adjoining area in Houston. After all, he reminded him, the basis of our application is that we have Bellaire and the Memorial Villages. If manifest destiny works for us, it has to work for Storer as well. Everyone seemed to agree. MECA Corporation, Storer’s wholly owned subsidiary, was the only company to apply for the blue-collar territories of Southeast Houston.
Clive Runnell’s outfit was about to get its first, and probably last, inspection.
“One of these companies has an operating franchise right out in Bellaire,” Sadowski reminded Earle. “Gulf Coast Cable.”
“Right,” said Earle.
“Don’t you think we should visit their facilities?”
“Sure, Bob, you go ahead and set it up.”
Sadowski did set it up, for November 13. He also sent Earle a memo that included thirteen substantive issues he wanted to discuss with Gulf Coast’s general manager, Dick Barron. This time, he thought, we won’t have to depend on those sketchy questionnaires. We can find out what they really intend to do.
To Barron’s surprise, Sadowski arrived a half hour early for the Gulf Coast appointment and immediately launched into his list of prepared questions. He didn’t like all the answers. He thought Barron was a little evasive. And when he got to the one about public-access programming, he was, well, shocked. Barron’s public-access programming consisted of a set of three-by-five cards bearing messages like “Garage Sale Today at 2pm. Call 333-6678.” The cards were placed in a revolving file in front of a camera, and every fifteen seconds the machine would flip to the next one. Sadowski wanted to pursue the issue of public access, but he was interrupted by the arrival of Earle and Baer.
Sadowski continued to ask questions, but he was not able to follow up on them because of the interjections of his two colleagues. He learned very little that he didn’t know already. After a few minutes, Barron offered to show the trio around the facilities, and Earle enthusiastically accepted the invitation.
As they walked through the Gulf Coast plant, Sadowski was introduced to another Gulf Coast employee--a man whose name he can’t remember—and the two of them became separated from the rest of the party. Very politely, the man asked Sadowski who he was and just what he was doing for the City of Houston. As well he could, Sadowski explained his role as a part-time consultant.
Shortly thereafter, the fact-finding mission at Gulf Coast ended.
About the time Bob Sadowski was visiting Gulf Coast, Houston’s various cable entrepreneurs—whose numbers now were legion—were all thinking the same thing: this is getting ridiculous. Yet another cable applicant, who had formed a company within the last month, was knocking on the city council’s door, and the word from Jim McConn’s office was that the deadline would be extended long enough to allow him to file. The applicant was none other than Billy Goldberg, chairman of the state Democratic party, and he wanted part of what Clive Runnells had come to think of as his own territory.
Goldberg had an explanation for his tardiness. His company, Affiliated Capital Corporation, had long been interested in providing cable to the Alief area of far Southwest Houston, most of which had been developed by Goldberg before the city had annexed it in 1977. Affiliated Capital had handled all the other utilities in that area, but Goldberg was blocked by federal law from owning any media properties as long as he owned any savings and loan associations. He had been steadily divesting himself of the savings and loans, and he closed the final sale on September 16—two weeks after the original deadline for cable applications. He immediately formed a subsidiary called Southwest Houston Cable TV, hired engineers to do technical studies, and, of course, hired a former city attorney—Alan Levin.
At first Levin brought Goldberg bad news. “The pie has already been cut up,” he reported. But Goldberg met personally with McConn, received the mayor’s assurance that his application would be considered, and proceeded to submit a proposal. The fact that Goldberg had contributed $2000 to McConn’s campaign didn’t hurt his case a bit.
Chamberlain didn’t like it. Runnells didn’t like it. After all, the pie can be sliced only so many ways. Again, the application was small—only about 40,000 homes—but Gulf Coast had not been happy about losing 30,000 to the Mischer group and 20,000 to the Jewish group. Chamberlain advised Runnells to wait and see what happened. It wouldn’t be wise to rush into confrontation with the chairman of the state Democratic party.
On November 14, the day after the visit to Gulf Coast, Sadowski arrived at city hall around nine o’clock. He was immediately called to Bill Earle’s office.
“Bob,” said Earle, “I’m sorry about this, but I understand the mayor is not going to approve your consultant’s contract. Turn in the hours that you’ve worked so far, and we’ll pay you for those. But we no longer need your services.”
“I don’t believe this is happening,” Sadowski said. Bill you promised me a job here, and I quit a good job to take this. hat do you mean you’re sorry?”
“I didn’t think there would be any problem,” aid Earle.
Sadowski did the only thing he could think of. He rushed over to the KUHT studios, only to learn that his job there had been filled. He spent the rest of the day trying to explain to his wife what had happened. She resisted the temptation to say, “I told you so.”
The next day Sadowski decided to go through the handwritten notes he had made on each of the cable companies in the hope of finding some clue’s as to why he had been fired. While he was working, the phone rang.
It was Bill Earle, he wanted Sadowski’s notes. That was no problem, Sadowski said, but first he wanted to sort them out, rank the seven companies, and get the notes typed at city hall.
Sadowski didn’t understand the rush—in fact, he had wanted to make a copy of the notes for his own reference—but Earle said he needed them right away. So Sadowski reluctantly assented. In an hour, a messenger knocked on the door. Sadowski handed over the notes—all of them—and he never saw them again.
On Novembver 28, Bill Earle drafted a long memo to his colleague Bob Collie, the city attorney. The language was polite and formal, but the underlying tone was peevish. The two of us, said Earle, are supposed to be working jointly on a cable TV franchise ordinance, but decisions are being made without my knowledge or approval. Earle had just learned that six franchise ordinances were due to be considered by the city council within the week, a fact he had been unaware of until he read the public agenda. Now he had virtually no time to review and comment on those franchises.
If Bill Earle didn’t know what was going on, who did? Bob Collie? He refused to discuss any aspect of this article. Jim McConn? He admitted to meeting with all the local companies during the franchise process but contends he favored none of them. The Houston City Council? The record here is sketchy because the council conducted virtually no public debate on substantive issues during the franchise hearings. Bob Sadowski? No.
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