by Jack Hoeschler, 2018

In the early 1970’s, as a young lawyer with Doherty, Rumble & Butler, oldest law firm in the state, I was asked to help the Science Museum of Minnesota.  The request came from a more senior member of the firm, Gene Warlich, who’d served on the Museum board. At the time, the Museum shared space in the St. Paul Arts & Science Center on 10th and Cedar Street and needed more room for its expanding program.

Most important, the Museum board, led by Ed Titcomb, wanted to build a new “Omnitheater.” This was to be a combination, 45° planetarium and a large-format Imax film theater similar to what had been developed in Canada after the Montreal World’s Fair.  The first installation of an Imax projector was at the San Diego Space Center.  The Museum would be the second site of this innovative format.

I was already acquainted with many details of the Museum plans, because my wife, Linda, had been previously hired to help Museum curators articulate visions for exhibit halls.  I’d helped edit Linda’s “scripts” for these exhibits and for the Omnitheater itself, and the knowledge I’d acquired proved crucial later in the planning process.

My first job was to draft a contract with Hammel, Green and Abrahamson, the design architects chosen for the project.  I was also asked to negotiate air rights with Sherman Rutzick, the city’s designated developer of the block directly west of the Arts & Science Center.  The Museum contemplated keeping its existing space in the Arts & Science Center and joining it by skyway with a new, three-story building in the easterly third of the Rutzick block.  Initially, Rutzick was to be the builder and landlord of the new Museum expansion.

It soon became clear that the Museum’s need for a special purpose building, on one hand, and on the other, the interests of a commercial landlord, were incompatible.  The Museum building couldn’t be easily adapted to commercial use if the Museum defaulted on its contemplated lease.

Negotiations with Rutzick were further complicated because the subsurface area would be a municipal parking ramp, yet the Rutzick buildings and the Museum would be constructed over the ramp—based on air rights.  Rutzick, meanwhile, had obtained rights from the city to develop the block based on assurances he’d given the city to build a medical office building and an apartment tower, all of which, with the Museum, would be connected by an atrium benefiting each of the structures and their respective owners.

The complicated project required intricate coordination to avoid potential conflicts among contracts and parties.  My role as the Museum’s lawyer thus became significant.  Once the design contract was signed, Museum staff and the architects held weekly planning meetings.  I happened to be copied on the weekly notes from these meetings.

After a time it became clear that no one from the Museum was overseeing the planning process.  Various department heads would suggest new, good ideas, and the architects would promptly incorporate them into the plans.  No one, however, was watching the budget or scrutinizing the cost of design changes.  I felt compelled to challenge this runaway process.

As a result, I was invited to join the weekly meetings and act as an unofficial project coordinator.  Because I’d edited Linda’s scripts for every Museum exhibit, I had a better understanding of the entire project than the department heads did.

Phil Taylor, the Museum’s volunteer CEO, was happy for the help because he lacked experience on such a large real estate project and was spending all his time raising money. The stress of fundraising eventually caught up with him, whereupon, he announced he’d no longer serve as CEO and that the board should hire a paid executive.  Suddenly, the staff came to me with operating questions.  Overnight, I became the de facto CEO because I made decisions.  By then I was being paid for my technical-legal work but not for my “ideas” and management contributions. 

Before the new facility could be built, however, we had to deal with the realities of excavating a three-story parking ramp below street level: it turned out that downtown St. Paul rested on a 10- to 15-foot layer of limestone.

(In fact, 12,000 years ago, St. Paul had a water falls more thunderous than Niagara.  This eventually receded up river to the present location of St. Anthony Falls in Minneapolis.  The cascading water  scoured the softer sandstone beneath the limestone and the resulting cantilevered cap fell off; the falls then regressed upstream.) 

Rehbein Construction was retained to excavate for the parking ramp, but first that limestone cap had to be blasted away—after the old buildings on the site had been demolished. 

Across the street from the blast area was our treasured Triceratops—one of the most complete specimens in the world—supported on a rigid, steel armature. With each blast, the ground shook and with it, the Triceratops. Bruce Erickson, the Museum paleontologist, called me in a panic, exclaiming that the “earthquakes” were breaking up the beast.  I ran to the Museum for a first-hand look.

Immediately, I called the general contractor to shout, “Stop the blasting!”  I then asked Bruce how long it would take to dismantle the dinosaur. His response: a year. Mind you, this was the 1970’s with inflation at 18%. We couldn’t suspend the project, but what to do to save our Triceratops?

Bruce was scheduled to travel to Florida for two weeks to study crocodiles, so I told him, “Go! We’ll take good care of your Museum monster.” I then met with the contractor, who was legally liable for any damage caused by the blasting.  The problem had to be solved before Bruce returned, or he’d chain himself to the Triceratops to protect it.

I needed a substitute paleontologist in a hurry.  I called the Natural History Museum in New York City and the Smithsonian.  I gulped upon learning that it’d been three generations since anyone at either institution had assembled a dinosaur skeleton, not just dusted one. 

A further, desperate search led me to a small-bone-dinosaur expert in L.A., who wouldn’t venture outside his world. He remarked off-handedly, “They all come broken anyway, what the hell.” But then he mentioned a guy—Jim Jensen—at Brigham Young University.  Jim turned out to be a hero. 

I also discovered a Minneapolis engineer who’d worked for the Atomic Energy Commission measuring damage from atomic blasts. I hired him immediately to assess our problem—fortunately, since it precluded him from being retained as an expert for Rehbein’s insurance company, which called called him the next day.

We showed him the situation. He took his measurements and gave us a detailed evaluation.  His plan was to build a structure that would cushion the dinosaur—but at a cost of $65,000 and month’s worth of additional construction.  

Meanwhile, I’d called Jensen and invited him to fly out from Utah. He was an Eric Hoffer character; the common man scientist and philosopher.  Jim had never graduated from high school but had learned all his paleontology working on digs. He now possessed two honorary degrees in recognition of his work.  He exuded practical wisdom and was my kind of guy.  He examined the situation, then asked me to retain a house mover.  Together, the hands-on paleontologist and the house mover proposed to build a steel A-frame over the Triceratops from which the skeleton would be suspended with seat belts, taking the weight off the armature and allowing it to flex with the blast pressures.

At the time newspaper articles about our challenge proliferated, and we had grade school kids writing us about how to “save our Triceratops.” We even had someone from North Dakota sending us missile silo padding.  

Of course, I kept Bruce Erickson apprised of what we were doing to save his treasure. Bruce knew Jensen and was approved him.

I worked a deal whereby The Museum) would take the risk of further damage and Rehbein’s insurance company would pay us the $65,000 it would have cost if the atomic engineer’s plan were adopted. We gave the cash to the Museum’s paleontology department. Bruce was happy on all fronts—and the dinosaur held up nicely after that.

Then arose the next crisis.

As mentioned, the Omnitheater was to be a key element of the new facility—second only to San Diego (third to Monterey, Mexico by the time our project was completed).  Yet, to have a theater chain of only three required promoting development of other Omni theaters, because the large format film was so expensive.  The Omnimax/Imax projector system was made in Canada where the highly specialized cameras were invented. The raw film alone cost $200,000.

The dome of the Omnitheater was to be built by a Philadelphia company, which had never delivered a system without problems.  But the firm was the sole source for the planetarium hardware and later, its maintenance. I made sure our contract allowed the Museum to monitor progress and performance of the equipment to be housed in the structure, as conditions of payment.  We had a volunteer group of technical advisers from 3M and Control Data.

Now it was late in the game.  The supplier sent the dome to us in compound curved pie-shaped panels. We’d spent $50,000 to rent extensive scaffolding required to install the panels. Once the sections were assembled overhead, however, it became readily apparent that they weren’t of uniform color (gray).  They were a mosaic, which would’ve resulted in an unsatisfactory screen for projection.

To fix this, the supplier told us to spray a highly volatile etching compound onto the screen.  They cautioned that the substance would explode at a temperature above 80F. All possible spark sources from lights and other switches had to be disabled. Even explosion-proof lights were required.

I called 3M for advice.  No one would risk giving an opinion. 

Nevertheless, I said to the Museum: “We’re going ahead.”  Penalties were accruing for keeping the scaffolding past the intended rental period, and more important, we were opening in a month.  I called multiple painting contractors. Each declined.  I persisted and found someone brave enough to take the job. On the day of painting, he was alone; all others—including me— stayed away.

In the end the project was a huge success. At the opening in 1978, the new Museum President, Dr. Wendell Mordy, was kind enough to call it, “The House that Jack Built.” I was slightly embarrassed because there were many who worked hard to raise the money that made it a reality.

Twenty years later, the museum had once again outgrown its space and a new building was needed. That’s the building you see today on Kellogg Blvd.  By then I was Chair of St. Paul Riverfront Development Corporation. 

For the first time in two generations, we had a chance to reconstruct the riverfront and reclaim it from the receding industrial glacier that had covered it.  We lobbied hard to ensure that the critical mass of cultural entities stayed on the city side of the river and that has worked.

This time the Triceratops was disassembled before it was moved and is now fully assembled, greeting happily all its admirers.

The moral of the story for me and what I tell young lawyers is this:

• It’s important to think like a utility infield baseball player.  You should be ready to play all the bases.  The world is full of specialists.  Don’t make your work so narrow that you will be out of work when trends shift.

• Learn about the numbers as well as the law.  Because I was able to understand the legal issues and municipal bond financing requirements, I could play in the cracks between the specialties and make connections. 

• Don’t be afraid to get out of your office. I loved clambering around the new building.  You can make adjustments when you are around the site and see things coming at you before they become a crisis.

• Be open to the adventure of it all. I ended up owning an Omni Theater in Seattle next to the aquarium.  In 1982, I resigned from Doherty, Rumble and Butler and set up my own practice, so I could keep being the lion at the table. It’s fun.