Silence Her

by Douglas Fetterly

  Her apartment felt foreign when she entered. No telephone messages. Actually, no telephone. A familiar warmth emanated as she noticed a bouquet of fresh flowers in a vase on the coffee table. Aside it, the note from Erik brought comfort. “Hugs, mon amie. A new cell phone is on your dresser. Food in the fridge. Love. The Landlord :-) .”

  Erik had always been there for her. At times she knew just what that meant to her, deep down in her heart. Attempting to hide the remnant of tears, Lishan thought she would distract herself with food.

  Half an hour later, Joshua called back on her old cell phone. I must remember to quit using this one.

  “It wasn’t too difficult,” he said. “I’m thinking he’s a bit careless in the computer world of ones and zeroes, where otherwise he might wear gloves—from what you’ve told me.”

  Thanking him, she got to work. Joshua had given her Mazzini’s ISP—a Conner Foods company website—username JMazzini, password Godfather.

  Oh, brother, she thought. How original.

  The logon would open a significant door for Lishan. She felt the adrenaline fill her bloodstream. Logging in through the mail menu item on the website, she downloaded any email that seemed pertinent. Lishan hoped no one would notice the intrusion.

  Lishan spent the next two hours absorbed in text searches within the stolen mail. The first email to catch her breath was one received yesterday from Jacko@Connerfoods.com.

  “He has betrayed us. As you know, the Mod X3 Connola Oil affair could be troublesome, especially with his handling of it. Still have your pet? J.”

  Lishan was nearly hyperventilating now; her eyes moistened. This was the most recent email. She knew it related to Beck. Did Mazzini have a pet snake? she wondered. Feeling lightheaded, she stood, steadying herself against the table. She found the stash Erik had left in the refrigerator. The turkey and avocado sandwich provided the carbohydrate and protein load she needed. She returned to her laptop.

  Continuing, she keyed in ‘Beck’ as her search criteria. Seventeen items. When number ten appeared, Lishan slowed down, leaning into the display. Something had gone wrong involving Conner Foods and Beck. A mention of “two deaths” and “payouts” got her attention. An hour later, Lishan had developed a view into Conner Foods, a view the public was never meant to see. She was surprised at how candid these men were in their emailing. Perhaps they think they’re above the law.

  She decided on additional search criteria. What would she look for? After a handful of unsuccessful search choices, she tried “factory” on a whim. The third of four hits in the inbox caused Lishan to draw her breath.

  “Johnny. Get in touch with Beck from Factory 17. We’ve been spiking the desserts in the employee cafeteria for a month, testing Mod X3 Connola Oil. Ran our own brand of testing of our improved X3, tested on our employees. It would have increased the shelf life for our baked goods line by over 50 percent, adding millions in sales. Two workers died. Others very sick. Do what you’re good at to keep this under wraps. Jack.”

  Another. “Beck, X3 bailout. Fix this…now. Payout as necessary. Especially Fatima Habiba. She’s a troublemaker. No more than $100,000 each family. For Haslak, $200,000 or a bullet. Your choice. Threaten them with their family’s well-being if they say one word. Call me by day’s end. Hush is vital. Mazzini, help if need be. His phone is 212-555-4355. Jack.”

  Email number fourteen: “Beck, good work keeping a lid on. Promotion. No more stressful managing at 17. New position. Own hours. Private Investigating for me. 30 percent pay increase. Again, good work; and not a word…to a wife, if you get married; to a girlfriend in heat. No one. Understand? Good. Jack.” Lishan noticed that Mazzini had been cc’d for these emails sent to Beck. Otherwise, she would not have seen them.

  Lishan printed out these two letters. Beck must have been trusted—highly trusted. But he was expendable, if he became a liability.

  Lishan sat back, peering around the room with no particular focus. Now it was clear. Conner Foods had used the factory workers at Factory 17 as guinea pigs, an experiment that resulted in deaths and illness. Email dates placed this in March, seven months ago. Now here was a nosey reporter, digging up dirt—expensive, damaging dirt on an unscrupulous CEO.

  She didn’t know her chances of uncovering the grit behind Modification X3, but she did have a penchant for government cover-ups and buyouts. Lishan decided to take additional time and dig through PubMed, looking for all things relevant within the FDA.

  A light knock on the front door brought Lishan back to her surroundings. Cautiously, now, she quietly approached the door, intending to not give away her being at home. The security peephole brought a distorted Erik into view.

  As Erik came in, he said, “By the way, I could see shadows under the door as you approached…just in case you thought you were being clever.” Then he stopped, looking at her new haircut. “Have you seen Lishan?”

  “Funny! I hope it slows them down in finding me.”

  “It’s a little shorter than I like, but, if you slick it back, you’ll fit right in at the bank or among Washington’s finest.” Erik stepped back to give the haircut its due. “It’s good, though. Your natural beauty is always the victor.”

  Lishan noted that this was the second time today she had been told this. It was good for her ego.

  At the couch, Lishan could tell Erik seemed reserved. “Are you all right?”

  Erik stood up, pacing in front of the coffee table.

  “I received a phone call today. Someone posing as a Social Security official said he was updating his files, wanting to know if you still lived here. I told him no, that you’d abruptly moved out a couple of days ago. He asked for your forwarding address, but I said you told me you didn’t know where you were moving to, or why. He seemed satisfied; at least that was the impression he wanted to leave me with.”

  Erik sat back down. Lishan could tell the trouble ran deep.

  “I was able to download Mazzini’s email to my laptop, using a hacker friend of Auntie’s.” Lishan continued. “It’s already provided clues to the implication of a threat on my life.”

  “It’s not an inference.”

  Lishan paused, thinking to move beyond the comment. He was right.

  “It’s not an inference, Lishan.”

  “Yes, I know.” Lishan shifted in her seat, disquiet in her moves. “It’s not.”

  After a pause, “Erik?”

  He stopped and looked at her. “Why is that, recently, whenever you just say ‘Erik’ in that tone, I feel as though I’m in the batter’s box and a hardball is aimed at my temple?”

  “I just saw in the newspaper…” Lishan wavered slightly, not feeling too steady. “Beck—the upstate New York P.I.—was found murdered. I believe it was because he shared information with me, information he was never to divulge to anyone.”

  The features in Erik’s face hardened for a few seconds, but he could see the fear in his friend’s face. “You know, if I were him, and I met you one night in the course of doing my work, I can see… Lishan, though I was prepared not to like this guy, I can understand both sides—his, and yours.” Erik let the compassion show in his face. “I’m sorry he’s dead.”

  Lishan’s eyes moistened, but she decided they needed to move on. “Yes, he’s dead because of me.”

  “I understand how you could feel guilt about this at first, but you have to know it’s not your fault, not at all. It’s Conner’s greed.”

  “But there’s more. It gets worse. A note left at the murder scene read, ‘One down, one to go.’ I’m almost certain Mazzini, the henchman, was sitting behind Beck and me in the restaurant that night. He certainly overheard our conversation, knowing then that Beck was betraying Conner. I’m next. I know it. And, if there was any doubt, there was another headline, smaller, again front page, where one of Conner’s mega clients was dropping Conner Foods because of all the negative publicity. That is why Conner wants my head.” Lishan looked dejected, without hope in that moment.

>   Lishan took a deep breath. “Okay, what if I share what I’ve found so far?”

  Erik nodded, touching her hand.

  “Conner Foods had created a modified trans fat that was fractionally different from the trans fat molecular structure currently on the market. It was supposed to increase shelf life of certain foods by another two to three times. No small gain, for them. It would appear they had been serving this in their cafeteria food for several months, during which two workers died and a host of others got violently sick. The employees didn’t know they were the guinea pigs. Jack Conner contacted Johnny Mazzini with instructions to get a manager named Beck, who at one time managed the facility at Factory 17, to quiet the families with payoffs. I haven’t dug through the layers as of yet, but the other name that Beck left, Fatima Habiba, appears to be a significant puzzle piece.”

  “And when did this all take place?”

  “This past March. After these discoveries, I began delving into PubMed and the FDA. I need to understand trans fats a little better if I’m going to expose Conner further.”

  Erik stood up abruptly. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Something I said?”

  “Yes.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was angry or not. It all happened so quickly. Before she could give it another thought, he returned from his apartment, a smile spilling from his face..

  “I guess the smile means you’re not angry with me?” Lishan said sheepishly.

  Erik stopped, took in what she said, then laughed out loud. “Ohhh, I understand. When I left so quickly… Don’t you know I couldn’t ever be seriously upset with you?” For the next second, he had that faraway look, one tied to a flash of those memories when he had mistreated Lishan with his anger. Then he sat down next to her, thigh to thigh. “Take a look.”

  Lishan took in the stapled research project before her.

  “It’s a rough draft of a research paper one of my students wrote for another class. She enlisted my editing skills.”

  “When was this written? No, let me answer that.” Lishan read the title on the cover page. “A little over a year ago. I didn’t know about this. Where was I?”

  “You’re a tough chick to track down sometimes. I have no idea.” He made a playful half-smile, then continued. “It was written as an entry to a cardiovascular journal. The student moved, and I never heard the result. Likely, I didn’t mention it because it fell off the radar.”

  Lishan skimmed the pages. “This is perfect. Twenty-one pages. Quite a report. I suppose I can use the material to feed my inquisition?”

  “Lishan, you know your situation is serious. While I would love to play it down, I can’t. Even if you back off, I doubt he’ll just forget about you. Disguising yourself is a good first step, but is it enough? You have to stay away from places where they would expect to find you. If they think you’ve moved, it helps, but we can’t relax our guard. Not here, not anywhere, until Conner and his thugs are behind bars. One other thought is to not use the service entrance. It could look suspicious. Your disguise needs to make you look much older, maybe heavier, by, say, thirty pounds. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Not good enough. Sorry to be so direct. Look, I know a makeup artist at the university. What if she comes over and helps?”

  Lishan agreed, her breathing laborious.

  Erik said he had some apartment issues to attend to and a class to teach. He said he’d be back later and asked if she would be okay until then. “Don’t let anyone in. Don’t answer the door. I’ll call first. I have your new number.”

  After Erik left, Lishan sat back, taking in this male who had graced her life in so many beautiful ways ever since they met. Wondering where he fit in her life down the road, she found herself daydreaming. She pressed a fully-caffeinated Kenya AA coffee into the espresso maker and waited for the magic brew.

  Coffee in hand, she adjusted a corner pillow on the couch and buried herself in the document before her. “If It Is On the Ingredients List, How Can It Be Called Zero, Mom?” Clever, she thought. She read on. The paper brought to light a host of questions suggesting conflict of interest within the Agency.

  An hour later, she received a call from a woman at the university’s performing arts department, asking if Lishan could come down to Nomadic Theatre on campus. Lishan knew it was the right thing to do, and it would please Erik. Two hours later, Lishan returned from the theatre with makeup that added some wrinkles, along with some special padding. Adding a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses, as the woman recommended, she said to herself, Good! I don’t think anyone will recognize me.

  At half past seven, Erik called. “Want some company? I can bring a movie in about an hour, maybe an hour and a half. Might help to take the edge off, at least for a few hours.”

  He arrived shortly before nine with nachos and two non-alcoholic beers. When he saw Lishan in her disguise, he started with, “I’m sorry. I must have the wrong…” Then he recognized her and smiled. “She’s good, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, she is. I decided not to wait, so I called and ended up meeting her at Nomadic Theatre shortly after you left. Thanks, Erik. And thank you for the treats.” She took off the disguise so she’d be more comfortable.

  As they settled in, they could both feel that a few hours without thinking about safety would do them some good.

  “Some of these NA beers taste better than you might think,” Erik said as he opened the beers.

  “Hey, what did you bring? Nothing ‘R’ rated, I hope.”

  Erik grinned as he pressed play. Soylent Green took center stage.

  “Have you seen this?”

  “A very long time ago. I believe it’s a seventies film about a society where food is a problem and a dying public becomes part of the food chain for humans.”

  “Yes. Now imagine Conner as an antagonist. Hey, this could be fun.”

  As the movie progressed, Erik eased just a little closer to her. The warmth and comfort were inviting. Friends.

  Two hours later, as the movie ended, Erik was sound asleep on Lishan’s shoulder. Lishan didn’t want to move. But midnight wasn’t far off, and she knew she didn’t do well with less than eight hours sleep, especially less than seven. Tomorrow would have to be an early riser.

  “Erik. Erik. Bedtime for you.”

  He was out for the night. She laid his back gently into the couch, tucking him in with a fluffed pillow and her grandmother’s quilt. She left a night light on above the stove, in case he awoke to the discomfort of unexpected surroundings. She set the alarm for 6:30, ensuring she would have breakfast for him before he started his day.

  Her sleep was fitful, full of dreams. Daylight woke her just before the alarm. She quietly showered before easing out into the kitchen. Erik didn’t stir until she clanked one too many times with the skillet.

  “Where…?” His question abruptly died as the surroundings became familiar. Then another start. “Did we…?”

  “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “Isn’t ‘Did we…,’ you know, always the question when waking up in someone else’s place? At least until your brain wakes up.” Lishan tried on her best girlish grin.

  “Maybe for you it is, Ms. Gallivanter, but I wanted to know if, uh…where is my shirt?”

  “I have no idea. And, no, I didn’t tuck you in that way. Maybe you got hot during the night.” Lishan smiled. “Okay, how do you like your eggs?”

  “Hard. No gush.” Erik located his delinquent top, finagling it back into place. “What’s your plan for the day?”

  “Perfecting my disguise, for starters. Then seeing what I can garner from the Mazzini emails. I can’t fritter away any of my time. None.”

  Lishan served breakfast at the coffee table, where they ate in relative quiet, unusual for them.

  “Bye. Call if you need anything.” Erik smiled and left, leaving Lishan to herself—a feeling she often craved.

  Lishan made another espresso and set
to work. She felt she had two tasks before her. Most important was to stay alive. But aside from staying out of sight, she didn’t know yet what to do. She hoped those answers would unfold in the next few days. As she thought about it, Lishan sensed that gathering anything against Conner, anything that would hold up in court, was an important step. Maybe it would help to identify the pros and cons of the hydrogenated world, in case it would help her bring a case against Conner and the FDA. She didn’t have much to go on, yet, but she knew she couldn’t just sit idle, waiting for a .38 caliber slug.

  32

  Trans fats: no acceptable level, from the scientists’ perspective. Johns Hopkins Medicine confirmed it. This was back in the mid-nineties. Then why had the FDA allowed it to go so long? This was the question Lishan sought to answer. And there was the problem with Factory 17.

  Lishan could imagine the FDA’s response, including their document delineating the timeline. The tragedy was that years passed between the inception of evidence against trans fats to the ruling in 2006 that required trans fat labeling. Part of the problem, as Lishan saw it, resembled having a bad road for six years downtown, where the Public Works department put up signs for years warning of the bad road ahead without actually repairing the road until five years had passed. The difference, though, was that the bureaucratic delays cost people their health, and the life-threatening fats still were not banned.

  Lishan couldn’t help but speculate about Conner Foods’ involvement. Perhaps it was time to seek out Fatima Habiba. She decided it was worth a quick search through Mazzini’s email before resorting to the older tried-and-true methods that often took awhile. While pulling up Mazzini’s mail, she was reminded of her own email that she hadn’t checked in several days. Her talks with Erik about hackers being able to track her left her incommunicado. Could they truly track her to her apartment if she logged on? She knew the technology existed, but it was typically beyond the expertise at the average ISP, especially since the broadband circuit belonged to the building, not to her specific apartment. She decided to take the chance but to diminish the risk by using web mail, diffusing the path to her somewhat. She missed her Android phone with which she could check email without being tracked—at least that’s what she imagined.