Silence Her

by Douglas Fetterly

  29

  Elizabeth Walker sat in her office, slowly shaking her head when she recalled last week’s HR meeting with her editor, the HR director, and Lishan Amir.

  In front of her was a full file of Human Resources reports against Jerry. Keywords in the report continued to illuminate a pattern: mean, disrespectful, judgmental, harsh, inappropriate.

  Picking up the phone, she sighed as one of the HR staff members answered. She was relieved that it was Camille, since her trust of the HR director was in serious question.

  “Camille, do we know anything about Jerry Hanson’s history? Anything offering insight into his anger, his inappropriate actions?”

  Camille Hernandez sat back, gazing skyward for an answer. “We have very little on file,” she offered. “Grapevine has it that he served a stint in juvenile hall for theft. He has been clean ever since—decades ago. I believe counseling is our only recourse, short of letting him go. Do you think he’ll go for it?”

  “I don’t know. Most men who refuse therapy are the ones who need it the most. Reminds me somewhat of the Dunning-Kruger effect.” Elizabeth paused. “Something tells me he would rather go down than exhibit anything approaching tenderness, of which there was likely very little in his childhood. Also, sources suggest he has a relationship with one of the Employee Assistance therapists. Let me think about the approach. Thanks, Camille.”

  - - -

  “Is that it? You get off and leave me high and dry?” Stella was miffed.

  Jerry looked at her from his anatomical position on the bed, his look faraway. “How can I get back at Lishan without getting fired?”

  “I thought you were somewhere else.” Stella lit a cigarette. She felt empowered when she rebelled against what everyone said was bad for her. “Why don’t you set a trap?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like…I don’t know. It could be an ethics issue, or…”

  “No. She would see through it.”

  “Libel or slander?”

  “Too smart.”

  Stella put on a robe and went to her bar, pouring two glasses of Glenfiddich. Up for her. Over for Jerry. She chose the twelve-year Reserve rather than her eighteen-year, which she wouldn’t waste on a rascal like Jerry.

  “Is there an issue—one where she’s been known to, as they say, blow her cool?” Stella professed her dislike for clichés and idioms, yet she used them frequently. “I know!” She looked directly at Jerry. “You should reassign her—a position so utterly vapid and distasteful to her that she’ll just quit.”

  Jerry’s face lit up—clearly something he felt entirely at home with.

  They both narrowed their eyes, then clinked glasses. “To evil,” he said.

  “Corruption,” she said.

  30

  “Jerry Hanson?” The juvenile hall supervisor looked up at the youth standing in his office.

  The boy simply nodded.

  “I see you’re here for robbery, Jerry,” the supervisor said wearily, looking at the paperwork. “You’re only sixteen. Why? What prompted you?”

  It was a rhetorical question. He had already read an essay written by the boy who transferred to this facility earlier that day. Jerry Hanson had grown up in a family where his father had run off, and the mother repeatedly told her son it was his fault his father left, that she didn’t love him and he was worthless. Jerry met her expectations at an early age, barely saved from a continued life of incarceration through a Job Corps program.

  31

  She smelled of sweat when she finally woke up the next morning. It was 7:00 a.m., Tuesday. Her sleep was interrupted by the scent of bacon and eggs. Erik had the tray in his hands as he let himself in. He had knocked lightly but chose not to wait.

  “Hey, sleepy. A quick breakfast for you. I hope you don’t mind. If I’m overbearing, don’t let it slide. I’ve got to run. A full load today. Oh…your car is moved.” He told her where it was, blew her a kiss, and was gone.

  “Thank you!” She wasn’t sure if he heard her or not. Lishan felt unsettled. Her life had encountered a detour.

  After the surprise breakfast, she coerced an espresso through her sleepiness. Twenty minutes later, the full circles of her pupils were finally visible. She opened the book to find the references to Mazzini.

  Lishan called Marie Elena, arranging for a few days off. She settled in, enjoying the bacon, eggs, and stout coffee.

  Launching her Internet search—“Johnny Mazzini.” Go. Several hundred hits.

  Lishan knew, though, that a great deal of data was buried within websites and servers, not to be revealed to the average search. It would take drilling down. Government sites. Conner servers.

  The initial hits all related to a few trials in which Mazzini was accused of strong-arming, abduction, and one known murder. Most articles hinted at a relationship with Conner Foods. Mazzini was acquitted of all charges. At a glance, there wasn’t anything to go on.

  But Lishan expected as much. Then she narrowed her search using the Boolean “and”—Mazzini “and” Conner. Mazzini “and” FDA. As she paged through the hits, one caught her attention. Who was that fellow, dressed to the nines with Mazzini? It struck her—Nathaniel Ferrali.

  She made the pertinent notes, then decided to call Auntie, since she had a hacker friend who might help.

  “Auntie, hi.”

  “Are you okay?” Niesha seemed unsettled.

  “Yes. And you, Auntie?”

  “I’m fine. Just concerned about my niece. Any new threats? Are you safe?”

  “For now, I feel surprisingly okay. Auntie, can you give me the name of that hacker friend of yours, the Unix expert? I’m trying to break into the email of one of Conner’s henchmen.” Lishan gave a thumbnail sketch of what she found in Frazier’s book.

  A few minutes later, with the contact info in hand, Lishan hung up after they promised each other to be extra cautious.

  “Joshua, hi. My name is Lishan. I’m Niesha’s niece…”

  After discussing the seriousness of what they were up against, ensuring that Joshua would be aware of the dangers if he agreed, he said he would call her as soon as there was news.

  The coffee was especially warming this morning, given the increasing chill as winter approached. She contemplated going for a run when she recalled Erik’s suggestion—no, command—that she disguise herself. Her hair was just below her shoulders. Perhaps a haircut was due, but someplace new. She decided against the running clothes, since the floppy river hat she chose for cover needed complimentary clothing. Long pants, cargo pockets, baggy sweatshirt. Boots.

  Down the back stairs, using the service entrance, she headed toward downtown Georgetown. Haircut first, then perhaps a stop at a bakery. One of those tasty butter croissants, she thought.

  Mustang Salon loomed. Catchy. It sounded a bit cowboy for the area, but perhaps that was the draw. Something unusual.

  A walk-in with Sally, the owner. The particulars: something new and a need to not be quite so recognizable. Not short, though. Sally understood.

  “Any relation to The Ranch?”

  Sally gave her the long blink, as in “how original.”

  “Just making sure: which state is your reference?” Sally asked.

  “Nevada. Is there another?”

  “Depends on how worldly you are. Are you...worldly?”

  “Depends on your reference.” Lishan was already enjoying the banter. “But, yes, I suppose you could say I am. What is your measure?”

  “By the way, don’t perturb me. I am cutting your hair.” She laughed. “My measure? Let’s see. Do you prefer staying at the Ritz? Ever been in a marginalized country? Do you speak any other languages?”

  Grinning, Lishan listed her answers. “No, but I have stayed there. Yes. And yes.”

  Sally stood back a pace and took a long look at her new customer. “You’re funny. You should let me cut your hair more often.”

  “Perhaps I will, if you answer my original question.”

/>   “Ah, yes.” She was silent while a few additional wisps hit the floor. “You might say yes. I was a manager, along with three other women.”

  “Management. No men on that end, I see.”

  “We didn’t particularly like men. We just wanted to see them get, uh, screwed.” Sally laughed again, this time from deep in her belly.

  They both continued to quip amidst seriousness over the next twenty minutes, culminating in a few ounces of hair on the ground, one hug, and a promise to do it again.

  Glancing in a mirror as she left, Lishan decided she might still pass for Lishan, but it was a beginning.

  Heading back toward her flat, a headline caught her attention from a Mirror newspaper rack. “Private Investigator Found Dead.”

  She felt her adrenals kick in. No, it couldn’t be, she told herself. She paid six bits to the steel vendor, reading as she walked off. No name was offered, pending the usual, but the victim was indeed from upstate New York—Albany. Male.

  Lishan’s heart seemed to skip more than one beat. “No,” she nearly said out loud. “It can’t be.” Her eyes moistened. Reading further…cause of death: snake bite. Further details pending autopsy. One additional item: a scribbled note on a pad near the body read, “One down, one to go.”

  Lishan stopped abruptly. Taking a seat at the nearest bench, she took in her surroundings. Her vigilance heightened. Was she being followed? Her entire nature felt grave; none of her normally jovial features were to be found. The phone call to her home, giving the names of Mazzini and Fatima, was this the final straw? Then she remembered the older man sitting behind Beck in the restaurant. Was that Mazzini? “One down, one to go” could only mean she was next.

  She doubled back to the salon. Sally was lounging fully into a black leather couch, feet propped up on the coffee table full of magazines. She smiled at Lishan’s approach.

  “Hey, Sally. Can you take off another inch? I need to go underground for awhile.”

  “Sure, baby.” She picked up on Lishan’s distress. “What’s wrong, Lishan? Anything I can help with?”

  Lishan felt as though she was off the beaten path here with Sally, who seemed to be part of the underground as well.

  “I didn’t tell you before. We were newbies an hour ago, you know.” Lishan braced a bare smile. “I write for The Mirror. I’ve apparently peeved the wrong person, or persons, once and for all—Senator Libby and CEO Jack Conner, in collusion with the FDA. Conner and Libby are the ones I don’t trust.”

  “How bad can it be? You’ve written something someone doesn’t like. That’s not usually perilous in today’s world. Or, is it?”

  “You’re right—not normally. But I’ve touched a nerve, a deep one. Here, look at this.” Lishan put the article on Sally’s lap. “I knew this investigator. Not well, or I should say, not long. We just met over the weekend. But he knows, or knew, this crowd and confided in me some information someone thought best kept private—so much so, that they murdered him. At least, that’s how I see it. And I’m implicated by having attained some knowledge I’m not supposed to have.” Lishan paused, pensive.

  As she looked at the front page again, she saw a small article further down, one about Krager Grocers giving Conner Foods the boot. Now, any doubt was removed. She was next, and it wouldn’t be just a warning.

  “I need a different look. Maybe shorter still, something like what Halle Berry would wear.”

  Then she collapsed into tears. Sally quickly moved next to her, stroking Lishan’s hair and holding her until the flow subsided.

  “There, there,” Sally whispered. After a moment, she said. “Okay, let’s do what we can, but without ruining those good looks of yours…not that that’s possible.”

  Thirty minutes later, with half of her hair length in a foxtail broom pan, Lishan walked out with the look of a groomed metrosexual, albeit with a barely suppressible female form and facial features to match. Again, it was the back streets on her way home.

  - - -

  As Lishan walked, she felt the need to be distracted, to talk with someone. On a whim, deciding she had some time and could use some encouraging words, she called JoJo on the off chance he was available.

  Lishan pressed the call button next to JoJo’s contact entry. “Of course I will,” was the reply in the earpiece.

  “Of course you will what?” Lishan asked, lightly perplexed.

  “Meet you for coffee. You were going to ask me, weren’t you?”

  They agreed on an Ethiopian restaurant in Georgetown.

  “JoJo, there’s no longer any doubt. Did you see the front page today, about the P.I. being murdered? I met him over the weekend. Now he’s dead. The note said, ‘One down, one to go.’ I’m next. It could be risky for you to meet with me.”

  “Count me in. I’ll be right there,” was all he said.

  Twenty minutes later they were sitting with a large bowl of wonderfully spiced vegetables over injera.

  “I thought it took you at least half an hour to get in the area?”

  JoJo barely smiled. “I left early. Worked late last night. Overtime in check, you know.” He looked at the bowl in front of them. “I suppose you just tear off pieces of…”

  “Injera.”

  “…And scoop up the veggies?”

  “Yes.” Lishan said. Teach by example.

  “I like your new look,” JoJo said, as he reached over and felt Lishan’s much shorter hair. Then the features of his face pulled inward. “Lishan, fill me in so I can know best how to help.”

  Lishan spent the next fifteen minutes telling JoJo the salient points, including talking with Beck in the restaurant and the man—probably a Conner hit-man named Mazzini—listening to their conversation. When she confirmed JoJo’s earlier concerns about one of Conner Foods’ clients bailing out by showing him the news piece, JoJo’s face lost any hint of pleasantry.

  “Okay. You must move out of the apartment building. I can scare up a couch for you. We can…”

  Lishan was holding back tears, wanting to appear strong and unconcerned, but the moisture in her eyes gave her away. JoJo moved to her seat and held her, stroking her hair to soothe her. For a moment, neither one spoke.

  “My life is falling apart, JoJo. Falling apart. I just wanted to call attention to some of the injustice in the world, get people to do the right thing. How misguided have I been?”

  “Not misguided at all, Lishy. Where would the world be without King and Mandela, without their fortitude, their speaking up?”

  “King and Mandela are dead,” Lishan said, sniffling.

  Shit, JoJo thought, admonishing himself.

  “Yes, but you’re not. And you won’t be. We learn from these great leaders, as others will learn from you.”

  When Lishan’s breathing had slowed, she sat up straight, wiping her eyes.

  “Okay, you’re right.”

  They spent the next half hour brainstorming, with Lishan coming away with a reasonably solid sense of what to do, what to avoid.

  “Lishan, I have to go, unless you’re not ready for me to leave. I can make a call and stay as long as you need me.”

  Lishan said she would be all right. Not to worry.

  “Of course I’ll worry. Okay, you have my number. Call me if you need anything, anything at all. Day or night. Doesn’t matter. Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  As he stood to leave, he said, “I just remembered, the other day I made a list of a few FDA items for your next exposé. I want you to have these.”

  Lishan looked up at the torn-out notebook page. “Thank you,” adding, “My next exposé? Did I say I was writing one?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But it’s in your blood, or your genes. Take a look at this list when you get a chance. Wait until after this all blows over.”

  Lishan couldn’t help but give it a once-over, holding the paper up to the sunlight bending through the window.

  Propulsid…heartburn medicine…subsidiary of Johnson & Johnson…eight
children died…FDA didn’t carry its own investigations far enough.

  Pharmaceutical Research and Manufacturers of America, the trade organization of Big Pharma, spends approximately $150M annually in lobbying, including the FDA.

  A Wyeth anti-nausea drug was deemed responsible (by a jury) for a Vermont musician having his arm amputated.

  In February of 2004, the Union of Concerned Scientists accused the Bush administration of interfering with scientific research by politicizing various issues, including asking National Institutes of Health nominees if they had voted for Bush.

  The Hatch-Waxman Act created a huge opening for generic drugs. It was found that certain companies got their generic drugs approved faster than other companies. Five FDA officials and numerous employees within certain generic drug companies were convicted of felonies. Greed and power are unfortunate aspects that thread their way through far too many of our species. Too bad.

  Check POTUS tweets for clues to Big Pharma favors

  “A partial list?”

  “There wasn’t enough paper in the office,” JoJo quipped.

  As they stood, Lishan asked, “Have you heard of the author Alan Frazier, who’s in prison for writing a book about Conner?”

  “It created quite a stir in the office. I was a relative newbie at the FDA when it flared. Conner wanted this to be a lesson to anyone foolish enough to tarnish the name of Jack Conner. Nothing less than prison for Frazier. So an illegal surveillance charge was trumped up. Frazier received a four-year sentence, one that many knew was unwarranted.” After a brief hug and kiss on the cheek, JoJo said, “Okay, gotta run. Remember the couch offer. Call me.” JoJo’s face was serious.

  - - -

  As Lishan approached the apartment building, she slowed. If this was a full-scale operation, all entrances might be covered. She took cover behind a few cherry trees and waited ten minutes. Finally, she opened the service entrance door.

  She didn’t know whether the stairs or the elevator was the safest route. This was new to her. She had been surreptitious in her time, tracking a few antagonists, or protagonists, depending, for a story. But never this—her own life at stake. Was she making this up, her situation? Instinct told her Beck’s fate answered the question. The elevator it was. The solitude of the stairwells felt eerie.