Silence Her

by Douglas Fetterly

  Extracting a PBS interview with whistleblower Dr. David Graham—a former FDA Associate Director for Science and Medicine in the Office of Drug Safety—she perused his comments aimed at setting the public straight on where the FDA stood. Lishan had highlighted a few graphs, settling now on one quote she especially remembered: “As currently configured, the FDA is not able to adequately protect the American public. It's more interested in protecting the interests of industry. It views industry as its client.”

  Her desk phone came to life, a distraction she wasn’t in the mood for. “This is Lishan.”

  “Lishan, this is Jody at the front desk. I have a Ms. Reed here to see you. She’s from Senator Libby’s office.”

  Don’t they ever bother to make an appointment? Lishan knew this was an intimidation visit. Making an appointment would have been too cordial. No, this is about power.

  In the lobby, Lishan extended her hand. The handshake was not reciprocated.

  “Justine Reed. I’m an attorney from Senator Libby’s office.”

  “Would you care to use a conference room?”

  “Your desk, Ms. Amir, will do just fine, if you don’t mind.”

  It wasn’t a question. Lishan knew the attorney wanted her to back off, so any public humiliation or patronizing behavior would put Lishan on the defensive.

  “How can I help you?” Lishan’s smirk was barely visible. She had no interest in placating anyone today, especially some mid-level enforcer from Libby’s stable.

  “My purpose...”

  “Is to intimidate.” Lishan was pointed.

  Reed just smiled beneath stylized lips. “You know we don’t operate that way.”

  “No, in fact I don’t.”

  “We are here to help, regardless of your belief. Look, we’re getting off on the wrong foot—and my shoes are quite a bit larger than yours.”

  “They fit your body,” Lishan smiled.

  The attorney leaned forward, her features hard and focused. “I’m here because Senator Libby’s office has its hands full without having to fend off inaccurate, sensationalistic stories.”

  Lishan didn’t budge. She wasn’t about to be outdone. “I’m confident you’re absolutely correct.”

  “Your sarcasm is unnecessary, Ms. Amir. Listen, I stopped by, hoping to have a pleasant visit with...”

  “Excuse me,” Lishan jumped in. “Don’t patronize me. Some may see Libby—Senator Libby—as a humanitarian. But we both know better, now don’t we?”

  The attorney bristled, taking a breath to regain composure—part of her training. She knew she would lose this round if she displayed uncontrolled anger.

  “As I was saying, I hoped to have a pleasant visit with a suitable outcome...”

  “That I should capitulate? Please don’t waste your time.”

  “Your reputation precedes you.” Reed stood. “Here’s today’s New York Times. It’s a newspaper. After you see your name in print, infamously, perhaps you’ll consider a redrawing of your so-called exposé—one that paints the senator in the light he deserves.”

  “Gray?”

  Reed just blinked, then turned to leave. Over her shoulder, she delivered her parting comment. “If you’re interested in the truth, and not theatrical bullshit, we strongly suggest that you consider recasting him as, shall we say, a public defender?”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Justine Reed drew a long breath. She turned and leaned in, whispering, “If you only knew what we’re capable of.”

  “Dolt.” Lishan smiled as the word eased through her lips. “Read my…” Lishan’s eyes were piercing. “Don’t. Threaten. Me. Good day.”

  The attorney started to speak, but thought better of it. She turned and left—speechless, defeated, hatred in her eyes.

  What was it about the senator that could get a journalist like herself in trouble? Rhetorical question, she thought. There were too many millions, or billions, at stake. And, in today’s world, where politicians and CEOs were beginning to get jail sentences, Lishan knew her own welfare was a mere pittance to pay if it meant some VIP’s safety from the cell. She didn’t expect the government to do her in, though the Warren Commission came to mind. The worst she would have imagined was being boycotted from the newspaper, but that was before the near accident this morning.

  She opened the Times, heading straight to the op-ed page. There it was:

  WASHINGTON JOURNALIST

  PRONE TO LIBEL

  By Senator Libby (R-NY)

  Two days ago, a bright-eyed, yet brain-dead young reporter, from a usually prominent Washington, D.C. newspaper, wrote what she called an exposé about me and CEO Jack Conner. It included references to improprieties within the FDA.

  She no doubt intends to set the world straight, and somehow believes that I’m irresponsible, a portal through which she will readily find injustices to be corrected.

  Unfortunately, her efforts have consequences that cannot be overlooked, as they are damaging and false. Libel is never to be trifled with.

  The op-ed continued, but Lishan had seen quite enough. She was mildly curious about the possibility of facing a libel suit, but that was extremely remote. For one thing, Libby was a highly visible public figure—fair game, usually. For another, everything she wrote had been checked and double-checked, and truth was an unbeatable defense against libel. Libby was playing his intimidation card.

  Good, she thought. He’s getting desperate. I must be too close for his comfort.

  7

  Charlotte pressed the key. “Mr. Conner, I’ve got Henry Krager from Krager Grocers on line one.”

  As he summarily dismissed Charlotte, Conner shifted from gruff to his dripping sweet marketing voice as he answered the call.

  “Henry, how’s my favorite grocery king?”

  “This isn’t a social call, Jack. That exposé on Monday—you know, the one that makes anyone doing business with you look like they are in cahoots with crooks—let’s just say the board is up in arms. I’ve kept you from getting booted off of our preferred list on more than one occasion, but this time I might not be able to.”

  “Henry, you can’t be serious. You know my products are the…”

  “Are the what, Jack? I’m well aware of how many lawsuits you’ve had to skirt out from under due to shortcuts you take to increase your bottom line—shortcuts that resulted in kids getting sick from tainted baby food, for one, or getting FDA approval before one of your harebrained oils had been fully vetted, despite hundreds of reported cases of intestinal damage. And now, this crackerjack reporter is getting the public to pay attention. What the hell, Jack?”

  Conner held back his temper, at least from Henry’s ears. There would be time later for his tantrum. Right now, he had to salvage the situation. This was how empires were lost: one key player at a time. He would lie and distort—whatever it took.

  “Henry, yes, I’ve had a few products that didn’t pass muster, but they are not representative of the whole.”

  Krager paused before responding. “Look, Jack, I don’t want to strong-arm you. We go way back. I know this. But the board members don’t. I’ll do what I can to calm the storm, but you’ve got to quiet that newspaper, no matter what it takes—if your business matters to you.”

  A moment later, Conner was left to himself. The calculating and conniving part of his brain had kicked in, seething. He pressed the buzzer he was so fond of.

  “Get Jerry Hanson on the phone, and I don’t mean tomorrow.”

  When Jerry heard it was Jack Conner himself, he was quite pleased. Conner never called him. Conner always went through Senator Libby. Jerry already imagined the praise Conner would lavish on him. Yes, this must be good.

  “Hi Jack. How’s…”

  “Listen, you little weasel. I’m not accustomed to being dragged over the mud by some fish-wrap. Don’t you call the shots on what gets published and what doesn’t? Take lessons from Fox if you don’t know how to run the show. I want that Amir girl muzzled. I
don’t care how you do it. People who badmouth me don’t live very… Let’s just say, it’s not good for her health, or yours. Do I make myself clear, Hanson? And my name, to you, is Mr. Conner.”

  Jerry couldn’t get off the phone fast enough. His hands were sweating and shaky. His eyes narrowed as he spotted Lishan at her desk.

  8

  At a quarter to five, with a few calls under her belt to daycare facilities about their choices in toys—safety versus cost—Lishan headed to her flat. It was renovated student housing, serving Georgetown University. Her place was on the third floor of a five-story brick building, a corner unit with inviting views of the Potomac.

  Her friend, property manager Erik Andersson, had managed to see that Lishan was given her preference when she was looking for a place to live a couple of years ago. Erik, who doubled as a government affairs professor, was quite fond of Lishan. He had met her a year before she moved in while she was a top student in his political science seminar. She was then twenty-four, having gone back for a master’s in journalism. He was twenty-seven. Though the housing was earmarked specifically for current students, Erik bent the rules in order to have her nearby.

  Lishan enjoyed living in her old stomping grounds, close to where she’d done her undergrad and graduate work at Georgetown. She found the eagerness of the students refreshing. The first-floor study lounge, next to the lobby, was always ripe with opportunity for intellectual conversation as the students represented a diversity found typically only in places like New York City, Berkeley, or San Francisco. There, she often ran into Erik, a daily objective of hers after returning from The Mirror.

  The building had been renovated seven years ago—a tasteful renovation that retained the charm of aging architecture, including the fixtures. The kitchen seemed an anomaly, as it was fully modernized, leaning towards art deco but finished with modern appliances.

  The apartments were comfortable. Windows and balcony sliding glass doors were double paned, walls and ceilings insulated. It was a quiet and peaceful retreat.

  Lishan’s apartment contained a master-sized bedroom, complete with associated bathroom and walk-in closet. She had a variety of wall hangings, mostly batiks from Africa, reminiscent of a segment of her family’s origin. The oddest decoration was a fifteen-foot African rock python skin draped along one wall. The animal had squeezed the life out of one of her cousins when Lishan was a young child. Her uncle found and eradicated the threat to the rest of his family. The skin reminded Lishan of her early childhood with its dangers and hardships that never seemed far away.

  For the past two years, 4:00 p.m. was Lishan’s theoretical quitting time—theoretical in that, as any reporter knew, reporting assignments were at the whim of editors and events that needed reporting. Early court cases, late city council meetings, an unscheduled public appearance by some celebrity or politician—each was a common occurrence. Lishan, however, had a fairly regular schedule. It probably had something to do with her walking in on an interview between Jerry and a young female interviewee, Jerry’s hand well above the knee of the soon-to-be reporter. Jerry knew that the publisher would have severely admonished him and that Lishan was well aware of the codes surrounding HR violations. Lishan wouldn’t have resorted to such blackmail, but Jerry didn’t take unnecessary risks, unless he knew he could win.

  Before heading down to the lobby, Lishan changed clothes, consciously separating her day job from the rest of her life. Hanging up her khaki pants, she reached in the closet for her stack of jeans, pulling out her favorite: a belled European brand made from hemp. They were all size 8, as Lishan decided long ago that she would never buy larger pants. Her waistline was a benchmark to keep her from gaining any significant weight. She did have one loose-fitting pair, though, for a week when she enjoyed one-too-many celebrations over pizza and a Hefeweizen or two.

  Approaching the lobby, she heard a desk phone ring. Something familiar about that ring, she thought. Then it stopped her, the feeling of dread chilling her entire body. The hang-up call from Monday morning. Am I in danger? Now, with the taxi incident, she began to question her safety.

  Erik spotted her. “Hey, Lishan. Are we all good about the Media Gala?”

  Lishan nodded. It did help that he asked.

  He paused. “Something on your mind?”

  Lishan looked serious. “I…I may be in trouble. My safety.” She hadn’t seen him since he walked her to the taxi Monday night. She proceeded to tell Erik of the morning’s taxi incident and the hang-up phone call on Monday. His alarm was evident and his smile disappeared as they discussed what it meant. Perhaps it was nothing, but they didn’t know.

  9

  From a young age, Lishan felt compelled to deal with injustice. As a budding teen, after listening to the political discussions her mother, father, and their friends would have, she decided to go after the politicians and others who interfered with justice.

  She also had an axe to grind as a result of her father losing his job as a scientist for the FDA. Lishan had turned thirteen on the day her father came home from work with a sad, angry look on his face. Her parents chose not to spoil her birthday party, and the FDA issue was not broached.

  When Lishan was college age, her parents had pressed her, gently, to continue her education. She chose to wait a year. She had an Uncle Joseph who had impressed her with the value in seeing a little of the world before continuing her education. Within three weeks of graduating from high school, Lishan landed a six-month assignment covering food and nutrition alongside failures and advances in malaria programs in Nairobi, Kenya with an African journalist. The experience added realism to the dreams Lishan developed as a teen. The internship increased her insight into world poverty. Downtown Nairobi sported a business population dressed in slacks, ties, and stylish dresses, while half-a-mile in any direction found shacks with tin roofs and no running water. Africa expanded and amplified her views of humanity, of the U.S., and of her life.

  After the assignment was over, she nabbed a four-month work-study assignment with a Parisian friend of the Kenyan journalist. Paris broadened Lishan’s worldview with a perspective that gave her sophistication uncommon among American nineteen-year-olds. But it wasn’t altogether different from the Western culture she grew up in, unlike Africa where the soul of the earth was exposed. When she returned home, she was ready to continue her formal education. Her journalistic calling to make a difference was stronger than ever.

  When it came time to apply to universities, she found herself conflicted. As she imagined the coming years of her life, it was important to her to be exposed to the world, to the outspoken, to those who would not idly accept the status quo. Send me to Washington to buck the politicians, or Berkeley to join the remnants of the hippies and radical poets, she thought. Or the Middle East, or Africa. But she felt a need to mature just a bit more before going out into the world again. She didn’t tell anyone, but her recent six-month stint in Africa had been frightening at times. She just wasn’t quite ready to immerse herself again. Not just yet.

  Philosophically, she had her parents to thank for instilling a Bohemian bent in her nature, a liberal view of life that nearly eliminated prejudice and included a concern for the wellbeing of all creatures. This made Berkeley a temptation, but it was too far from the tight-knit culture and family that she came from. Four to six months was one thing, but not four to six years. She was in no hurry for that much physical distance from them.

  This left D.C., the hub of politics for the wealthiest and most powerful nation in the world. Georgetown University was just the environment in which she could meld together her youth, the catalysts of her experiences in Africa and Western Europe, and her burning passion to bring change. This would be the era of transformation, of an upward thrust towards the heavens of justice. The honest politician. She knew it was a road strewn with obstacles. But she could do it. She just knew.

  The next four years found her immersed in the study of journalism and politics. Lishan blossomed
as her shell unraveled, revealing additional layers of her lust to make change, the compassion that drove her headlong into writing, with a nature predisposed to the exposé. She embraced the populist tradition.

  Alongside her formal schooling, she worked as an intern for The Capitol Review editing obituaries. This was the drudgery of journalism, as she saw it. She knew other interns who could not get past the seemingly compulsory initiation of calling the families of the newly deceased and attempting to make heartfelt bios of somebody’s grandmother, or someone’s son, who had just died. And the obituary was seldom just right for the grieving families, who let her know as much. She was told the newspaper never quite captured the essence of that important individual who no longer baked a cake, held the grandchild, or chased the ball into the street. Lishan felt relegated to a spot at the fringe of the action. It reminded her of when she played goalie for her high school soccer team. Some days she hardly got her hands or feet on the ball.

  Then there was James, a previous intern who commiserated with Lishan about her tasks. He had “been there” already, having edited scores of obits. In the process of one of the critiquing sessions, he asked Lishan if she would like to go dancing some time. Not a date. Just dancing. She didn’t see any harm in it, putting aside the stories of the risks of dating someone in the office. But it wasn’t a date, she told herself.

  They went to The Speak Easy, a hot nightclub in Georgetown. James had on his sexiest outfit—snug, black jeans and a gauzy black long-sleeve shirt, unbuttoned halfway down, a style a hot Broadway dancer might employ. They bedded one another that night, much to her delight. But memory of the elation faded the next morning when she began hearing whispers while getting sly looks from some of James’ buddies. When one of the young women in the lunchroom took a sideways, lingering look at her crotch while whispering something about pleasure, Lishan guessed what had happened. As she approached his desk in the newsroom, his neighbors giggled, pretending to return to their work.