“Pinkies?” Lishan was never one to let references to the arcane slip past her.
“Sorry. Baby mice used to test foods and drugs. The end result was that the...pinkies...developed severe cardiac and respiratory problems. Most died.”
“In a sense, then, we could view this as willful negligence, couldn’t we? Conner was aware of this.” Erik’s conclusion drew agreement from the others.
Lishan added, “With testimony from a knowledgeable chemist—like your friend—a jury would find Conner guilty of third-degree murder. No, he wouldn’t want that information to get out.” Lishan paused, sipping her tea. “Can you fill us in on why Conner didn’t get prosecuted, and, as you so aptly mentioned, why you’re still alive—not wearing cement shoes?”
“Cement shoes?” Fatima searched her knowledge of English idioms.
“It’s a bygone phrase.” Lishan explained it.
The shutting of a car door and the creaking sound of footsteps on the front porch steps interrupted their conversation. Fatima motioned her two visitors to move into the kitchen, out of sight of the front door.
While Lishan respected privacy, she’d also learned to keep an ear tuned to conversations she wasn’t invited to, if it was pertinent to her work—in this case, her well-being. She eased back to the doorway separating the living room from the kitchen. Erik somewhat alarmingly motioned her back away from the door. Lishan just gave him the shhhh sign and continued her eavesdropping. Through a reflection in the glass covering a framed art piece, she caught a glimpse of the visitor. He fit the description of the thug Fatima had mentioned. As the conversation at the front door ended, Lishan edged back into the kitchen’s center.
Fatima returned, her eyes showing mild distress. She led them back to the couch.
“Are you alright?” Erik posed the question that he and Lishan both shared.
Lishan stepped in. “I should stay out of your business. Yet it appears that some of yours and mine have mingled. I didn’t tune in to your conversation at the door, but several words were loud enough to catch my attention. Did I hear you say ‘Mazzini’ and ‘that’s all I have’?”
Fatima had a far-away look. She stood again, pacing. Pinching the blinds at the window to the right of the front door, she peered out to see if the intruder had left. Satisfied that they were alone, she sat down again.
Looking once again at Lishan with no malice or judgment, but rather searching—deciding on her level of trust with these two relative strangers—Fatima proceeded.
“Yes. That was Mazzini. I don’t know his first name. He always insists on ‘Mister.’ Extortion was the reason for his visit.”
“Is this why you are still breathing?” Lishan’s direct comment gave Erik a start, but he gave the nod of understanding to her straightforward approach. This was, after all, serious business.
Fatima, too, understood. “In part. Beck, the Manager as we called him, paid off everyone to keep quiet. I myself was deathly ill for two weeks. Conner, through Mazzini and Beck, paid us handsomely, if you consider being paid to keep quiet any satisfaction. But then Mazzini came around to a few of us—I don’t know, maybe all of us—and said he would see to it that our families would suffer consequences, perhaps deportation, whatever hit us the hardest, if we didn’t pay him a monthly fee. He called it insurance. Whose, I don’t know.”
“I know a little about Mazzini from some emails I’ve uncovered. What else did he say just now? How much do you pay him, if I may?”
Fatima seemed reluctant, if not embarrassed. She was used to her own unabashed demeanor, her strength. She had stature among the workers. She was gutsy. But the strong-arm tactics of Conner’s lead bodyguard were unnerving.
“How much? I was given a settlement in the amount of $50,000. Then, two days later, Mr.—sorry—Mazzini shows up, telling me I’m in deep trouble. And if I want to keep my health up, and the health of my loved ones, I had to start paying him $500 a month. $500! I said I could only afford $300. He took out a folder containing a copy of the $50,000 check, waved it at me, and said ‘$500. Pay, or you will regret it. By the way, how’s your mother, and your sister Kassa, and her children, Desta and Negasi?’ What was I to do? He comes by each month, like clockwork. And the $50,000, it’s not like it’s all just sitting in the bank. Conner’s healthcare coverage stinks. I had to pay out nearly $12,000 in medical bills because of the illness, and, at this rate of extortion, Mazzini, and Conner, I presume, will have most of their money back.”
Lishan braved the question, “Are your children safe?”
“Yes, they are. They’re with friends, for now. Not easily found, even by someone with Conner’s connections. Our family ties run deep in that neck of the woods. Even Mazzini wouldn’t dare set foot there. I don’t tell anyone where they are. I know you understand.” Fatima took a sip of her tea. “I look forward to the day they can live here again, without having any fear. I couldn’t risk their lives. They are fifteen and seventeen. They understand.”
Fatima caught her own reflection in her teacup, the grave look on her face. “I think it’s time for something stronger. I have a Merlot—it’s from a California vintner, Napa Valley, one that was taken to court for advertising Napa Valley grapes when in fact most of their grapes were from south of San Francisco. I was given a case, gratis. It still has a nice flavor. In my home country, my family didn’t drink alcohol. Here, though, I will have some wine on special occasions.”
“What do you think?” Erik posed to Lishan.
“I’m thinking we could use it. What if I go to the store and pick up some sandwiches?”
“I should tell you. Mazzini asked if I had company this evening. I said no. He noticed a newer car on the street, a car he hadn’t seen before. He’s the suspicious type. I just don’t know if he’s watching the front door. It would be best if you didn’t leave just yet. I have some Digaag Duban left over from dinner. I’ll be right back.” Noticing the perplexed faces, she added. “It’s a popular Somalian dish—spicy baked chicken.”
Lishan and Erik brightened with anticipation.
A few minutes later, with the most delicious chicken and a glass each of Merlot in front of them, they resumed their serious discussion. “What else did you ask? Ah, yes. How did Conner escape prosecution? I don’t know the entire story, but I’m certain his impunity is because of friends in high places—perhaps including Washington’s U.S. Attorney as well. Star witnesses were all bought off, yes, but mostly intimidated. I’m sure everyone was threatened. Conner and Mazzini wouldn’t take chances. Besides, I think Mazzini gets a kick out of playing Mafia Boy. If we were home in my country, my brothers and cousins would see to it that Mazzini wouldn’t show up at my door, ever again.”
A few tears moistened Fatima’s cheeks. She quickly shrugged them off, moving on.
Over the next half an hour, Lishan took notes as Fatima spelled out all she knew of the judicial proceedings, other workers from the factory, and what she saw of the future, both for her and her coworkers, and Conner’s business.
Then Fatima raised one finger, a signal to pause. “I’ll be right back.” She returned with a New York Times article, two months old. “Why don’t you both read this, if you would? It’s talking about the FDA, yes, but I see parallels between the Menaflex CEO and Conner.”
Erik was immediately engrossed by the title: F.D.A. Reveals It Fell to a Push by Lawmakers. “Do you know the authors, Gardiner Harris and David Halbfinger?”
“Yes. I don’t know them, but I heard them speak a few days after their article was published,” Lishan said. “It was quite a blow to the FDA.”
After a few paragraphs, Lishan continued. “ReGen Biologics was not pleased by this report, which revealed how the FDA’s scientific reviewers unanimously found that ReGen’s device—Menaflex, a knee implant—failed. As you can see here, the patients who tried Menaflex had to get another operation. Where the FDA came under fire was when its management overruled its own scientists and approved Menaflex. It was quite
an embarrassment for all concerned, including the New Jersey senators and representatives—who received campaign contributions from ReGen—who pressed the FDA to approve the device. And the commissioner at that time—Dr. Andrew C. von Eschenbach—said he had acted ‘properly.’ It’s no wonder the FDA’s reputation has significant blemishes.”
The article continued, but Lishan had seen quite enough.
“Greed at its finest.” Erik concurred.
As the wine lightened their moods, they managed a few segues into more personal subjects. The conversation was enjoyable, with each giving views from the perspective of their upbringing: Lishan—Ethiopia and the East Coast; Erik—Scandinavia and New York; Fatima—from Somalia, with the past ten years being a cultural struggle here in Maryland.
When that imaginary timeline struck, they all rose as though on cue. As they headed toward the door, Fatima held back, a trepidation holding her feet steadfast.
“Maybe you shouldn’t use the front door. Could be trouble for both of you. I know it would be for me, if Mazzini is watching. Oh, and hold on a moment while I retrieve your cell phones.”
A few minutes later, Fatima returned with the cell phones, but she also had copies of the documents she had recovered, and a copy of a signed letter she had written about her dealings with Conner. Penciled in was the phone number of the chemist she said would testify if need be.
“I hadn’t mentioned my letter before because I had forgotten about it. I wanted to write down all that I know about Conner, Mazzini, the Factory 17 problems, the strong-arm tactics. I remembered it when I grabbed these other copies for you. These should help.” Fatima looked hopeful. She paused, something apparently on her mind.
“I don’t know if this helps, but a couple of times when Mazzini came by he seemed sad to be taking the money from me. He of course didn’t say so, but it showed in his face. A weariness, you might say. One of those times I didn’t have the money here. I anticipated him shooting me, but all he did was stop, look off in the distance, and then tell me ‘not to worry about it this time’. It kind of shocked me. I tell you in case someday his conscience might get the better of him.”
Lishan and Erik took note and thanked Fatima profusely for her help. They left their phone numbers in case she needed to call them.
Moments later, Lishan and Erik headed toward the back door. There was the feeling of camaraderie, brothers and sisters in the underground, as they said their goodbyes.
Once the revealing outside lights were turned off, Lishan and Erik exited and navigated the alley behind the house.
Lishan didn’t feel especially safe in this dark alley. Every backyard had a chain link fence. Most had a dog weighing upwards of one hundred pounds. They finally made their way to the lit street where they began walking, heightened surveillance with every step.
Driving back to D.C., Lishan broke the silence. “Tell me what you’re thinking about what Fatima shared with us, and Mazzini showing up at her door.”
“Let me focus for a moment. First, I want to get us out of this neighborhood safe and sound.” It was apparent Erik was wary of relaxing his diligence, his attention to every nuance in their surroundings. Lishan just let him be. When they arrived at Highway 50, he let out a long-held sigh and touched her knee.
“You’re in extreme danger, Lishan. These guys aren’t just covering up some misalignment in a food property or a stretch in their marketing. They’ve caused death and illness and attempted a cover-up with cash and threats. They’re playing for keeps, and some reporter from D.C. is not going to get in their way if they have any say in the matter. And they seem to feel that they have a say in whatever they want. It’s already clear people can go to prison at their whim. Who knows, they may have the police in their pocket. Unless you move out of state, out of the country, and change your identity, you’re in it deep enough that you can’t even drop it and think they’ll leave you alone. No, you know too much.”
Lishan listened intently. She trusted Erik’s opinion. “You know, my main concern now is that I’ve dragged you into this.”
“I’d love to tell you I know I’ll be okay. I will be okay. I just don’t want to give you a canned answer that lacked thought. But we do have to play it smart.” Erik shot a reassuring smile at Lishan, a brief one given the ninety feet of roadway flying by each second.
“Back to our next step. I could say my next step, but I know you won’t stand for it. So, our next step?”
“We need the information that will put Conner behind bars. The copies of those diagrams Fatima gave us will help, along with her testimony and that of her bio-chem friend when the time is right.” Erik paused, glancing at Lishan with a loving but serious look. “You don’t hold back when you get into things, do you?” He laughed. “Taking on the big boys.”
A long pause ensued before Lishan said, “We should form a non-profit. The D.C. Vigilantes.” They lapsed into silence until the apartment complex loomed.
Erik broke the silence as they pulled into his parking spot. “You need to find an alternate place to stay for awhile. I prefer you nearby, but we can’t take the chance. That Mazzini character, for one. I don’t want him showing up at your apartment again, or mine. He may have already traced my license plate.”
“They are dedicated to their task, aren’t they.” She wasn’t asking.
Erik walked her to her door, doing a cursory check inside before he bid goodnight. The warmth in their goodnight hug transferred quickly, neither wishing to let go. Finally, Erik spoke up.
‘You can’t stay here, Lishan. You just can’t. Come stay on my couch.”
She grabbed a few items, including her laptop, after which they headed to Erik’s apartment.
“Erik, I’m frightened by all of this. Conner means business. Could we open up your couch, both of us sleeping here in our clothes?”
“I think it’s a good idea.” Erik retrieved the necessary blankets and pillows.
Erik said, “I know we’re alone here. I know all the entry points are locked. It is likely—somewhere between possible and plausible—that no one knows about me or where I live. No guarantees, but I feel comfortable enough—your staying here tonight. Tomorrow, we can re-evaluate. What do you think?”
Lishan agreed. “Do you mind if I stay up and study the information we received this evening?”
Erik nodded. He sat up against the back of the couch, delving into a newly arrived New Yorker, reading the cartoons first. Lishan sat near him, laptop unfolded on her lap.
She opened the folder containing Mazzini’s email, this time with a search for anything to do with Fatima and the factory. The pickings were slim, requiring that she modify her search to account for Mazzini’s slang. Lishan’s perseverance paid off, since a few of the emails made no mention of Fatima or the factory, yet they contained clues supporting Fatima’s disclosure. Many of the emails were at least two months old, but that didn’t change their importance in establishing Conner’s path to jail.
July 19th, 11:30 p.m. From Mazzini to Conner. “That Fatima woman’s causing trouble. Go for the jugular? M.”
The reply came at three in the morning. From what Lishan could see, Conner practically never slept. This seemed to be a pattern among crooks, she thought. There was clear science that showed a lack of sleep interfered with moral judgment. Yes…Conner.
“Too visible. Put pressure, but just shy of the artery you seem fond of severing. She should be an example, but a live one. Three steps. Pay her off. Period. Threaten her, strong-arm, with references to family. Extort her for your protection. Got it? Jack.”
Lishan printed these as PDFs then emailed them to herself and Erik for safekeeping. She began thinking that searching for specific criteria was not the way to go. She should just skim through each email. Who knows what may lurk, she thought. With 1,250 of them to look through, the words “may as well get started” formed on her lips. Didn’t he ever do a little file housekeeping, she mused to herself.
An hour later, she
perked up to an unfamiliar sound. It was the faintest snore from Erik. Lishan smiled, experiencing the intimacy.
He opened his eyes, finding her looking straight at him. “What?” he complained.
Lishan just grinned as he fell back asleep. She spread out a blanket over him and continued her research. An hour later, she shut down her laptop.
Throughout the night, Lishan was aware of the occasional spooning. She wondered if he was, as well. No doubt, she thought. When dawn broke through the curtains, Lishan found herself wide-awake. It was seven o’clock. As the alarm sprung into their consciousness, they managed an awkward kiss on the lips, and then arose.
Lishan noticed the fullness in Erik’s pants, but she buried her hormones beneath an audible sigh.
“And what was that?” Erik decried playfully, hands on his hips.
“Pheromone induced. Don’t be afraid.” She laughed. “Okay, a plan for the day?”
They agreed to get in touch in the hours ahead.
Left alone with a jumble of thoughts and emotions, she set about reviewing the day before her, knowing she should replace the feelings of the past eight hours with more useful ones if she was going to make any progress. Erik lingered in every corner of her being. A shower should have helped provide the separation, but washing her body brought him closer. She dallied at thigh level until the feelings jumped the fence. Now she could regain her focus.
34
The hands were rough-hewn. His facial features reminded people of someone to be feared, someone who led a challenging life. The apron he wore, covered with bright images of olive trees and expeller-pressed oil cans, didn’t fit the impression he generally bestowed upon those he met or those who knew him. He was generally not affable. But in the kitchen…
He whistled as he created and mixed the batter from scratch. Cake mixes from the store were not in his repertoire. His grandmother would be proud.
This will be my finest sheet cake ever, he told himself, smiling at the thought. Twelve by eighteen. Plenty of servings. Yes, plenty. A spice cake with cream cheese frosting. He enjoyed sampling the batter as he mixed it by hand. I’d better back off, he told himself as he tasted it. There won’t be any left, he thought, as he ate another spoonful.
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