“Maybe? That’s not good enough. I need to be at the prison by nine.” The line went dead.
Lishan called again. It rang eight times before being answered. The same voice.
“Hi. Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound pushy,” Lishan said.
“Yes, in fact you did. Don’t you go to church in the morning?”
Lishan hesitated. An offense at this point could cost her a ride. “I never miss church,” she lied. “I’ll be going tomorrow evening. What church do you attend?”
“I’m an evangelical…herbalist.” The woman, fifty in Lishan’s mind, cracked up, her laughter filling whatever room she was in. Lishan’s sensitivity was being hijacked. It took nearly ten seconds before the laughter died down. The woman sensed that Lishan was not amused. Finally, she offered, “I’m an atheist. Just pulling your chain. Okay, I’ll leave a note. Where are you? The Blaylock Motel?”
“Yes. Does everyone heading to the prison stay here?”
“No. Most everyone stays there…at the prison.” More laughter, cut short this time. “I’m sorry. I must be in rare form tonight. Yeah, everyone stays there, though we don’t get too many people visiting these days since the incident.”
“Incident. What incident?” Her eyes were now fully round.
“Don’t you watch the news? About three months ago, a visitor—I think he was looking up that FDA writer guy—got shot. It was a mistake. Someone thought he was a prisoner escaping. He lived, but I hear he walks with a limp now. I’m sure it’s fine, though.”
Lishan just blinked. So many reasons not to go.
“It sounds ominous, but I’ve come far enough. I think I’ll go ahead with my visit.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Just double-checking: I’ll call at eight, then?”
“Yeah. I’ll leave a note, but you should call. You know, just in case.”
Her sleep was fitful. By dawn, Lishan felt as though she had slept no more than an hour. Dreams and reality sparred for first place. Was the flashlight beam on the motel’s two-inch blinds part of a dream? She knew that the stretcher and ambulance at the prison, with psychedelic lights flashing off the disco ball, and the female stretched out with a bloody bandage on her left knee was a dream. It was not her. Not yet, at least.
She couldn’t find any ease in her mind this morning. With no intention of staying the next night, and her return ticket on the last train out at 6:00 p.m., she packed her bag, leaving out her casual business attire. She imagined bone-colored pants and a dress shirt would do. A shower, breakfast, call to the taxi company just in case, and she’d be on her way.
Green Gables was as pleasant for breakfast as it had been for dinner. She considered the eggs Florentine, but another favorite of hers was available, one she nearly never found in a restaurant: Joe’s Special, vegetarian style. Instead of ground beef, it used marinated veggie sausages. Half regular and half decaf would keep her adrenals from being any more agitated than they already were.
7:50 a.m. One call to the taxi company produced nothing. 7:53, the same. 7:58, no change. 8:00 a.m., the ninth ring, a voice. Lishan felt she was talking to a hangover, but she didn’t quibble. No, the dispatcher hadn’t seen the note. There didn’t appear to be one. A taxi would be right out, perhaps twenty minutes. Forty minutes later, a slightly beat-up silver 1985 Mercedes 500 SEL taxi eased into the parking lot.
Right out, twenty minutes—Lishan repeated in her mind as she gauged the time on her watch. Nothing big-city about this operation. She just might make it in time for the 9:00 a.m. appointment.
The driver reminded Lishan of someone’s Aunt Bee, one who watched the soaps and indulged in boxes of chocolate.
“Hi darlin’.” She flung a smile Lishan’s way, along with an up-and-down look. “Where to?”
Lishan thought to mention that she should already know, but it seemed counter-productive. “The prison.”
“I’ll have to stop for gas if we’re going that far.”
Lishan could feel the woman’s foot stomping the accelerator as they pulled a U-turn, heading away from the prison toward a gas station, traveling just under the speed limit.
“Could you drive just a little faster? I have an appointment there at nine.”
“Nope. Wouldn’t be safe. You want to be safe, don’t you?”
And that was that.
9:40 a.m. The prison loomed into view. The forestlands had been cleared for three hundred yards around the perimeter of the prison walls. To the south, a small community of ten duplexes—housing for the guards—and two Victorian homes—one clearly more expansive than the other—were held inside a high chain link fence, complete with razor wire.
“Who gets the expensive Victorian?”
“It’s not as you might think. That’s for the vice warden. He calls the shots here. The warden is just a, what do you say, figurehead. Don’t anger the vice warden. Hey, should I wait for you?”
“I think not. Can you be back here in a few hours? Perhaps 1 or 2?”
“Sure, darlin’. You can count on me.” She reached around the bucket seat and patted the inside of Lishan’s right thigh, giving a gingerly squeeze before letting her go.
Lecherous old gal, Lishan thought.
24
At the gate, the guard made it clear the taxi would not enter; Lishan would enter on foot. It wasn’t the distance Lishan minded, as it was short. It was the vulnerability.
Lishan was pointed to the vice warden’s office. As she entered the office, the man behind the desk was not quite what she had expected. A military man of stature with a physique to match was in her mind’s eye. Yet here was a small man, balding and homely. Lishan stood there for nearly a minute before she was acknowledged—a tactic of hierarchy, Lishan recognized.
“You’re late, you know. You’ll have to come back at one.”
Lishan was stunned. “The taxi didn’t come through as promised. Can’t I just have that much less time for the interview?”
“Do you think we just squander time here, wasting the taxpayers’ money? Frazier went back to work when you didn’t show. He has a project that won’t be completed until twelve thirty, then lunch. You get the picture. Or don’t you?”
Lishan knew her place in this game. Subservience to the master. In as meek a tone as she could muster, fighting a strong desire to interject a marked sarcasm, she said, “Yes, I understand. Where would you like me to wait?”
“We don’t have a waiting room. This is not a hotel lobby. You’ll have to wait outside the prison grounds.”
“Back out through the guard gate?”
Vice Warden Johnson didn’t reply. The introduction was over.
Lishan was frisked, with only minimal boundary violations, as she passed through the guard gate. This was a complete 180 since she was not frisked on the way in. Once outside, she decided to walk the perimeter of the prison, just to get a look. Immediately after opening her notebook, though, she heard “STOP” via megaphone. It was a powerful sound, inducing a certain fear in the recipient, especially given the arsenal at each guard tower. Within several seconds, three guards, each with a loaded weapon, surrounded Lishan.
She was whisked around by one and handcuffed by another. She dropped her notebook in the dirt.
“Hey!” Lishan yelled.
“Hey what?” came the menacing response from the third guard.
“You’ve no right to treat me like this.” Lishan was angry. “I’m here visiting an inmate, with the vice warden’s permission.”
“Didn’t you know the prisoners are inside the fence, not outside?” The guards’ cohesive laughter suggested this was an old joke in their world.
One of the guards called the vice warden’s office on a two-way radio. But Lishan neither saw nor heard any indication that the radio was transmitting or receiving. In Lishan’s book, she was being harassed and the guard just pretending to make a call.
“Okay, you’re free. But don’t be walking around. There’s a bench over there by
the bus stop. You can wait there.”
After Lishan was uncuffed, she saw no point in trying to negotiate with these guys. At least the bus stop had a roof, providing shade.
She dusted off her notebook and proceeded to make a few key notes, though she knew her treatment was indelibly inscribed in her memory. How could she forget? She passed the time with a copy of The Economist she brought for just such an occasion. It was the one source of news she felt was the least filtered or biased.
As 1:00 p.m. approached, Lishan worked her way back to Johnson’s office. Again, she was not searched upon entry. Nor was she treated any differently in the vice warden’s office. Instead of responding with fury, Lishan just took a breath, barely suppressing a smile and a roll of her eyes as she wondered at the species she was born into.
“Are you ready?” Johnson bore a mischievous smile and made no effort to hide it. He led her through no less than six keyed steel doors, finally ending at the visitor’s room. Lishan supposed she was taken the circuitous route, for effect.
“Okay, you’ve got fifteen minutes.” The vice warden was at the point of uproarious laughter. Lishan could see it. She decided it was time to push back. She was angry.
“Fifteen? That’s not okay. On the form you had me fill out and fax to you, I checked the ‘one hour’ box, and there was no mention from you or anyone else about a shorter time period. You can stuff your fifteen minutes. I’ll come back with a court order prescribing at least three hours with your supposed prisoner.” Lishan turned around. She was feeling hostile. “Take me out of here. Now.”
Surprisingly, the vice warden was speechless. Lishan could see he was shaken, though every effort was made to hide it.
“I was just joshing with you. Didn’t you know?”
“No, it wasn’t apparent.”
“Okay, one hour.”
“And none of this glass in between us. I want a room where we can sit and talk.”
“You journalists are getting mighty pushy these days. Sure, why not, Virginia. A room of one’s own.”
Lishan’s eyes widened at the vice warden’s literary reference. He didn’t miss the implication.
“Thought I didn’t read, did you? Tsk.”
“Not at all,” she lied. She was diverted to a small space, next to a water cooler. It wasn’t completely private, but it had a small table and two chairs.
“Thank you.” Lishan was barely cordial. Nothing in return.
The vice warden disappeared. Two minutes later, a disheveled, forty-something male, with shoulder-length graying hair, eased into the space next to where Lishan stood.
“You’re the reporter,” the man stated, barely asking.
“Yes, but I don’t believe you should think of me that way. My name is Lishan. Lishan Amir. I work for The Washington Mirror in D.C., but the editor doesn’t support the work I’m doing to expose injustice in the likes of Senator Libby, Conner, and the FDA.”
“Why shouldn’t I think of you as a reporter?”
“Can we sit down?”
Frazier complied. He seemed ill at ease with the gentleness emanating from Lishan.
“If you think of me as a reporter, you might just peg me as something inconsistent with who I really am.”
He seemed to relax a little. “I’m Alan Frazier, as you know. I…say, are we being monitored, or recorded?”
“Not on my end. I can’t speak for the room. It looks like a cubbyhole off a mini-lunchroom, but I couldn’t say.” In a lower voice, Lishan said, “Perhaps if we speak softly, they won’t be able to listen in.”
They leaned in closer, keeping their voices low. “Back to why I shouldn’t think of you as a reporter,” Frazier said.
“Ah.” Lishan took a long breath. “Technically, I’m a reporter. But I think of myself more as a writer—of social justice—wearing a journalist hat. I hope that makes sense on some level.” Lishan smiled an inquisitive smile. “May I call you Alan?”
“Alan, yes. And I believe I get your drift. You’re not filling a nine-to-five space. What brings you here? Chasing Goliath?”
“If I’m not careful, I’ll be in here with you, following your footsteps. Or dead.”
Alan just nodded, a somber look consuming his face.
“So, you’d like to profit from my experience. No, that didn’t come out quite right. You’re hoping I have some inside tips, am I correct?”
“Yes. I didn’t know what you might offer, but I knew I had to try. Besides, I don’t feel so alone, knowing there are others—you, for example—who have been willing to take a stand.”
Alan sat back, clasping his hands under his chin. He leaned in again as he continued. “Staying out of jail has a lot to do with how well connected you are—who you know—and who your connections know. I just didn’t have, still don’t have, anybody on my side who can conjure at least a little fear in these guys.”
“I don’t know that I’m in any better shape than you in that regard. Who do you believe was the kingpin behind your being in prison?”
“Hmm. Sometimes it’s a bit difficult to know the true underpinnings. FDA top brass themselves would not have taken it this far. I shouldn’t insinuate that they were blameless. It’s just that Jack Conner is like the Mafia in my opinion. That is, he’s behind the invitation that put me in prison. I’ve been here two years. Two to go. Conner wanted me in for ten, but the judge knew he was handing me a sentence I didn’t deserve.”
Alan paused, taking in the surroundings. Through a glass window, he could see the visitor’s room twenty feet away. Within, there were several visitors, each on one side of a chicken-wire-impregnated glass separator, telephone handset in hand. Opposite each was an inmate. The room Alan and Lishan were in looked as though it was once a small office off a small conference room, but the larger room had become a mini-lunchroom for visitors, with a few tables, chairs, and vending machines. The smaller room had the door removed, but it still offered a semblance of privacy.
“How did you manage to get us in here? I’m not on their perks list, you know.”
“I got lucky, I think.” Lishan didn’t want to lose precious time on unrelated details, but she did give him the gist of her brief confrontation with the vice warden.
“You did seem to intimidate the VW a little. Could be good. Could be bad. Just be careful. Now, I’m sure you only have limited time with me. How can I help?”
“I know you went after both the FDA and companies like Conner Foods in your book. Are there any particular avenues that worked in your favor or worked against you? Anything that will help me put Conner in prison?”
“The principals at the FDA were close-lipped. Not a peep from them. In my book, I listed… Say, do you have a copy of my book?” Alan suddenly looked around. “Don’t answer. Just know I list my sources in it. Probably why the FDA—no, Conner’s political pawns—had the books quietly retrieved.”
They sat in momentary silence, likely considering their prospective fates.
“I’m known somewhat as a rebel,” Lishan said quietly. “I speak up against the status quo in Washington. I’m sick of the lies spouted by the mega-corporations, the lobbyists, and the politicians who run this country. I do a series called ‘Truth Be Known.’ In fact, just a week ago I wrote an exposé that rather pointedly involved Conner, the FDA commissioner, and Senator Libby regarding their propensity to mislead the public, specifically with our food. It’s not as though I’ve uncovered a spy ring or that Conner isn’t abiding by the letter of the law—at least some of the laws.”
Alan sat back, taking it all in. “Yes, I know.” His eyes did a sweep of the surroundings—pensive, if not mildly brooding. “If your editor is against this, what do you plan to do? Write a book?”
Lishan gave a thoughtful smile. So far, her face had been somewhat featureless, worthy of the Stoics. But she began to open up to this writer who shared her passion.
“It wasn’t foremost in my mind a minute ago, but talking with you does spark interest in writing
a book. Think of it: how many writers could they imprison for making these improprieties public?” Lishan paused. “Sorry. Makes me think of Socrates. Okay, a book. It’s on my list. But, to answer your question, I want to get these messages out to the public now, today. The paper I work for is well-known, well-read. If I can get a couple of good stories out there, perhaps acquire a readership, a following, that would make the editor see the value, then we can help effect change. One problem, though: my editor knows the FDA director, and Libby as well, so that creates a bit of a snag—an undertow, really. But whether I have to go underground to write this or find a way at the paper…. The publisher is on my side—that’s a plus. I want to give it my best shot, which is why I’m here.”
Frazier whispered, “There’s a reference librarian at the New York Avenue Library in D.C. He’s a tall Rastafarian. With dreads. Is that redundant? Buy him dinner.”
“I think I’ve met him. Dinner is an excellent idea.”
“I just remembered: there’s a bodyguard you should be aware of. He appears to be on Conner’s payroll, though good luck proving it. I was on the subway in D.C. This guy sits down next to me. Large, dark overcoat. Leather gloves. Substantial fellow. 220, with a slight belly—but don’t underestimate his strength. All he said was, ‘I won’t allow anybody taking potshots at Jack Conner. Especially you.’ That was it. He stood up, purposely stepping on my foot with his heel. I think he meant to break my ankle, but I had hiking boots on. It still hurt. He got off at the next stop. I don’t know his name.”
“When did this take place?”
“About two weeks after the book hit the streets. This prison sentence hit me quickly. Conner must have his boots on some influential necks. Say, what do you know about Kessler?”
“The former FDA commissioner?”
“One and the same.”
“I believe that during his stint with the FDA he made progress for the people. He swore to enforce laws on food labels, for one. I think he was the kind of commissioner the public would hope for. Why?”
“I don’t believe he’s too accessible, but you can try. Perhaps you can cajole him for some insight.”
Silence Her Page 13
