by Renee Hart
Chapter 6
A few days passed. Tessa was out working in her garden one sunny afternoon. She still hadn't figured out what, if anything, she was going to do. Part of her still wanted to drop the whole issue. It wasn't like she had proof that Dunham was making people sick. There was just the small possibility.
A possibility no one else at the company was investigating.
She pulled out a few handfuls of weeds and old roots, dropping them into a big plastic bucket. Then she carried the bucket to one of her neighbor's plots. Mrs. Mackenzie was an elderly widow with arthritis, so Tessa helped her out a lot with carrying out her garbage or sometimes bringing in groceries. She knelt down at a pile of leaves and weeds that Mrs. Mackenzie had pulled out of her own plot, and dropped them into the bucket. The wet leaves weighed more than she'd expected, weighing the bucket down. Tessa grasped the heavy bucket by the handle and headed off to the compost bin.
Her strength started to give out just when she got to the bin. She set the bucket down for a moment, took a deep breath, then hauled the bucket up to dump it into the compost bin.
It slipped out of her grasp, spilling leaves, roots, weeds, and specks of dirt all over the ground.
“Damn it,” she muttered. She was almost tempted to leave it all there. It wasn't like it was real litter when it was all biodegradable plant matter. But her neighbors would get irritable with her about it, and she didn't want to do something like that just because she was lazy.
She knelt down and started scooping up the debris, hauling it into the bin a double-handful at a time. When she was grabbing her second handful, someone crouched down next to her and started lending a hand.
“Had a little accident?”
She looked up and saw it was Mr. Jones. He was an elderly African American man who lived in Tessa's building. She didn't see him out and about much, other than when he was checking the mail or taking out his trash. There were rumors that he was an ex-con, and some people claimed he'd spent several decades in jail for a murder committed when he was a young man. Tessa couldn't see that in him. Even though they didn't talk much, he was always so reserved.
“This is what I get for not making two trips,” Tessa said, scooping up some more leaves.
“No harm done,” Mr. Jones said. He smiled at her, revealing the deep lines in his face. There was a sadness to his smile. As if he knew he only had so many smiles to give, and each one was the loss of something beautiful.
Working together, they cleaned up the mess in no time. “Thanks,” she said, brushing off her hands. “Have a nice day.”
“You do the same.”
He watched her walk away as she circled around the building. He watched people a lot, she noticed. His apartment had one of the best views of the garden plot, and on many days he sat at his rear window, sipping tea, and watching the community around him as they worked on making things grow.
Tessa paused in her step, thinking it sad that such a sweet old man could only ever watch the making of life. She wondered if he would ever be interested in a patch of his own. She turned to ask him if he'd ever considered it, but he was already gone.
When she got back to her garden plot, Tessa found Samson there. He had a thermos and a few cups in his hand, and he was pouring some tea for a few of the neighbors. He poured her a cup and handed it to her. “For one of the loveliest gardeners in the community,” he said. “After Mrs. Mackenzie, of course.” He winked at her.
“Oh, stop,” Mrs. Mackenzie said, waving a hand at him and chuckling. “I could be your grandmother.”
Mrs. Mackenzie took her tea back to her own plot. Tessa stood with Samson, sharing a drink with him. He looked at her over the rim of his cup, studying her. “You're just a little ball of overwhelming stress today, aren't you?”
Tessa's shoulders slumped. “Is it that obvious?” She still hadn't told anyone about her situation at work. The burden of it was starting to get to her.
“Only because I'm used to seeing you so chipper.”
“Me?” she asked. “Chipper?” I gave him a look of mock irritation and rolled my eyes. “Please. I'm Grumpy McGrumpypants all the time. I'm really starting to hate my job.”
“Then quit.”
“Ha!” Tessa snorted and shook her head. “Yeah, sure. Just quit.”
“Why not?”
Tessa planted a fist on her hip and tilted her head to the side, raising her eyebrows at him. “Umm, hello? Rent, groceries, cell phone bill, et cetera.”
Samson shrugged. “Get a different job. One without all the stress. I can talk to the boss down at the music shop.”
Tessa shook her head. “Thanks, but I'll manage.” She had left the retail world after she finished college. That sort of career might be right for Samson, but he was clearly the sort of person who didn't have any aspirations of promotion and advancement. He would probably be content to work at the same little music shop for the rest of his life. Tessa couldn't imagine dealing with that. She'd hated working in retail. Customers could be so demanding.
“Well,” Samson said, pausing to sip his tea, “if there's anything I can do, you just let me know.”
Tessa sighed and shook her head. “Not unless you know any chemists or biologists.”
“Sure,” Samson said. “My friend Gregory, he works at the university. Part time professor, full time researcher. What do you need a chemist for?” He frowned at her in puzzlement.
Tessa blinked, staring at Samson for a moment. “Wait, you really know a chemist?” She downed the rest of her tea, then set the mug down on one of Samson's benches. “Can he like, run tests? For things like chemical fertilizer?”
Samson's eyes narrowed slightly. “This isn't about Topher, is it?”
They both glanced down the line of gardens at one of their more irritable neighbors. Topher was always overly-energetic, he who talked too much, and he never seemed to understand when Tessa was trying to avoid him. He grew vegetables that he took down to gardening shows, where he could win prizes for the biggest zucchini or the most perfectly shaped tomato. His crops were always bigger and thrived more than anyone else's. Tessa was pretty sure he used some kind of chemical fertilizer, despite the community rule that everything had to be natural and organic.
She shook her head. “No, it's not about him. But...if I brought your friend some samples, do you think he could run some tests for me?”
“Sure, I could ask. He'd want to know what it was for...” There was a look in Samson's eyes that told Tessa he was curious what this was about himself.
“I'll explain later. I've...got some things to figure out.”
She gave him a quick hug, then gathered her gardening supplies and headed back into her apartment. She quickly washed up, then turned on her computer and logged onto the Dunham network. She searched through it until she found the forms she was looking for, then printed them out.
She sat in her living room with the pages in hand, tapping her fingers against them. What she was considering could get her fired. But this issue wouldn't stop bugging her. She simply had to know.
And if she was going to pull it off, she realized, she was going to need help.
Chapter 7
Tessa paced around Samson's apartment, wringing her hands. He'd offered her some tea, though what she really needed was a stiff drink. “I want you do understand,” she said, “I'm not sure what I'm asking you to do is strictly legal.”
“Is it important?” he asked. Samson sat on a wicker chair, watching her pace. The entire apartment was decorated in wicker, rattan, throw rugs, and oriental lamps. There was an odd yet appropriate clashing to the decor. Nothing about it quite fit together, just like sometimes Tessa couldn't quite fit the things she knew about Samson together.
“I think it is,” she said. “It could be nothing. Nothing but covering up harmless use of GMOs because they're afraid of the bad publicity.”
“But?”
“But,” Tessa said, “it could be something more. I've seen a lot of r
eports indicating possible harmful levels of pesticides. Which could be hurting people. And the only way to find out is to get some tests done.”
“Okay,” Samson said. He slapped his hands on his knees and nodded, a determined look on his face. “What is it you need me to do?”
“Help me sneak samples out of one of our main sorting facilities.”
He frowned and rubbed his chin. “Can't we just get some Dunham products from the supermarket?”
“No.” Tessa made a cutting gesture with her hands. “That won't be good enough. Dunham's produce is triple-washed before it goes to the markets. In theory that helps make it safe, but residue from pesticides can be absorbed by the produce, or stick to the skin. Especially the skins of certain fruits, like apples. I think we need to get some samples before they've been washed, so we can get a complete sample. Find out exactly what's going into this food. Even if it's only in there at reduced levels after the produce has been washed, it might be the sort of thing that becomes dangerous when consumed in large quantities over a long period of time.”
“And you're worried those 'reduced levels' will be low enough to slip past most tests,” Samson said, “but high enough to still be dangerous.”
“I think so.” Tessa threw up her arms. “I mean, I don't know. I'm not a scientist. I'm going off what I've learned from online research here. But I have a list of some of the highest-risk fruits and vegetables. Apples, strawberries, grapes, celery, peaches. A few others. I want to get samples of each.”
“Okay.” Samson stood up and walked over to her, sticking his hands in his pockets. “So, you work for them. You can get us in, right?”
Her face scrunched up. “Sort of?”
“Uh-oh.” He rubbed his chin. “What does 'sort of' mean?”
“It means I found copies of all the forms needed to get the goods released to us, but I'm technically not authorized to submit the orders. I'd need signatures from upper management, like my boss, Mr. Morgan. And that's not going to happen.”
“So, if I'm hearing you right,” Samson said, smirking, “you need someone to play the role of 'Mr. Morgan' during your visit to the sorting facility.”
Tessa shrugged, her lips twisting in a wry grin. “Do you own a suit?”
* * *
They pulled up to the Dunham Enterprises Eastern Pennsylvania Sorting Facility mid-Saturday morning, driving a rented pickup truck. Tessa was dressed in her smartest business suit, with a cream-colored blouse and maroon pants and jacket. This wasn't an unusual look for her; she dressed like this whenever there was an important meeting at work, always conscious of making the best impression.
Samson, on the other hand, was completely transformed. Not only was he wearing a suit and tie, he had also cut his hair. Instead of hanging down to the middle of his back, it was in a short ponytail that just brushed his neck. He was also clean-shaven, and Tessa was pretty sure she detected a hint of cologne.
“You look like a secret agent,” Tessa said as they got out of the car.
Samson pulled out a pair of dark sunglasses, put them on, and said, “Just call me Bond. Samson Bond.”
They walked up to the facility. Tessa tried to keep a purposeful stride in her step. People wouldn't be as likely to question them if they looked like they belonged here, like they knew what they were doing.
They walked in the front door and found a bored receptionist sitting at her desk, playing Angry Birds on her computer. Tessa walked right up to the desk and cleared her throat. The receptionist cleared her throat and sat up straight. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes,” Tessa said, pulling some papers out of her briefcase and handing them to the girl. “I'm Ms. Cunningham, this is Mr. Morgan. We're from the Department of Information Resources. We're here to pick up some samples for inspection.”
The girl looked at the forms, her face tense. She skimmed the pages, licking her lips, but it was clear she had no idea what to do in this situation. “Umm, okay. Do you need me to call the floor manager?”
Tessa almost told the girl no, but she didn't want to raise suspicions. If they were going to make this work, they would need the cooperation of the staff here. “Yes, please,” she said. “As long as he's not busy.”
“Just one moment.” The receptionist picked up her phone and pressed a button. A moment later she told whoever answered about the visitors, then she hung up and said, “It'll be just a moment.”
They didn't have to wait long before the manager, a middle-aged man with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his tie hanging loose around his neck, came into the lobby. “Hi,” he said, extending a hand first to Samson, then to Tessa. “Mike Carter, assistant floor manager. What's this all about?”
Samson stepped forward, showing Mike a copy of the inspection report from Elizabeth O'Conner. “One of your inspectors filed a report with our department, suggesting the need for more testing on some of the products. We'd like to take a few samples so they can be analyzed. Make sure everything meets with safety specs.”
Mike scanned the report, nodding. “All right. Yeah, I remembered her saying something about it. I didn't know there would be anyone coming down here, though.”
Samson leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Well, they're trying to keep this quiet. You understand, right? The media hears the words 'health hazard,' and the next thing you know, they've got OSHA and the USDA down our throats, people stop buying our products, and we get the goddamn hippie health nuts picketing us. Nobody wants that.”
Mike nodded, breaking out into a light sweat. “Right. I understand. Though I can assure you, everything at this facility is run according to spec.”
Samson smiled at the man and patted him on his arm. “Trust me, I know. No one blames you. This is just a sorting facility, after all. You're not responsible for what happens out in the fields.”
“That's right,” Mike said, a determined set to his jaw. “We just load everything up and send it off to the local distributors in each region.”
“Which is why we want to get samples right from the source,” Tessa said. “So we can run tests on the produce before it's even been handled by your people. That will prove that any contamination came before any of it even crossed your hands.”
Mike blanched at the word “contamination.” “Right. Right. Well, just let me know what I can do for you. We'll be happy to help.”
They left some paperwork with the receptionist for filing. By the time Mike led them onto the main floor, the girl was already tucking the papers into a filing cabinet, where Tessa hoped they'd be lost and forgotten.
The main part of the facility was a broad, high-ceilinged room, filled with machinery. Crates of produce were unloaded from trucks at the far end of the room, then piled onto conveyor belts. The belts ran them through sprinkler systems that washed and sanitized everything, taking the produce through a triple-wash system to maximize sanitation. The produce was then loaded back into crates and sorted, with the workers loading up shipments that would be taken off to Delaware, New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut. After arriving at their destinations, Tessa knew the shipments would be split up into smaller orders for delivery to supermarkets local to each area.
Mike walked them through the facility, explaining some of the processes. “Everything meets all health code regulations,” he said. “Everyone wears gloves and hair nets, and we do a full scrub down of the machinery after every shift.”
“Everything looks good,” Tessa said. She looked around the room at all of the weekend workers, busy loading and unloading crates and operating the machinery. There were a lot of people here who might recognize her face if someone from Dunham started poking around, trying to find out what she'd done here. She suddenly wished she hadn't used her real name.
“Do you have anything that hasn't been washed yet?” Samson asked. “It'd be best if we got samples right off the truck.”
“Sure thing.” Mike led them to the loading docks, where several trucks were in the process of being un
loaded. “How much do you need, exactly?”
“Just a few pieces from each,” Tessa said. “Preferably stuff that was grown in different fields. If there's anything wrong, we want to isolate where it came from.”
Mike had some of his people help them with selecting some fruits and vegetables from a variety of crates. Tessa made sure everything got labeled, and she took notes on where each shipment had come from. With the tracking numbers on the crates, she could search the Dunham computer network and find out the exact field these crops had been grown in.
They got some of Mike's men to carry the boxes of samples to the truck. They shook hands again, and before they left, Samson leaned closed and spoke quietly to the man. “Remember, it'd be best if you keep this as quiet as possible. We don't want to risk any bad publicity when there's a good chance this is all just a pointless scare, right?”
“Right,” Mike said, nodding. He licked his lips. “Look, my name isn't going to be associated with anything, right? I mean, I just work here.”
“Don't worry,” Samson said. “We won't even mention you.”
Mike wiped the sweat from his forehead and he headed back to the facility. Tessa and Samson got into the truck and drove off. Tessa held her breath until they were out of sight of the facility, then she let out a long sigh of relief.
“That went well,” Samson said.
“I hope so.” Tessa turned in her seat and looked back behind them, half-expecting someone to be following them. “I just hope no one starts asking any questions or following up on what we just did. This could really bite me in the ass.”
She consoled herself with the reminder that this could be for a good cause. If she got fired, but stopped people from getting sick in the process, then it would all be worth it.
Chapter 8
Tessa and Samson stopped at a gas station a few miles from the shipping facility. While Samson filled the tank, Tessa paced back and forth across the asphalt, fidgeting nervously with her hands. “Wow,” she said. “Wow wow wow. I can't believe we just did that.”
