Silence Her

by Douglas Fetterly

  Twenty-seven new messages. Eighteen were pure hype from the marketing genius inherent in the web. Three from Niesha, questioning her whereabouts. Four from miscellaneous friends. True to form, she deleted the unnecessary ones without looking at them, read her aunt’s worries, gave cursory attention to the next four, and put her focus on the two that tightened her chest.

  One from Beck; one from Rafael. Lishan slumped back. She felt a true sadness at Beck’s fate.

  And what about Rafael? When she thought of Rafael and Erik in the same thread…too many men. If the conglomerate clans didn’t kill her…

  She opened Beck’s. From the date and time, it appeared he wrote it several hours before the time of death reported by the coroner. From that alone, the email seemed as a treasure.

  “Dear Lishan. I find you often in my thoughts today. I feel as though I would enjoy seeing you again. That hasn’t happened for me in many years. Did you receive my voicemail about Mazzini and Habiba? Check out Factory 17. I can tell you more, but I’d rather do it in person. I hope I haven’t put you in danger with my notes to you. Then there’s my own life, though I don’t think Conner would stoop to murder. Call when you can. Beck.”

  Lishan stood and walked over to the balcony, standing back slightly to avoid being too visible. Reading the hopes and dreams, ultimately dashed, of one so young brought sadness and deep despair. Hasn’t the human condition improved at all? Does human life continue to take a backseat to greed? Lishan couldn’t help but mull these thoughts into a steady stream of conflict, resolved in nothing. Finally, she had to move on. Rafael.

  “Hi, cutie. It has been what feels like a week. I knocked on your door over the weekend. I’m a little worried about you, plus I could use some ravishing. Call me, okay? Love, Rafael.”

  Ravishing? Does he think I’ll just fall into bed with him because he’s cute? Lishan just shook her head. For now, she had to put them aside.

  - - -

  Kathy’s daughter, Jennifer, crossed Lishan’s mind. She decided to call.

  “Hi, Kathy. This is Lishan.”

  “You changed your number. Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I could tell you stories, but I’m calling to find out about Jennifer.”

  “I just brought her home this morning. She’s okay. Listless and feeling afraid, but the doctor said she’s out of immediate danger. They want to watch her kidneys over the weeks ahead. Her blood pressure is stabilizing. Lishan, thank you for calling. I know this weighs heavily on you. Are you sure you’re okay? Are you in danger?”

  “I’m getting excellent counsel from my friends and my auntie. I just have to play my cards right to stay out of Conner’s sight. Part of my work, now, is to find out everything I can about him—anything that will help put him away.” Lishan decided not to mention the murder of the P.I. They agreed to call if any news, either about Jennifer or Conner, came up.

  Feeling cooped up, she donned her disguise and went for a two-hour walk. The cold air was refreshing. She could feel the significance of having her life, of being able to experience the wonders that appeared each day. Yes, she would have to be careful so this didn’t change.

  Back at her apartment, she opened CEOs & Senators. There she found her bookmark—the business card Howard Perkins had given her at the gala. She set it aside while she read through the most pertinent chapters over the next few hours.

  When she replaced the bookmark, she thought, Yes, why not.

  “May I speak with Howard Perkins, please?”

  “This is he.” The voice was garbled, as though his throat needed clearing. Though the three words weren’t much to go on, Lishan detected hesitation.

  “Mr. Perkins, this is Lishan Amir. Do you have a minute or two?”

  “How many millimeters in a meter, Ms. Amir?” His voice turned jovial after hearing her name.

  Lishan blinked, catching the quip. “I would enjoy your wisdom regarding an exposé I’m planning, in part because I appear to be following in Alan Frazier’s footsteps.”

  The pause was audible. “Not all of them, I hope. Am I drifting your way?”

  Lishan smiled. A poet in this man’s demeanor. “Yes. I know Alan Frazier’s whereabouts. I spoke with him recently, face-to-face.”

  “You know, then, that my phone might be tapped. By the way, I enjoyed our interchange at the media roast.”

  “I was delighted, as you could no doubt tell.”

  “The pleasure was mine. How can I help you?”

  “Can we meet for coffee, or something of your choosing?” Lishan said.

  “Of course.” A cough broke through. “Pardon me. My health has deteriorated since I quit spiriting my many causes. This will be good for me.”

  “I have another reason for wanting to meet with you, Mr. Perkins.”

  “Howard.”

  “Howard. I have managed to, shall we say, anger Jack Conner to the point where my life is in danger. I’m looking for ideas on how to mitigate his threats, and I thought you might have some. I should tell you, though, if he finds out it could be dangerous for you.”

  “Oh, bring it on,” Howard said with an air of playfulness. “He and I have had many a go-round over the years. Why not spice it up?” Howard paused. “Are you familiar with the American Indians and Ginsberg? The architect had a significant presence here in D.C. as well. I’ll meet you next door, at a venue of similar style to the original, if I haven’t lost you. Today?”

  Lishan thought for a few seconds, tracing thread after thread. Then she lit up. “Yes! At...” She caught herself, the possibility of a tap now all too real. “Yes. I know the place. Half an hour? 4:30?”

  “Ah, the brash and the young. Give me an hour.”

  Lishan was pleased with her knowledge of where Alan Ginsberg hung out in Manhattan, which answered the American Indian question. The Algonquin Hotel—not quite Algonkian, but it would do. Goldwin Starrett was the architect, and Starrett was an architect for the former Garfinckel’s, now Hamilton Square in D.C. Lishan knew of an aesthetic hotel on the next block that journalists lovingly referred to as the Gonk, in memory of the Algonquin.

  As she wound down the stairs to the rear exit, she realized she had no disguise. Returning briefly to her apartment, she changed into the new character Erik’s theater friend had created for her.

  Catching a Diamond Cab, she arrived at the hotel fifteen minutes early. None of her journalist buddies called it by its real name. The Gonk would do perfectly. Besides, it was a remote reference few outside of newspaperdom would recognize. Ten minutes later, Howard entered.

  He didn’t recognize her, which Lishan felt was an important test to pass.

  “Howard,” she said quietly as she approached him.

  He looked at her for a few seconds and then smiled. “Very nice,” he said with kind eyes, taking in her hair. “You’ve put on a few pizza pounds since I saw you last. The disguise works. I didn’t recognize you.”

  Without hesitation, he suggested, “Shall we find a booth?” nodding in the direction of the Whitman Lounge.

  Both took in the aesthetics of the eighty-year-old brick building. It had a certain charm. Lishan thought it an ideal lounging area for those San Francisco hippies.

  Leaves of Grass poetry graced the walls above the booths. The lighting was dim, perfect for their situation. Settling in, Lishan with her latte and Howard’s coffee black as they come, Lishan took out her notebook.

  “I admire you for taking this on. You do know how dangerous it is—what you’re doing.”

  Lishan nodded, at first overcome by the sincerity that couched Howard’s tone.

  “Only too clearly. I hadn’t planned it this way. I was doing my activist journalism thing, pushing the envelope, when I came across Alan’s story. I had to visit him. Then I ran into Conner’s private investigator.”

  “The P.I. recently murdered?”

  “Yes. Within two days of his conscience getting the better of him, after which he shared Conner stories with me, he wound up
dead.”

  They sat back, sipping their caffeine, contemplating the gravity of their respective situations.

  “How can I best help you?”

  “I’ve been fortunate—if that’s truly what I am—to have gathered what appears to be enough information to annoy Conner, and the FDA, but my life has now been threatened, and I’ve never been in this situation before. Anything you know about Conner, about what you think I should do, would be greatly appreciated.”

  “Conner and I go back to my days as an investigative reporter. He was the bad guy. I was the hero, at least in principle. Once I wrote an exposé, much like yours, that put him and his food business in a bad light. Two days after it hit the streets, my front window was shattered by some drive-by character wielding a fist-sized rock. An attached note found in the glass shards said ‘Curiosity killed the cat. We know where your sister lives.’ The next day, I lost my brakes. A brake line was cut, leaving just enough fluid for the brakes to just barely work when I first drove off. I ran off the road, into a fire hydrant.” Howard took a sip of his coffee. “I pretend to be a tough guy, gruff, you know, but the truth was it scared me.”

  “How did you resolve it?”

  Howard hesitated. “You know, I’m ashamed of what I did next. I was in my early forties, feeling invincible and out for justice, but the inference was clear. Someone I knew, someone I cared about, would be drawn into the picture. I called Conner. Said I wanted to make amends. I wrote a retraction in brush strokes that painted Conner as not such a bad guy. My editor didn’t want to give in to Conner, but she was concerned for me, so she agreed. I left that newspaper shortly thereafter, my tail between my legs.”

  “That must have been hard for you.”

  “Yeah. It was. Deflating. I lost faith in myself for a couple of years. When I quit doing menial jobs and went back to journalism, I took a job reporting in Lifestyles. You know—feature stories without any reference to the darker side of life. Nice and safe. Then I retired.”

  Lishan touched Howard’s hand, letting him know she felt compassion for him. Then she drew in a deep breath, exhaled, and said, “Fear is a powerful tool. It can cause any one of us to question our mortality, our morals, our actions. But, you know, Howard, don’t discount your wisdom.”

  Howard gave the faintest smile.

  “So, what should I do about Conner?”

  Howard sat up straight, as though coming to. He could see he was needed.

  “You need to gather evidence—hard and fast evidence—against Conner. And you need to do it now. Not a week from now. If you can make a case against him, one that shows your life is in danger, or the lives of others, including his part in any murderous activity, you might get some judge to issue a warrant for his arrest. Is there someone you know who could press this matter?”

  “I’ll call my auntie. She will know. Would it help to draw in the FDA, since I’m certain the commissioner has a hand in allowing some of Conner’s misdeeds, though probably not the threats against me?”

  Howard leaned in, putting both elbows on the table. “Yes, it would. If you need it, I have a library of information, some specifically supporting Frazier’s book and references to Conner, and some pointing out failings within the FDA.”

  Lishan copied Howard’s posture, both giving the appearance of an illicit deal in the making as their faces leaned into one another. “The FDA. My concern is when they intentionally look the other way and support a product that patently shouldn’t be on the market.”

  “When there’s a trawler full of money to be made, you would be astounded at the excuses our species can make up in favor of their bank accounts. Have you ever heard of a Dr. Graham? He was the Associate Director for Science and Medicine in the Office of Drug Safety for the FDA. He spoke up, sharing problems in the FDA.”

  Lishan broke in. “I know a little of him. Didn’t he make some public statement about Vioxx and the hundreds of thousands of heart attacks and deaths associated with the drug? Go on.”

  “Yes. And, as you might imagine, the FDA took a dim view of Dr. Graham’s public airing. There are substantiated documents showing how senior officials attempted to discredit Graham—through The Lancet. They also tried to null Dr. Graham’s senate testimony by attempting to disarm Iowa’s Senator Grassley, a strong voice calling for the FDA to do its job. Then there was the pseudo Peter Principle job offer where Graham was offered a position in the commissioner’s office. It all backfired. I haven’t followed the most recent status of Vioxx, but I believe Merck, the manufacturer, issued a voluntary recall whereas the FDA had not—conceivably it would appear as an admission of error within the Agency.”

  Howard took a sip of his coffee. “Ah, I love this elixir. I hope the FDA never bans it.” They both smiled at the thought—the public rising up in arms.

  Lishan took the edgewise opportunity: “Wasn’t the FDA’s standard response that their initial studies showed no dangerous side-effects?”

  “Ah, their caveat. Yes, this is nearly always their claim. But, remember that senior officials—hell, it’s likely written in the creed—quote that ‘Industry is the client,’ with an inference that the public is not. The client gets the attention. The client wants their drugs on the market. Whatever it takes.”

  Lishan took a reflective pose, causing Howard to sit back, questioning Lishan. “Yes?”

  “Okay. Graham, Vioxx. Now, how do we tie this to Conner, or Senator Libby, or do we even need to? And, don’t let me forget Frazier. Prison, or a coffin, doesn’t fit anywhere in my life’s plans.”

  Howard replied. “Ah. Yes, let’s tie it together. Are you hungry?”

  “Yes, a little. Toast and coffee should do it.”

  “Remember the toasted chicken salad sandwich without the chicken? That was a scene to go down, somewhat, in our idiomatic halls. Nicholson was perfect.”

  Shared mirth and their love of film and writing brought Lishan and Howard a little bit closer. It was apparent in their body language. With food ordered, they returned to their task.

  “The question is,” Howard said, “does including the FDA in the case against Conner further the case at all? Or is there any chance it would muddy the water, giving Conner a loophole to squeeze through? Perhaps we don’t need to concern ourselves with that decision, at least for the time being. It would seem we dig up all we can, then turn it over to the courts, if we can find one we trust. If the FDA layer becomes a separate issue, then so be it. For now, Conner must be convinced he needs to put the well-being of the public in front of profits. Everything of substance you uncover must become public…yesterday.”

  Howard’s corned beef on rye arrived, with Lishan’s toast in tow. The waitress, with whom they kidded about the chicken, rolled her eyes as she put the toast in front of Lishan. “One chicken san, sans chicken.” Literary establishment that it was, she decidedly had her fill of those hackneyed references.

  “Narrow escape.” Howard laughed, audibly. “Okay, what do you know about Conner’s additive?”

  “Conner wanted to exponentially increase the shelf life of the oils in his products. Nothing wrong with the concept, except that the structure of the oil took on a nasty characteristic, a likeness to formaldehyde. I...we...have emails to prove that Conner knew about this in advance of including the experimental fat in the cafeteria at Factory 17.”

  “Factory 17?”

  “Oh, sorry. It’s one of Conner Foods’ factories. Conner decided to do a test by using his employees as test subjects, without their knowledge.”

  “Why didn’t he just go through the FDA channels?” Howard caught himself. “Puerile question. Conner wanted to fast-track the substance with some of his own test figures.”

  “Yes. In any case, two employees died. Others were hospitalized with severe complications. One of the surviving employees is a woman named Fatima.”

  “Had it gone through the requisite channels of testing?”

  Lishan hesitated. “I’m not completely sure. Also, I don’t
know if it would have made a difference, unless the health hazard was too blatant for even the FDA to overlook. Remember that Conner Foods has a powerful lobby, undeniably more so than we would hope. Senator Libby, for one. We just can’t forget that the FDA relies heavily on the testing by the client, and the client is industry—Conner Foods, in this case.”

  “Yes,” Howard added, gaining a placeholder in the conversation. He took a brief sip of his dark brew and said, “Lishan, you doubtless know that the FDA does do a service for the American public. It’s just that it falls short. They put entirely too much emphasis on whether a product works and not enough on its downside. If an industrial giant states that its new drug reduces blood pressure, and it does, then it has satisfied at least the primary entry requirement onto the list of approved drugs. Side effects get much less press. At a minimum, the side effects should be, in my opinion, at least on par with the other entry requirements—does it work, and is it safe, or at least safe enough. I’m making up these numbers, somewhat, but, for example, a drug’s side effects cause fifty thousand heart attacks but the drug improves the lives of four hundred thousand people. It isn’t a proper tradeoff. Perhaps a few heart attacks out of four hundred thousand might pass muster. But, again, who is the FDA’s client? Industry.”

  “So how did Frazier end up in prison? He couldn’t tell me much. And you? Your name is in the book. Any effect? Were you ever threatened?”

  “That’s a mouthful. You are a journalist, aren’t you? Got to get all your questions in while you can.” Howard smiled. “Frazier just pushed too many buttons, especially Conner’s. Then again, you really aren’t any different, except that Frazier ended up in prison, and Conner wants you quiet, however he can accomplish it—troublemaker that you are.” Howard winked. “You see, he knows how smart you are, your perseverance. He can’t afford to have you digging, talking. I wish I could tell you otherwise.”