by Robin Cook
“Really?” Kim questioned. “You mean we’ll be able to trace the meat back further than the slaughterhouse?”
“That’s the way the system is supposed to work,” Marsha said. “At least in theory. The trouble is a lot of cows can go into one of those two-thousand-pound combos of boneless beef. But the idea is to be able to trace the animals through purchase invoices back to the ranch or farm they came from. Anyway, the next step is to go to Higgins and Hancock.”
“Give me that goddamn book,” Jack Cartwright yelled.
Marsha and Kim leaped in fright as Jack lunged around Marsha and snatched up the ponderous logbooks. The noise from the high-pressure steam had kept them from hearing the man enter the patty room and approach them.
“Now you have finally overstepped your bounds, Miss Baldwin!” Jack sneered triumphantly, while pointing an accusatory finger into Marsha’s face.
Marsha straightened up and tried to regain her composure. “What are you talking about?” she asked, attempting to sound authoritative. “I have a right to examine the logs.”
“The hell you do,” Jack said, while continuing to poke his finger at Marsha. “You have the right to ascertain we keep the logs, but the logs themselves are private property of a private company. And more important, you do not have the right to bring in the public under the authority of the USDA to look at these logs.”
“That’s enough,” Kim said. He stepped between the two. “If anybody is to blame here it’s me.”
Jack ignored Kim. “One thing I can assure you, Miss Baldwin, is that Sterling Henderson, the district USDA manager, is going to hear about this violation of yours ASAP.”
Kim batted Jack’s brutish finger to the side and grabbed a handful of the man’s white coat. “Listen, you oily bastard . . .”
Marsha gripped Kim’s arm. “No!” she cried. “Leave him alone. Let’s not compound this.”
Reluctantly Kim let go.
Jack smoothed his lapels. “I want you two out of here,” he snarled, “before I call the police and have you arrested.”
Kim glared back at the Mercer Meats vice president. For a blind instant the man was the embodiment of all Kim’s anger. Marsha had to pull on his sleeve to get him to leave.
Jack watched them go. As soon as the door closed, he hoisted the logs up to chest height and slipped them into their appropriate shelves. Then he followed them into the changing room. Marsha and Kim were already gone. Out in the hall he walked down to the reception area. He got there in time to see Marsha’s car leaving the lot and accelerating up the street.
“They didn’t pay me no attention,” the guard said. “I tried to tell them they had to sign out.”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” Jack said.
Jack walked back to his office and phoned Everett.
“Well, what did you learn?” Everett demanded.
“It was just as I suspected,” Jack said. “They were in the patty room, looking at the patty-room logs.”
“They weren’t looking at the formulation logs?” Everett asked.
“The guard said they hadn’t gone anyplace but the patty room,” Jack said. “So they couldn’t have looked at the formulation logs.”
“At least that’s a blessing,” Everett said. “The last thing I want is for someone to find out we’re recycling outdated frozen patties. And that might happen if someone were to snoop around in the formulation logs.”
“That’s not a worry with this crisis,” Jack said. “What is a worry is that this duo might end up at Higgins and Hancock. I heard them talking about Higgins and Hancock before I surprised them. I think Daryl Webster should be warned.”
“An excellent idea,” Everett said. “We can mention it to Daryl when we see him tonight. Better yet, maybe I’ll give him a quick call.”
“The sooner the better,” Jack said. “Who knows what these two might do, as crazy as that doctor seems to be.”
“See you at Bobby Bo’s,” Everett said.
“I might be a tad late,” Jack said. “I’ve got to go all the way back home to change before I drive over there.”
“Well, get a move on,” Everett said. “I want you there for the Prevention Committee meeting.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Jack said.
Everett hung up the phone and then searched for Daryl Webster’s phone number. He was in his upstairs study off his dressing room, half-dressed in his tuxedo. When Jack had called he’d been struggling with his shirt studs. Formal attire was not a common requirement in Everett’s life.
“Everett!” Gladys Sorenson called from the master bedroom. Gladys and Everett had been married for more years than Everett wished to acknowledge. “You’d better shake a leg, dear. We’re due over at the Masons’ in half an hour.”
“I gotta make a quick call,” Everett yelled back. He found the number and quickly dialed. The phone was answered on the first ring.
“Daryl, Everett Sorenson here,” Everett said.
“This is a surprise,” Daryl said. The two men not only had traveled similar career paths; they even resembled each other physically. Daryl was equally heavyset, with a thick neck, shovel-like hands, and a ruddy, plethoric face. The difference was that Daryl had a full head of hair and normal-sized ears. “The Mrs. and I are just about to walk out the door on our way to the Masons’.”
“Gladys and I are about to do the same,” Everett said. “But something’s come up. You know that young, pain-in-the-ass inspector, Marsha Baldwin, who’s been causing me grief?”
“Yeah, Henderson told me about her,” Daryl said. “A real independent troublemaker as I understand it.”
“Well, she’s hooked up with that raving maniac doctor who got himself arrested last night at an Onion Ring restaurant. Did you see that in today’s paper?”
“Who could miss it?” Daryl said. “It gave me a cold sweat with him carrying on about E. coli.”
“You and me both,” Everett said. “And now it’s gotten worse. A little while ago she snuck into my plant with the doctor. Somehow he’s got her to help him trace meat.”
“Presumably looking for E. coli,” Daryl said.
“Undoubtedly,” Everett said.
“This is very scary,” Daryl said.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Everett said. “Especially since Jack Cartwright overheard them talking about Higgins and Hancock. We’re concerned they may show up at your establishment on the same crusade.”
“This I don’t need,” Daryl said.
“We’re going to be talking about a long-term solution tonight,” Everett said. “Did you get the message?”
“I did,” Daryl said. “Bobby Bo called me.”
“In the meantime, maybe you should take some precautions,” Everett said.
“Thanks for the tip,” Daryl said. “I’ll call my security and alert them.”
“That’s exactly what I would have suggested,” Everett said. “See you in a little while.”
Daryl disconnected. He held up a finger to indicate to his wife, Hazel, that he had one more quick call to make. Hazel, dressed to the nines, was impatiently waiting at the front door. While she tapped her toe, Daryl dialed the main number at the slaughterhouse.
Marsha turned into Kim’s driveway and stopped directly behind Kim’s car. She left the motor running and the headlights on.
“I appreciate what you’ve done,” Kim said. He had his hand on the door, but he didn’t open it. “I’m sorry it didn’t go more smoothly.”
“It could have been worse,” Marsha said brightly. “And who knows what’s going to happen? We’ll just have to see how it plays out.”
“Would you like to come in?” Kim asked. “My house is a wreck, but I could use a drink. How about you?”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll take a rain check,” Marsha said. “You’ve got me started on something I intend to finish. By the time you get the lab results on Monday, I’d like to have the meat traced as much as possible. That way we’d be that m
uch farther ahead of the game when we try to make an argument for a recall.”
“Are you planning on doing something now?”
“Yup,” Marsha said, with a nod. She glanced at her watch. “I’m going to head directly out to Higgins and Hancock. This might be my only chance. As I said earlier, the district USDA manager and I have never gotten along. Come Monday, when he hears about our little escapade from Jack Cartwright, I might be out of a job. Of course, that would mean I’d lose my I.D. card.”
“Gosh,” Kim remarked. “If you lose your job, I’m going to feel terrible. It’s certainly not what I intended.”
“There’s no need for you to feel responsible,” Marsha said. “I knew the risk I was taking. Even in retrospect, I think it was worth it. Like you said, I’m supposed to be protecting the public.”
“If you’re going to the slaughterhouse now, then I’m coming along,” Kim said. “I’m not going to let you go alone.”
“Sorry, but it’s out of the question,” Marsha said. “I didn’t think there’d be a problem at Mercer Meats and there was. It’s a different story at Higgins and Hancock. I know there’d be a problem. Heck, it might be tough for me to get in there even with my USDA card.”
“How can that be?” Kim asked. “As a USDA inspector, can’t you visit any meat establishment?”
“Not where I’m not assigned,” Marsha said. “And especially not a slaughterhouse. They have their own full-time contingent of USDA people. You see, slaughterhouses are akin to nuclear installations as far as visitors are concerned. They don’t need them, and they don’t want them. All they can do is cause trouble.”
“What are the slaughterhouses hiding?” Kim asked.
“Their methods, mostly,” Marsha said. “It’s not a pretty sight in the best of circumstances but particularly after the deregulation of the eighties, slaughterhouses have all pushed up the speed of their lines, meaning they process more animals per hour. Some of them run as much as two hundred fifty to three hundred animals an hour. At that speed contamination can’t be avoided. It’s inevitable. In fact, it is so inevitable that the industry sued the USDA when the agency considered officially calling meat with E. coli contaminated.”
“You can’t be serious,” Kim said.
“Trust me,” Marsha said. “It’s true.”
“You’re saying the industry knows that E. coli is in the meat?” Kim said. “They’re contending it can’t be helped?”
“Exactly,” Marsha said. “Not in all meat, just some of it.”
“This is outrageous,” Kim said. “This is something the public has to find out about. This can’t continue. You’ve convinced me I’ve got to see a slaughterhouse in operation.”
“Which is exactly why the slaughterhouses don’t like visitors,” Marsha said. “And that’s why you’d never get in. Well, that’s not entirely true. Slaughtering has always been a labor-intensive business, and one of their biggest headaches is a constant shortage of help. So I suppose if you got tired of being a cardiac surgeon, you could get a job. Of course, it would help if you were an illegal alien, so they could pay you less than the minimum wage.”
“You’re not painting a very flattering picture,” Kim said.
“It’s reality,” Marsha said. “It’s hard, undesirable work, and the industry has always relied heavily on immigrants. The difference is that today the workers come from Latin America, particularly Mexico, rather than Eastern Europe, where they came from in the past.”
“This is all sounding worse and worse,” Kim said. “I can’t imagine that I’ve never given it any thought. I mean, I eat meat, so in some ways I’m responsible.”
“It’s the downside of capitalism,” Marsha said. “I don’t mean to sound like a radical socialist, but this is a particularly flaming example of profit over ethics: greed with a complete disregard for consequence. It’s all part of what prompted me to join the USDA, because the USDA could change things.”
“If change was considered desirable by those in power,” Kim added.
“True,” Marsha agreed.
“Putting this all in perspective,” Kim said, “we’re talking about an industry that exploits its workforce and feels no compunction about killing hundreds of kids a year.” Kim shook his head in disbelief. “You know, the total lack of ethics that this represents makes me worry even more about you.”
“How do you mean?” Marsha asked.
“I’m talking about your going off right now to visit Higgins and Hancock essentially under false pretenses,” Kim said. “By using your USDA I.D., you’ll be suggesting you’re there on official business.”
“Obviously,” Marsha said. “That’s the only way I could get in.”
“Well, as security-minded as they are,” Kim said, “won’t you be taking a risk? And I’m not talking about your job security.”
“I see what you mean,” Marsha said. “Thank you for being concerned, but I’m not worried about my well-being. The worst that could happen is that they’d complain to my boss, like Jack Cartwright has threatened to do.”
“Are you sure?” Kim asked. “If there were any danger, I wouldn’t want you to go. To tell you the truth, after the episode in Mercer Meats, I feel uncomfortable about you doing any more on my behalf. Maybe you should just let me do what I can. If you go out there tonight, I’ll be nervous the entire time.”
“I’m flattered by your concern,” Marsha said. “But I think I should just go and see what I can. I’m not going to get hurt or in any more trouble than I already am. I might not even get in. And as I said, you wouldn’t be able to do anything on your own because you certainly wouldn’t be able to get in.”
“Maybe I could get a job,” Kim said. “Like you suggested.”
“Hey, I was only kidding,” Marsha said. “I was just trying to make a point.”
“I’m willing to do what I have to do,” Kim said.
“Listen,” Marsha said, “what if I take my cellular phone with me and call you every fifteen or twenty minutes? Then you won’t have to worry, and I can keep you posted about what I’m finding. How’s that?”
“It’s something, I guess,” Kim said without a lot of enthusiasm. But the more he thought of the idea, the better it began to sound. The concept of his getting a job in a slaughterhouse was far from appealing. But most important was Marsha’s adamant assurances about the lack of risk.
“I’ll tell you what,” Marsha added. “This visit won’t take me that long, and after I’m done, I’ll come back and have that drink you offered. That is, if the invitation is still open.”
“Of course,” Kim said. He nodded as he went over the plan one last time. Then he gave Marsha’s forearm a quick squeeze before getting out of the car. Instead of closing the door, he leaned back in. “You better take my phone number,” he said.
“Good thinking,” Marsha said. She fumbled for a pen and a piece of paper.
Kim gave her the number. “I’m going to be waiting right by the phone, so you’d better call.”
“No need to worry,” Marsha said.
“Good luck,” Kim said.
“I’ll be talking with you soon,” Marsha said.
Kim slammed the car door. He watched as she backed up, turned, and accelerated down the street. He watched until the red taillights and their reflection in the rain-slicked street were swallowed by the night.
Kim turned and looked up at his dark, deserted house. Not a single light relieved its somber silhouette. He shuddered. Suddenly left by himself, the reality of Becky’s loss descended. The crushing melancholy he’d felt earlier flooded back. Kim shook his head in despair at how tenuous his world had been. His family and his career had seemed so substantial, and yet within a relative blink of the eye, it had all disintegrated.
• • •
Bobby Bo Mason’s house was lit up like a Las Vegas casino. To provide the proper gala atmosphere for his inaugural dinner celebration, he’d retained a theatrical lighting specialist to do the job. And
to make the scene even more festive, he’d hired a mariachi band to play under a tent on the front lawn. A little rain certainly wasn’t going to dampen his affair.
Bobby Bo was one of the largest cattle barons in the country. In keeping with his image of himself as well as his position in the industry, he’d built a house whose flamboyant style was a monument to Roman Empire kitsch. Columned porticos stretched off in bewildering directions. Plaster-cast, life-sized, imitation Roman and Greek statues dotted the grounds. Some were even painted in realistic skin tones.
Liveried valet parkers lined up at the head of the circular drive to await the arrival of the guests. Six-foot-high torches bordering the drive sputtered in the light rain.
Everett Sorenson’s Mercedes beat Daryl Webster’s Lexus but only by less than a minute. It was as if they’d planned it. As they exited their cars they embraced as did their wives.
The cars were whisked away by the valets, while other staff protected the guests with large golf umbrellas. The foursome started up the grand staircase leading to the double front doors.
“I trust you called your security,” Everett said sotto voce.
“The moment after I spoke with you,” Daryl said.
“Good,” Everett said. “We can’t be too careful, especially now that the beef business is back to being relatively healthy.”
They reached the front door and rang. While they waited, Gladys reached over and straightened Everett’s clip-on tie.
The double doors were whisked open. The light from within was enough to make the newly arrived guests squint as it reflected off the white marble foyer. In front of them stood Bobby Bo framed by the massive granite jambs and lintel.
Bobby Bo was heavyset, similar to Everett and Daryl, and, like his colleagues, he believed in his product enough to eat staggeringly large steaks. He had a lantern jaw and a barrel chest. He was impressively attired in a custom-tailored tuxedo, a hand-tied bowtie edged with gold thread, and diamond studs and cuff links. His fashion idol had been the “Dapper Don” prior to his conviction and incarceration.
“Welcome, folks,” Bobby Bo beamed. His smile revealed several gold molars. “Coats to the little lady and please help yourself to champagne.”
