by Robin Cook
“When?”
“I can’t say for certain.”
“Can you give me an idea?”
“We’re pretty busy with several oil spills down at Portsmouth, so it will probably be several weeks.”
Several weeks wasn’t what Charles wanted to hear.
“Are any of the engineers around now?”
“No. Both of them are out. Wait! Here comes one now. Would you like to speak to him?”
“Please.”
There was a short delay before a man came on the line.
“Larry Spencer here!” said the engineer.
Charles quickly told the man why he was calling and that he’d like someone to check out the dumping immediately.
“We’ve got a real manpower problem in this department,” explained the engineer.
“But this is really serious. Benzene is a poison, and a lot of people live along the river.”
“It’s all serious,” said the engineer.
“Is there anything I can do to speed things up?” asked Charles.
“Not really,” said the engineer. “Although you could go to the EPA and see if they’re interested.”
“That’s who I called first. They referred me to you.”
“There you go!” said the engineer. “It’s hard to predict which cases they’ll take on. After we do all the dirty work they usually help, but sometimes they’re interested from the start. It’s a crazy, inefficient system. But it’s the only one we’ve got.”
Charles thanked the engineer and rang off. He felt the man was sincere and at least he’d said that the EPA might be interested after all. Charles had noticed the EPA was housed in the JFK Building at government center in Boston. He wasn’t going to try another phone call; he decided he’d go in person. Restlessly Charles got to his feet and reached for his coat.
“I’ll be right back,” he called over to Ellen.
Ellen didn’t respond. She waited several full minutes after the door closed behind Charles before checking the corridor. Charles was nowhere to be seen. Returning to the desk, Ellen dialed Dr. Morrison’s number. She had convinced herself that Charles was acting irresponsibly, even taking into consideration his daughter’s illness, and that it wasn’t fair for him to jeopardize her job as well as his own. Dr. Morrison listened gravely to Ellen, then told her he’d be right down. Before he hung up he mentioned that her help in this difficult affair would not go unrecognized.
Charles felt a building frenzy when he left the Weinburger. Everything was going poorly, including his idea of revenge. After his time on the phone, he was no longer so positive he could do anything about Recycle, Ltd. short of going up there with his old shotgun. The image of Michelle in her hospital bed again rose to haunt him. Charles did not know why he was so certain she was not going to respond to the chemotherapy. Maybe it was his crazy way of forcing himself to deal with the worst possible case, because he recognized that chemotherapy was her only hope. “If she has to have leukemia,” cried Charles shaking the Pinto’s steering wheel, “why can’t she have lymphocytic where chemotherapy is so successful.”
Without realizing it, Charles had allowed his car to slow below forty miles an hour, infuriating the other drivers on the road. There was a cacophony of horns, and as people passed him, they shook their fists.
After stashing his car in the municipal parking garage, Charles made his way up the vast bricked walk between the JFK Federal Building and the geometric City Hall. The buildings acted as a wind tunnel and Charles had to lean into the gusts to walk. The sun was weakly shining at that moment, but a gray cloud bank was approaching from the west. The temperature was twenty-four degrees.
Charles pushed through the revolving door and searched for a directory. To his left was an exhibition of John F. Kennedy photographs and straight ahead, next to the elevator, a makeshift coffee and donut concession had been set up.
Dusting Charles with a fine layer of confectioner’s sugar as she spoke, one of the waitresses pointed out the directory. It was hidden behind a series of smiling teenage photos of John F. Kennedy. The EPA was listed on the twenty-third floor. Charles scrambled onto an elevator just before the door closed. Looking around at his fellow occupants, Charles wondered about the strange predominance of green polyester.
Charles got out on the twenty-third floor and made his way to an office marked DIRECTOR. That seemed like a good place to start.
Immediately inside the office was a large metal desk and typing stand dominated by an enormous woman whose hair was permed into a profusion of tight curls. A rhinestone-encrusted cigarette holder, capped by a long, ultrathin cigarette, protruded jauntily from the corner of her mouth and competed for attention with her prodigious bosom that taxed the tensile strength of her dress. As Charles approached she adjusted the curls at her temples, viewing herself in a small hand mirror.
“Excuse me,” said Charles, wondering if this was one of the women he’d spoken to on the phone. “I’m here to report a recycling plant that’s dumping benzene into a local river. Whom do I speak with?”
Continuing to pat her hair, the woman suspiciously examined Charles. “Is benzene a hazardous substance?” she demanded.
“Damn right it’s hazardous,” said Charles.
“I suppose you should go down to the Hazardous Materials Division on the nineteenth floor,” said the woman with a tone that suggested “you ignorant slob.”
After eight flights of stairs, Charles emerged on nineteen, which had a totally different atmosphere. All except weight-bearing walls were removed, so that one could look from one end of the building to the other. The floor was filled with a maze of chest-height metal dividers separating the area into tiny cubicles. Above the scene hung a haze of cigarette smoke and the unintelligible murmur of hundreds of voices.
Charles entered the maze, noticing there were poles resembling street signs, describing the various departments. The Hazardous Materials Division was helpfully adjacent to the stairwell Charles had used, so he began to look at the signs delineating the subdivisions. He passed the Noise Program, the Air Program, the Pesticide Program, and the Radiation Program. Just beyond the Solid Waste Program he saw the Toxic Waste Program. He headed in that direction.
Turning off the main corridor, Charles again confronted a desk serving as a kind of barrier to the interior. It was a much smaller desk and occupied by a slender black fellow who had apparently taken great effort to brush his naturally curly hair straight. To his credit, the man gave Charles his full attention. He was fastidiously dressed and when he spoke, he spoke with an accent almost English in its precision.
“I’m afraid you’re not in the right section,” said the young man after hearing Charles’s request.
“Your division doesn’t handle benzene?”
“We handle benzene all right,” said the man, “but we just handle the permits and licensing of hazardous materials.”
“Where do you suggest I go?” asked Charles, controlling himself.
“Hmmm,” said the man, putting a carefully manicured finger to the tip of his nose. “You know, I haven’t the slightest idea. This has never come up. Wait, let me ask somebody else.”
With a light, springy step, the young man stepped around the desk, smiled at Charles, and disappeared into the interior of the maze. His shoes had metal taps and the sound carried back to Charles, distinct from the sounds of nearby typewriters. Charles fidgeted as he waited. He had the feeling his efforts were going to turn out to be totally in vain.
The young black came back.
“Nobody really knows where to go,” he admitted. “But it was suggested that perhaps you could try the Water Programs Division on the twenty-second floor. Maybe they can help.”
Charles thanked the man, appreciating at least his willingness to help, and returned to the stairwell. With dampened enthusiasm but augmented anger, Charles climbed the six flights of stairs to the twenty-second floor. When he’d passed the twenty-first floor he’d had to skirt a gr
oup of three young men passing a joint among them. They’d eyed Charles with brazen arrogance.
The twenty-second floor was a mix of offices with normal plasterboard walls alternating with open areas containing chest-high dividers. At a nearby watercooler, Charles got directions to the Water Programs Division.
Charles found the receptionist’s desk but it was empty. A smoldering cigarette suggested the occupant was in the vicinity but even after a short wait, no one materialized. Emboldened by exasperation, Charles stepped around the desk and entered the interior office space. Some of the cubicles were occupied with people on the phone or busy at a typewriter. Charles wandered until he came upon a man carrying a load of federal publications.
“Pardon me,” said Charles.
The man eased the stack of pamphlets onto his desk and acknowledged Charles. Charles went through his now-automatic routine. The man straightened the pile of pamphlets while he thought, then turned to Charles. “This isn’t the right department for reporting that kind of thing.”
“Jesus Christ!” Charles exploded. “This is the Water Department. I want to report a poisoning of water.”
“Hey, don’t get mad at me,” defended the man. “We’re only tasked with monitoring water treatment facilities and sewerage disposal facilities.”
“I’m sorry,” said Charles with little sympathy. “You have no idea how frustrating this is. I have a simple complaint. I know a factory that’s dumping benzene into a river.”
“Maybe you should try the Hazardous Substance department,” said the man.
“I already did.”
“Oh,” said the man, still thinking. “Why don’t you try the Enforcement Division up on twenty-three?”
Charles eyed the man for a moment, dumbfounded. “Enforcement Division?” echoed Charles. “Why hasn’t someone suggested that before?”
“Beats me,” said the man.
Charles muttered obscenities under his breath as he found another stairwell and climbed to the twenty-third floor. He passed the Financial Management Branch, the Personnel Branch, and the Program Planning and Development Branch. Just beyond the men’s room was the Enforcement Division. Charles stepped inside.
A black girl with large, purple-shaded glasses looked up from the latest Sidney Sheldon novel. She must have been at a good part because she didn’t hide her irritation at being bothered.
Charles told her what he wanted.
“I don’t know anything about that,” said the girl.
“Whom should I talk to?” said Charles slowly.
“I don’t know,” said the girl, going back to her book.
Charles leaned on the desk with his left hand, and with his right snatched away the paperback. He slammed it down on the desk so that the girl jumped back.
“Sorry I lost your place,” said Charles. “But I’d like to speak to your supervisor.”
“Miss Stevens?” asked the girl, unsure of what Charles might do next.
“Miss Stevens will be fine.”
“She’s not in today.”
Charles drummed his fingers on the desk, resisting the temptation to reach over and give the girl a shake.
“All right,” he said. “How about the next person in command who is here.”
“Mrs. Amendola?” suggested the girl.
“I don’t care what her name is.”
Keeping a wary eye on Charles, the young woman got to her feet and disappeared.
When she reappeared, five minutes later, she had a concerned woman in tow who looked about thirty-five.
“I’m Mrs. Amendola, assistant supervisor here. Can I help you?”
“I certainly hope so,” said Charles. “I’m Dr. Charles Martel and I’m trying to report a factory that is dumping poisonous chemicals into a river. I have been sent from one department to another until someone suggested there was an Enforcement Division. But when I arrived here the receptionist was somewhat less than cooperative, so I demanded to speak to a supervisor.”
“I told him that I didn’t know anything about dumping chemicals,” explained the young black girl.
Mrs. Amendola considered the situation for a moment, then invited Charles to follow her.
After passing a dozen cubicles, they entered a tiny and windowless office enlivened with travel posters. Mrs. Amendola motioned toward a lounge chair and squeezed herself behind the desk.
“You must understand,” said Mrs. Amendola, “we don’t have people walking in off the street with your kind of complaint. But of course, that doesn’t excuse rudeness.”
“What the hell do you people enforce if it’s not fouling the environment,” said Charles with hostility. After leading him to her office to placate him, Charles had the feeling that she was just going to refer him to another department.
“Our main job,” explained the woman, “is to make sure that factories handling hazardous waste have filed for all the proper permits and licenses. It’s a law that they do this and we enforce the law. Sometimes we have to take businesses to court and fine them.”
Charles lowered his face into his hands and massaged his scalp. Apparently the absurdity that Mrs. Amendola was describing was not apparent to her.
“Are you all right?” Mrs. Amendola tilted forward in her chair.
“Let me be sure I understand what you’re saying,” said Charles. “The primary task of the Enforcement Division of the EPA is to make sure that paperwork gets done. It has nothing to do with enforcing the Clean Water Act or anything like that?”
“That’s not entirely correct,” said Mrs. Amendola. “You must remember that the whole concern for the environment is relatively new. Regulations are still being formulated. The first step is registering all users of hazardous materials and informing them of the rules. Then and only then will we be in a position to go after the violators.”
“So, for now, unscrupulous factories can do what they want,” said Charles.
“That’s not entirely correct either,” said Mrs. Amendola. “We do have a surveillance branch which is part of our analytical laboratory. Under the present administration our budget has been cut and unfortunately that branch is quite small, but that’s the place your complaint should go. After they document a violation, they turn it over to us and we assign the case to one of the EPA lawyers. Tell me, Dr. Martel. What is the name of the factory you are concerned about?”
“Recycle, Ltd. in Shaftesbury,” said Charles.
“Why don’t we check their paperwork?” said Mrs. Amendola rising from her desk.
Charles followed the woman out of her tiny office and down a long corridor. She paused at a secured door and inserted a plastic card in a slot.
“We’re going on-line with a pretty sophisticated data processor,” said Mrs. Amendola, holding the door open for Charles, “so we’re having to tighten security.”
Inside the room the air was cooler and cleaner. There was no odor of cigarette smoke. Apparently the computer terminal’s well-being was more important than employee health. Mrs. Amendola sat down in front of a free terminal and typed in RECYCLE, LTD., SHAFTESBURY, N.H. There was a ten-second delay after which the cathode ray tube blinked to life. Recycle, Ltd. was described in computer shorthand, including the fact that it was wholly owned by Breur Chemicals of New Jersey. Then all the hazardous chemicals involved with the plant were listed, followed by the date applications for permit or license were filed and the date they were granted.
“What chemicals are you interested in?” said Mrs. Amendola.
“Benzene, mostly.”
“Here it is, here. EPA hazardous chemical number U019. Everything seems to be in order. I guess they’re not breaking any laws.”
“But they’re dumping the stuff directly in the river!” exclaimed Charles. “I know that’s against the law.”
The other occupants of the room looked up from their work, shocked at Charles’s outburst. Churchlike speech was the unwritten law in the computer terminal room.
Charles lowered his v
oice. “Can we go back to your office?”
Mrs. Amendola nodded.
Back in the tiny office, Charles moved forward to the edge of the chair. “Mrs. Amendola, I’m going to tell you the whole story because I think you might be able to help me.”
Charles went on to tell about Michelle’s leukemia, Tad Schonhauser’s death from aplastic anemia, his discovery and confirmation of the benzene in the pond, and his visit to Recycle, Ltd.
“My God!” she said when Charles paused.
“Do you have children?” asked Charles.
“Yes!” said Mrs. Amendola with true fear in her voice.
“Then maybe you can understand what this is doing to me,” said Charles. “And maybe you can understand why I want to do something about Recycle, Ltd. I’m sure a lot of kids live along the Pawtomack. But obviously I need some help.”
“You want me to try to get the EPA involved,” said Mrs. Amendola. A statement, not a question.
“Exactly,” said Charles, “or tell me how to do it.”
“It would be best if you made your complaint in writing. Address it to me!”
“That’s easy,” said Charles.
“What about some documented proof? Could you get that?”
“I already have the analysis of the pond water,” said Charles.
“No, no,” said Mrs. Amendola. “Something from the factory itself: a statement by a former employee, doctored records, photos of the actual dumping. Something like that.”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” said Charles, thinking about the last suggestion. He had a Polaroid camera . . .
“If you could supply me with some kind of proof, I think I could get the Surveillance Branch to confirm it, then authorize a full-scale probe. So it’s up to you. Otherwise it will just have to wait its turn.”
As Charles left the JFK Federal Building he was again fighting a feeling of depression. He was much less confident now about convincing any authority to do anything about Recycle, Ltd. Consequently, the idea of taking matters into his own hands was an increasingly enjoyable fantasy.
The more he thought about Breur Chemicals, the angrier he became that a handful of dull businessmen sitting around in oak-paneled conference rooms in New Jersey could destroy his happiness and rob him of that which he loved the most. Approaching the Weinburger, Charles decided he’d call the absentee parent company and let them know how he felt about them.
