Safe driving, safe roads, and safe cars!

29 Dec

One of the most informative sections of Paul Rubin’s great book, _Darwinian Politics_, goes into the Pinto suit in detail. He traces the differences between engineers and plain folks to biology.

Malcolm Gladwell: How Do We Build a Safer Car?
http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/05/04/the-engineers-lament
May 4, 2015 Issue

The Engineer’s Lament
Two ways of thinking about automotive safety.

To the public, a car
either is or isn’t faulty. To an engineer, imperfections and
compromises are inevitable.

In the early nineteen-seventies, Denny Gioia worked in the recall
office of the Ford Motor Company. His job was to read field reports
from the engineers Ford had posted around the country. If a safety
problem was spotted, the Ford representative in that district would
write up the case on a standardized form–single sheet, two sides,
sometimes with a photograph stapled to the page–and send it on to
Detroit.

Gioia looked for patterns. “You have to be able to identify
something that’s breaking,” he said not long ago. “Otherwise, I’ve
got an imaginary event. I try not to engage in magical thinking.
I’ve also got to have a pattern of failures. Idiosyncrasies won’t
do. Question is, do you have enough here indicating that these
failures are not just one-off events?” He was looking for what he
called “traceable cause.”

From the case reports that came in, Gioia built files, hundreds of
them. He posted updates on a large bulletin board listing all the
recalls that Ford had open at the time. Once a week, he would drive
to the “chamber of horrors”–a huge depot a few miles from Ford’s
headquarters, where all the problematic parts and vehicles were
sent. His responsibility was to put cases on the “docket,” the slate
of potential recalls. There were five people in the office. They
would go through every case on the docket and vote on whether to
send it to the executive committee.

“I was young, I was relatively low pay grade, but it was an
extraordinarily powerful position, in the sense of being able to
influence people to do things,” Gioia said. “If I picked up the
phone and said, ‘This is Gioia from recall office,’ people jumped.
I’m a twenty-six-year-old guy having people drop everything to
respond to my requests.”

Gioia is a car guy. His everyday drive is a 2013 Porsche 911 S, and
his weekend ride is a red 1979 Ferrari 308 GTS–the kind with an
engine that can rattle windows. His first job was with Boeing’s
aerospace division at Cape Kennedy, where he was part of the team
that made sure the arms on the scaffolding that held the Apollo 11
and the Apollo 12 in place before liftoff retracted at precisely the
right moment–because terrible things would happen if they didn’t.
Gioia is capable and direct and intelligent, with the easy
self-confidence of someone who has mastered mechanical things. The
walls of his office are covered with pictures of Ferraris and
memorabilia from NASA and the slide rule he used on the Apollo
projects. He grew up in rural Pennsylvania and Florida:
working-class parents, state schools all the way for engineering,
and then business school. He was beloved at Ford. When he was
recruited, someone in H.R. wrote “Crown Prince” across his file.

“One of the cases I inherited when I got the job had to do with
speed-control devices,” Gioia recalled. At the time, they were
regulated by a vacuum valve, which was failing in two of Ford’s most
expensive cars, the Lincoln Mark IV and the Thunderbird. “The
Thunderbird is a behemoth,” Gioia said. “It’s got a
four-hundred-and-sixty-cubic-inch engine hanging out at the front. I
mean, the hood is almost as long as the rest of the car. And nothing
you could do from inside the car could slow it down. You’re supposed
to be able to hit the brake and shut it off. Nope, won’t do it. Hit
the switch. No, it won’t shut off. This thing is in the accel mode.
It weighs forty-five hundred pounds–it’s almost a light truck. It’s
driven by little old ladies from Pasadena and it’s on its way to a
hundred miles an hour.

“The advice we got from the engineers was ‘Just tell the drivers to
turn the ignition off.’ Well, then there’s no vacuum assist on the
power brakes. Steering turns heavy. Ain’t nothing going on. So what
would you rather have–somebody who can’t steer the car or stop the
car or somebody who’s on his way to a hundred miles an hour? That’s
a problem that’s going to kill someone.”

The T-bird case was straightforward: clear traceable cause, obvious
pattern of failure. Often, though, the troubles were more difficult
to locate. Gioia could get twenty to twenty-five reports a day. The
pace was unrelenting. Everything was a crisis. When he started, he
was told, “We only have time to put out the big fires and piss on
the little ones.” He said, “I had to become aware that you can’t
attend to everything. You have to prioritize the most dangerous
problems. Then you have to figure out when to pull the trigger. When
do I actually have enough information that says it goes on the
docket? Then how do I have enough information to make a compelling
case to convince an executive panel that they really should spend
thirty million dollars on a recall?”

Several times, Gioia used the present tense in describing his time
at Ford, even though it had been decades since he’d worked there.
Finally, he caught himself: “You hear how I’m talking now? I get
pitched back in time. I haven’t been there for forty years. But I
still speak in the ‘we’ when I’m talking about these events.”

By “these events,” he was referring to one case in particular. It
first came to his notice in 1973, when he got a field report on one
of Ford’s top-selling cars, a compact called the Pinto. The Pinto
went on to spawn a series of devastating lawsuits, a federal
investigation, a “60 Minutes” exposé, and a recall of 1.5 million
vehicles, culminating in the indictment of the Ford Motor
Company–the entire company–for reckless homicide in the deaths of
three teen-age girls. (Full disclosure: In 2011, I gave a talk at a
marketing conference sponsored by Ford.) Honda’s current crisis over
defective air bags, General Motors’ multibillion-dollar
ignition-switch recall last year, and Toyota’s sudden-acceleration
problems in 2009 and 2010 all follow the template created by the
Pinto case forty years ago. A car company knows about a problem, and
doesn’t fix it–why not? Denny Gioia has spent the better part of a
lifetime thinking about this question. Sometimes there was a picture
on the field reports that came across Gioia’s desk. The Pinto case
had multiple photographs, stapled front and back. Gioia remembers
everything about that first moment. “Oh, God,” he says, “like it was
yesterday.”

There is an old joke about an engineer, a priest, and a doctor
enjoying a round of golf. Ahead of them is a group playing so slowly
and inexpertly that in frustration the three ask the greenkeeper for
an explanation. “That’s a group of blind firefighters,” they are
told. “They lost their sight saving our clubhouse last year, so we
let them play for free.”

The priest says, “I will say a prayer for them tonight.”

The doctor says, “Let me ask my ophthalmologist colleagues if
anything can be done for them.”

And the engineer says, “Why can’t they play at night?”

The greenkeeper explains the behavior of the firefighters. The
priest empathizes; the doctor offers care. All three address the
social context of the situation: the fact that the firefighters’
disability has inadvertently created conflict on the golf course.
Only the engineer tries to solve the problem.

Almost all engineering jokes–and there are many–are versions of
this belief: that the habits of mind formed by the profession enable
engineers to see things differently from the rest of us. “A
pessimist sees the glass as half empty. An optimist sees the glass
as half full. The engineer sees the glass as twice the size it needs
to be.” To the others, the glass is a metaphor. Nonsense, the
engineer says. The specifications are off. He doesn’t give free rein
to temperament; he assesses the object. These jokes, like many of
the jokes people tell about themselves, are grievances. The engineer
doesn’t understand why the rest of us can’t make sense of the world
the way he does.

Toyota’s safety crisis was, in a sense, a version of the golf-course
conundrum. One of the problems facing the company was “sticky”
accelerator pedals: drivers would take their foot off the
accelerator, and in a small number of cases the pedal wouldn’t
spring back up immediately. After four cases in Europe were brought
to Toyota’s attention, the company determined that under conditions
of high heat or humidity the synthetic material used in part of the
pedal mechanism was degrading slightly.

Toyota’s engineers approached the problem armed with the two
concepts that define the engineer’s world: tolerances and
specifications. A system’s tolerance is its ability to cope with
changes and unplanned variation; systems need to be tolerant because
you can never perfectly predict what stresses and unexpected
behaviors they will encounter. Specifications are constraints. No
one tells you to build a perfect car. People tell you to build a car
in eighteen months that will sell for twenty-five thousand dollars.
The fact that a car is revealed to be imperfect, in other words, is
not sufficient reason to recall it: imperfections and compromises
are inevitable. The issue is how tolerant the car is of those
imperfections and compromises.

The University of Michigan engineering professor Jeffrey Liker
(writing with Timothy N. Ogden) describes what happened next in the
book “Toyota Under Fire” (2011):

The primary concern was determining if the sticky pedals affected
the ability of drivers to stop their vehicles. This question is
the hidden factor around which much of the subsequent controversy
revolved: if the sticky pedals kept drivers from stopping or
materially increased the amount of time required to bring a car
to a halt, then the sticky pedals were clearly a safety defect
and required immediate corrective action. If, on the other hand,
braking performance was unaffected by the sticky pedals, then,
the engineers felt, the pedals were not a safety defect but a
customer-satisfaction and component-reliability issue.

What did Toyota’s engineers find? When the pedal stuck, it made no
difference in how quickly the car could be brought to a stop: the
brakes were powerful enough to override the problem if applied with
sufficient force. Then they looked at the federal accident database,
and learned that no crash had been credited to a sticky accelerator
pedal. The system was, to their mind, sufficiently tolerant of
imperfection. They decided against an immediate recall, choosing
instead to redesign the part and introduce it in new model lines.
Their solution was not empathy or care. It was play at night.

The public saw things very differently. They didn’t think about the
necessary compromises inherent in the design process. They didn’t
understand that a car was engineered to be tolerant of things like
sticky pedals. They looked at the part in isolation, saw that it did
not work as they expected it to work–and foresaw the worst. What if
an inexperienced driver found his car behaving unexpectedly and
panicked? To the engineer, a car sits somewhere on the gradient of
acceptability. To the public, a car’s status is binary: it is either
broken or working, flawed or functional.

In the wake of the sticky-pedal problem, customers started
complaining that Toyotas were prone to sudden, unintended
acceleration. “Whenever someone called in to say, ‘I’ve had an
episode of unintended acceleration,’ Toyota would dispatch a team of
engineers,” said Roger Martin, a former dean of the University of
Toronto’s Rotman School of Management and a member of the advisory
panel that Toyota put together during the crisis. “And they would do
a thorough examination of the car and pronounce it fine–because it
always was–and assure the owner that everything was going to be
fine. They were probably just pressing the accelerator when they
thought they were pressing the brake. There wasn’t a problem. Just
be more careful next time. And they got more and more complaints.”

The engineers were right. A series of exhaustive investigations by
federal regulators, with help from NASA engineers, established that
the perception of an electronic failure was almost certainly
illusory. The problem was caused either by the fact that some people
put in poorly fitted, nonstandard floor mats or by the fact that
drivers were pressing the accelerator thinking that it was the
brake. (Pedal error, as it is known, is a well-documented source of
vehicle malfunction, affecting drivers of many makes and models.)
Cars are engineered to be tolerant of pedal error: the driver who
depresses the accelerator, thinking it’s the brake, still has the
option of simply putting the car in neutral or turning it off.
(That’s one of the reasons that cars have gearshifts and ignition
switches.) But in the public mind a car that accelerated
unexpectedly was broken. The teams of engineers that Toyota sent out
didn’t make the problem better. They made it worse.

“The Toyota guy explained this to the panel,” Martin went on. “He
said, ‘Here’s our process.’ So I said to him, ‘What do you imagine
the people are thinking? They’re shaking like a leaf at the side of
the road and after that whole experience they are told, “The car’s
fine. Chill out. Don’t make mistakes anymore.” Of course they are
not going to be happy. These people are scared. What if instead you
sent people out who could be genuinely empathetic? What if you said,
“We’re sorry this happened. What we’re worried about is your comfort
and your confidence and your safety. We’re going to check your car.
If you’re just scared of this car, we’ll take it back and give you
another, because your feeling of confidence matters more than
anything else.” ‘ It was a sort of revelation. He wasn’t a dumb guy.
He was an engineer. He only thought about doing things from an
engineer’s standpoint. They changed what those teams did, and they
started getting love letters from people.”

It is hard to find an auto-safety controversy that does not divide
along these lines. Last year, Tim Murphy, the chairman of the House
Subcommittee on Oversight and Investigations, opened the first of
two congressional hearings on the Chevrolet Cobalt ignition-switch
recall by saying, “Today we will ask G.M. and N.H.T.S.A. what they
are doing, not just to fix the car but to fix a culture within a
business and a government regulator that led to these problems.”
Murphy was taking the public view. Since the Cobalt was broken, the
fact that the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration did not
order it recalled in a timely fashion represented a moral failure.
“This is about restoring public trust,” he went on, “and giving the
families and crash victims the truth about whether this tragedy
could have been prevented and if future ones will be prevented.”

Then the acting head of the N.H.T.S.A., David Friedman (whose Ph.D.
thesis involves ways of mathematically modelling fuel-cell stacks),
gave his testimony, and he spoke another language. In the dry,
empirical vernacular of the engineer, he explained exactly why the
agency had done what it did. The Cobalt in the model years 2005-2010
was equipped with an ignition switch that, under certain conditions,
shut off in mid-operation, disabling the air bags and the power
assistance on the steering and the brakes. Accidents involving
nonfunctioning air bags are monitored as a matter of course by the
N.H.T.S.A.’s Special Crash Investigation (S.C.I.) division. In 2005,
when the S.C.I. first received field reports on the Cobalt, it
passed the cases on to the Early Warning Division (E.W.D.), which
collected all the data it could on air-bag non-deployment (A.B.N.D.)
and referred the information to the Data Analysis Division (D.A.D.),
which came up with a statistical comparison of air-bag
non-deployment in the Cobalt and its peers.

“The data available to N.H.T.S.A. at the time was not sufficient to
warrant a formal investigation,” Friedman explained, at which point
you can imagine the members of the investigative committee either
rolling their eyes or falling asleep. But Friedman soldiered on.
A.B.N.D. rates as calculated by the D.A.D., with an assist from the
E.W.D. and the S.C.I., can be obtained for every compact car sold in
the United States in the early two-thousands, and then ranked in
order of how frequently a model’s air bags failed to deploy in an
accident. The average for the group is 1.22 non-deployments per
hundred thousand kilometres driven. The worst offenders were the
2005 Toyota Echo (3.9 A.B.N.D.), the 2003 Kia Optima (3.79), and the
2004 Hyundai Accent (3.15). The 2006 Cobalt is right in the middle
of the pack, and the 2005 Cobalt is just slightly worse than the
average.

The underlying data set that Friedman’s charts drew from is a
blizzard of numbers that would take up half a column on this page.
But, if you take the time to sift through them, it is clear that
Friedman gave a rigorous answer to the question of why it took so
long for G.M. and federal regulators to see that the Cobalt had a
problem. It took so long because for the longest time there was
little evidence to suggest that Cobalts had a problem. They were
just somewhere in the middle of the gradient between unacceptable
and high-performing. “All the brilliant engineers and workers in the
world won’t matter if the people don’t really care,” Murphy told the
assembled witnesses, in his opening statement. “As the old saying
goes, ‘People don’t care that you know until they know that you
care.’ ” He meant: If all you do is give me numbers, I can’t
understand you. Friedman, in giving him numbers, had effectively
responded: If I don’t give you numbers, how do we know what to care
about?

In this exchange, none of the categories that we typically use to
account for belief and behavior are particularly helpful in making
sense of their differences. Identity politics–the great explanatory
growth engine of our time–focusses on gender and ethnicity. But the
fact that these are two middle-aged white men tells us nothing.
Murphy is a Republican and Friedman was appointed by a Democrat. But
this doesn’t help, either. Their disagreement isn’t political. It’s
professional. Murphy holds a Ph.D. in psychology (and continues to
see patients); Friedman is pursuing one in engineering. Their
perspectives turn on a category–profession–that we have pushed to
the bottom of the pile. Surely this is why Jimmy Carter remains the
most puzzling American President in recent times. We have too often
insisted on trying to understand him using the default modes of
identity politics: as a white, Southern born-again Christian. But
Carter was by profession and training an engineer–a disciple of the
greatest and most influential engineer in the history of the U.S.
Navy, Admiral Hyman Rickover. Rickover, Carter once said, had more
influence on him than anyone except his parents. In his literalness,
his relentless candor, his practicality, Carter was the Toyota
engineer by the side of the road doggedly lecturing us on how to
drive the car. Carter’s true nature is puzzling only if we remain
rooted in the fantasy that the world we inherit somehow matters more
than the world that we chose for ourselves–and that surrounds us,
from nine to five, every working day of our adult lives.

“I’m a child of the sixties,” Gioia said, on this point. “I was an
active member of the protest movement against the war in Vietnam
and, curiously, the behavior of corporate America. I’m one of those
guys who faced off with the bayonets as a result of the Kent State
thing. During my M.B.A. program, in my classes, I was the voice for
social activism. I got the reputation as the bleeding-heart liberal
in the room, and that was the reputation I carried with me to Ford.”

Gioia says he went to Ford with the idea that he would “fight them
from the inside,” but sooner or later, inevitably, the world that
surrounds us, all the working day, takes precedence. “Here’s the guy
that went in with a strong value system, with intent and purpose,
and got flipped within the space of two years,” he went on. “If it
could happen to me, it could happen to anybody.”

He joined Ford in 1972, and by 1974, when concerns about the Pinto
began to emerge, he was thinking differently. He had become an
automotive engineer. Reflecting on his own changes, he was put in
mind of Ariel Sharon: “When he was asked later in his career why he
was making all these concessions to the Palestinians now that he’s
in the Israeli government, he simply said, ‘It looks different from
here.’ I guess it looked different from there.”

On the afternoon of August 10, 1978, just outside Elkhart, Indiana,
three teen-age girls stopped for gas on their way to a volleyball
game. The driver was Judy Ulrich. Her cousin Donna and her younger
sister Lyn were passengers. They were in a 1973 Pinto. At the gas
station, as Lee Patrick Strobel recounts in his book “Reckless
Homicide?,” a history of the Ulrich trial, the girls accidentally
left the gas cap on the roof of the car, and after a mile or so it
slipped off and rolled across the road. Judy slowed down. There was
a high curb along the side of the highway, so pulling off the road
was impossible. She put on her emergency flashers. Coming down the
road behind them was a van driven by a twenty-one-year-old man named
Robert Duggar. He had two half-empty bottles of Budweiser next to
him (although he wasn’t under the influence), and he took his eyes
off the road for a moment as he reached for a cigarette. When he
looked up, the Pinto was ten feet in front of him. He could not stop
in time. The Pinto exploded in flames. Shards of glass scattered in
every direction. The car spun around and around, stopping a hundred
and fifty feet from the point of impact. The fire reached almost
thirteen hundred degrees, melting the sunglasses around Lyn’s eyes.
Lyn and Donna were killed instantly. Judy Ulrich lay in the grass
with burns over ninety-five per cent of her body, crying out, “Help
me. Please, help me.” She died eight hours later.

The Ulrich crash is what led to Ford’s being charged with homicide.
It is also very similar to the Pinto case that had come across Denny
Gioia’s desk five years earlier: a rear collision, leading to a
fire. In Gioia’s case, however, the kinds of detail that made the
Ulrich case so emotionally compelling–the three girls, the
volleyball game, the melting sunglasses, Judy Ulrich’s cry for
help–were absent. He had a typed double-sided sheet, with
photographs. That’s what a recall officer sees. It would come in the
morning mail with a pile of other case reports, not as the subject
of a “60 Minutes” exposé or a sensational front-page story. He would
see that people had died. But a death to him does not register the
same way as a death does to us. The recall officer goes to the
chamber of horrors every week. He looks at car crashes for a living.
“People dying was a normal part of the job,” Gioia said. “It really
affected me when I first started. I had a hell of a time getting
used to what was required, because the first thing that gets you
going is always an awareness that someone has been grievously
injured or killed in one of your products. And the only thing I’ll
say to you is You’ve got to get over that. If you want to let
emotion drive the recall coördinator’s job, you ain’t going to be a
very good recall coördinator. You have to accept that, if you’re a
manufacturer who’s building a product like a vehicle, people are
going to get killed.”

So imagine the case in the recall officer’s stripped-down version.
The relevant question is not who died. He’s not dwelling on the
tragedy of three teen-age girls. His question is: Why did they die?
The prosecutor in the Ulrich trial, Michael Cosentino, said that
Ford was to blame. Why didn’t blame reside with the municipality,
which built a highway with a curb that made it impossible for anyone
to pull over safely? Or with Robert Duggar, who casually reached for
a cigarette and took his eye off the road?

Cosentino’s answer was that he had traceable cause. As Strobel
recounts, Cosentino argued in his opening statement that there was
something inherent in the Pinto’s design that “invited fire in the
event of normal highway collisions.” This allegation was made
repeatedly in the many lawsuits involving the Pinto. The Pinto’s gas
tank sat behind its rear axle–instead of above it–and was
separated from the back bumper by only a few inches of “crush
space.” In a rear collision, the tank would be slammed against
exposed studs on the axle, punching holes in the tank, ripping out
the fuel-filler neck, and spilling gas into the passenger cabin. If
any part of the metal scraping on metal or metal scraping on
pavement that is typical in a crash produced a spark, the car would
erupt into a fireball. A few months before the Ulrich crash, the
N.H.T.S.A. released the results of an investigation into the Pinto’s
safety record, detailing thirty-eight instances in which a Pinto had
been struck from behind and burst into flames. Under pressure from
the N.H.T.S.A., Ford eventually agreed to install a plastic
protective “flak jacket” between the gas tank and the axle. The
Ulrich crash was in August of 1978. The recall was supposed to start
that fall. Hence the trial, and the pressing question: Why did Ford
wait until 1978 to fix the gas tank of a car that first came out in
1970?

But does a rear-positioned gas tank qualify as traceable cause?
Traceable cause suggests a deviation from the norm. It turns out,
however, that most compacts of that era had fuel tanks behind the
rear axle. A former head of the N.H.T.S.A. testified on Ford’s
behalf, stating that in his opinion the Pinto’s design was no more
or less safe than that of any other car in its class, like the
Chevrolet Vega or the A.M.C. Gremlin. Under cross-examination, one
of the chief witnesses for the prosecution–an automobile-safety
consultant named Byron Bloch–conceded the point. In “Reckless
Homicide?,” Strobel writes:

Bloch agreed that the American Motors Gremlin, Chevrolet Vega,
and Dodge Colt had their gas tanks behind the axle; that those
cars had essentially the same bumpers (“I would say that they
were all bad,” Bloch said); that the Vega had no body rails at
all; that all four cars had somewhat similar distances from the
tank to the rear bumper; that all of them had at least some sharp
objects near the tank; and that the thickness of the gas tank
metal on the Pinto was in the upper one-third of other 1973 (era)
cars.

Here are the deaths per million vehicles for 1975 and 1976 for the
best-selling compact cars of that era, compiled by Gary T. Schwartz
in his landmark law-review article “The Myth of the Ford Pinto
Case”:

Gremlin               274       315
Vega                  288       310
Datsun 1200/210       392       418
Datsun 510            294       340
Pinto                 298       322
Corolla               333       293
VW Beetle             378       370

Suppose we focus just on the subset of accidents involving a fire.
That’s a rare event–it happens once in every hundred crashes. In
1975-76, 1.9 per cent of all cars on the road were Pintos, and
Pintos were involved in 1.9 per cent of all fatal fires. Let’s try
again. About fifteen per cent of fatal fires resulted from rear
collisions. If we look just at that subset of the subset, Schwartz
shows, we finally see a pattern. Pintos were involved in 4.1 per
cent of all rear-collision fire fatalities–which is to say that
they may have been as safe as or safer than other cars in most
respects but less safe in this one.

Later, after Gioia’s initial brush with the Pinto, he recalled
finding out about internal Ford tests showing that the fuel tank of
the Pinto would rupture in rear crashes involving speeds as low as
twenty-five miles per hour. The corresponding figure for its
competitors, like the Vega, was closer to twenty-seven or
twenty-eight miles per hour, he said. The disparity was pointed out
by Cosentino at the Ulrich trial. Ford knowingly sold a car that
performed worse than its competitors in the most horrifying of
scenarios–a fire from a rear collision. He was thinking
speculatively and symbolically. What’s the worst that could happen?
And what does that fact say about the company’s motivations?

Yet, from an engineer’s standpoint, the same information is much
more ambiguous. Every car on the road is different–safer in some
ways and less safe in others. So does the one area where the Pinto
is worse–by two miles per hour in an infrequent subset of a rare
kind of fatal crash–mean that the car is defective? A radically
redesigned Pinto would not have saved the Ulrich girls. In the
trial, the defense successfully argued that Duggar was driving at
close to fifty miles per hour, and nothing short of a Sherman tank
could have survived the impact of a four-thousand-pound van at full
speed.

Around this time, the N.H.T.S.A. passed a revised version of what’s
called the 301 rule, which stated that the fuel systems of passenger
cars had to be safe from rupture in collisions of thirty miles per
hour. The N.H.T.S.A. decided to fix the problem of the Pinto’s gas
tank through regulation. But when the N.H.T.S.A. went back in 1990
and analyzed the effect of the new regulation, it concluded that
“fatalities were not affected.” The difference between twenty-five
and thirty miles per hour, or between 27.5 and thirty, was too small
to pick up, or maybe it didn’t exist at all, or maybe the problem
all along was rear collisions at fifty or sixty miles per hour.
Fatalities were not affected. We are back to where Friedman was with
the air-bag non-deployment rates of the Cobalt. Was the car broken?
Or was it just somewhere on the gradient between unacceptable and
high-performing?

In the nineteen-nineties, the sociologists Matthew Lee and M. David
Ermann interviewed the key engineers who had worked on the Pinto,
and even then–two decades after the controversy–they were
resolute. “They didn’t see the fuel-tank issue as the central
problem, and they didn’t see the fix that was implemented as the
result of the recall as doing anything worthwhile,” Lee said
recently. “In their view, the flak jacket was pretty much useless.”
They had seen the data. They had looked at the record of events like
the Ulrich crash, and the 1990 N.H.T.S.A. 301 report. They concluded
that we would be better off focussing on other things. Lee went on,
“They would say things like ‘The gas tank was problematic, as it was
for all the other small cars and as it still is today for many small
cars.’ Then they would say, ‘But the real issue is this’–and they
would go off on a passionate discussion of safety glass.”

You and I would feel safer in a car that met the 301 standard. But
the engineer, whose aim is to maximize safety within a series of
material constraints, cannot be distracted by how you and I feel. If
you are busy empathizing with blind firefighters–if your goal is to
treat them with the same consideration you would sighted
golfers–how do you get them to consider that everyone might be
better off if they played at night? The grievance at the heart of
that joke is that we wrongly think of the engineers’ attitude as
callous, when to their mind, in their focus on identifying the real
problem, they are the opposite of callous.

At one point, Gioia began to tell the story of the time his team got
word of a problem at Ford’s big-truck plant in Kentucky. A batch of
wheel hubs was defective: clear traceable cause, obvious pattern of
failure. “They had identified twelve highway tractors, the big ones,
where they knew the front hubs were going to break,” he said. “Not
if, when. And so we dropped everything. We had to find those trucks.
We’re talking about a big truck at highway speeds. The momentum on a
heavy vehicle will literally knock down a house. We stayed up for
several days until we found them all. One was in Alaska. Another was
on a boat to Hawaii.”

He went on, “So many people, especially the people writing about
G.M. right now, are saying, ‘It’s a collection of bad actors, and
they have inured themselves to their responsibilities.’ But I think
it’s important to say that, at least in the recall office where I
worked, it was not populated by a collection of ogres. They were
people that cared.”

That is, these were people who cared about the problems they thought
were problems. The entire time that Gioia was working on the Pinto
case, he drove a Pinto. “Look, the facts of the matter are that in
normal use this car is perfectly fine,” he said, shrugging. Later,
he sold his Pinto to his sister, for six hundred dollars. At the
time, the Pinto was being tried in court for the murder of three
teen-age girls. But it should be remembered that, in the end, Ford
won the Ulrich case. The engineers got the chance to present their
evidence, and their testimony carried the day.

Last August, the traffic-safety expert Leonard Evans published a
paper in the American Journal of Public Health. In the early
nineteen-seventies, Evans wrote, the United States was often said to
have the safest roads in the world, and since then traffic
fatalities in the U.S. have declined by forty-one per cent. That
sounds like an impressive number. But then Evans pointed out that,
in the same period, traffic deaths in the Netherlands, for instance,
declined at twice that rate. The United States, once No. 1 in the
world in safety, has fallen to nineteenth place. If American highway
deaths had followed the European pattern, Evans concluded, twenty
thousand lives would have been saved in 2011 alone.

Evans is a physicist and a member of the National Academy of
Engineering, who worked for years for General Motors, and you get a
clear sense of what he would like to see: the causes of traffic
fatalities ranked in order of significance, and a safety campaign
organized accordingly. Excessive speed, for example, is implicated
in an overwhelming number of fatal crashes. Traffic enforcement
cameras–“speed cameras”–have been shown, conclusively, to reduce
road fatalities. Western European countries have been aggressive in
adopting speed cameras, which is one of the main reasons that their
road deaths have fallen so dramatically. The United States has not.
Even simple police enforcement of the speed limit, in some states,
has been lacking. A few years ago, the economists Gregory DeAngelo
and Benjamin Hansen wrote a paper looking at road deaths and
injuries in the state of Oregon, which–in part because of a “tax
revolt”–has cut the size of its highway patrol repeatedly since the
end of the nineteen-seventies. “We find that Oregon would have
experienced 2,302 fewer fatalities from 1979-2005 if the number of
state police had been maintained at their 1979 levels,” the two
concluded.

There is also a clear, demonstrated relationship between the cost of
alcohol and the number of drunk-driving deaths. Research has shown
that raising social awareness around drunk driving–as groups like
Mothers Against Drunk Driving have done–is not enough. In most
Western European countries, the sales tax on alcohol ranges between
sixteen and twenty-five per cent. In the United States, it is
somewhere between one-half and a third of the European rate–and
because the federal excise is a flat amount (not a percentage of the
sales price) it falls every year with inflation.

“There are extremely negative outcomes that are responsive to the
price of alcohol, like highway fatalities,” the economist Philip J.
Cook, who has written extensively on the subject, says. “I estimated
that the tax increase associated with the 1991 excise tax saved
sixty-five hundred lives the first year from trauma-related
accidents of various kinds. It was an extraordinarily effective
measure from the public-safety perspective. What is distressing to
me is that it has been allowed to erode. And there is a large
segment in Congress seeking to repeal the 1991 increase entirely.”

In the United States, issues like taxes or speed cameras tend to be
framed in political terms–as matters of individual liberty or
economic freedom. But Evans’s point is that we have overlooked the
fact that these issues are essentially about public safety. Would
the people of Oregon have voted so overwhelmingly in favor of an
anti-tax ballot measure if they had realized that they were
condemning thousands of their fellow-citizens to death?

The number of deaths associated with drinking and speeding obviously
dwarfs the number associated with the kind of auto-safety
controversies that grab our attention. The N.H.T.S.A.’s conclusion
was that, in the first seven years that the Pinto and its later
companion model the Bobcat were on the road, two dozen of their
occupants were killed by fires from rear collisions. The number of
deaths linked to the Toyota sudden-acceleration complaints was about
the same. The deaths associated with G.M.’s ignition-switch
malfunction have so far totalled around fifty. More people died in
an average year in Oregon as a result of too few traffic police than
died in all three of those controversies combined. And those are
just the fatalities that resulted from a single variation in one
factor in one small state in one twenty-five-year period.

The other obvious fact is that the variables that really matter have
to do with the driver, not the car. The public approach to auto
safety is preoccupied with what might go wrong mechanically with the
vehicles we drive. But the chief factor is not what we drive; it is
how we drive. Richard Schmidt, who is perhaps the world’s leading
expert on pedal error, says that the Toyota sudden-acceleration
controversy ought to have triggered a national discussion about
safer driving. He argues for overturning the deeply held–and, in
his view, irrational–proscription against two-foot driving. If
drivers used one foot for the accelerator and the other foot for the
brake, he says, they would be far less likely to mistake one pedal
for the other. Accidents could be prevented; lives could be saved.
But in order to talk about solving the pedal-error problem you have
to accept the fact that, when it comes to saving lives, things like
the number of police on the road, and the price of alcohol, and the
techniques we use to drive our cars are vastly more important than
where a car’s gas tank is mounted.

“I would argue that our nation has a low tolerance for fatalities
associated with airplanes,” the N.H.T.S.A.’s David Friedman told me,
when we spoke late last year. “In part because of that, fatalities
are very, very low from aircraft. Also in part because of that, the
F.A.A. has close to fifty thousand employees–an order of magnitude
more employees than we do. We have six hundred. To deal with ten
thousand people who are dying from drunk driving or ten thousand
dying because they didn’t wear a seat belt, or the three thousand
dying from distracted driving, or the four thousand dying because
they are pedestrians or bicyclists and they are hit by a car. That’s
why the Administration has been asking Congress for more resources
for us. With more resources, we could save more lives. And each time
the answer from Congress has been no. Zero.”

When he said that, Friedman was fresh off another excruciating
appearance before Congress, to answer questions about the Honda
air-bag recall. He didn’t belabor the point. He didn’t have to. Here
he was, charged with reducing one of the greatest sources of
preventable death and injury in the United States, and he was being
instructed to direct the energies of his tiny, underfunded agency
toward a problem so small that it barely showed up in the
traffic-fatality statistics. Engineers have a grievance. They think
we should think more like them. They are not wrong.

The 1973 file with the photos stapled front and back got Denny
Gioia’s attention. He later went to the chamber of horrors, and he
saw the problem firsthand: a burned-out Pinto carcass. “You have to
imagine what it’s like. Have you ever seen a burned-out–not a Pinto
but anything?” he said. “It’s awful. It’s just awful. Especially if
you use your imagination and remember that people were in it when it
turned into that state. Everything’s melted. All the plastic, and
there’s a lot of plastic. All of the wiring. Steering wheel is
warped. I mean, it starts to rust in days. It’s repulsive to see
that kind of thing.”

Did he have traceable cause? He did later, when he learned about the
internal test results. But all he had in the beginning was what the
engineer assigned to the case said: “He told me, ‘I spent all day on
this damn car. I went over it with a fine-tooth comb. Other than
that, it’s a tin can.’ What does that mean? He meant that it was a
two-thousand-pound car on the road with four-thousand-pound cars. It
got hit. It lit up. What do you expect?” It didn’t look like a
defect. It looked like simple physics.

Nor did Gioia see a pattern of failure. This was a rare subset of a
rare subset of traffic accident. “Usually, just to put something on
the docket, I’ve got to have twenty cases, pointing to a similar
component that was failing,” Gioia said. “The whole time I managed
the Pinto file, I never got above five.” He held out his hand, his
finger and thumb separated by a sliver. “In that context of
everything else that’s going on, it’s that big.”

In the meantime, he and his colleagues in the recall office were
juggling problems, trying to figure out which ones would pass muster
with the executives upstairs. “Sometimes we’d look at something and
say, ‘It’s not worth putting forth, because there’s no way they’re
going to recall this trivial problem,’ ” he said. “And we didn’t
want to lose credibility. And, remember, on a personal level, I’m
the guy who has a reputation as a bleeding-heart liberal. Gioia will
vote to recall anything. So I had to rein myself in a little bit.
And you can’t recall everything. You just can’t. You know? You want
to recall everything that looks like it might be a problem? Guess
what, you just put the company out of business.”

Gioia now chairs the department of management and organization at
Penn State’s business school. Some years ago, he put together a
study of his role in the Pinto case, and presented it to students.
It didn’t go well. “It opened me up to all kinds of criticism,” he
said. “People finger-wagging, saying, ‘You’re a bad actor,’ taking
me to task for killing people.” He could not explain to a group of
students deep in the world of university life how it was to think
like an engineer deep in the world of a car company. Now that he is
no longer an engineer, even he finds it easy to criticize his former
self. “I think I could have made a huge difference if I had just
gotten on the horn and started making calls,” he said. “What do you
know? What’s going on here? Here’s the pattern I’m seeing from here,
what can you tell me about this?” He thinks he could have brought
the Pinto case to the attention of Ford’s management earlier; he
could have lessened the crisis that followed. Then he remembered
what it was like in the recall office, the flood of cases, the
complexity and the ambiguity of those cases. If he didn’t rely on
the numbers, how would he know what to care about? “I had bigger
fish to fry,” he said. “Bigger, more immediate problems to take care
of.”

He went back to the office from the chamber of horrors and put the
case on the docket. It was a symbolic stand. “I practically got
laughed out of the office,” Gioia said. He re-created the dialogue
from decades earlier:

Well, come on, Den. We’re going to go in front of the executive
panel with this evidence? What do you got? Two or three field
reports? Why are we even discussing this?

Well, I just came back from the depot. You should see what I saw.

Den. Come to your senses.

“So I came to my senses,” he said. “I realized, O.K., first of all,
I’d done what I trained myself not to do, make decisions on the
basis of emotion. And, second, I realized, I had to prove it, and I
couldn’t prove it.”

The Pinto case was put to a vote. It lost, 5-0. Gioia voted against
it himself.
_______________________________________________
tt

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: