In 1960 Purvis, then 42, was head of Purvis Construction Co. in Spokane, Wash. He had projects going in almost every Western state and employed as many as 1,000 people. The son of a decorative plasterer, Purvis owned ranches, golf courses, hotels, quarter horses, a pair of Cadillac convertibles and his own twin-engine plane. "We used to fly to San Francisco for lunch," he says. "We had some good times."
Then in 1961 his company won the contract for the U.S. Science Pavilion at the 1962 Seattle World's Fair. Purvis was elated, though not for long. The six-building complex had been designed in the late '40s, when plans for the World's Fair were unveiled. But federal funds took years to materialize, and the opening kept getting pushed back.
By the time work started, construction techniques had evolved considerably, particularly with regard to the handling of the precast, prestressed concrete panels essential to the design. Shortly after Purvis broke ground, the U.S. General Services Administration, which was in charge of the project, issued a stop-work order so that plans could be updated. Bad weather, electrical redesign and other problems resulted in two more stop-work orders and 58 change orders. But what did not change was Purvis' deadline—April 21, 1962, opening day.
To complete the pavilion on time, Purvis doubled and tripled his crews, paying staggering overtime. He says the GSA told him to press on and worry about expenses later. By spending $600,000 of his own money on extra labor, Purvis was able to finish on schedule. "I guess Pat's problems are over," his wife, Dorothy, now 57, remarked to the GSA contracting officer at an opening gala. "Pat's problems have just begun," he replied.
He was right. Within days, the GSA refused to reimburse Purvis for his extra expenses, claiming that cost overruns were his responsibility. He was forced to borrow heavily to finance other projects, and loan repayments all but wiped out his profits. When subcontractors on the World's Fair job sued for their costs, he paid them by borrowing $1.8 million from his bonding company, putting up his personal property as collateral. As long as that debt was outstanding, Purvis could not be bonded for any new jobs.
Purvis sued the government, but after repeated hearings, the GSA's appeals board ruled that the agency owed him nothing. The $1.8 million bond came due in 1966, and Purvis couldn't come up with the cash. "[The bonding company] said they were going to take everything," he says. "And that's what they did."
In 1973, after working odd jobs, including a stint selling prefab housing, Purvis became a traveling clothing salesman, a job he still holds. Seven years later the U.S. Claims Court awarded him $390,248 compensation, but that was too little too late. The bonding company, which had assumed Purvis' legal costs when it took over his property, swept up every penny to reimburse itself. Many people would have been crushed, but not Purvis. "I always looked ahead," he says.
That meant filing a Private Relief Bill to recover interest, adjusted for inflation, on the $390,248 award. Compounded, that would have amounted to $2.5 million. In 1985, however, Purvis accepted the Justice Department's offer of $700,000, representing simple interest. "We could have gone to trial," says Purvis' lawyer, Patrick A. Sullivan. "But I wanted to see him get his money while he could still enjoy it."
There was one more hurdle. An act of Congress was required to approve the payment. Purvis' first sponsor, Sen. Henry Jackson of Washington, died in 1983, and his second, Sen. Slade Gorton, also of Washington, lost a re-election bid in 1986. Bills were finally introduced last year in both houses, and President Reagan wrote to Purvis the day before Christmas, promising to sign the bill. "Your patience," he wrote, "has been both rare and remarkable."
But why not? asks Purvis. "If you feel bad about something, you only hurt yourself." He plans to keep working—"maybe do a little contracting, maybe some big contracting if I can afford it." But, says Purvis, now in a position to know, "$700,000 is not that much money anymore."
—By Ned Geeslin, with Meg Grant
Saved by the Bell Reunion
The hookups, the meltdowns, the memoires
The case reveals what was really going on what they think of each other now!
