On Saturday morning, eleven members of the Northwood Manor Civic Club boarded a city bus for the half-hour drive to the Metropolitan Multi-Service Center at West Gray, in Houston’s Montrose neighborhood. They came to meet CenterPoint Energy CEO Jason Wells, who, in the wake of widespread power outages following Hurricane Beryl last month, has become the face of the city’s dysfunctional electrical grid. Four days after Beryl made landfall, with more than a million Houstonians still in the dark, Wells was photographed by the Houston Chronicle in the utility company’s downtown office building next to a thermostat set to 70 degrees. On his wrist was a watch identified by online horologists as a Rolex Daytona. (Wells made more than $7 million last year as CenterPoint’s chief financial officer. He was promoted to CEO in January).
In the weeks following Beryl, as Wells shuttled between his office and his generator-powered mansion, Northwood Manor residents were struggling to survive without air-conditioning in nearly 100-degree heat. Retiree Sandra Martin said she waited eight days for CenterPoint crews to restore her power. Others in the predominantly Black neighborhood of northeast Houston waited even longer. “Many of our seniors had medical devices such as oxygen tanks,” civic club president Fred Woods told me. “There was one couple who were without power until last week, and they just got their gas back this week. The downed trees disconnected every utility, including the sewage line.”
In the Multi-Service Center’s cavernous gymnasium, dozens of chipper, polo shirt–wearing CenterPoint employees greeted members of the public as they arrived for what the company billed as a “community open house.” It was the fourth of sixteen such events that CenterPoint is holding across the greater Houston area between now and the end of September—an apology tour in all but name. “The opportunity to hear firsthand from customers is an incredible opportunity,” Wells told me on Saturday. “Part of my role is to take all the feedback. I understand how important electricity is to our customers, and to society.” Wells plans to attend at least half of the events.
Each open house features information booths dedicated to various aspects of CenterPoint’s operations, from power-line maintenance to tree trimming. At one booth, visitors can view a demonstration of CenterPoint’s online Outage Tracker, a slick-looking replacement for the largely inaccurate version the company launched after Beryl. Multiple displays advertise CenterPoint’s “Greater Houston Resilience Initiative,” which involves installing more than a thousand fiberglass utility poles capable of withstanding wind up to 132 miles per hour; doubling the company’s vegetation management workforce; and installing automated electric reclosers meant to isolate electrical outages.
Not every visitor to Saturday’s open house was mollified. According to eyewitnesses, a furious community activist accosted Wells soon after he arrived, screaming at him over his role in the post-Beryl outages. The Northwood Manor residents were more respectful but just as angry. One older woman told Wells that she was a plaintiff in the $100 million class-action lawsuit filed against CenterPoint by attorney Michael Fertitta, son of Houston Rockets owner Tilman Fertitta.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the CEO responded, shaking his head.
The baby-faced executive stood at the head of a long folding table, wearing suede Chelsea boots and a pressed golf shirt tucked into faded jeans. I noticed that his Rolex had been replaced by an Apple Watch. Seated around the table were the frailer members of the neighborhood delegation. One by one, the residents narrated their harrowing experiences during the power outage. “I had a generator, but I ran out of money to buy gas,” said a woman with a nasal cannula and a wheelchair. “I had to go house to house to get electricity for my oxygen tank. All my food went bad. I’m a senior citizen on Social Security. It was horrible.”
An 85-year-old widow expressed the widely shared view that poor Black neighborhoods like Northwood Manor were often ignored in the wake of natural disasters. “We’re not complaining, and we don’t blame you,” she said, “but it seems like we are forgotten. Like we’re on the back burner. We call the company and we get the machine, or we get disconnected. There are times when I’m alone, and I call for assistance but it seems like nobody cares.”
Wells sat down and leaned toward the woman, who was beginning to cry. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was completely unacceptable—the wait times, the communications issues.” CenterPoint planned to double the number of agents at its call centers, he promised. “It’s so important during emergencies to hear a human voice.”
After speaking to the group for around half an hour, Wells told me that their stories had made an impact on him. “You hear the personal impact of going without power, and what that means,” he said. “Several of the ideas that they brought up were things we advocated for when we testified to the Texas House, but there were also other ideas”—such as more neighborhood cooling centers—“that I hadn’t heard before.”
Woods, the civic group president who organized the trip, gave Wells credit for attending the open house but expected to see some follow-through. “Showing up is half the battle—listening to the residents’ concerns, fielding questions. Not every CEO stands up and says, ‘It’s my fault, it’s our fault.’ But the other half of the battle is action. That’s what we need now.” Wells promised Woods he would visit the neighborhood in the coming months, pledging to ensure that at least one nearby cooling center was available for future power outages.
In addition to speaking to CenterPoint staff, visitors could write suggestions on sticky notes and paste them to a large poster board. Among the comments at the Montrose event: “Bury power lines.” “Emergency calls for people with lifesaving equipment.” “Pay me for the days of the outage.” “Don’t stick customers with the bill.” Some highlighted specific parts of town that needed attention. (“Trim trees in East Aldine.”)
A representative from the Public Utility Commission, the state agency charged with regulating CenterPoint and other electrical distributors, was present at the event but declined to take any questions from me. Energy experts say that blame for the post-Beryl disaster should be shared between CenterPoint and state officials. It’s the state, after all, that allows CenterPoint—a for-profit company that is listed on the New York Stock Exchange—to maintain a monopoly over the Houston’s power lines. In Texas’s deregulated energy market, customers can choose their own retail electricity providers but they can’t choose their distributor. With no competitors, CenterPoint answers only to its shareholders and to the generally deferential state regulators. (In a recent Houston Chronicle op-ed, veteran business reporter Loren Steffy described the Public Utility Commission as “less a watchdog of the public interest and more an emotional support animal for the industry it oversees.”)
Is CenterPoint’s outreach to Houston-area customers prompted by genuine civic concern, or by the fear that state regulators might finally get tough? Post-Beryl, top state officials, including Governor Greg Abbott and Lieutenant Governor Dan Patrick, have called for greater scrutiny of CenterPoint. Attorney General Ken Paxton has opened an investigation into the company, saying its conduct may have violated Texas law. At a recent state Senate hearing, Wells was grilled by lawmakers over his handling of the crisis. Republican senator Paul Bettencourt, who represents part of west Houston, even suggested that the CEO resign. Wells rejected the idea, arguing that his resignation would cause the company to “lose momentum on the things that are going to have the best possible impact for the Greater Houston region.”
With state officials finally holding CenterPoint’s feet to the fire, Houston residents hope to finally get some relief from the increasing number and duration of power outages. “In times of need, you don’t look at red or blue,” Woods told me. “We’re all Texans, and we’re all wrestling with this. We need to be supported so that we can be made whole and continue on with our lives.”
