Silence Her

by Douglas Fetterly

  Howard gave a hearty smile after eating more of his corned beef. “I sure do enjoy this place.” Then he continued.

  “You’ve already put yourself in Conner’s firing line. You need to be smarter than Frazier, who no doubt thought he wouldn’t end up in jail. His mistake. You can profit from these errors, but you know you’ll end up compromised if you don’t get Conner in jail, or at least in court, before he gets to you. Incognito—for you, your friends, and your family. Perhaps a vacation for everyone. A cabin in the woods.”

  “It’s becoming clear what I need to do. I just wish I didn’t endanger everyone who helps me.”

  “A commendable attribute of yours, Lishan. Not everyone is as unselfishly caring as you are. Just know that those who care for you, believe in you, won’t hold back. That’s what true humanity is all about.”

  Lishan nodded, thinking.

  For the time it took for them to order and share a cheesecake, their conversation eased into journalism, how they each got started in the field. Lishan liked this new friend. Perhaps there would be room for future coffees together.

  Howard stood to leave, his face serious, “Don’t do anything unwise—not the slightest hint.”

  After the goodbyes, Lishan took a close look out the window before she headed outside. She started as a Yellow Cab pulled up in front of the hotel. The driver looked directly at her. But she finally exhaled as two passengers embarked.

  - - -

  She was home. Seven o’clock. Now Lishan just wanted to be left alone. She would, as a rule, arrange for downtime or alone time, but it was usually at her whim. Recent developments seemed to have wrested control away from her. She closed her eyes on the couch. Just for a moment, she thought.

  A knock on her door startled her from sound sleep. She awoke from the disappearing dreamy image of having three husbands at the same time, each hating the others.

  Her body was sweaty, but, given the dream’s content, the dream was surprisingly devoid of emotions—characteristic of her non-REM dreams. Lishan’s inclination was to nonchalantly ask who was there. But recent events flooded in as the fog cleared. Another knock, then quiet. What if it were Erik? She doubted it, as he would announce himself or just let himself in. He had donned the role of bodyguard, being none too careful with her every move.

  Now she was unnerved. How long should she remain quiet? Tip-toeing to the door, she was careful to avoid any change in the shadowing under the door this time.

  She heard the doorknob being tried. This stopped Lishan in her tracks, thinking about what weapons she had and how quickly she could get to them. The doorknob quit moving when she heard the couple from across the hall walking past her door to their apartment. Waiting another minute, hearing nothing more, she peered through the security peephole in the door. She could see nothing. She decided to call and ask Erik if they could take a look at the security camera recording.

  Moments later, they were both sitting on her couch, logging in to the security system via Lishan’s laptop. Viewing the digital recordings over the past hour turned up an individual they didn’t think they recognized—an older man, medium-heavy build.

  “It appears he came into the building thirty minutes ago and left just five minutes ago.” Erik called his voicemail to see if any other residents had registered a concern. “I hate to say it, but maybe he saw you at night, or someone he thought looked like you through the flimsy curtains, as he scanned the windows from outside.”

  “Or maybe he knows where I live. It couldn’t be that hard to obtain my address in today’s world.” Lishan suddenly sat up straight, her pupils dilated, her hands beginning to sweat. “I…I think I’ve seen him before. Remember the man I spoke of, the one sitting behind Beck in the restaurant? I think it’s the same person.” Lishan’s face was harrowed, looking like an acquaintance from Georgetown U who had failed both the Multistate Bar Exam and the Multistate Essay Exam—life appeared hopeless. I have to move.

  Any mention of Beck was, at least, a minor challenge for Erik, but he saw the value in just letting go of it.

  “I don’t know just what you and Beck talked about, but if he divulged anything that Conner wouldn’t like, then his death and the threats to you make even more sense now.” Erik gathered his thoughts over the next few seconds.

  “Lishan, you can’t stay in this apartment.”

  “I am so worn down.” Lishan’s face was as drawn as Erik ever remembered seeing it.

  “Is there anything in your email search that would help us bring Conner to justice?”

  Lishan replied with reluctance, wanting to do nothing more than curl up and forget it all. She suggested they continue their search through Mazzini’s email for any reference to Factory 17 or Fatima. One email, from Conner to Mazzini, struck pay dirt.

  It read: “Mazzini. Fatima Habiba is causing additional trouble. Threaten her. Jack.”

  Lishan turned to face Erik. “I believe my next step is to find Fatima. It could be trouble. I can’t just let the whole thing go, can I?” She wasn’t really asking. She knew she couldn’t. Lishan needed a rock to lean on. She knew Erik would be there.

  “No, you can’t. I wish you could. I’m worried about you.”

  Lishan took a deep breath, giving Erik a brief yet knowing half-smile. She continued her search for information on Fatima Habiba. Only one result, a newspaper article, shed any light. Fatima’s residence as of one year ago was a small city just south of Baltimore. A generic, free people search proved fruitless. Lishan decided to opt for her peer at the Baltimore Sun, with his database access. Lishan felt it was safe enough, given that she and her journalist buddy hadn’t been in touch for six months and might therefore not be monitored. Ten minutes later, and a promise to have coffee with him soon, Lishan had an address and phone number.

  “Do you think they’ll be watching her phone line?” Lishan expressed her concern as she reached for the new cell phone.

  “Hmm. Though they might not be able to trace the call back to you here, since I registered the phone under a bogus name and address, they could monitor your phone conversation, including any meeting place you might both agree upon.”

  “I’ll just have to go out there.” She paused. “Why not tonight?”

  “I should go with you. There might be a greater chance of your gaining an audience if we appear as a couple.”

  Lishan gave Erik a long, hard look. She could see there was little to be gained by arguing with him as his point was well made. She told him as such with a slow but poignant sigh.

  “Good,” was all he punctuated. “If we leave soon, it won’t be too unfashionably late to knock on her door, given the circumstances.”

  33

  They took Erik’s car. With minimal traffic—an unusual occurrence between D.C. and Baltimore—they arrived on Fatima’s street by 8:45 p.m. They drove down the street once, looking for signs of surveillance. Then, parking several blocks away, they made the same check on foot, as a couple going for a stroll. Lishan’s disguise was in place, but the hat was inappropriate for the meeting they were hoping to have. She left it in the car, but did put on a pair of thick, black-rimmed prescription glasses she had worn a few times. They had been relegated to a shoebox of miscellaneous items since, ultimately, they didn’t suit her. Tonight, though, they would do nicely.

  Finally, with a sense of satisfaction as to their safety, they approached Fatima’s door. Erik and Lishan had rehearsed their lines to keep from alarming Fatima.

  They could hear the inhabitant behind the door, checking them out through the tiny lens. Finally, she opened the door against the short chain. “Yes, who are you?” Fatima said with a sense of caution.

  “Hi. My name is Lishan Amir. I’m in trouble because of a run-in with Jack Conner. My closest friend, Erik, is with me. We need your help, if you can. Are you Fatima?”

  “Tell me more.” Fatima didn’t budge.

  “I’m possibly the next target of Conner’s henchmen unless I can tag them first. I�
�m a reporter for a newspaper in D.C., The Mirror. I’m outspoken against government officials and companies that cheat the public. I’ve uncovered some evidence that references the deaths and illnesses at Factory 17.”

  Lishan opened her wallet. “Here’s my driver’s license, for starters, and my employee ID from the paper. I look a bit different since I’ve gone into hiding, somewhat, with this disguise.” Lishan grabbed the extra thirty pounds and moved it, for effect. “I also have a copy of the exposé I wrote that got me this deep into trouble.” She reached into her tote bag and gave the front-page article to Fatima.

  “I’m her support system,” Erik added, wishing to appeal to the compassionate side of this woman before them. “I’ve known Lishan for many years. She just wants the government to toe the public line.”

  “How can I help?” Fatima said, clearly not yet buying into the situation. “I’m already in enough trouble with these...people. I’m lucky to be alive. If I hadn’t become so visible to the public, I wouldn’t be. And, yes, I’m Fatima.”

  Lishan nodded in understanding.

  “Ms. Habiba, I can’t expect you to help. I can only hope that you will. The only harm I wish to see is to those people who don’t give a…darn…about how their actions negatively affect the health of the public. If you’re not in a position to speak out, just tell us, and we’ll let you be. I promise.”

  Fatima hesitated—a measured pause—looking once more at the driver’s license in her hand before handing it back.

  “You know, where I come from, cheats and liars are dealt with by the locals. Give me your cell phones. If you’re clean, you won’t mind. I’ll take them to my CIA neighbor, who will hang on to them until you leave. I won’t budge on this.”

  Lishan and Erik looked at one another, feeling hesitant because of all the personal data their phones contained. They gave each other a cautious nod then passed the phones to Fatima, who took a photo of the two visitors with one of the phones. “I’ll be right back.” She closed the door.

  Perhaps five minutes passed before Fatima returned, removed the door chain, and invited her guests in. “Remember what I said. It’s no BS where I come from.”

  They sat in the living room—Fatima facing Lishan and Erik, who sat on a weathered, yet quite comfortable, dark green couch, the kind with tuxedo arms. Lishan removed the padding, wanting Fatima to know the woman before her.

  Fatima fingered the padding, giving her blessing with a lift of her eyebrows and a brief “hmm.”

  “I don’t wish you to find me unfriendly. But I believe you understand my precautions, at least until I get the feeling I can trust you. I have solid instincts.” Fatima took a full moment to search the eyes of her unexpected guests.

  Lishan gave Fatima the briefest of stories, including the gestalt of her exposé and the very real threats that ensued. She didn’t want to overwhelm Fatima, yet she did want to give her enough reason to trust these new visitors. Fatima registered each point, filling in her puzzle with the information before her and the feelings she had, until she finally painted a picture of her visitors that satisfied her.

  “I have some documents I’d like to show you. I saw to it that the Feds and the local police didn’t see these, or know that I have them. I kept quiet about them because I didn’t know who I could trust. But I have to take the leap sometime.” She looked at her visitors again closely, eyes unblinking. “My intuition tells me I can trust you. Don’t fail me.” Fatima disappeared once more, returning with a folder containing a handful of papers. Among them were a couple of molecular diagrams showing carbon and hydrogen atoms in various configurations.

  “These didn’t mean anything to me when I first saw them. But I was determined to understand the full implications of the placements of these molecules. My schooling hadn’t gone beyond high school, which is why I was at the factory. But after the illness, due to Conner’s greed and disregard for the well-being of others, I felt it was my obligation to step up my education a bit. Several months ago, I enrolled in our local community college, learning about science and food as my goal.”

  Lishan didn’t know the significance of the bonds and atom placements, but Fatima did, and Erik wasn’t far behind. Fatima’s excitement overtook them. “You see those double bonds, indicated by that symbol that looks like an equal sign? And notice the hydrogen atoms, each having its placement across from its partner, hence ‘trans,’ or ‘across,’ as they say in Latin.”

  “But this looks different than the trans fat configuration I have seen,” Erik said.

  Fatima looked steadily into his eyes, assessing. “Yes, you are correct. Conner wasn’t satisfied with the increased shelf life from the oils we have come to know. No, he wanted to provide a shelf life that doubled, or quadrupled, the already extended life. But Jack Conner is an impatient man. He decided to use the empirical method, incorporating the test trans fat in Factory 17’s cafeteria’s baked goods. Then the illnesses set in, followed by the deaths. We didn’t know what had happened. But Conner did.”

  Fatima stood and headed toward the kitchen. “Would you like some tea?”

  It was more than Lishan and Erik had hoped for. An offering of tea was an invitation to stay awhile. They looked at one another for guidance, both piping up simultaneously with a “Yes, please.”

  “Black? Herbal?”

  Again, together, “Black.”

  “Are you two twins?” Fatima boomed from the kitchen.

  All three laughed. The tension diminished, though an underlying edge of Conner’s threats persisted.

  With tea in hand, and a pot on the table, Fatima continued, focusing on two other documents. “Conner’s concoction was poison. It was a nonessential fatty acid—devised in Conner’s labs—made to mimic one of the fatty acids that our bodies produce. This fatty acid apparently could sit in a product, on the shelf, for two to four times longer than today’s trans fats. Aside from his distribution in the U.S., Conner planned to market this to the far reaches of the planet, where refrigeration was costly or nonexistent. Admirable on one hand, but he was not a philanthropist. His products would reap maximum profits. He would see to it.

  “The problem was this fatty acid didn’t perform like the body’s fatty acid. Instead, it interfered with the body’s metabolism, causing failure in the central nervous system. When one of his scientists, working on this project, purported concern that this might occur—bear in mind that the trials to-date had only been animal trials, where this particular failure might not appear—Conner fired him. Conner had read the scientist’s report that suggested there might be a failure in humans, but Conner hoped it would not be much of a problem, likely not traceable for a year or longer, well after he had recouped his investment and profits.”

  “How did you find this out? That is, how did anyone know it was Conner’s doing? And the poison—where did you get this information?” The reporter in Lishan would not miss a single syllable and its meaning. She leaned forward, in Fatima’s direction, the tea cupped between her hands.

  “I was working late one night. This rough-looking character, perhaps five foot ten, two-hundred-plus pounds, was talking with the factory manager, Beck.”

  Both Lishan and Erik flinched.

  “What? What did I say?”

  Erik broke the hold. “It’s okay. Lishan met Beck when she took a trip to upstate New York to see a writer who had been imprisoned for speaking out against the FDA and Conner. Beck shared some inside knowledge with Lishan. Within a day, he was murdered.”

  As he finished his last sentence, Erik had the sinking feeling he’d undone the progress made in the past half hour. With this news, perhaps Fatima wouldn’t want to divulge anything further.

  To the contrary, Fatima was more emphatic than before.

  “I read about Beck in the paper. Too bad. I liked him,” Fatima said. After a pause, thinking about Beck, she said, “I know there’s a risk, but someone’s got to bring these crooks down. As I said, I’m fortunate to be alive, given all
I’ve told the press. I was, by then, known well enough in the media and in the public’s eye. He must have thought it best not to off me just yet. Instead, Conner just passed me off publicly as some crackpot Muslim.”

  Sipping the still-steaming brew from the polished white mug, she continued. “They of course didn’t know I was sitting in a chair nearby, quietly reading my novel while on a break. I heard this guy—Mazzini—talking with Beck. He was being heavy-handed in his delivery, not mincing a single word. He wasn’t blaming Beck for any of this, but he made it clear that their responsibility was to keep this from hitting the streets, keep it from smearing Conner’s name. Conner entrusted Beck, and Mazzini—one of his henchmen—with one million to pay off the families and anyone else who might squawk. They continued like this for another ten minutes, then turned out the lights and headed out.” Fatima stopped to sip her tea. “Is this all making sense?”

  Receiving a pair of nods, Fatima continued. “I entered the office they had just vacated. They were sloppy—narcissistic more like it. The trashcan held the diagrams you just saw.”

  The next minute, seeming like an hour, found the trio engrossed in thought, edging toward disbelief. It wasn’t that the extent to which members of the species would generally stoop was in question. This was in blatant disregard for the well-being of an entire factory of workers.

  “In discussing these diagrams with my bio-chem friend, who was fired several months ago for questioning the Mod X’s safety, he pointed out a resemblance between Conner’s Mod X3 Connola Oil and formaldehyde, both effecting a preservative response.” Fatima removed her glasses and looked at her two guests. “He stressed it was only a resemblance, since Conner is saturating the available slots in the molecular chain with hydrogen so oxygen can’t get in and oxidize the oil—which would cause it to go rancid—while formaldehyde functions differently. He didn’t explain the difference, but he did add, ‘Suffice to say it’s highly toxic. While I was still employed, we ran experiments with pinkies...’”