Sometimes, it seems to me that Robert Reich has lost his fire. Not in this story, though; this is the Robert Reich I remember!! Organize, speak out, make our government do our work!

A personal story Read on Substack

Friends,

One issue not being talked about enough during this election, although both parties are courting working-class voters, is the chilling extent to which corporations are maiming and killing their employees.

According to data Amazon reported to OSHA, for example, Amazon had 6.6 serious injuries for every 100 workers in 2022. More than half of all warehouse injuries in the U.S. happened at Amazon, though they employed only 36 percent of all factory workers.

What’s behind the injuries? Corporate demands for faster speed and higher productivity.

Last week, The Wall Street Journal featured a story about corporations not allowing workers to lock down machinery when the machinery has to be maintained or cleaned.

I wish this were new news, but I vividly recall one morning in 1994 when Joe Dear, who then ran OSHA, the Occupational Safety and Health Administration, stormed into my office at the labor department.

Joe was short and wiry, with the energy of a coiled spring. He had come to OSHA after serving as director of Washington state’s department of labor and industries. He was dedicated to worker safety.

Breathlessly, he told me that workers at Bridgestone’s tire plant in Oklahoma City were getting mangled, even killed, in assembly machines that suddenly restarted when the workers were unjamming or cleaning them. The company’s other plants had similar horrors.

OSHA investigators had repeatedly told Bridgestone executives to install a simple $6 device that would automatically cut off power to the machines whenever a worker wanted to lock them down to clean or repair them, but the company wouldn’t budge.

Joe thought it was because the company was afraid its workers would use the device to stop the assembly line in order to gain bargaining leverage in upcoming union negotiations.

“We’re hitting them with a $7.5 million fine, the maximum under the law,” Joe said.

Joe hadn’t sought a fight with the second-largest tire maker in the world. We both knew it would unleash a giant team of lawyers and might drag the case through the courts for years unless we settled for a fraction of the fine.

We also knew that the final settlement wouldn’t be enough to get Bridgestone to mend its ways anyway if the company figured it was cheaper to pay up and continue risking workers’ lives and limbs. Not for the first time had a company made this sort of calculation.

But something had to be done. Workers were getting maimed and killed.

I was indignant. I felt righteousness coursing through my veins. “We’ve got to stop this, Joe. Maybe they could get away with this shit under the Republicans, but I’ll be damned if they do it under our watch.”

Joe looked worried. “We can’t go any higher with the fine. We might be able to go to court in Oklahoma City and get an emergency order forcing them to comply there. It’s dicey.”

“Why not use all our ammo?” I felt like I was putting on my holster. “Let’s also mobilize public opinion.”

“Public opinion?” Joe’s worry deepened.

I explained my theory. “Big corporations like Bridgestone spend millions on advertising and marketing to boost their public image. If we get this story on television, we’ll embarrass the hell out of them and strike fear in the hearts of every other corporation that’s screwing its workers.”

Joe hadn’t planned on my fury.

“I want to go out there,” I said, now simmering. “I’ll deliver the legal papers in person. We’ll fly out Sunday night and do it Monday morning. Alert the media so they can be on hand. Hold a press conference, maybe with some of the injured workers, including the widows of workers who were killed.”

Press conference? Injured workers? Widows? Joe was warming to the idea. A smile spread across his face. This was no longer a legal matter. It had become an issue of public morality — and public relations.

“Will the employees be with us on this?” I asked.

“No question. You’ll be a hero.”

“Okay then. We go to Oklahoma City.”

It was like I was galloping into town on a large white stallion, a sheriff’s badge pinned to my vest. Few feelings in public office are more exhilarating than self-righteous indignation — or as dangerous.

Late Sunday night we met at the Murrah Federal Building in downtown Oklahoma City to plan the final details of our operation.

We planned it so the press could set up cameras outside the gate and film us as we entered and the time and place of the press conference afterward. Several of the injured workers along with the widow of one who died were ready to appear.

Joe and I and the rest of our team rode in silence to the Bridgestone plant. A half-dozen TV cameras were waiting at the gate to record the spectacle. A guard allowed us through. We parked.

“We’ve hit the beach, captain,” Joe said.

“Walk slowly and keep your ammo dry.”

We walked across the lot to the plant entrance. I imagined the scene on the evening news: barely visible through the mist, the silhouettes of America’s runty but courageous secretary of labor leading his small battalion of gallant men to their fates, as they took on Industrial Evil. We were taking on the bullies.

Once we were inside, a nervous receptionist asked us to follow her. We walked down a narrow corridor and into a linoleum-floored room with a Formica table in the center, encircled by several chrome-and-plastic chairs. She said two gentlemen would be with us shortly, then rushed off.

A few minutes later, two grim-faced men entered and asked us to sit. One was a top executive from the company’s U.S. headquarters, the other the plant manager.

I introduced myself and the others, trying not to let my voice betray my nervousness. “We have come here to present you with court papers alleging that this plant presents an imminent hazard to the safety of its employees,” I said gravely. Joe removed an inch-thick pile of legal papers from his briefcase and placed them in the center of the table. The two men stared at the pile, expressionless.

I continued to speak, more forcefully now. “We have urged you to correct these hazards, but they have not been corrected. We have no choice but to seek an emergency order that will require you to equip employees on the assembly line with a simple device to turn off the power when they must clean or unjam the machines. We’re also imposing a $7.5 million fine.”

I looked intently at the two men. They stared back. They said nothing.

We marched back out of the building and across the parking lot. I tried to look determined, like someone who has just summoned the full force of the United States government against a common enemy.

A half an hour later, the press gathered for the news conference at a downtown hotel to hear of our great battle. One of the widows, a frail woman in her late fifties, stood beside me. Around us were several of the workers who had been injured or maimed in the plant. In front of me, sitting in two rows of chairs, were other workers from the plant.

I explained why I had come to Oklahoma City, describing the mayhem that the company had caused and what actions the department would take, doing a weak imitation of William Jennings Bryan: “We will not allow workers to risk death and dismemberment simply because a company refuses to buy a $6 piece of safety equipment. American workers are not going to be sacrificed on the altar of profits. We are not going to allow a competitive race to the bottom when it comes to the lives and limbs of American workers.”

The workers applauded. The widow’s eyes filled with tears. Reporters asked a few questions. Then, having cleaned up Oklahoma City, we rode off into the sunset on the next commercial flight back to Washington, feeling triumphant.

The triumph was short-lived.

Soon after we left, Bridgestone’s vice president for public affairs held a news conference to announce that Bridgestone had decided to close its Oklahoma City tire factory. All 1,100 workers would be out of jobs in weeks. He blamed the federal government, asserting that its safety standards had made the plant uneconomical.

The next morning’s Daily Oklahoman used my expedition as an illustration of the worst sort of meddling from Washington. In a bitter editorial, it accused me of grandstanding for political purposes. Its front-page story quoted angry tire workers, soon to be unemployed, saying I never should have come to Oklahoma City. One even asserted that safety was never a problem at the plant and that machines must be kept running to be serviced properly.

If it’s a choice between a dangerous job and no job, people will choose the dangerous job. I can’t blame them. America’s safety nets were — still are — in tatters, and we repeatedly force workers to make this terrible choice.

In the end, I asked our legal staff to drop the emergency order if the company would keep its plant open, which they agreed to do.

The bullies won.

I was haunted by our failure. I hadn’t imagined Bridgestone would take hostage the livelihoods of more than a thousand people. I hadn’t understood that the mounting economic stresses across America would fuel anger at every major institution in society, including a federal government that sought to protect people from some of those stresses.

We must protect workers from corporate greed. That means fines must be high enough to make it truly costly for a corporation to ignore worker safety laws when it’s profitable to do so. And it means safety nets must be strong enough to enable workers to refuse to take on illegally dangerous work.