by Robin Lamont
Harbolt gave a shake of his head. “We should work with the police. They’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“Even if they believe you, it’ll be too late,” insisted Jude. “The protocol is over, the testing period done as of today. What do you think Amaethon’s going to do? Sit around and wait for the cops to show up? No, they’re probably back at the lab cleaning everything up and getting rid of the animals. By the time the cops get a search warrant – if they can get one without solid evidence, which we don’t have – there will be no way to connect Amaethon to Heather Buck or anyone else who doesn’t understand why they can’t stop bleeding to death.”
The head nurse poked her head in. “Is everything alright in here?” she asked.
“Of course, Sarah,” said Dr. Harbolt. “Just checking on Miss Brannock’s stitches, which I did at the office.”
“She told me that she took some pills.”
When Harbolt glanced back worriedly at Jude, she piped up, “Oh, right. The Tylenol.”
“I thought you didn’t know what they were,” Sarah accused.
“But then I remembered.”
The nurse grunted her displeasure with the difficult patient and shut the curtain.
Harbolt turned back to Jude. “I suppose you have a plan?”
“We have to talk with the people who will believe us,” she replied, her eyes narrowed in thought. “And I’m going to need your help. But first, see if you can find the keys for this,” she held up her shackled wrist, “at the desk out there.”
CHAPTER 24
Ostrovsky’s shoe coverings made a stealthy, shushing sound as he wheeled his cart down the hall. As a matter of habit, he’d donned a plastic cap and latex gloves, but it didn’t matter if he brought germs into the kennel now. He was both scared and feeling sorry for himself. The scientist in him had been looking forward to examining the tissue samples under a microscope and poring over the data that was sure to prove the PMP experiment an unequivocal success. The rodents he’d already necropsied attested to that. But he’d wanted the canines, too. Now he’d never get the chance.
He backed into the kennel and flipped on the light switch. The dogs erupted in the excited panting and strangled whines that met anyone who came through the door. To Ostrovsky, it wasn’t nearly as annoying as the sound of two dozen beagles barking at the top of their lungs, which is why he’d had them all de-barked at the breeder before being sent to the lab. Some people thought it cruel, but he rationalized the procedure by believing that they’d lived with their vocal cords surgically removed for most of their lives – it was all they knew.
Still unable to deviate from pattern, he checked the thermostat. It read 68 degrees but felt much colder. He shivered and turned to the task at hand, arranging his instruments on the cart to prepare for the first canine. He knew that he should have an assistant to hold the dogs while he inserted the IV; if he didn’t get the vein right away, the dog might struggle and make it that much more difficult. But he was on his own.
He laid a towel on the stainless-steel cart as he eyed which one he’d take first. Best to go for the sick ones, he thought. They were less likely to thrash, and it had been months since he’d done this procedure himself. By the time he got to the control group, he’d have it down. He eyed one in particular – a female who lay listless in her crate.
But as Ostrovsky prepared the pentobarbital injection, he found his hands were shaking and he had difficulty getting the needle through the rubber seal on the vial. He jabbed the syringe at it a few times, succeeding only in breaking off the needle tip. The tremors became more pronounced. What had Harbolt given him? He said this new prescription might act differently than the meds he’d been taking but assured him it would help.
He secured a new needle shaft and tried again. This time he got it through and drew up the pink liquid. Once injected, within a couple of minutes it would slow the brain, lungs, and heart until they stopped. But as he held up the syringe to clear any air bubbles, it shook back and forth in front of his face. This was hopeless. He wouldn’t be able to get a clean shot at a vein, not like this.
The syringe went back on the cart, the dog in its crate. Ostrovsky hustled out of the room, thankful to be back in the silence, away from the dog noise once more. He stopped in the hall and took the new anti-seizure medication from his pocket. The doctor had told him to start with one tablet at breakfast and one with dinner, but he’d said that eventually the maintenance dose might be as high as 1000 milligrams or more. Ostrovksy had already taken two and it obviously wasn’t doing anything. He popped two more. The shaking had to stop.
* * *
There were about twenty people now, all crowded into the Buck’s living room. Jude stood by the fireplace, sizing them up. Equal numbers men and women, many with a farmer’s life etched onto their faces, the marrow in their bones made up of hard work and the inevitable failures brought on by pests, weather, and fluctuating markets. All these were tolerated as part of the world they had chosen. But tonight, what they were hearing was an abomination. Rumors had spread, and they were getting restless and anxious. Jude looked for Kurt Buck who had been next to her moments before. She couldn’t proceed without him.
She ducked into the kitchen where he was on the phone, his wide back to her. He mumbled something into the receiver and then let it dangle by his side.
“Mr. Buck?” asked Jude quietly.
He turned, startled. He’d been crying.
“How is she?”
“Holding on,” replied Buck.
“If you want to go back to the hospital–”
“No. My wife will call me if there’s any change.”
Voices of the neighbors from the next room filtered into the kitchen, but Jude saw that he wasn’t ready. His face was a deathly shade of gray, fear and anger siphoning off his lifeblood. He set the phone down and turned away again, leaning on the kitchen counter, as if his legs couldn’t quite support his body. “The worst of it is,” he said in a voice choked with emotion, “it was my corn.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” volunteered Jude.
“Unlikely that Davidson’s crop could have cross pollinated anyone else.” He stared out into the dark. “She could die because of my corn,” he said. “My whole life I’ve tried to farm the right way. And not just because I wanted my family, my community, to eat healthy, but because it’s the right thing to do. What happens to the soil, happens to us. If it dies, we die. I fought Monsanto when they pressured me to use their seeds. I fought the government when it labeled poisons like glyphosate safe just because the pesticide manufacturers told them it was safe. I’ve even fought my own neighbors who got sucked into the Monsanto quicksand. And I survived … until this. My corn,” he said, shaking his head. “My own damn corn.”
Jude wasn’t sure he was aware that she was still standing behind him. She cleared her throat and said, “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I should have seen it. The crows. I should have seen it was something in my fields.” Slowly he turned back to her. “I owe you an apology. I was wrong about your friend Tim. My wife was able to talk to Heather a little while ago. Your friend didn’t get my daughter hooked on heroin. She did that all by herself long before he showed up.”
“There’s help out there,” offered Jude.
Buck dipped his head, not quite a nod. “Did you ever find him? Tim?”
“No. I think he found out what happened and confronted Amaethon. I’m not giving up hope yet, but ….”
“Well, then, we should get started.”
With leaden legs, Buck went over to the living room door and held it open for her.
It took a few moments to settle the crowd. When he had everyone’s attention, Buck began to speak. “Thanks, everyone, for comin’ over on such short notice. I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t an emergency. As some of you may know by now, my Hea
ther is in the hospital tonight. The doctors are saying she’s bleeding inside and they’re not sure if they can stop it. It wasn’t a fall or accident or anything like that. She just started bleeding.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe someone in your family is also suffering from the same thing. A wound that won’t stop bleeding, unexplained bruises or rashes. Maybe somebody you know ….”
A woman with gray hair tied back in a ponytail called out from the back, “I got two dead heifers this week, and the vet says ‘internal bleeding.’ Never saw that in my whole life.”
Someone else spoke up, declaring, “My niece Tori has something like that, too. She had to leave school because of some crazy bruising on her feet, and they don’t know what’s wrong. What the hell is going on, Kurt?”
“This lady here,” he answered, nodding to Jude, “is going to explain it to you.” He stepped aside to let her take the lead.
All eyes bored into her as she began. “I ought to start by telling you that I’m an investigator for an animal protection organization.” Responding to the collective exhale of bewilderment, she explained, “We try to document animal abuse that’s occurring on a large scale and do what we can to correct it. We heard there was mistreatment and neglect of some of the animals being tested on at the laboratory on Route 107. You’ve probably all passed by it; it’s run by a company called Amaethon. We sent an undercover investigator in there to try to video the problems, and he disappeared about ten days ago. When I last talked with him, he told me that he had damaging information on Amaethon. Unfortunately, he never got a chance to tell me what it was. But I did learn that he, too, was having recurrent nosebleeds that wouldn’t stop, much like some of the incidents here in Half Moon.”
No one saw the side door open and a man squeeze into the back of the group. He quickly scanned the people in the room until he landed upon Jude. Pulling his black cap even lower over his brow, he took cover in a dim corner, never taking his eyes off her.
“The more I looked into our undercover’s disappearance,” she was saying, “the more I learned what Amaethon is doing. We know that they were testing an anti-coagulant intended ultimately for people who have suffered heart problems or a stroke. Of course, such drugs already exist. But they’re working on a new process for making it, and they’re testing on dogs and rodents by putting it in their feed. I have good reason to believe that the technology is something called plant made pharmaceuticals – PMP’s or cellular farming. Drugs derived from a biological source, in other words, grown in plants.”
Most of the group stared at her with undisguised skepticism, and Kurt Buck interjected, “When Jude told me about this, I looked it up. I read that they can grow vaccines and contraceptives in tobacco plants.”
Nodding, Jude added, “Many of the big pharma companies are doing similar tests on their own properties. But everyone wants to get into this new market and it’s drawing smaller start-ups who are paying farmers across the country to grow their seeds – seeds that have been genetically modified to contain the drug. I read that they are not required to tell the farmers what’s in these seeds, either. Their growers only have to take care of the plants, and when it’s time to harvest, the pharma people come in and take it all. Amaethon is one of these start-ups and we believe they contracted a local farmer here to grow an anti-coagulant in corn.”
A man a few feet away scoffed, “What evidence do you have?”
“We knew from our investigator Tim that Amaethon was putting the drug in the animals’ feed. As expected, many of them began to show signs of internal bleeding. At the same time, multiple cases of unexplained bleeding started to appear in Half Moon. Then I learned that our investigator and another witness saw a man named Stuart Ostrovsky in a corn field here in Half Moon. Ostrovsky is the Chief Scientific Officer running the study for Amaethon. A few days ago, I walked that field myself. It’s all been cleared now, but I’m sure it’s where they had grown corn engineered to produce the anti-coagulant.”
It was as if a fuse had been lit; in the ensuing silence the entire atmosphere became charged, waiting for the explosion. Finally, the gray-haired woman in the back said, “I know who it is.” All heads turned in her direction. “Jim Davidson. I’d bet anything. He’s been walking around town like suddenly he don’t know anybody. And when I told him about my cows, he looked like he was going to puke. I thought it was all the talk about blood, but now I don’t think so. I think he knows something.” She stared at Jude and asked, “Am I right?”
Jude nodded. “I’m quite sure of it.”
Someone else spoke up, challenging, “If Davidson did this, we’ll settle with him. But I don’t get what it has to do with us. You said that the seed companies come and harvest all the plants.”
Kurt Buck answered, his arms tightly crossed over his chest as if to keep his emotions from detonating. “Davidson and I share a border,” he said grimly. “Can’t be but a half mile from his corn to mine. Now any of you that grow organic know that you have to keep a buffer zone a lot bigger’n that to keep the GMO crap from coming on your property.”
No one had to explain further to the roomful of farmers. His statement landed with the dull thump of a distant bomb: cross-pollination. Yet, there were still a few quizzical looks.
“Half the town buys Kurt’s produce at the farmers market. How come we’re all not sick?” someone pushed back.
“I don’t know. It’s possible that once the corn is cooked, the heat exposure kills the active ingredient in the drug. But anyone who eats it raw, even a small amount, can be adversely affected. I talked with Dr. John Harbolt, and he has five bleeding cases that he believes are a result of this corn. I think we’re going to find out that there are a lot more.”
“Oh my God,” cried the gray-haired woman. “I fed my heifers some of Kurt’s corn, right off the cob.” She clapped her hand over her mouth.
Above the rumblings, the man in front erupted, “That sonofabitch! Get Davidson over here.”
“No. Not yet,” said Buck.
The questions came fast and furious.
“Then what?”
“What are we going to do?”
“Maybe Davidson didn’t know.”
“How could he not?”
Buck scowled and said, “Maybe Amaethon didn’t tell him what he was growing. But if he found out later and didn’t say anything, I will personally beat the living crap out of him.”
“Amaethon has to pay for this.”
Someone else called out, “I agree. But apart from burning it down, what do you have in mind?”
“Call the cops.”
“Put ’em in jail.”
“Sue them.”
Buck put up his hands. “Believe me, we will. But I don’t have to tell any of you that companies like Amaethon have the USDA and the federal government on their side. You know what it’s like to try and go after them. Unless we have proof, we’re screwed.”
“How do we get proof?”
“I’m going to get it for you,” announced Jude, stepping forward. “Inside the lab, I’ll get a sample of the feed. An analysis of that, the residue from Davidson’s field, and Kurt’s harvest will likely show the same drug proteins in all. And if I can also get one of the animals out, blood tests should pick up the same drug that has been consumed by the people who are sick in Half Moon. But I have to get in now. Amaethon has been trying to keep the cross-contamination a secret, and obviously, it isn’t anymore. I wouldn’t be surprised if at this very moment they’re trying to clean up the mess. If we wait too long, there won’t be any evidence at all.”
A man’s voice rang out from the back, “None of it will be admissible.”
Jude recognized the voice and nearly smiled, despite the opposition. She peered over the turned heads to see fellow investigator Lucas Matz. He pulled off his black cap and eased his way through the group to the fireplace. Then he turned to face them.
“Sorry to say, but you’re on shaky ground, folks. My colleague here,” he said, motioning to Jude, “ought to know better. No one is getting into that lab. They have an electrified fence that will fry anyone who tries to go over. And even if she could get in, the law doesn’t look kindly on people who break and enter for the purposes of stealing evidence, especially if it’s just a fishing expedition. Whatever she came out with would be illegally obtained and therefore worthless in a criminal prosecution.”
But Jude had already thought it through. “There’s a way around that,” she replied. “If someone broke into the lab for another purpose – say, an animal rights activist who wants to free the animals – and she just happened to take some of the adulterated dog food with her – say, for the dog she’s just liberated – it could be admissible evidence in an unrelated proceeding. From a legal standpoint, just because something is stolen doesn’t make it inadmissible for all purposes.”
“I think that’s correct,” said the gray-haired woman. “My husband’s a lawyer.”
“And besides,” added Jude, feeling empowered by the support, “if you sue Amaethon for negligence, that’s a civil matter and the exclusionary rule of evidence doesn’t apply in civil suits.”
“All well and good,” noted Buck. “But how in hell are you going to get inside the lab?”
She spent the next ten minutes telling them.
* * *
The sound of tires on the Buck’s gravel driveway was still in the air when Lucas steered Jude out through the kitchen to the back yard. He didn’t speak until they had gotten to the old swing set, then burst out, “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Good to see you, too, Lucas.”
“Look, I got your message that said you were in trouble, and I snagged the next plane. Then, the only thing from you is a text that you were at some farm in the middle of nowhere.”
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough. Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be without a sample of the feed.”