Bob Sadowski has the round ivory face of a cherub and a résumé nine pages long. His oversized steel-rim glasses suggest a faint resemblance to Clark Kent, and except for a tendency to speak too fast and pepper his sentences with words like “gee” and “wow,” he might be thought timid. People instinctively like Bob Sadowski—or Dr. Robert Sadowski, as he is known in the academic world—although they don’t always remember his name.
For a period of about four weeks Bob Sadowski was the one and only expert on cable television employed by the City of Houston. He retains that distinction to this day. At the time he was hired, in the fall of 1978, the Houston City Council was on the verge of handing out cable TV franchises that will in fifteen years be worth at least $200 million in profits to cable operators—perhaps more if cable TV becomes widely popular. You would think the City of Houston would have needed at least one person who could evaluate cable TV proposals, one person who could talk about satellite transmission, earth stations, utility rights-of-way, local-origination programming, and the myriad other issues connected with this complex and flexible communications system.
The City of Houston didn’t. The process by which Houston created an electronic communications system for 1.5 million people—the first new regulated utility since the advent of the phone company—is still shrouded in secrecy. Bob Sadowski doesn’t know any more about how it was done than the average Houston citizen. For reasons Sadowski never quite understood, he was unceremoniously fired. His research—even his handwritten notes—were swept into oblivion. His conclusions were never considered by the council.
Later, when things started to look ominous, a few curious city employees tried to find out what had happened to him.
“Who was this guy Sandusky anyway?” they asked. No one knew, Sadowski had been forgotten again.
The wiring of urban America for cable TV has proceeded at breakneck speed for the past two years, and yet it is still little understood by the public. To say that cable TV is the wave of the future is both to overestimate and underestimate its impact. There are really two kinds of cable TV, and few people—few city councils, for that matter—have been able to distinguish between them. The first kind, celebrated by visionaries and promoted by journalists, is a revolutionary two-way communications system that will radically change our way of interacting with government, business, and media. It is also the system that promises noncommercial programming, free of the quotidian standards of the broadcast networks.
The second kind of cable TV, the kind many cities are likely to get, is no different from the television we receive today. Not specialized in any way, it relies on the profit-oriented programming endorsed by the networks: movies (albeit recently released), sports, sitcoms, news. This is what most people think of as cable TV. This is what most cable TV companies think of as cable TV. That’s because this is the only type that insures maximum profit with minimum investment.
In the best of all possible worlds, there would be no need to distinguish between cable for people and cable for profit. But Houston is not the best of all possible worlds. The cities of Dallas, Fort Worth, and Austin are all preparing to award or renew cable franchises. But in Houston the story is complete. When the Houston City Council awarded cable television franchises last winter, the decision had nothing to do with the quality of service the applicants could deliver, but everything to do with the power and influence they had behind them. The city handed the franchises over to political and business insiders. Then some of the lucky insiders cashed in their chips by reselling their franchises for millions of dollars. No one at city hall seemed to mind.
In late 1977 or early 1978, Clive Runnells and Bill Chamberlain began planning the future of cable television in Houston. Neither name was a household word, although both men had done their part to bring about the marriage of business and government that lies at the heart of Houston politics. Runnells, 53, is a fourth-generation cattleman who owns the AP Ranch near Bay City. A genuine River Oaks blueblood, Runnells made his fortune through mutual-fund management, reared eight children, and as early as 1954 ventured into small-town cable operations in Pennsylvania and Missouri.
Runnells had hungered to wire Houston for over a decade. He had applied for a franchise to serve the entire city in 1973 but didn’t get it. Since then, Gulf Coast Cable Television, the company he had formed for the 1973 fight, had been busily snapping up towns and hamlets all around Southwest Houston.
Chamberlain listed his occupation as media consultant, but his value to Runnells was purely political. At the time of their meeting, Chamberlain had just improved his political stock by running Jim McConn’s mayoral race. Chamberlain could neither build, operate, nor manage a cable system, but he had the more important skills: he knew McConn, he knew how to pull strings at city hall, and he had run successful franchise campaigns in Pasadena, Kingwood, and the Rio Grande Valley. Chamberlain was also acquainted with every politician or businessman who could conceivable get in the way of a franchise application. He had managed all five of Louie Welch’s mayoral campaigns, and in 1973 he had won a cable franchise for Greater Houston CATV.
That 1973 campaign was one thing that worried Runnells. The city council had awarded Chamberlain’s clients, led by Lester Kamin, the franchise for all of Houston, but it had been revoked in a citywide referendum after bitter charges of influence peddling and restraint of trade. Kathy Whitmire, a political activist who is now controller for the city, was outraged that Greater Houston was required to satisfy only the minimum standards set by the FCC and that Kamin was a former